Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Page 9

  With the sensitivity he had developed over the years, he was aware of being watched, of close scrutiny. Turning his head cautiously, his eyes met those of Imogen Crowe.

  A moment later, she pushed her way towards the bench, thereby breaking all the rules as she shouted that the sentence was grossly unfair but that she was willing to put up bail for the young man who was her cousin and pay whatever costs were involved.

  The Sheriff was not well pleased by this interruption or by the remotest possibility that Seamus Crowe should escape imprisonment. He demanded her name.

  Kinship to the prisoner and Imogen's accent infuriated him further. A passionately religious Orangeman, he hated the Catholic Irish with a passion that included a regret that the practice of hanging, drawing and quartering all traitors, especially Irish traitors, was out of date by more than two hundred years.

  Ignoring Imogen's offer, he took the opportunity to admonish her in the strongest possible terms for this unseemly interruption, informing her that he regarded the sentence on the young man as too lenient. Exclaiming against the effrontery of one Fenian defending another in a British court, he demanded to know by what rights this woman was not being charged for associating with a criminal movement.

  'Is this to be the new path of British justice?' he appealed to the court in general and found to his delight a murmur of approval, a few loud 'Hear, hear's.

  Worse was to follow. It so happened that the Sheriff was a keen reader and Imogen Crowe's banned book on life in a women's prison in London had fallen into his hands. He was about to play his ace card: 'Can the prisoner be defended by a woman who had once served a term of imprisonment herself for Fenian activities?'

  This was too much for Faro. He went forward, approached the bench and begging their indulgence announced himself as Chief Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police. He was prepared personally to vouch for Miss Crowe. Regarding her book, he respectfully drew the Sheriff's attention to the fact that, since its publication, her innocence and wrongful imprisonment had been proved.

  His name drew respect and so did his reputation. No one lightly tackled the sincerity or the findings of the distinguished detective.

  The Sheriff gave Faro a venomous look and apologised obliquely to Miss Crowe but that was as far as he was prepared to go. Bail was refused for Seamus Crowe and, despite the protests, he was sent to gaol for six months.

  Watching Crowe led away to the cells, Faro guessed that this was doubtless the young man Vince and Olivia had seen with Imogen in Edinburgh. That he was her cousin should have cheered him, except that the description of a young man with red hair and spectacles and a woman, tall, slim and veiled but pretty, also fitted the description of the mysterious Irish couple who had visited Miss McNair's cottage.

  Faro left the court hastily with the unhappy thought that if his suspicions were correct, then Imogen and her relative were connected with the Fenians' involvement in the papers stolen from Balmoral. And that they were prepared to murder to acquire those documents.

  He guessed that they had done so already and decided grimly that if all did not go according to their plans, the Fenians would be capable of further murders.

  As for himself, it was less than consoling to his unblemished reputation that, by his action in supporting Imogen Crowe in court, he had undoubtedly assisted a miscarriage of British justice.

  Chapter 14

  As Faro hovered indecisively outside the court, hoping that Imogen Crowe might appear, Sir Hamish hurried down the steps.

  He was alone and, seeing Faro, bowed politely. 'You will not be offended if I tell you, sir, that I thoroughly applaud your action in defending that young woman. It fits in with all I have heard of your reputation for justice and fair play.'

  Faro, somewhat embarrassed, murmured his gratitude. As they shook hands, he looked again at Sir Hamish. There was something familiar about him.

  'Have we not met before, sir?'

  Sir Hamish studied him intently for a moment and then shook his head. 'Not that I am aware of. Your name is well known to me in Scotland and I am sure I would not have forgotten meeting you.' He smiled. 'And it is a pleasure to do so now. Good day, Inspector.'

  As Sir Hamish climbed into the waiting carriage, Faro again turned his attention to the court door. Should he wait for Imogen Crowe to emerge, or return to his lodging and avoid a meeting? He was not surprised to find that she still aroused emotions dormant in him. Emotions that he decided could be dangerous for them both.

