The Missing Duchess Page 12

  A few minutes later they were heading towards Waverley Station. Armed with their tickets, Faro led her towards the platform.

  At the barrier, the guard shook his head. 'Not tonight, I'm afraid, sir.'

  Faro pointed towards the waiting train.

  'Aye, sir, and there it stays till morning. There's been a cloudburst, line is flooded past Musselburgh and there'll be no trains till it subsides.' The porter looked at the grey sky. 'If it stays fine, then you'll get away first thing tomorrow morning.'

  Faro regarded Miss Fortescue anxiously as they walked back into the booking office.

  'Don't worry, miss, we'll get you back somehow.'

  But far from being worried or dismayed, Miss Fortescue laughed, obviously treating this new disaster as a huge joke. 'Here's a pretty pickle. Well, Inspector, how do you solve this one?'

  'That's easy, miss. We take a carriage.'

  'What an adventure.' She chuckled happily.

  It was the kind of adventure Faro could well have done without when he saw that the usual line-up of hiring carriages was absent from outside the station. At last a solitary one appeared and Faro rushed forward.

  'Where to, sir?' asked the coachman.

  'Aberlethie, if you please.'

  'Aberlethie, did ye say?' The man shook his head. 'Not tonight, sir. Just come from Musselburgh, that's as far as we can get. Roads are all under water. You and the missus'll need to wait till morning and take a train like sensible folk.'

  And looking at Miss Fortescue's bag, presuming they had come off a train, he said: 'I can take you to a good hotel.'

  'A hotel.' Miss Fortescue grasped his arm. 'Oh no, Inspector, I couldn't -1 just couldn't,' she whispered.

  'Why ever not, miss? There are some very comfortable establishments on Princes Street. Very respectable too.'

  'I'm sure there are. It isn't that, I assure you. I'm just -scared.'

  'Scared?'

  'Yes. You see, I once stayed in a hotel and it took fire. So I can't.' She shook her head firmly. 'Not ever again.'

  He wasn't sure he wanted to let her out of his sight, aware that she might have been followed. 'I'll stay there too, if you wish. Take a room close to yours -'

  'No - no - you're very kind. But not even if you were in the - the same room -1 just - can't.'

  'Are you wanting this carriage or not?' the coachman demanded.

  If it was possible that she had been followed, then Faro could see dangers in the hotel idea. He now had to consider reluctantly the alternative that remained. And that was to keep her under his own roof where he could be sure she was safe till morning.

  And as if she read his thought: 'Perhaps you have a spare room,' she whispered.

  Chapter 14

  The carriage set them down in Sheridan Place and as Faro opened his front door, Miss Fortescue sighed.

  'I'm greatly obliged to you, Inspector.'

  Faro led the way down to the kitchen. And deploring Mrs Brook's absence, he said: Take a seat by the fire and I'll see what I can do about a room for you.'

  Where would he put her? He seldom set foot in the spare rooms and had no idea whether the housekeeper kept beds made up for unexpected guests. He soon discovered that was not the case. The rooms he entered were cold and desolate, beds stripped down to their mattresses.

  So where were the sheets and blankets kept? He wasn't even sure he knew how to make a bed properly.

  Then he remembered his daughters' room, and throwing open the door, saw that Mrs Brook's proud boast that it was always kept aired and in readiness for their next visit was evidently correct.

  Miss Fortescue followed him upstairs and, setting down her bag by the bed, she looked round delightedly at her surroundings.

  Thank you so much, Inspector. Yes, I'm sure I'll be most comfortable.'

  'Let me know if there is anything you require, miss.'

  A few minutes later she returned to the kitchen, where he was spreading the table with some of Mrs Brook's abundant provisions.

  'Such a pretty room you've given me. Is it your sister's?'

  'No, my two daughters occupy it when they come to stay during the school holidays.' He was ashamed at making those sadly infrequent visits sound so regular.

  They are not at school in Edinburgh?'

  'No.' He explained to her that he was a widower and it was convenient for his daughters to stay with their grandmother in Orkney.

