Murder in Paradise Page 12

  Faro thought of Bess’s anguished mother, her tearful conversation. However Muir was right, it was no concern of his. He was helpless to do anything about Bess Tracy. His main concern was Erland and whether he was suffering from an aggressive form of food poisoning – or something much more sinister at the hands of or, more precisely, in the cocoa provided by Madeleine Smith alias Lena Hamilton.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On his way back to Red House, Faro had two significant encounters. As he walked along the main road past the alehouse, Mrs Tracy emerged from the local shop.

  She looked weary and scared, her face still bearing bruises no doubt from recent altercations with her villainous husband. She would have walked straight past him, her head averted, but greeting her, he asked, ‘Heard from your daughter yet?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ she said, looking round apprehensively.

  Faro wasn’t sure how to respond to that question, especially when she demanded, ‘What’s my Bess to you?’

  He decided to ignore that and asked, ‘Are you worried about her? Does she often leave home for lengthy periods without telling you?’

  ‘She never does. My Bess is a good lass. The lads are all fond of her, chase her and that sort of thing. It’s not her fault that she’s such a bonny lass. They’re all taken with her, buzzing around like bees at a honey pot, they are.’

  Faro persisted. ‘Has she ever left home like this before?’

  ‘Never. It’s all her pa’s fault.’ Again that apprehensive look, over her shoulder as if avoiding a blow. ‘He hits her and she won’t stand for that sort of thing.’

  Conscious that he was repeating the obvious question he had asked at their first meeting, he said, ‘Has she a steady admirer?’

  Mrs Tracy sighed. ‘Oh yes, a nice chap this time, she said he was. A proper toff—’ and looking up at him wistfully, ‘a bit like yourself, sir, if I may be so bold as to remark on it.’

  Faro bowed. A proper toff wasn’t how he would describe himself. Perhaps his Orcadian accent, more in keeping with the Highlands than broad Scots, made him sound more refined than one of the local lads.

  ‘Your daughter’s new friend wasn’t from these parts?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, proper gentleman he is, like one of them artist fellows at Red House.’

  Faro thought it extremely doubtful that Topsy, Gabriel or Ned would be concealing Bess Tracy for the purpose of modelling as Mrs Tracy continued confidentially, ‘I’m sick with worry, sir. Tells me everything she does. Every little thing she ever does, or anyone she meets. She loves her ma, does my Bess, and now I don’t even know where she is and I’m feared that something awful has happened to her.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and Faro said, ‘Then you should ask Constable Muir to make some enquiries, officially.’

  ‘No!’ A shriek. ‘Never that! Her pa would kill me if I ever let the peelers over the doorstep.’

  Which sounded as if the brutal miller also had something to hide, Faro thought grimly as he realised that he was powerless to do anything regarding the missing girl. If her parents refused an official investigation, without any suspicious evidence, there the matter must lie.

  And saying that he hoped she would soon return, with increasingly little confidence in that statement, he left her. Although Bess’s morals might leave much to be desired, she was apparently a devoted daughter who confided in her mother. If this was true, then it was very irritating that she had not thought to reveal her new admirer’s name.

  A mysterious omission perhaps. But did she, or any child come to that, ever tell a parent every detail of such a relationship. From his own experience he thought not.

  That fortuitous meeting with Mrs Tracy had given him food for considerable thought.

  A toff for one thing ruled out a local lad. Had she met a stranger, a passing traveller at the local alehouse and gone off with him? Despite Muir’s suggestions earlier, in the light of her mother’s information, he thought that extremely doubtful and went on his way with an ominous feeling that there was something seriously amiss here, the same inescapable feeling he had had many times before in his brief career and these moments of intuition sadly were rarely proved wrong.

  As he returned through the orchard, he had his second significant encounter of the day. The gardener who had been Erland’s squire was now alone, pruning some late roses. He was obviously a cheery lad, whistling while he worked.

  He heard Faro’s approach, his feet rustling through the leaves and, turning, touched his forelock politely.

