To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6) Page 12

'She isn't from this area?'

  'She is not. A foreigner.' Brown sniffed disdainfully.

  A coarser-grained fellow would have spat, thought Faro as he asked, 'You mean French or something?'

  'Not at all. She's from up north somewhere. Doesna' speak the Gaelic at all.'

  That covered a wide range of Scottish folk from the Borders to John O'Groats.

  'She wouldna' be my choice for the laddie,' Brown admitted reluctantly. 'She's a wee bit older than himself. But then, an older lady is often verra attractive, even irresistible.' His expression softened as he looked across the river in the direction of the Castle and Faro remembered that the Queen also fitted the category of the older, 'irresistible' lady.

  'May we take you down the road?'

  'No. The carter passes this way in an hour or two. I'll no' delay you any longer.'

  As Steady gained the main road with his two passengers, Faro urged him into a trot: 'I hope we're in time.'

  'Time for what?'

  'For Lachlan Brown.' Faro looked grim. 'I've been putting together a few observations and deductions. Remember the veiled lady we met when we arrived in Ballater.'

  Vince's face looked blank.

  'Of course, you were too busy with the scenery. But now I am having some second thoughts and indeed, I would not be surprised to find that she, and not Lachlan, is our quarry.'

  'The source of the five hundred pounds he lied about.'

  'Exactly. On the same theme, I am surmising that it was she he met the other night.'

  'Wait a minute, Stepfather. Are you hinting that she might be working for the Prince's Party? And the hired assassin?'

  'Perhaps even that. If our quarry is Lord Nob, then he frequently works with a woman accomplice. And I am quite confident that nothing about our mysterious lady will surprise me in the least.'

  But in that, as so often was the case, Detective Inspector Faro was to be proved wrong.

  As the pony-trap trotted briskly into the station, the train from Aberdeen had been signalled.

  Their destination was the waiting-room, which they found occupied by an old man reading his paper in one corner and by Lachlan sitting close to a woman swathed in veils.

  He was holding her hand.

  As Faro walked quickly in their direction, Lachlan and the woman stared up at him. She gave a little cry of alarm, poised for instant flight. She tried to dodge past him but Vince blocked her exit, standing firm between her and the station platform.

  'No—no,' she cried.

  Faro decided on the bold approach. 'Madam, before you board that train and before I take you and this young man into protective custody, I would beg you to reveal yourself.'

  Still protesting she retreated behind Lachlan, gathering her veils closely about her face.

  'Madam, have the goodness to remove your veils.'

  'No, no.' Her voice was a faint whisper. 'I cannot.'

  'Then, madam, you give me no alternative.' And stepping forward, Faro moved so quickly that she could not escape.

  Lachlan struggled against Vince's restraining arms and the other solitary passenger opened his mouth to protest. Then considering the odds, he thought better of it, buried his face in his newspaper and tried to pretend they did not exist.

  Pinioning the woman's wrists, Faro pulled aside the veil.

  Words failed him utterly as he found himself staring into the last face in the world he had expected to see. The anguished and bewildered countenance of a woman well known and once well beloved.

  It was the face of Inga St Ola from his homeland in Orkney.

  Chapter Ten

  'Inga! For God's sake. What are you doing here?'

  'I can tell you what she is doing here. It's none of your damned business.' And Lachlan took a threatening step towards him.

  'No, Lachlan, please. Please, dear. I know this—this man.'

  'You do?' Lachlan stared from one to the other.

  'We are old friends.' Inga smiled thinly. 'From Orkney days.'

  'Then we must tell him.'

  'No.'

  'We must. This has gone too far. Mama.'

  'Mama?' Faro's voice was a whisper.

  'Yes, Inspector. Lachlan is my son.'

  Faro heard Vince's sharp intake of breath.

  'He is my very well kept secret.' Inga continued to gaze at Lachlan fondly, squeezing his hand. 'I left him here more than twenty years ago...'

  As Faro listened he was coldly aware of two things, Vince's heavy gaze and a sudden sickness in the pit of his stomach. In a great tide it threatened to overwhelm him, and in so doing, banished all other emotions, including the Queen's mortal danger and the possibility of lurking assassins.