  She was all sympathy. Very sweet, he decided, and a good listener. Splendid appetite, too. She obviously relished Mrs Brook's cooking and begged to be allowed to take over preparation of the meal. Far from being baffled by cavernous pantries and belligerent stoves, she found one of Mrs Brook's vast aprons and was soon in complete command of the domestic situation.

  Faro looked on, laughing approvingly. 'I'm glad you came, miss.'

  She shook her head, smiled. 'Not miss, please. Roma.'

  'Roma,' he repeated. 'An unusual name.'

  'My parents spent their honeymoon in Italy.'

  As they enjoyed a pleasant and companionable meal together he found himself telling her not only his life story, but his problems at the Central Office and even details of some of his most baffling cases. He found she had a surprising knowledge of the major governmental issues in Britain, as well as a keener understanding than he had ever aspired to, of the boiling-pot of European politics.

  Miss Roma Fortescue, he guessed, belonged to the new breed of independent and enlightened women. And Faro was one man who didn't feel threatened by them. In many of his cases, he had learned to deal with women who were the equal of any man, and infinitely more ruthless. He had his own personal reasons, and carried some indelible scars, for regarding the fair sex not as the weaker, but in many instances, the stronger.

  This one, he thought, was far too bright to be wasted in a stultifying existence as a mere lady-in-waiting to an impulsive headstrong royal duchess, with her talents limited to plying an embroidery needle, playing the pianoforte and playing up to her mistress's constant demand for entertainment.

  Afterwards, when he tried to do so, he could never clearly remember details of their conversation, only her ready flashes of wit and humour.

  As she cleared the table and carried the dishes to the sink, refusing his help, she sighed happily. 'This is my dream come true. I get so little chance to do this sort of thing. I am not even allowed to set foot in the kitchens.' She paused and looked at him solemnly. 'Shall I tell you what my favourite book is?'

  'Please do,' he said, expecting some learned philosophical treatise.

  'Promise you won't laugh?'

  'I promise.'

  'Mrs Beeton's All About Cookery book.' She looked at him suspiciously. 'You don't find that amusing?'

  'On the contrary, I find it very worthy.'

  She looked around and smiled. 'A kitchen, warm - and small. A cosy fire and a table full of baking materials. Half a dozen menus to prepare - that is my idea of bliss.'

  'And a husband perhaps to appreciate your culinary efforts,' he added teasingly.

  Her face darkened. 'Perhaps.' Then the shadow lifted and she regarded him intently, with a look that flattered him. 'Or a kind friend. That would do perfectly.'

  Faro wondered why, past thirty, she was still unmarried. He suspected a sad love story, some hidden grief. Pretty, charming, attractive - were Luxorian men daunted by such qualities and by this clever Scotswoman? Scots? No. She wasn't really, he thought, she was quite foreign sometimes, in turns of phrase, a word sought after vainly - in the manner of British subjects who spend most of their lives in other countries and are more at home in another language.

  He was delighted to find that Miss Fortescue was extremely well-read. She shared his own passion for Shakespeare's plays, her early years as companion to her English-educated royal mistress had obviously served her well. He was agreeably surprised to hear that she also enjoyed Sir Walter Scott's novels.

  'And we had all Mr Dickens' latest books sent out speciall
y to Luxoria.'

  Music too, Faro discovered, was something they shared. Mr Mendelssohn and Mr Liszt had been welcome visitors to Luxoria.

  In no great hurry to bring the evening to a close, they talked and laughed together. Meanwhile the storm continued to rage outside, but they were oblivious of wind lashing the windows, of doors creaking in the gale.

  At one stage, pouring more wine, Faro looked at his companion and saw her for the first time as a woman to be desired. He realised wistfully that this cosy domestic scene, this simple meal in a warm kitchen, was one being repeated in houses all over Edinburgh.

  How long had it been since he spent an evening at home with a woman he loved, he thought wistfully, his hand shaking a little as he picked up his wineglass? It had been so long since Lizzie had died. His skirmishes into love had been transient, wounding, disastrous.

  As Miss Fortescue looked at him he felt embarrassed by the pain in his eyes. Was she lonely too? Did this kitchen scene remind her of the years that were gone, of sad days and glad days and lost love?

