Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery Read online

  'Not a great deal, I'm afraid. Except that he used to carry me on his shoulders down to the harbour at Leith to watch the big ships sailing away.'

  'So you don't remember his accident?'

  'Accident?'

  'Yes. When he was killed working on the masonry at Edinburgh Castle.'

  'Working on what masonry, Inspector? I don't understand you.'

  'A wall in the royal apartments. He and another labourer named Dowie were repairing it, in 1837, in preparation for the Queen's coronation visit in 1838. The scaffolding ... '

  Lady Penfold held up her hand. 'A moment, Inspector. I am quite bewildered by your remarks. You have been grossly misinformed, I'm afraid. My father - a common labourer - a workman?' Her laughter had a strangled sound and before he could reply, she continued gently, 'You have got your facts wrong, this workman person cannot possibly be my father. John Femister was an officer and a gentleman and he died in the Canton rebellion in 1843. On the wall behind you is a painting of him in full dress uniform, the year before his death.'

  Faro regarded the painting solemnly. There was little or no resemblance to the dead man on Castle Rock. She was watching him closely and there was nothing to be gained by refuting her claim. He apologised.

  'Who brought you up after your father died?'

  'A great-aunt in Fife. My only relative, alas, and now dead - the year I was married.'

  'Was she also a Femister - from Ireland, were they not?'

  Lady Penfold laughed. 'Ireland? Whatever gave you that idea, Inspector? These Femisters were Scots through and through. Great-aunt was on my maternal side, of course.'

  'Of course. One more question. Did your father by any chance have a brother, possibly older than himself?'

  'My father was an orphan, Inspector.' Her easy, flirtatious manner had been replaced by a certain watchfulness and carefully-thought-out statements. Faro had interviewed too many criminals in his twenty years not to know when someone was lying. He was certain that Lady Penfold was most anxious to conceal the truth.

  Could there be any other reason than the very obvious one: that she was a fearful snob, determined to impress with her good connections? Had she built this fantasy about her father, complete with portrait, in order to establish herself as Lord Penfold's wife and when she married deliberately turned her back on her humble parentage? A heartless verdict, but, Faro knew from experience, not altogether rare in those who wished to rise in society from a poor working-class background.

  There was nothing to be gained by prolonging the interview, but as he apologised for wasting her time and bade her goodday, she made a rapid return to coquetry. With a great fluttering of eyelashes, she begged him to stay and tell her all about his fascinating work in capturing criminals.

  He shook his head, murmuring thin excuses. At length, sighing, realising she had lost a conquest, she rang the bell for the maid to show him out.

  'It is my turn to be curious, Inspector. What is your reason for all these questions?'

  'Oh, have I not told you?' Faro faced her squarely. 'A man was found dead on Castle Rock recently and we had reason to suspect that he might in fact be related to your late father, John Femister, and that his fall was no accident.'

  'You mean this - Femister person - might have been deliberately murdered.'

  'That is what we suspect.'

  There was a moment's pause as she sought to recover, then with a deep breath, she drew herself up and said sternly, 'I can assure you, Inspector, there is absolutely no connection with this house.'

  Faro had observed her reactions carefully. Her horrified whisper, her sudden change of colour, her hands clasped tightly together, all were the confirmation he needed that this was indeed John Femister's daughter. Even more to the point he suspected that she had some knowledge of the dead man. What that connection was remained to be revealed and he was fairly certain that Lady Penfold would give him no help whatever.

  As they walked towards the door, she said, 'It is only idle curiosity, Inspector, but where do the police bury murder victims who are unclaimed by relatives?'

  'They become the property of the Medical College. For dissection by the students.'

  Her voice as she said goodbye was curiously unsteady, all coquetry long since forgotten. As the door closed behind him Faro had the satisfaction of interpreting her look of terror and guilt. The fact that her dreams that night might be haunted by remorse, and the thought of her discomfort, afforded him considerable pleasure.

