A Quiet Death (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.5) Read online

  Faro, who had only recently foiled an assassination attempt, opted for the latter. 'To Fenians and others with deep-seated grudges, or who are simply mad, we might now add escaped lions.'

  The Superintendent gave him a hard look as he continued: 'And wild beasts are also a threat to the lesser mortals of her realm, like all the Edinburgh citizens who will be drawn to this circus to please their children and for a glimpse of royalty, as well as those aforesaid lions.'

  McIntosh groaned as Faro pointed to the plan on his desk. 'Let's make no mistake about it, sir, we will need a great many extra safety measures. Measures which you will recall are difficult enough to put into effect when stone walls are involved and massive buildings with guarded entrances.'

  After the Queen's recent escape, the idea of her sitting in a frail circus tent in a huge park surrounded by a dense crowd of people, from which a shot could be fired and an assassin make his escape in the confusion, did nothing for Faro's nerves as grimly he supervised elaborate security measures.

  These included a specially constructed Royal Box which could be under constant police guard and which had no access from underneath as had the tiers of wooden seats.

  It was with some relief that he scrutinised the programme. McGonagall was to recite 'The Battle of Bannockburn', calculated to enhance his credits and boost his further bookings with the information 'As performed before Her Majesty the Queen and the Crowned Heads of Europe', some of that bevy of relatives he hoped would be accompanying her.

  Vince, who had heard McGonagall's Bannockburn, expressed doubts about such a choice. 'It just may not kindle the Queen's heart with kindness when she hears the heroic stanzas regarding English King Edward's sorry defeat.'

  The McGonagalls duly arrived in Edinburgh and hastened to Kathleen's flat above the milliner's shop. There they would stay for the weekend, Jean having been prevailed upon to leave her little brood to bask in the vicarious glory of her husband's triumphant appearance before royalty.

  She whispered that she was hoping—just hoping—that she might be presented and with this in mind, had purchased a new bonnet and cape. New to her that was, for it had cost two and sixpence from one of the ladies in Dundee who sold cast-offs for the wealthy wives of the jute lords in Broughty Ferry.

  Faro received all this information from Vince who was to escort Jean and Kathleen on the gala evening. As they proudly took their seats, those special seats of privilege opposite the Royal Box reserved for guests of performers, Jean McGonagall was a happy woman.

  Further she confessed to Faro that both she and Willie were delighted since Vince was 'like one of our own now'. It was obvious through the visit that they took every opportunity of beaming fondly upon the couple in the manner of those who believe an announcement of a romantic nature is imminent.

  His presence in the guest box necessary in the line of duty, Faro took his seat beside Jean, Kathleen and Vince. As the performance began he was amused to notice that, in common with most of the members of the audience, Jean and Kathleen were more interested in observing the royal party, whose jewels outsparkled the performers' many glittering costumes.

  For Faro too, acrobats and clowns took second place as he watched the Royal Box, not from motives of curiosity but of acute anxiety for any unscheduled moves in that direction. Sharp-eyed, constantly alert, his hand never left the pistol in his greatcoat pocket.

  The bareback riders, the performing dogs, Alpha Omega's magic went down very well. And then the safety net was placed between the audience and the ring for the entrance of the lions and their tamer.

  Safely behind bars but bringing with them the smell of wild animals and an exciting but scaringly alien whiff of the jungle, the lions in their ornate cage arrived behind plumed circus horses, also less than happy at the burden of ferocity they escorted.

  Part of the act no doubt, but impressive. The roars were convincing enough to replace smiles with whimpers of fear from the more sensitive children and shivers of tremulous excitement from their elders.

  Faro looked across at Her Majesty, clapping her hands enthusiastically as the Great Tonga (born Tony Brown in Coventry) bowed before her. His magnificent frame was only partially covered by a leopard-skin presumably from one of his charges who had refused to obey him.

  Muscles rippling, the Great Tonga skirmished playfully with his lions, assisted by a long pole to keep them conveniently respectful. With this light armour he prodded the more sluggish performers who had a tendency to yawn while others leaped up and down on boxes obligingly showing their teeth.

  At last came the moment the audience had been waiting for. The animals were shooed into their cage and bundled away by the clowns. One solitary lion remained.

  'Absolute silence, if you please,' demanded the ring-master. 'It is essential for the safety of Monsieur Tonga that we have absolute silence. Any sudden noise which might frighten this savage animal could be fatal. I beseech you, ladies and gentlemen—'

  After a roll of drums, Tonga opened the lion's mouth and stuck his head inside. Seconds later he withdrew it, patting the lion as if he had no more harm in him than a pussy-cat by the fire.

  Faro was near enough to see that he had hardly been in any real danger since the poor beast was toothless, elderly, had mange and was probably fated to die of tranquil old age.

  Along with compassion he felt a rising tide of anger. He could not abide zoos, or the sight of wild animals imprisoned. His dislike of caged creatures, animals or birds, was regarded with wry amusement by his colleagues at the Central Office. And why not, since his everyday activities had succeeded in putting so many human malefactors behind bars.

  After the lions came McGonagall in borrowed but handsome robes depicting Robert the Bruce in chain mail, with magnificent flowing velvet cloak and a splendid fiery red wig which took several years off his age while adding an agreeable several inches to his stature.

  Slowly he emerged from the curtained entrance and in stately slow measure gained the centre spotlight. After bowing to the Queen, he immediately thrust forward his left leg and raised his right hand-more, thought Faro, as if working a pump handle than handling his cardboard sword to any purpose.