  Faro sighed. The Wagnerian storm outside with its lightning flashes and thunder-claps that shook the walls and guttered the lamps was all the passion this particular house would know tonight.

  Midnight was past. Where had the hours gone? He wanted to call them all back again, to relive each minute, suddenly precious, each sentence, each burst of laughter in a perpetual motion of happy hours. Eternity should be such a night as this. Eternal bliss -

  And now it was almost over. Miss Fortescue stood up, yawned. He regarded the dregs of his empty wineglass.

  'Of course, you must be tired.'

  She sighed. 'A little, yes. It has been such a day.'

  He poured warm water into a ewer for her washing and took the candle off the table. 'I'll see you to your room.'

  He followed her upstairs, opened the door of his daughters' room for Miss Fortescue. Turning, she smiled. 'Such a lovely day. A tremendous adventure.'

  'I'll bid you goodnight, miss. Sleep well.'

  'You too, Inspector. And thank you once again.'

  Here today, gone tomorrow, a bird of passage, with plumage strange and rare. Only a fool would fall in love, Faro thought, closing the door on her.

  His dreams were wild and strange, full of erotic images. The Crusader came from his tomb, stalking him across the years and thrusting the Luck o' Lethie into his hands. It turned into a snake becoming part of his own body.

  He was awake. It was that strange hour twixt wolf and dog when familiar shapes of furniture become gross and ghostly aliens of nightmare and all the world holds its breath.

  Someone was shaking him.

  'Wake up - please, wake up.'

  It was Miss Fortescue.

  'Someone - someone is trying to break into the house,' she whispered. 'In the kitchen -'

  Faro leaped out of bed and threw on his dressing-robe. An attempted break-in. There could be only one purpose. He felt sickened and confused by the knowledge that someone had followed Miss Fortescue and knew she was here. The assassin -

  'You stay here,' he said, and ran lightly downstairs.

  The kitchen was filled with grey uneasy dawn. But the door was still locked, bolted.

  'They must have run away,' Miss Fortescue whispered. She was brave, he thought, she had followed him.

  'What made you think - ?'

  'I heard a noise. I was thirsty, too much wine, I suppose. You didn't leave me a carafe -'

  Cutting short his apologies: 'My fault. I didn't ask. I came downstairs. And I saw a shadow - a man - at the window. Look -' She pointed.

  Faro went to the window above the sink. A small pane of glass was broken. He opened the back door cautiously, walked the few steps to the window, saw the slivers of glass on the ground.

  She watched him relocking the door.

  'Well, you must have scared him off,' he said. 'I think you'd better go back to bed.'

  'Are you sure he won't come back?' she said, pointing to the window.

  'No. No one could climb in through that tiny space. I think we're safe enough now.'

  She walked ahead of him up the stairs. She was wearing a light petticoat, prettily frilled with ribboned lace, and he realised that she must have slept in it in the absence of a nightgown.

  He opened her bedroom door. 'You'll be quite safe now.'

  'But - how -'

  He shook his head, gently closed the door on her protests and went back to his own bed.

  There he lay awake, his hands behind his head, pondering the night's strange events. In a little while he dozed, and opening his eyes, he thought he dreamed again, for she stood at his bedside.

  'I'm so frightened. And I'm so cold. I've never been so cold.'

  She held out her hands. He smiled and pulled back the covers, taking her into his arms. She was as passionate as she was clever, as tender as she was sweet.

  At last the storm rolled away, and the golden light of early morning sunlight touched the bed where they lay still entwined.

  Faro sighed, looking at her sleeping face. Soon it would be all over. The wild sweetness of one stolen night about to be obliterated by another day when dreams are quenched by the solemnity of duty.

  She stirred in his arms. He kissed her hair and left her.

  When she came down to the kitchen where he was stirring the embers of the fire, she looked towards the broken pane of glass.

  'I can't believe it really happened,' she whispered.

  'It didn't.'

  'You mean - the break-in?'

  'Exactly. It didn't happen. There was never a burglar.' He put an arm around her and laughed. 'So much trouble to come into my bed,' he whispered.