  Then he saw her, walking swiftly, gracefully, eyes narrowed against the sunlight streaming into the doorway. The slight hesitation told him that she had seen him. She moved indecisively, a gesture indicating that she also wished to avoid this encounter. But was her reaction for the same reason, Faro wondered.

  For one instant he thought she was going to turn on her heel, head in the opposite direction. He knew he could not let this happen, that he would always regret having let this moment pass.

  'Imogen!'

  She looked at him, smiled, managed to make it look as if she was surprised to see him waiting for her. She came forward, hand outstretched, and a drift of perfume reminded him of their first meeting at Elrigg. In retrospect it seemed impossible to believe that once he had so heartily disliked her.

  'Thank you for your help. I'm in your debt, Inspector— as usual,' she added, her wry look showing that she too remembered.

  'It's been a long time Imogen. Three years.'

  She shrugged. 'Nearer four.'

  He felt a moment's joy. She had counted them more carefully than he had.

  'I don't know where the years go to—'

  Hardly a compelling or original statement, he thought, the usual excuse signalling either neglect, indifference, or both.

  She ignored it and continued, 'Seamus will be grateful to you. He's a good lad, a bit impulsive. The dedicated patriot, but I dare say he may grow out of it some day. Anyway, it is good to see you again. You are looking well,' she added, trying in vain to sound genuinely interested.

  He could think of nothing more to say. She hesitated a moment and then began to walk away from him. Her action, her small gesture of the head indicated that she had no wish to prolong this meeting or further their association beyond the bounds dictated by gratitude and politeness.

  Desperately, he fell into step at her side.

  'Where are you staying?'

  'At the Golden Lion there.' She pointed. 'Convenient for the court.' She looked at him. 'Are you here on police business?'

  'Yes. It was quite by accident I read about your nephew's trial.'

  'Then we should both be grateful to you.'

  They had almost reached the hotel.

  'What are you doing now?' he asked.

  'Still writing books. Still travelling.'

  'Good. I meant for the rest of the day.' And when she shrugged 'Shall we have lunch?'

  'If you wish,' she said. Her voice, sad and tired, lacked enthusiasm.

  He pretended not to notice. 'Splendid. Where shall we go?'

  The hotel was an impressive building built in 1786. 'This will do. Food's good enough for the visiting judges and it boasts of being patronised by Royalty.'

  Seated at a table overlooking the street, she looked up from the menu and said, 'I thought I saw Olivia and Vince at the theatre one night when Seamus and I were in Edinburgh.

  'When was that?'

  'A few weeks ago. I gather they are married now.'

  'And have been for a couple of years.'

  'Are they happy?'

  'Very!' Faro looked at her wistful expression. What an odd question.

  I'm delighted. Do give them my best wishes,' she added with a smile and continued to study the menu.

  Faro was pleased to notice from her order that her appetite was unaffected by the recent traumas of the court.

  'Are you often in Edinburgh?'

  'From time to time. When my writing takes me there.'

  That promise when th
ey last met to keep in touch was avoided and Faro had few memories of the food served to them, poor or excellent it would have made little difference. Not only did his appetite flag but so did the conversation deteriorate to a careful inconsequential chatter between strangers.

  Faro looked at her bleakly. He felt that his presence bored her, and that she regretted having accepted his invitation. And all the while he was trying not to notice how attractive she was, with her soft Irish brogue, trying not to let his emotions be influenced by this charming exterior, while she regarded him from behind some impenetrable barrier she had deliberately raised between them.

  At last the meal was over, the bill paid. She thanked him profusely, said how nice it had been, seeing him again, and how grateful she was. And Seamus too.

  'What are you doing for the rest of the day?' he interrupted.

  She stared at him wide-eyed, as if this was a completely unexpected and somewhat improper suggestion. Then she shrugged and laughed, a laugh soft and deep in her throat that he remembered.

  'Not a great deal. At least not until evening. Then I must visit Seamus.'

  'And after that?' he asked, hoping to sound casual and failing miserably to hide his eagerness.

