Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Read online

  She turned to Faro for help, for confirmation and when he remained silent she continued, 'That sense of familiarity, almost of kinship—as if long ago we had met before. And I keep trying to remember when—where—' She shook her head. 'It's like a half-remembered dream.'

  Again she looked at her father, appealing for what he had once been able to give her, assurances that they both felt exactly the same about life in general and personal relationships in particular. But his closed-in expression defeated her.

  'Silly, isn't it?' she said lightly.

  Faro could think of no reply. His heart failed him as he listened to the dreaded word 'kinship'.

  'Are you going to see him again? I mean, once he returns to London.'

  She turned to him. 'Of course we plan to meet. And we will write letters.'

  Again his guarded expression worried her. 'Don't you approve of Lachlan?' she asked gently. And when he didn't respond with the affirmation she wanted, she said crossly, 'I don't understand how anyone—anyone in this world,' she repeated in exasperation, 'could disapprove of him. He's so good and kind—and modest, although he's so clever and talented—'

  Faro put an arm around her shoulders, kissed her cheek. 'I'm just a little bewildered by the suddenness of all this, lass.' He paused before adding gently, 'Once before when we had this sort of chat together, it was about Danny McQuinn, remember.'

  'And you didn't approve of him either,' she said sharply. Then, with a sigh, she shaded her eyes and looked across at the gleaming estuary. 'Last time and the times before that, Danny was never mentioned between us and you know full well the reason why.'

  Removing his arm from around her, Faro said, 'May I be permitted, as your father, then to bring up the subject again? Are you prepared to tell me honestly what are your present intentions regarding Danny McQuinn?'

  Rose sighed deeply. 'Danny wants to marry me. I think you know or must have guessed that. It was the reason I took a teaching post in Glasgow. However, there is one impediment—'

  'He's Catholic?'

  She shook her head. 'I would never let religion stand between us. We have always said it wouldn't.' Again she sighed. 'You see, Danny wants to go to America. Emigrate. There are McQuinns over there who went after the famine and they've settled in Ohio and done rather well for themselves. One is a priest and the other a sheriff. They keep writing to Danny that America is the land of opportunity.

  Danny agrees. He knows he'll have to wait years and years for promotion to Chief Inspector. So he is seriously considering going.'

  She paused. 'Naturally, he wants me to go with him.'

  Faro could think of no reply to alleviate the agony of the great shaft that had been driven into the region of his heart. Rose, his beloved Rose, whom he now could see so regularly since she came to Glasgow, whose life he expected once again to run parallel to his own as it had done before Lizzie died. And now she was threatening to go and live in another country. Another continent. As far as Faro was concerned it might as well have been another planet.

  Panic seized him. He might never see her again.

  At last he summoned up words that sounded like lead. 'And have you decided?'

  She thought for a moment. 'I have given it great thought, Papa. You must know that. I've loved Danny since I was twelve years old. I've never thought of marrying anyone but him. But—and it's a big but—I don't want to live in America. I'm not like Danny, I'm not ambitious and I haven't scores of relatives.'

  She took his hand, held it tightly. 'I have only Emmy, who is going to stay in Orkney. And Gran who's getting old and frail. There's Vince of course and Livvy. But you're my Pa, you're special,' she added in a whisper. 'Besides I'm not the stuff pioneers are made of. I want to be with my people, with my family. With you.'

  Leaning over she kissed his cheek. 'I want to know that you'll always be somewhere near me. I've promised to give Danny my answer, my decision, before he goes.'

  'When is that?'

  'Soon,' she said sadly. 'We decided that we must have time away from each other so that we could be sure. And when I came here last week, I thought then that I would be going back with my heart saying follow him, wherever he went— that he was my whole life. Now I'm not so sure.'

  She smiled wanly. 'As I've said, life is such a great adventure and I've realized that I don't need to go to America to experience it.'

  'Does Lachlan have a role to play in this great adventure?' he asked gently.

  She laughed. 'I do most earnestly hope so, Papa. We have so much in common, he's opened up a new exciting world for me—'

  Faro felt as if he was going from one agony to another even more bitter. Terrible as it was to lose Rose to America, perhaps never to see her again, but worse, far worse, was the blow he must deal her new-found happiness with Lachlan Brown.