  Was it—could it be—that Lachlan was his own son? His and Inga's?

  Taking the boy's hand again, she was saying proudly, 'Lachlan is one of my youthful indiscretions.'

  'My father died before they could be married. A riding accident,' said Lachlan in defence of his mother's honour. 'Isn't that so... ?'

  Again Faro found himself watching their lips move but hearing no sound beyond the tumult of his own heart. Aware of Vince very still at his side, he flinched before his stepson's stare that, his guilty conscience told him, reviled and accused him.

  Vince also shared the brand of bastardy. But at least there seemed to be no resemblance between them except in their unfortunate circumstances.

  He turned his attention again to Lachlan, regarding him harshly, unable to see even a fleeting likeness to the face that he shaved before the bedroom mirror each morning.

  But now he recognised that the black hair, blue eyes and white skin he had thought of as typical of the Celtic Highlander, Lachlan had inherited from Inga St Ola.

  Whoever was Lachlan's father, he was no adopted child. He was Inga's flesh and blood. And Faro was astonished that he had been so blind, and that the familiarity taunting him since their first meeting had failed to bring Inga to mind.

  Suddenly he longed to get her alone, ask her some vital, searching questions. Vaguely he heard the guard's whistle, the train's engine. How could he stop the pair boarding the Aberdeen train?

  But that was not their purpose. Inga walked towards the guard's van where a large package had been unloaded.

  She regarded it sadly. 'This was to have been my wedding gift. At least it will still be useful in your kitchen.' And tucking her arm into Lachlan's, she laid her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.

  Faro could think of nothing to say, and regarding the boy's stony face, mumbled, 'A tragedy indeed.'

  Had Lachlan allowed Inga to believe this was a love match? And the revelation that Inga St Ola was his mother did not declare him innocent of murder. Much as Faro desired it should, it changed nothing.

  Faro knew he must not, could not allow any influx of personal feelings to influence his judgement. But the enormity of his discovery was too terrible to contemplate.

  He knew now that the prime suspect for Morag Brodie's murder might well be his own son. But what right had he to expect a son's love, should Lachlan learn that his father had not been killed in a riding accident but was Detective Inspector Faro who had deserted his mother and Orkney to serve with Edinburgh City Police?

  He shuddered with distaste. The revelation that he might have a son was bitter indeed. The detective's son who was a murderer, involved in a conspiracy to assassinate the Queen of Great Britain. The publicity would not go down well at the Central Office. It would spell the end of his career.

  But Lachlan was a stranger to him, his name assumed.

  No one need ever know the truth, a small voice whispered.

  But Faro would. And he wasn't sure that he could live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. He was bitterly ashamed of his cowardice.

  He might see his son tried for murder, found guilty and hanged by the neck until he was dead.

  A cold shaft of premonition seized him. Had he always suspected that a child might be the reason for his mother Mary Faro's
report that Inga had suddenly disappeared for several months after their brief love affair and his departure to Edinburgh?

  It had always been a possibility, resting dangerously in the recesses of his mind. Now, after more than twenty years, had it come home to roost?

  'Let us take some refreshment before we return.'

  He blessed Vince for thus taking the situation in hand. And for gallantly leading the way ahead with Lachlan, who after one swift frowning glance at his mother, followed.

  He was grateful to have Inga on her own, although she displayed a sudden reluctance for his company. As she seemed anxious and determined to keep up with the two young men, Faro put a hand on her arm.

  'Stay, Inga. Talk to me, for God's sake. Talk to me.'

  'What about, Jeremy? What would you like to hear? The weather I left in Orkney? This year's crops?'

  'No, dammit. Other times and things. We are old friends. When did we last meet?'

  'Only last summer,' she said sharply. 'No need to make it sound like the last century.'

  He made a despairing gesture, able to think of nothing but the question mark hanging above Inga's son, Lachlan.

  'So what is the weather like in Orkney just now?' he said with a weak attempt at humour.

  Inga gave an exasperated exclamation, regarded him angrily. 'Just like it is here, Jeremy. You know that perfectly well.'