  Her eyes widened again momentarily before she looked away from him, studying the staircase as if it offered immediate escape from a difficult situation.

  'I have other people to see. I intend to fight with every means possible against Seamus's sentence. So grossly unfair, it is.' Turning to him again, she said, 'Now, if you'll excuse me—'

  Reluctant to let her go, he said desperately, 'What about tomorrow then?'

  She shook her head but he pretended not to notice. 'Look, my official police business is finished. I don't need to go back until evening—catch the last train.'

  She smiled and, suspecting hesitation, he seized her hands, held them tightly. 'Shall we spend the day together? Please, Imogen.'

  The smile vanished. Her face expressionless, she said, 'That would be fine. Sure now, I would enjoy that.'

  'See you after breakfast then.'

  He watched her go. At the foot of the stairs she turned, faced him. For a moment he thought she was going to change her mind but, with a shrug, she ran lightly upstairs.

  He slept badly that night. Vivid dreams concerning the following day awakened him like warning signals of evil to come. But worst of all was the knowledge his waking mind stubbornly refused to accept. How Seamus Crowe fitted exactly the description of one of the visitors to Miss McNair's cottage and it took little imagination to identify the veiled young woman as Imogen Crowe.

  They were Irish with Fenian sympathies. And as the two people had been murdered, their connection, however vague, made them possible suspects whom Chief Inspector Faro in any other circumstances would have been very eager to question.

  Chapter 15

  Arriving at Imogen's hotel in good time for their breakfast meeting, Faro asked the desk clerk if one of the pony chaises they advertised for the use of residents was available for hire.

  The arrangement made, he hurried into the dining room. There was no sign of Imogen and in a pretence of reading the morning newspaper he sat through half an hour of despair.

  She had changed her mind.

  But as he was about to leave a message for her she appeared breathless in the hall.

  'Sorry about that. I had someone to see late last night. And I overslept.' She smiled. 'Sir Hamish has offered to put in a plea for Seamus, to have his sentence reduced. Isn't that wonderful? Especially when he's from the North—'

  'He lives in Ulster, but he was born here in Stirling. He's a Scotsman,' Faro corrected her.

  'He still belongs to those we are fighting against. But he's a very nice man.'

  Faro had already decided that from his fleeting acquaintance outside the court with the man whose looks were so familiar.

  'No, thank you,' said Imogen to his offer of breakfast 'I'll keep my appetite. Where are we going?' she asked as he led her outside to where the pony chaise was waiting for them.

  The sun shone radiantly, the streets gleaming after an early shower of rain.

  Half an hour later they were trotting briskly along the road towards Menteith and Inchmahome. A boat was for hire and Faro rowed towards the island which beckoned over the water.

  'How lovely.' said Imogen as they stepped ashore.

  As they walked towards the ruined priory, Faro said, 'It has quite a history. Mary Queen of Scots stayed here as a child with her four Marys, safe from the machinations of the Scottish nobles. Here is the spot where they played, according to legend: Queen Mary's Bower.'

  The sky clouded over and a thin breeze ruffled the waters. The feeling of rain was in the air and they took shelter in the crypt, burial place of the lairds of Menteith—lairds with their ladies, resting at their sides for all eternity, in that peaceful place.

  The sun returned and they sat on the turf with their backs against a broken wall. 'I must thank you,' Imogen smiled and looked across at the priory, 'for such an unexpected—happy day, and this pretty place.'

  'Perhaps we'll meet again—visit other magic places—'

  She shook her head. 'No.' Her tone was firm.

  'Why not?' he demanded sharply.

  Turning, she looked at him, exploring his face with eyes that held a caress. 'You know the reasons perfectly well, I think, Inspector Faro,' she said softly.

  'I thought we had agreed you were to call me by my name,' he reminded her gently.

  'No. Inspector Faro will do fine for what I have to say. It is better for us both this way. Sure, I was glad to see you. Don't think for a moment that I'm forgetting what you did for my reputation, but friendship between us is not—and can never be—part of the deal.'