  ‘That was a splendid job you and your fellow gardeners did at the banquet,’ said Faro.

  He asked his name: ‘Dave, sir. We all enjoyed ourselves no end, sir. It was a rare treat, although all that dressing up seemed a bit daft – begging your pardon. All those masks never fooled anyone, even the temporary servants. Mr Morris and his friends are all so well known to everyone around here.’

  He grinned. ‘The good thing was there was so much food left over that we were allowed to take it away with us. The lads who are married took it home and their families, especially the young ’uns, were right grateful. Never seen food the likes of that in their entire lives, bless ’em. Neither had many of the rest of us, come to that.’

  He sighed. ‘Food is simple and cheap and not always a lot of it. Mind you none of us working at the house can complain, Mr Morris is a good employer,’ he added hastily. ‘But banquets are special occasions.’

  ‘I hope none of you had any of the shellfish.’

  Dave shook his head. ‘That was all gone. Some of us were sorry, we had never tasted much of that. But it was just as well from what we hear – nearly all of them down with food poisoning.’

  He shook his head, whistled and said, ‘I don’t hold with the fruits of the sea, as they call them. My grandpa, who sailed with Admiral Nelson in the old days, said the sailors wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole, never mind eat them. You see, it was well known that the shellfish fed on drowned bodies.’

  It was a suspicion Faro had heard before in his Orkney days, heartily disregarded by most sensible folk.

  ‘Do you board with the other gardeners?’

  ‘No. I live in the village – my ma’s a widow now and I haven’t got a wife yet,’ he grinned and added with a sly look, ‘Still hoping, of course. Aren’t we all?’

  Here was an opening not to be missed: ‘Do you know Bess Tracy?’ Faro asked.

  The question must have been more abrupt than he intended as Dave laughed uncomfortably. ‘The lass you were looking for. Oh aye, all the village lads know Bess.’

  ‘She seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. She’ll turn up again.’

  ‘Let me know if she does. I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Oh, I will, sir. I will do that. You won’t be disappointed.’ And without any further explanation, a flicker of embarrassment changing the subject, Dave said, ‘It was a good evening, last night.’

  There was obviously nothing more forthcoming about Bess, doubtless a topic for lewd speculation with lads of his own age, but this ‘queer cove’ was older and in their words would approximate to ‘a toff’.

  ‘And you lads as squires made it an even more memorable one. A splendid occasion,’ said Faro and on an impulse handed the lad a shilling. It was gratefully received and Faro had a sudden idea.

  ‘I’d like to give something to the fellow who was my squire, but I didn’t even know his name. He is one of the gardeners. Perhaps you can introduce me.’

  Dave shook his head. ‘Not one of our lads, one of the regulars, that is. He hadn’t been told that daft thing, about not wearing a mask.’

  ‘You mean he was a stranger?’ said Faro eagerly.

  ‘Not exactly. But kept himself to himself, so to speak.’ He shrugged. ‘We wondered why he was there. Guessed they probably needed extra help, and got some lads from the village or even Bexley. That would explain it, sir.’

  Another thought struck
Faro. ‘Is Mrs Lunn’s nephew one of your lads?’

  Dave frowned. ‘Don’t know who you rightly mean, sir. Who might Mrs Lunn be?’

  ‘She’s the housekeeper at Brettle Lodge.’

  A nod. ‘Oh, is that her name? Heard of her, of course but can’t say I know owt about a nephew.’

  ‘She told me he is a gardener.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He shook his head. ‘Could well be, sir. Some of the lads here have worked on the Brettle gardens.’ He thought for a moment and added, ‘Of course, gardeners come and go. It can be casual work depending on the season, although Mr Morris is most particular about who he takes on. Takes pride in being a good employer.’

  Obviously a well-liked one as well, thought Faro, as he walked towards the house with yet another mystery to solve. Of course, Mrs Lunn might want to keep her nephew’s presence quiet, especially if he wasn’t her nephew at all and she was taking in a lodger and making a little extra cash – seasonally – when the owners were abroad.