  At the Central Office there were six very short reports awaiting him, collected from the properties robbed by Clavers and his gang. In each case, according to the constable who made the investigation, Faro's drawing of the Queen Mary cameo had been carefully scrutinised and, in every case, the robbed gentleman denied ever having seen it before.

  Superintendent Mackintosh came in as Faro put down the last report.

  'If that piece is genuine,' he said indicating the drawings sternly, 'and no one has claimed it, then the proper place for it is in the collection at Edinburgh Castle. See to it, will you, Faro. Oh, and before you go, you had better sign this certificate for the Fiscal.'

  The document related to disposal of the remains of an unknown man found on the Castle Rock. All the usual procedures of investigation had been carried out, but no claimant had come forward.

  'He definitely wasn't one of Clavers' gang either, Faro. I had my informant take a look at him.'

  Faro reluctantly put his name under the presumed cause of death - 'By misadventure' - and handed the document back to the Superintendent.

  There was little point in protesting. A jacket that might have been distributed to the dead man by any of Lady Piperlee's charitable organisations, and not necessarily first hand. It could have had several owners.

  Lady Penfold had been his last hope, a woman too proud to admit a common labourer as her father, who had invented a grandiose background suitable to her present position in society.

  He handed the certificate back and the Superintendent gave an approving nod. 'Good. That's settled then. Case is now closed and we can get him tidied away. Thank God. No one will be sorry about that, I can tell you. Complaints already about keeping bodies around in this weather, a very unpleasant business. Very nasty indeed, Faro.' And his reproachful glance seemed to indicate that his Detective Inspector had been personally responsible for the inconvenience caused.

  He was leaving the building when a constable hailed him. 'Message for you, Inspector.'

  Marked 'Urgent' the note read, 'Have stumbled on something which you ought to know. Come at once. Highly confidential.' The last words were heavily underlined and the signature was 'Arthur Mace'.

  'When did this arrive?'

  'An hour ago, maybe more. I didn't realise you were in the building.'

  But Faro was already at the door stepping into a waiting carriage. As it climbed the steep High Street towards the Castle, he felt the stirrings of excitement.

  With or without the corpse of the mystery man, with or without his superior's approval, the case for him could not yet be closed.

  As long as he had a shred of evidence.

  And his sixth sense told him that whatever Lady Penfold's denials, however unsatisfactory the interview had been, her manner had betrayed evidence that the dead man was either a relative of John Femister or somehow connected with him.

  It was by following such frail uncertain threads that mysteries were solved and Detective Inspector Faro brought criminals to justice.

  Chapter Nine

  At the entrance to the royal apartments, a gentleman, swarthy of countenance with the proportions of a wrestler and a decidedly foreign appearance which belied his very English name, announced himself as Forster, Sir Eric's personal assistant.

  'Mace? Not here. On duty.' And without offering another word, Mr Forster retreated into his small office and closing the door firmly indicated that all further communication was superfluous.

  Faro shrugged. No doubt Sir E
ric would be able to contact Mace. As he walked across the corridor he thought about Forster's clipped English. His appearance and carefully enunciated words, few as they were, suggested that this was not his native language. The other explanation was more feasible, that Mr Forster was a Highland gentleman and that his native tongue was the Gaelic.

  Entering Sir Eric's apartments, he found himself in the midst of a party which, by the evidence of the table set with the remnants of a considerable feast, had been enjoyed by an entire turnout of his family.

  Rose and Emily were fully absorbed by a set of toy soldiers and a fort. This activity, he guessed by their rapt attentions, held more interest than playing with dolls long neglected in their nursery. Rose was bookish and Emily good with her hands.

  By one window, Sir Eric and his mother sat in deep conversation. The closeness of their heads and the faint flush on his mother's cheek, her downcast eyes and shy smile, her hair untouched by grey, created an illusion of youth regained and suggested to her son that Sir Eric might indeed be renewing his past overtures.

  Faro was happy to remain in silent observation to enjoy this delicious spectacle. How extraordinary that he had never until this moment seen his mother as other men might, as a still desirable woman. And he was also aware, for the first time, that Sir Eric's exceptional good looks and distinguished presence might commend him to ladies of all ages.