  'Friendship is not precisely what I have in mind—'

  She covered her ears, shook her head as if to thrust away his words.

  Dragging her hands away, he held them firmly and said, 'Hear me out—'

  She looked up at him. 'No, you hear me out. I am doubly grateful to you for giving me a character reference, let's not forget that. But—and it's a big but—there's two hundred years of bitterness and the Fenians between us.'

  She gestured to the ruined walls of the priory. 'This is your history; mine is even older. We belong in the mists of legend, the pre-Christian Fenians—fianna, as they were called, were a band of warriors like those of King Arthur. It was an order of chivalry, the very spirit of Ireland, heroic conduct with magical undertones. The number of fianna was seven score and ten chiefs, every one having nine fighting men under him, and each of them bound by three sacred vows: to take no woman or goods by force, to refuse none who asked for cattle or bread and to fight to the death at the side of their chief. And no man was worthy to join the fianna till he knew by heart twelve books of poetry. Not even for the country of everlasting youth—the Tir nan Og—would the fianna give up Ireland—'

  Faro listened silently, studying her face, observing in her eyes conviction and complete dedication to the Irish cause.

  'The saga combined self-reliance, attachment to the earth and a strong ring of anti-clericism. The fianna flourished in Ireland in the second and third centuries of the Christian era. They resisted conversion and when St Patrick pronounced the doom of hell upon them for their pagan ways, the bard Oisin told him: "Better to be in Hell with Finn, than in Heaven with pale and flimsy angels ..."'

  Faro groaned inwardly. Her ringing tones, her shining eyes also pronounced doom on his growing love for this passionate patriot who was doubtless a member of a terrorist organization.

  She turned on him and smiled. 'Even today, I believe their pagan beliefs are stronger than lip service to the Virgin Mary.'

  'Such sentiments are splendid, Imogen, but they belong in legend. Frankly, I cannot reconcile chivalry with hearts that throw bombs to maim and destroy, and assassinate their political opponents in the name of religion.'

  'Sure and I agree with you—in principle.
But who first drew the sword in Ireland? Not the Irish, I can assure you. We were a conquered race, like you here in Scotland. God knows, you people have even less to thank England for. We have Cromwell's murderers but you have Edward the Third at Flodden Field and Butcher Cumberland at Culloden. As for the name Fenian, it was chosen about a generation ago for the new embodiment of Irish national feeling. Not to be confused with the more modern Irish Republican Brotherhood of the last decade.'

  With its murderers,' he interrupted.

  She paused apologetically. 'I didn't mean to give you a lecture, Inspector, but it's all very close to my heart. I grew up with the legends. The heroes were real people to me and my uncle, Seamus's father—him your people murdered—' she added bitterly, 'he made me learn them by heart. My childhood was steeped in the sagas. That's probably what made me a writer.' She sighed. 'Every day I had to recite a new passage and he made me promise to do the same for his son should anything happen to him—'

  As she spoke Faro thought of her uncle Brendan Crowe, the fanatical patriot who had brought his adopted niece with him to London, his whole purpose to kill the English monarch whom he held personally responsible for all Ireland's sorrows past and present. In an assassination attempt on the Queen in St James's Park, he had been fatally wounded by the police. Rather than be taken prisoner he shot himself in his lodging. Imogen, a girl of sixteen, was with him and, accused of sheltering a terrorist, she was sent to prison.

  'You can't blame Seamus,' Imogen went on. 'He was born and bred to hate the English and die for Ireland. A passion and loyalty so strong he was even willing to leave his young wife and baby son back there, believing that as a newspaperman in Scotland he could do more to further the cause, certain that, with Home Rule just around the corner, he could recruit a few good fighters to scare the wits out of the British.' She made a wry face. 'And not only with guns. He claimed I had taught him that the pen was mightier than the sword.'

  A shrill whistle announced the boatman's return and as they walked towards the landing-stage she took from her reticule a small booklet, hardly bigger than a pamphlet. 'Read this sometime. It will help to set your ideas right about the movement.'