  She understood. Laughing lightly, standing on tiptoe, she kissed him.

  Chapter 15

  Sergeant McQuinn arrived as they were leaving the house together. He managed to conceal well both his surprise and his curiosity at the presence of a young woman in Inspector Faro's hall at eight thirty in the morning.

  Saluting smartly, for the lady's benefit, he said: 'Superintendent McIntosh's compliments, sir. He needs to see you urgently.'

  'I was about to escort Miss Fortescue back to Aberlethie.'

  McQuinn looked at Miss Fortescue. 'Perhaps I can do that for you, sir.' He pointed to the street. The carriage is there.'

  McQuinn did not miss the lady's frantic look in Faro's direction, nor how completely the Inspector chose to ignore it.

  'You will be quite safe with Sergeant McQuinn, miss. Er - I'll call on you later.'

  Bowing to her, he felt that he failed completely to convey the emotion concealed within those few words. She darted him a frantic look as McQuinn reached out a hand for her bag. But refusing to be parted from it, she allowed him to hand her into the carriage.

  Again Faro wondered what shopping had been so precious or heavy and, more important, where the money had come from. Obviously Lady Lethie had been generous with more than her wardrobe.

  Helplessly he watched them go, lifting a hand in farewell, angry at Mcintosh's ill-timed command and with a shaft of jealousy for the young Irishman.

  Would McQuinn exert all his ready charm on Miss Fortescue, Faro thought, remembering how successful McQuinn was with the ladies? All ages too, even his own young daughter Rose had lost her heart to him.

  But in another part of his mind, Faro was secretly relieved that McQuinn's arrival had been so opportune. No words of love had been spoken between Roma Fortescue and himself. They had been two lonely people hungry for comfort. Of greater embarrassment would have been an explanation of why she had felt it necessary to pretend there was a burglar lurking on the premises.

  That failed to make any sense at all.

  In the Central Office, he found Superintendent Mcintosh pacing the floor anxiously.

  'Where do you think you've been, Faro? I've been waiting for you here since eight o'clock.'

  Faro did not feel up to explaining that his arrival had been delayed by Miss Fo
rtescue's departure on the nine o'clock train for North Berwick. Superintendent McIntosh would doubtless have asked the question he was most anxious to avoid: What was she doing at his house and where had she spent the night?

  There's a couple of lads downstairs. Claim that the man you found in St Anthony's Chapel is their father. They're with Dr Cranley now. He wants you to talk to them.'

  The downstairs room was stark and bare with whitewashed brick walls and a disagreeable smell. Used for the questioning of criminals, its intimidating atmosphere offered little by way of consolation in breaking bad news to bereaved relatives.

  Constable Reid was in attendance and Dr Cranley indicated a seat at the table. As he sat down opposite the pair, the doctor said: This is Inspector Faro.'

  Introductions were unnecessary, the Hogan brothers knew him well already. Their paths had crossed many times before, and as far as Faro could see the only thing they had in common with the dead man was ginger hair.

  '... They have identified the body as that of their father, Joshua Hogan, aged fifty-five, who went missing from home two weeks ago. I have explained the circumstances of his discovery to them and they have made a statement...'

  As Cranley spoke, Faro studied the two men. The elder, Joe, was a petty criminal, a fence for stolen goods, the younger, Willy, a pimp for their sister, a notorious prostitute. All three had at some time been involved in fraud cases.

  'Have you any idea what caused your father's death?' Faro asked.

  'Bad lungs, he had,' said Joe, who had appointed himself spokesman. 'He was fooling around, drunk as usual. Fell into the horse trough outside the World's End Tavern. Lads he was with were all larking about, didn't realise he was dead, took him home, put him to bed. Will and me wasn't home - we was at the horse sales in Glasgow, so he lay for a week. When we got back, the lads was scared they'd be blamed, and so to cut a long story out, they carted him up to St Anthony's, dumped him there.'

  'Have you names and addresses of these lads?'

  'They're on the paper there,' Hogan said smoothly. 'Constable wrote them down along with our statement. Gave my word no harm would come to them. Gave my hand on it.'