  Her sweeping gesture encompassed the sleeping mountains with their burdens of sheep and boulders. 'Just like this,' she repeated, 'without the trees.'

  'I didn't mean that—'

  She laughed shortly. 'I know you didn't.'

  'Are you really in mourning? Or is that part of the role you are playing, Mrs—what-is-it?'

  She stopped in her tracks, stared at him defiantly. 'Saul died three weeks ago. Or has that news not reached you yet?'

  Saul Hoy was the blacksmith at Balfray Island, to whom Inga had been housekeeper and more than that, she once confided, for many years.

  'I've been away from Edinburgh. I am truly sorry. How did it happen?'

  'He'd been ill for some time. I found him sitting in the kitchen in his chair one morning.' Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

  'I'm sorry, Inga,' he repeated.

  Slightly mollified, she sighed. 'I shall miss him.'

  'What will you do now?'

  She shrugged. 'That was my main reason for coming to Scotland. Lachlan and I have always been close. He was always begging me to come to Deeside. Saul left me comfortably well off so now I may be able to purchase a house for us.'

  'A moment, Inga. Did you by any chance give him money? Five hundred pounds to be exact?'

  'Yes, I did. Saul left it to him. But I don't see—'

  Faro groaned. 'No, you couldn't. Please go on.'

  'Ever since Saul first took ill and we both knew it was final, we discussed what might happen. Saul, bless his heart, worried so about me. He urged me to think about coming here to Lachlan. The wedding came as a complete surprise—'

  'Saul knew about Lachlan?'

  She smiled slowly. 'Oh yes. He was the only person in the world I trusted with my secret.'

  Faro stopped in his tracks. 'Inga. Tell me. I have to know—is Lachlan—is he—'

  She smiled up at him defiantly. 'Go on. Finish it.'

  She wasn't going to spare him and Faro took a deep breath. 'Is he my son?'

  Again she smiled. 'And if he is, Jeremy Faro, what then? What will you do about it?'

  'I will marry you, of course,' he said sternly.

  Inga doubled up with laughter. So sudden, so shrill was her laugh that Vince and Lachlan halted, looked back, hesitated, until Faro signalled them to proceed.

  'Jeremy Faro,' she gasped, 'you'll be the death of me. Really you will. You'll marry me, indeed. What about me? Am I not to be considered? What if I don't want to marry you?'

  'But—'

  'But nothing. I've lived very comfortably without you for more than twenty years, thank you very much.'

  'Had I known...' And Faro remembered his youthful flight from Orkney. Longing to be free, his ambition had made him luke-warm in his proposal that Inga might come with him. He had added, 'Eventually, when I am properly settled.'

  Instead, she had passed out of his life and he had met Lizzie, with her young son Vince. And he had married her.

  'To propose marriage to legitimise a child is, I consider, almost the greatest insult you could offer.'

  So she had not known the details of Lachlan's Scots marriage?

  Overwhelmed, confused, reduced again to stammering boyhood, all he could say was, 'I didn't mean—'

  'I realise you didn't mean to be insulting. You thought you were being kind. And proper. Edinburgh manners have got through to you, Jeremy Faro,' she added bitterly.

  Then suddenly she laughed again, laid an imploring hand on his arm. 'Let's not talk of it any more,' she said gently. It's past. Dead and buried with all the pain of long ago.'

  They walked in silence the few yards towards the hotel Vince and Lachlan had indicated.

  At the door, Faro said, 'I don't want to go in there yet. Come, let's walk round the square.' She made no resistance and he went on, 'You haven't answered my question yet, Inga.'

  'Oh, I thought I had politely declined your proposal.'

  Stopping, Faro seized her arm. 'Don't be evasive. Damn you, Inga. I want the truth. Is Lachlan my son?' And at her stubborn expression, 'I can count perfectly well, you know. I can ask him—'

  'Don't you dare, Jeremy Faro. That would be unforgivable. How could you even consider such a thing?'

  'That story about a father killed before he could marry you—'

  'You have got it wrong, as usual. I was much more imaginative than that. When he was young I told him I was friends with his mother who lived in Aberdeen. She died when he was born. I was with her at the time so I brought him here to grow up with the Brown family—'

  'And he believed you?'