  He had certainly failed to use his much-vaunted sharp eyes, his powers of logic and deduction where his own family were concerned. Wouldn't it be extraordinary if Sir Eric, that faithful family friend of forty years, whom Faro had long regarded in the affectionate guise of a foster-uncle, should become his stepfather? What would young Vince think about that?

  From the other window embrasure, not clearly visible from where he stood, a woman's soft but sensual laugh reached his ears. The guffaw that followed was one he recognised and, taking a step forward still unobserved, there was Vince with Lucille, she looking down into the quadrangle and he watching her, narrowly, intensely, with his heart in his eyes.

  Romance was most decidedly in the air; the two couples, a vignette out of a light operetta, were much too involved with each other to notice his arrival. To come suddenly upon the scene would be to everyone's embarrassment.

  There was only one thing to do. He stepped back outside, knocked loudly and threw open the door.

  His daughters noticed him first and, laughing, greeted his arrival with shrieks of welcome. He had given the two couples time to compose themselves and noted with some amusement that they greeted this interruption with perceptibly less enthusiasm than did Rose and Emily. He fancied that upon the faces of both men he detected fleeting shadows of annoyance.

  His mother, however, managed to resume her mantle of caring motherhood with commendable speed. Had her boy eaten? Was he hungry? He was looking tired. Was his ankle painful?

  Such concern made him feel irritable and quite a bit older than Sir Eric, whose overtures had obviously been receiving some encouragement. The magic of romantic dalliance had brought a youthful sparkle to his eyes and a new lightness to his step as he walked across to welcome the newcomer.

  Lucille had meanwhile made a rapid transformation into the role of her uncle's hostess. In a very short time she had Faro seated in the most comfortable armchair with a stool on which to rest his ankle. Her personal ministrations further included a cup of China tea and a scone, heavily buttered and overflowing with raspberry jam, which she proudly presented to him.

  Made suddenly at home by such thoughtful gestures and enjoying this charming young woman's undivided attention, out of the corner of his eye Faro was amused to observe his stepson's reactions. Vince was watching them with the same mutinous expression that in boyhood had followed the forcible removal from his grasp of some desirable but forbidden object.

  Regardless of the potential hazards of raspberry jam, Rose and Emily both attempted to sit close by and hug him, at the same time regaling him with stories of their day.

  'Dear Miss Haston has been so kind -'

  'And dear Vince.'

  'We have been everywhere in the Castle.'

  'And met some real soldiers, Papa.'

  Listening to his two daughters, Faro saw across the room Sir Eric relating some amusing anecdote to Vince, who appeared to have regained his good humour. Near the window the two ladies had their heads close together consulting a magazine devoted to the latest Paris fashions.

  Faro smiled to himself. In a short space of time, the two couples had reverted to being four very practical people, all suggestions of romance carefully swept away as if he had imagined that golden glow when he first entered the room.

  Putting down his cup and plate as soon as possible without offending Lucille, who seemed infected with his mother's determination to fill him full of scones and cups of tea, he left his chair with some difficulty and approached Sir Eric, wondering how he could politely extract Vince to tell him of the visit to Lady Penfold and the surprising developments.

  'So glad you came, lad,' said Sir Eric.

  'I'm here to see Mace, sir. He sent a note to the Central Office, saying it was urgent.'

  Sir Eric nodded absently. 'I was just saying to Vince how I bless you for being so good to my niece while I was away. An old man like me isn't much joy for her. Needs taking out of herself. Had a rough old time of it at home . . . '

  As he spoke Faro tried to direct Vince's attention to Mace's note, but his facial contortions were ignored and Vince, with a murmured 'Excuse me', seized the opportunity to withdraw once more to Lucille's side. Faro watched him helplessly before turning again to Sir Eric, only to find he had lost the gist of the conversation. Sir Eric frowned in his niece's direction in the manner of one who would like to say more and then, with a shake of his head, lapsed into silence.