  A question remained unanswered and it troubled him. Was his squire, Mrs Lunn’s nephew and the casual gardener mentioned by Dave, one and the same person?

  * * *

  Returning to the house, he went upstairs at once and knocked on the door of Erland’s room. Lena and Poppy were there, sewing by the window, the floor glowing in pools of velvet.

  ‘The doctor?’ Faro asked.

  ‘You’ve just missed him. He looked in, first thing,’ said Lena. ‘Said it was a definite case of food poisoning and that some people take it worse than others. He left some powder for Erland to be given every four hours.’

  Poppy looked up from her sewing with a proud glance at her friend. ‘He said Erland couldn’t have a better nurse than Lena here, she seemed to know exactly what was required.’

  He took consolation that Erland was not getting any worse and in fact was now claiming to be fit and regretting that the wedding had been cancelled. However, anyone taking note of his ashen countenance, and observing how weak and frail he looked as he tottered downstairs to the dining room on Lena’s arm, would have rightly decided that he was hardly a viable prospect as a bridegroom.

  Lena was ever attentive to his every need, the dedicated nurse, her devotion a constant source of admiration. To all except Faro, who, despite the evidence of his eyes and Erland’s apparent recovery, could not rid himself of a certain unease, a feeling that the story was not quite ended yet.

  He didn’t like the sound of those powders in her charge one bit. Of course as Madeleine Smith, she would know all about the right amount to administer…

  With fatal results.

  He was unprepared however for dramatic events taking place beyond the confines of Red House which were to divert his attention momentarily from his friend’s well-being.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As he left the dining room, a maid came over.

  ‘You’re wanted, Mr Faro.’

  Following her out, he was taken aback to find Constable Muir waiting for him in the hall.

  Realising some urgency concerning Macheath must have brought him there, Faro would have preferred some other place of assignation, especially as Morris and Rossetti, doubtless driven by curiosity at the maid’s abrupt summons, had followed him into the hall.

  A glance at their faces confirmed that the sight of a uniformed policeman on the premises was guaranteed to send a shiver of disquiet around the residents concerning their use of laudanum and other so-called pain-alleviating drugs, which in their cases were also used for the heightening of pleasurable feelings.

  It might well also indicate what Erland knew and had promised to keep secret: that Jeremy Faro was here as more than just a visitor, not merely the country cousin from Orkney attending his wedding but also a policeman in search of a criminal.

  Annoyed that he had not warned Muir more plainly, or the constable had conveniently forgotten, with a slight bow of acknowledgement Faro led him into the garden, hoping his confident smile at the wary expressions of Morris and Rossetti would make it clear that this was a social event and that he was not under arrest for some misdemeanour or other.

  ‘We got some funny looks back there,’ Muir said once out of earshot. ‘Did they think I’d come to arrest you?’ he added with a delighted chuckle.

  ‘Probably looked like that,’ said Faro grimly, ‘especially as they don’t know I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Faro. But I had to come – urgent like – even if it meant blowing your cover. There’s been a burglary at the Brettles. Sir Philip returned from holiday – and guess what, the house had been broken into, valuable pictures, jewellery stolen. Sir Philip got me out of bed this morning—’

  ‘Where was Mrs Lunn in all this?’ Faro interrupted.

  ‘That’s it,’ Muir said with a dramatic gesture. ‘Vanished. Not a sign of her. Sir Philip found the back door wide open. I’ve had a quick look round the kitchen. There were no signs of a struggle. No bloodstains or anything like that,’ he sounded regretful. ‘Just a chair overturned. A bad business.’ Muir shook his head.

  ‘You think from this evidence that she has been abducted?’

  ‘Or worse,’ was the grim reply. ‘And this isn’t a local villain, I’m fairly sure of that, Faro.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘How would they get rid of stolen goods? Jewellery maybe, but what about those stolen paintings? Great big ones, they were.’