  She shook her head. 'Not entirely. Not after we once stood by a mirror and looked at our reflections together. That told all. He was about fourteen. He gave a sob. Took me in his arms and said, "Mother, mother. I've always known you were my mother. Why did you tell me you weren't? Do you think there was anything in this whole world I would not be able to forgive you?"'

  She paused to wave to the two young men who had reached the hotel door and hovered indecisively.

  'Coming,' Faro called.

  'We were very close, Jeremy. Like you and your stepson.'

  That was the moment when Faro guessed why Inga St Ola had never liked Vince when they had met in Orkney. It was quite understandable, for the love Faro lavished on his stepson could, by a single word, have been transferred to Lachlan.

  As they made their way slowly across to the hotel, Faro said, 'Eating, at this moment, is an activity I can well do without. I hope you are hungry.'

  'Oh, I am. Deeside gives me an enormous appetite. You can always take a dram and watch us eat,' she added mercilessly.

  'Look. We must talk.'

  But now, bleakly indifferent, she said, 'I don't see what else we have to say to one another. Really I don't.'

  Watching the two young men with their hearty appetites and Inga not far behind them, Faro did his best to carry on a normal conversation.

  It was not easy, especially with Vince's anxious 'What's wrong, Stepfather? Come, you must eat something. Is your stomach playing you up again?'

  With his lack of appetite the centre of attention, Faro snapped angrily, 'Oh do stop fussing. Keep your doctoring for the hospital, if you please.'

  Vince's eyebrows went up a little. Eying his stepfather narrowly, he refilled Inga's wine glass. 'Very well, very well. Only asking, you know.'

  Having been so ungracious, Faro insisted on paying the bill.

  'Will you be all right?' Lachlan asked Inga anxiously. He had observed that she had been somewhat reckless in her consumption of wine. 'I am on duty shortly. The Queen's picnic.'

&nbs
p; Faro took Inga's arm firmly. 'I shall see her safe back to her lodgings.' Then to Vince, 'Get Lachlan to drop you off at Beagmill.'

  And without waiting for their reactions he led her to the railway station. There the small boy left holding Steady and the pony-cart was agreeably surprised by the unusually large coin pressed into his hand for these services.

  Once aboard, Inga gave directions and said, 'Thank you, Jeremy. I'm grateful, truly. I just wish we could have met under happier circumstances.'

  In answer to his question, she sighed. 'I have no idea how long I'll stay. Lachlan is going to need me now. This terrible business. I can't believe it. Murder? That's something that happens to other people, not to one's own family.'

  'Did you know Morag?'

  'I met her on my last visit. Before she got involved with this other fellow at the Castle. I found it unbelievable; she was so utterly besotted with Lachlan. And who could blame her?' she added with a proud smile. 'First love and all that.'

  She laughed softly, leaning towards him so that her head almost touched his shoulder. 'We know how that can hurt, don't we, Jeremy? Everyone else sees the holes and crevasses, the yawning pit of disillusion, but we go on our happy blinkered way. Just like Steady here—'

  'What did you think of the girl?'

  'Very pretty, very flighty. A tease. But such a horrible end. And yet although I was shocked, when I thought about it, I found I was not completely surprised. Girls like that, who entice men, often end up disastrously.' With a shrug she added, 'And I do get instincts, feelings about people.'

  She looked at him. 'You know how it is. The witch in me, Jeremy. It's still active. Something from that first instant of meeting. I often see very clearly. Like looking down a long lane, with an uninterrupted view.'

  '"Look well upon the face of the stranger. .."'

  She nodded. 'Yes, Jeremy. You have it too, I realise that. Perhaps it accounts for your survival all these years in your dangerous job.'

  'Tell me, what did you feel about her?' Could Inga contribute something vital that he had missed, never having met Morag Brodie?

  'I seemed to see deep inside her, behind her eyes. She was not what she pretended. It was as if she played a part and sometimes hesitated, trying to remember her lines, as if the role she had chosen was too hard for her. I realised that she had tremendous vulnerability. That men would love her for it and would use her too. This extraordinary appeal, but she wasn't clever enough to handle it. In that instant I almost pitied her—'