  'How was Balmoral, sir?' asked Faro tactfully.

  'Oh, excellent. Some quite excellent fishing,' and then with a rapid change of subject, 'Mace, was it, you were wanting? Excellent fellow, Mace. Damned efficient too, not like some of these young officers. Splendid background in history. More use to you than Forster. Did he have any useful information on Queen Mary?'

  'He did indeed. He was looking for a missing part of an inventory and I gather he found something...'

  'Capital, capital. Then that's all settled.'

  'Not quite, sir. I haven't seen him yet.' And Faro explained that the enigmatic Forster had told him Mace was on duty.

  'But he should be off by six o'clock,' said Sir Eric. 'It isn't long to wait and you must make yourself at home with us meantime. In fact, why not join Lucille and me for dinner in the Mess this evening?'

  Hearing her name, Lucille drifted over with Vince at her heels. 'Please come. We would love to have you, wouldn't we, Uncle?'

  'I have already invited him, niece.' Sir Eric's sharp rejoinder sounded to Faro's ears unnecessarily irritable. Was this charming, high-spirited visitor beginning to pall on the elderly bachelor with his set way of life? 'We're taking your dear mother, and Vince, of course.'

  Again addressing Faro, he smiled. 'No ceremony, just the regular chaps and I expect young Mace will be there. Chance for you to find out what this message was all about.'

  Mary Faro, that normally shy and retiring widow, was all excitement as she turned to her son. 'Miss Haston's maid is taking the girls back home to Mrs Brook and - and Sir Eric assures me that I don't need to dress for this occasion.'

  'You look quite lovely as you are, my dear, doesn't she?' Sir Eric beamed on the company in general to give their assurance.

  'Your costume is quite perfect, so elegant,' said Lucille. Her wholehearted agreement and smiling glance in her uncle's direction suggested that this was a romance that would meet with her approval.

  As Rose and Emily were put into their cloaks for the exciting drive back to Sheridan Place in Sir Eric's handsome carriage, Lucille whispered, 'Don't look so anxious, Inspector,' completely misinterpreting Faro's brooding glance. 'Bet is mo
st reliable. And she dotes on children.'

  Faro smiled. Fondness of children was the last thing he would have suspected of the dour-faced, enigmatic maid.

  The room seemed strangely empty after the girls had left. Faro sighed. He missed them and found himself wishing that they had either stayed at the Castle or that he had accompanied them home. He felt suddenly that a fifth person was an unnecessary and not altogether welcome addition to the foursome he had come upon. Absorbed in each other's company, they were now forced politely to include him in more general and less personal topics of conversation, while he tried in vain to angle his bemused stepson aside to discuss more urgent matters.

  As they took their places at the table in the Mess, Faro was unable to see Mace from where he was sitting. If the information implied by the note had been urgent enough to require his immediate presence, he felt a little put out that Mace had not made any effort to contact him before dinner.

  Again he was conscious of urgency, of passing time. In a few days Rose and Emily and his mother would have returned to Orkney. Did that account for this feeling of unease, of living on a stage set with something monstrous lurking in the wings, and waiting for a cue that never came?

  Lucille sat next to Vince, but it was to himself that she gave her undivided attention and catching his stepson's eye he received many a sad, cold and reproachful glance.

  His mother was in deep conversation with one of their table companions. The subject was her favourite: politics. He listened to her candid observations on what was wrong with the French, as characterised by Napoleon III and the Prussians and, in particular, the shocking behaviour of French Canadians, unwilling to accept the benefits offered by British imperialism.

  Looking up he saw Sir Eric watching her with a curious expression, a mixture of pride and apprehension. Conscious of Faro's gaze, he turned, smiled and proffered his cigar case.

  'Your mother is a most remarkable lady. Shall we adjourn for a smoke?' he whispered. 'I doubt whether we'll be missed, this discussion could go on all evening,' he added with a groan. 'I know old Boyd once he gets an interested audience, particularly a pretty woman.'