  How he might destroy his daughter's happiness for ever. Cowardice was not among Faro's vices. He was a brave man used to facing deadly foes, but today he felt no longer strong and resourceful. He felt odd and lost and he wanted this moment with Rose to last for ever with church bells echoing across Arthur's Seat from the city below. If only he could freeze time so that he—and she—might never have to walk down the hill and face the bitter truth that lay ahead.

  Silently, he walked back with her to Sheridan Place, where one of Mrs Brook's special meals awaited their return.

  Rose skipped at his side, her arm in his, smiling up into his face, happy and relieved that the barriers between herself and her dear Papa were down at last. Totally unaware of his preoccupation, she added to his misery with girlish confidences and hopes about Lachlan, Lachlan who had already promised to turn her dreams into reality.

  Faro sighed. For once he was glad to find Constable Thomas on the doorstep, flirting gently with May who immediately disappeared indoors.

  Thomas waited until Rose went into the house then said: 'I have a message, sir, Superintendent's respects for interrupting your Sunday but there's a visitor he thought you should meet.'

  'A visitor. Couldn't that have waited until tomorrow?'

  'Apparently not, sir. I never saw the gentleman, but the urgency makes me think it's something to do with that pair in the mortuary—'

  And Faro turned away from his own door almost with relief to the investigation of two murders still unsolved.

  Chapter 11

  In Superintendent Mcintosh's office, Faro found Inspector Brewer of the Aberdeen City Police waiting to greet him.

  Profuse in apologies for bringing Faro from his fireside on a Sunday evening, he said, 'Tomorrow would have sufficed, but I'm on my way to my niece's wedding in North Berwick.'

  'Inspector Brewer thought it would be a good idea to establish contact in view of the Balmoral connection,' said Mcintosh. 'Seeing that you both have had much experience in dealing with Royalty.'

  Brewer eyed the Superintendent in the manner of one who would prefer to make his own explanations. 'Thankyou, sir.'

  He turned to Faro who was wondering what all this was about and finding it hard to suppress a growing certainty of trouble ahead especially when Brewer added, 'I wonder if we might adjourn to my hotel.'

  Mcintosh was included in the invitation as a polite afterthought offered with so little enthusiasm that the Superintendent declined, hardly needing the excuse that, alas, Mrs Mcintosh was entertaining friends to supper.

  The Royal British Hotel overlooked Princes Street Gardens and, comfortably ensconced with a dram between them, Brewer came quickly to what Faro had already guessed was the reason for this meeting.

  'This unfortunate business of two Balmoral servants being found dead. Her Majesty is most upset.' He paused to smile encouragingly at Faro. 'You know how very important the least of her little flock is to her.'

  Faro stared at him dismally. He never would have thought it from his visits to the Castle and rumours that had filtered through to him. 'I understand these two left under a cloud.'

  Brewer pursed his lips. 'That is so, that is so. Mo
st unfortunate. However, John Brown has stepped in nobly. Admirable fellow Brown. Can always be relied upon. Made all the funeral arrangements, I understand, paying for their interment at Crathie out of his own pocket. No expenses spared,' he added, stifling a hearty laugh with a sombre frown. 'And a nice touch of sentiment, the brother and sister laid to rest together.'

  And with all the clues to their deaths unresolved. A nice touch indeed, thought Faro as he listened to the eulogy on John Brown. During their meeting in Lachlan's dressing room all his instincts had told him something was going on that Brown was deuced anxious to keep hidden.

  Brewer, however, was a much better actor. He had much more expertise in dealing with mayhem than the Queen's favourite ghillie.

  'I understand the two servants were in trouble—pilfering, was it not?' said Faro innocently.

  Brewer gave him an anguished glance. 'That is so. That is so. Bad business. Temptation, alas. Temptation is an unfortunate part of the human condition, even among the best of us.'

  'So Mr Brown informed me,' said Faro drily.

  'Oh, indeed.' Brewer's relief was short-lived as Faro added, 'What was it they stole?'