  Faro thought of the railway link to London close at hand. Great big pictures in the goods van would doubtless be remembered by the guards. ‘So what is your theory?’

  Muir paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘If you want to know what I think – I think this has Macheath’s signature written all over it. Yes, that’s about it, your Macheath has returned to the scene and for more than a break-in to steal some food from the pantry this time.’

  It didn’t strike a note of probability for Faro, except that Macheath was primarily a jewel thief and a safe-breaker. But Muir went on, ‘You’d better come back with me – if you haven’t anything better to do, that is,’ he ended sarcastically.

  As Faro returned to the house to collect his jacket, the faces that greeted him were puzzled and apprehensive. He hadn’t had time to think up a plausible explanation as to why he should be visited by the local police constable. And meeting Lena on the stairs, he wondered if the sight of a uniformed policeman brought melancholy thoughts of her own arrest three years ago.

  Walking around the exterior of Brettle Manor offered no evidence of the burglary. Not that Faro expected any. Sir Philip had found the back door conveniently open and, following Muir into the kitchen, Faro examined the lock, which showed no sign of a forced entry.

  There were two interesting omissions since his last visit.

  The coat rack was now empty. Mrs Lunn’s outdoor cape and the hooded cape which she alleged belonged to her lodger, a nephew who was also an occasional gardener at Red House, were both missing. Faro decided to keep this information to himself rather than set Muir off at a tangent concerning theories regarding Mr Morris’s seasonal outdoor employees.

  Opening the door leading to the housekeeper’s parlour revealed an immaculately tidy room, as befitted its owner; neat but dull, with its table, chairs and sofa in front of a fireplace. Faro bent down to closely inspect the ashes before following Muir upstairs to her bedroom in the attic, where the contents of both the wardrobe and chest of drawers offered no clues to her disappearance.

  ‘What do you think?’ Muir asked the question again and, apparently with no theories of his own, eagerly awaited Faro’s answer.

  Returning downstairs, Faro said, ‘The ashes in the parlour fire are long since cold, so there is nothing to be learnt there, but the fact that her bed was tidily made up does not suggest that Mrs Lunn was disturbed by the thief and dragged away in the middle of the night. Did you observe that there was no valise or evidence of a small trunk that a lady might carry while travelling?’
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br />   ‘So?’ asked Muir with a puzzled frown.

  Faro shook his head. ‘From the evidence of our eyes, the suggestion I am obtaining so far is that Mrs Lunn left not too hastily or unwillingly.’

  ‘It’s fairly obvious then, isn’t it,’ asked Muir, ‘that she’s our accomplice who opened the back door and let the thief in?’

  Faro nodded his agreement. ‘That also suggests that she knew his identity, and was perhaps prepared to leave but not in such a hurry that she hadn’t time to leave her rooms tidy and make up her bed.’

  He sighed. ‘At my meetings with her, everything suggested that she was a conscientious housekeeper, although her honesty is now in doubt.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ Muir asked.

  ‘You have answered that. I also think it extremely unlikely that, although someone with whom she was acquainted might gain admittance to her kitchen on some pretext or other, she would certainly not admit a stranger into what she considered the sacred precincts of the rest of the house.’

  He pointed to the green baize door, which had also been unbolted and unlocked from the kitchen. ‘Where’s the key, I wonder, which she wore so proudly on a chatelaine?’

  Muir sighed, righted the fallen chair and sat down, his expression of relief proclaiming beyond any words that his feet troubled him sorely. ‘Let’s presume that the thief threatened her, made her hand over the keys, that sort of thing.’

  ‘If that was the case, what happened to her after she opened the door – why didn’t she raise the alarm? And, most importantly, where is she now?’

  ‘You’ve got me there.’ Muir frowned, looking longingly at his unlit pipe as if it might know the answer or more probably provide comfort and a constant source of inspiration in such matters. Reluctantly he returned it to his pocket, defeated by the sterile conditions of that almost immaculate kitchen, where only an overturned chair hinted at a struggle.