  Brewer winced at the word. 'I understand—on the highest authority—that these were relatively unimportant documents, letters and so forth, which Her Majesty would like recovered. That's all we're at liberty to say,' he added, closing his lips firmly.

  'Are you at liberty to say whether these, er, documents would be of value to some foreign power?'

  Brewer stared at him. 'You've hit it on the head, Faro, by God, you have.' He paused. 'Not exactly foreign, unless you regard Ireland as such. I'm afraid we're up against Fenians again.'

  It was well known that the Queen did not like Ireland. She regarded the Irish as 'peculiar rather treacherous people. The lower orders had never become reconciled to the English rule, which they hate! So different from the Scotch who are so loyal.'

  As for Fenians, she had been the target of plots, both real and imagined, since 1867 when the first alarm was raised and Secretary General Grey hurried to Balmoral with a report from Manchester that the Fenians were after her. A month earlier, in September, five Fenians had attempted to rescue two of their countrymen from a police van and a British constable had been killed. General Grey was determined to surround Balmoral with troops. The Queen would have none of it. She believed in the loyalty and protection of her Highlanders and John Brown in particular.

  The 'Manchester Martyrs' as they were called by the Irish, were duly captured and hanged. 'Horrid people,' the Queen wrote to her daughter. 'We shall have to hang some and it ought to have been done before, but it is dreadful to have to press for such a thing.' A deputation pleading for mercy was headed off by Grey and never reached her. However, on the day of their execution she wrote, 'Prayed for those poor men last night.'

  Worse was to follow. An abortive rescue attempt at Clerkenwell Prison resulted in a seventy-foot wall being dynamited and many people injured. The alarm was again raised while the Queen was at Osborne and a telegram from Canada reported eighty Fenians heading for the Solent, where they would cast anchor and when she was driving in the peaceful woods in her pony chaise she would be snatched from John Brown and he would be murdered.

  Stubborn as her statesmen knew her to be, she suspected that Grey was merely trying to force her out of seclusion. She refused to leave but accepted extra police, sentries, the Guards and warships off Osborne. 'Such a bore,' she sighed and when it was later reported that the whole expedition was a myth she decided other reports of risings 'must be exaggerated' and took the authorities to task for their credulity.

  Even when her son Prince Alfred was shot and wounded by a bullet in his ribs at a public picnic in Australia (the Fenian reprisal for the Manchester executions), his mother stated that people who could shoot her son entirely unconnected with politics or the Irish were 'plain wicked'.

  Faro knew to his cost how obstinate and immovable the Queen could be. In recent years he had been involved in protecting her, with considerable difficulty, from a very real assassination plot at Glen Muick, which almost ended in disaster for all of them.

  But others apart from Fenians hated the Queen and he didn't believe a word of Brewer's vague 'letters and so forth'. Only state secrets redeemable at a price were important enough to involve blackmail and sudden death, he thought grimly, aware of the significance of Miss McNair's Irish visitors and the events of the night of her death, including the attack on himself, which had not been for motives of robbery.

  Brewer meanwhile had pulled his chair forward and was regarding Faro in an official manner.

  'But I am sure you have the case well in hand, sir with your usual and, may I say, famous expertise. Just as a matter of interest, off the record, of course, I would he obliged if you could furnish me with any of the details of your investigation regarding these two unfortunate deaths.'

  What a speech, thought Faro admiringly. What a command of official language almost as if it had all been carefully rehearsed beforehand.

  Brewer watched Faro take out his notebook. 'I was attacked on the night the woman McNair was abducted—'

  'You were attacked,' Brewer interrupted. He had not expected that and obviously found Faro's statement a matter of surprise. You, Faro. How extraordinary.'

  'Not really sir. I was boarding a carriage and Miss McNair rushed up to me and asked for help—"they"—someone—was going to kill her. I just had time to see the two men before they felled me to the ground. The same two men who, I believe, later murdered McNair. They were not ordinary villains intent on robbery since I was not robbed and I suspect that neither of the victims was in possession of any items of value.'

  'Shocking! Scandalous behaviour!' muttered Brewer sympathetically. 'I trust you were not badly hurt, sir.'

  'Thanks to my inordinately thick skull. The McNairs were less fortunate.'

  Brewer tut-tutted, then beamed on Faro. 'And I have the evidence of my own eyes that you are in perfect health again. Do go on with your story.'

  So Faro told him how Miss McNair had apparently died, run over by a carriage which failed to stop in Dean Village, and that her injuries included a fractured skull caused by a blow to the back of her head.

  He paused and Brewer nodded. 'Ah, the significance of a similar attack upon your person led you immediately to suspect foul play. And then, of course, her brother dying in his lodgings. A most unfortunate coincidence.'

  'Hardly, sir. There was evidence that he had been similarly assaulted although he might have suffered a heart attack as a result. For some reason, presumably connected with the crime, he was living under the assumed name of Mr Glen.'

  Brewer spread his hands wide. 'Most natural that you should with all your experience immediately suspect that criminal activities were involved. Pray continue,' he said, listening impassively to Faro's account of the fire in Bessie McNair's cottage and her Irish visitors.

  'I dare say it will all be sorted out in time,' he sighed.

  'Had it not been for Mr Brown's visit to his nephew here in Edinburgh—' Faro continued.

  'Nephew?'

  'Lachlan Brown, the concert pianist.'

  'Oh. Oh, yes, indeed. His nephew.' Brewer's emphasis indicated that his thoughts lay with the more scandalous version. 'Do go on.'

  'We might never have established the identity of either of the dead persons.'

  'Quite providential. Trust Brown to see the right way of things.' Brewer listened to the clock striking eleven with the relief of a prisoner hearing the opening of his cell door.

  He rose to his feet, smiling, but Faro was not prepared to end the interview yet.

  'One moment. Tell me, how did you come by all this information that the McNairs were in Edinburgh?'

  Brewer's eyebrows raised dramatically. 'Ah, Faro, we have our own methods. You surely know that. But you are to be congratulated on your own extremely efficient methods.' And, placing a conspiratorial finger to his lips, 'I can say no more
.'

  But Faro was not to be fobbed off in this manner. If the missing documents were worthless, Brewer had gone to a great deal of trouble to have this meeting with the sole purpose, he did not doubt, of finding out how much was known to the Edinburgh Police and to himself in particular.

  'John Brown, as you know, is close to Her Majesty. She was in something of a panic about it all,' Brewer went on. 'I can leave the rest to your imagination, I am sure.' Then, with a sigh, he took out his pocket watch, consulted it solemnly and added, 'I have various things to do in preparation for tomorrow and it is imperative that I have a good night's sleep. I sleep uncommon badly in hotels, alas. Any way I can help you, don't fail to get in touch.'

  'There is something else I think you ought to know,' said Faro. 'There was an assassination attempt on Lachlan Brown. As he was leaving the Assembly Rooms late one night last week. A rifle shot from a passing carriage narrowly missed him.'

  'What!' exclaimed Brewer. 'I was never informed about this. His indignation sounded genuine enough. 'Does Brown know?'

  'Unlikely since Lachlan told me in strictest confidence.'

  'And you did nothing about it!'

  ‘I’m telling you that I was bound to abide by Lachlan's wishes. He refused to have it reported officially. The lad is somewhat sensitive about publicity regarding his Balmoral connection.'

  'Quite, quite. But this unprovoked attack gives one food for thought, does it not?' Puffing out his cheeks, he frowned. 'I presume he did not imagine it—that he has some proof?'

  'I think I can vouch for that. I have in my possession the rifle bullet which I removed from the lintel of the door. And I firmly believe that his attackers in the carriage might well be the same two we're looking for in connection with the McNair murders.'

  'So you think Lachlan Brown might also be a target for the Fenians.' Brewer chewed at his underlip. 'I trust you are wrong, Faro. Surely no political assassin would wish to kill a concert pianist, especially one who has performed in Dublin.' He sighed deeply and shook his head. 'Now I really must leave you.' He held out his hand. 'Rest assured that with the McNairs laid to rest, the documents they stole are of no value. Be that as it may, authority—if you get my meaning— those in high places are anxious that they be recovered and destroyed—unread'—he emphasized the word—'if they come into your hands.'