  Mouth forming a complete circle, round as a cannon's mouth and with the ardour of a warrior who fights for glory, he plunged full tilt into 'The Battle of Bannockburn':

  Sir Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn

  Beat the English in every wheel and turn,

  And made them fly in great dismay

  From the field without delay...

  Faro lost count of the verses which led to the flight of the English army. It seemed that Her Majesty, now whispering to one of her ladies-in-waiting behind her fan, shared his confusion:

  ... King Edward was amazed at the sight,

  And he got wounded in the fight:

  And he cried, Oh heaven, England's lost,

  and I'm undone,

  Alas, alas, where shall I run?

  Then he turned his horse, and rode on

  afar

  And never halted till he reached Dunbar.

  It was over and McGonagall, acknowledging polite applause, promptly announced that seeing his little poem had been so well received he might have the honour of addressing one to Her Majesty, especially for herself.

  Most August Empress of India, and of Great

  Britain the Queen

  I most humbly beg your pardon, hoping you

  will not think it mean

  That a poor poet that lives in Dundee

  Would be so presumptuous to write this

  poem unto Thee.

  Most lovely Empress of India, and

  England's generous Queen,

  I Send you an Address, I have written on

  Scotland's Bard,

  Hoping that you will accept it, and not be

  with me too hard,

  Nor fly into a rage, but be as Kind and

  Condescending

  As to give me your Patronage.

&
nbsp; Beautiful Empress of India and England's

  Gracious Queen

  And I think if your Majesty likes it, right

  pleased you will be

  And my heart it will leap with joy, if it is

  patronised by Thee.

  Most Mighty Empress of India, and

  England's beloved Queen,

  Most handsome to be seen.

  Mild applause, some exchange of amused glances, but not a great deal emanating from the Royal Box, thought Faro sadly. McGonagall had taken a liberty in presuming to address Her Majesty and he doubted whether that would do him any good. Poor Willie was irrepressible, although Faro decided he should stick to acting as he had no great future as a poet.

  Now the ring was taken over by more magicians, performing dogs leaping through rings and on and off the horses' backs, clowns tumbling and throwing buckets of water over one another. Some tight-rope walking and trapeze swinging, then the ring-master announced the climax of the evening's entertainment. They were to see a death-defying trapeze act, at the end of which the beautiful Selina would swing above the lion cage and dive into a tank of flames.

  The high-wire performance was unremarkable until, after mild applause, the ring-master again begged for absolute silence. A lion's cage, high-sided but roofless, was wheeled in, the safety net dragged away by the clowns, the tank pulled forward and torches thrown in.

  Flames leaped high causing the lion to pace his cage with angry frightened roars of protest.

  'Poor beast. It's terrified of fire. That shouldn't be allowed,' Faro whispered to Vince.

  But his protest fell on deaf ears as all eyes turned to the apex of the tent forty feet above their heads, where the trapeze swung lazily with Selina, a pretty girl in spangled tights, barely visible through the pink smoke.

  Back and forward she swung and at the last moment to an accompanying roll of drums she leaped on to the platform and plunged through the smoke above the lion's cage and into the burning tank.

  There was a horrified roar from the audience as the crowd surged to their feet. But before panic could break out, a roll of drums, a spotlight on the trapeze high above their heads. There bowing to the crowd was Alpha Omega and the beautiful Selina, with not a singe mark or a whiff of smoke to tarnish her spangles.

  A sigh of relief, and outburst of cheering. Then as the brass band played the National Anthem, the audience remained on their feet until the royal party left the box.

  Vince and Jean were still applauding while Faro sat rigid in his seat with Kathleen beside him, her hand grasping his arm, her face white with terror.

  A strange excitement, like the lifting of a shutter in the photographer's camera, surged through him. As they followed the crowd swarming out of the tent, Jean was asking Vince:

  'But how did he do it? Why, we all saw her fall. Have you any idea?'

  Faro looked at her. 'Oh yes, I know now how it was done. I should have seen it at once. Fool that I was.'

  'Do tell, do tell us.'

  Suddenly aware of them again, Faro turned away from the tent. 'It's just a simple magician's trick. I won't spoil the magic for you.'

  One of the clowns had come over and was speaking to Kathleen. She seemed to know him and he was being introduced to Jean and Vince.

  'I must go. I'm still on duty,' said Faro.

  'Join us later, won't you, Stepfather?'

  As Faro hurried in the direction of the royal party, now boarding their carriages, he glanced back wondering if Kathleen's establishment also provided wigs for the clowns and costumes for the circus performers.

  'Stepfather's very jaunty tonight,' Vince whispered to Kathleen as Jean chatted animatedly to the clown.

  Kathleen smiled. 'Isn't he always?'

  'I shouldn't be in the least surprised if he spotted a criminal in the crowd. I know that look of his. Like a bloodhound on the trail. Yes, he's definitely on to something.'

  Having seen Her Majesty safely restored to Holyroodhouse and his men dismissed, a very relieved Faro walked homeward through the now almost deserted Queen's Park, where the circus tent was already being dismantled.

  As he sauntered past, the clown whom he recognised as the one known to Kathleen, hailed him.

  'Inspector Faro, isn't it? Thought I recognised you in the front row, sir. You didn't know me, of course.' And as he dragged off wig and false nose, Faro found himself looking into the countenance of Polly Briggs' father whom he had last encountered outside the police mortuary in Dundee.

  Briggs brushed aside Faro's congratulations on the evening's performance. There was something else on his mind and Faro guessed that this must concern his dead daughter.

  'I see you had that Kathleen with you. She's done very well for herself with that rich man, by the look of things. Was that him with you?'

  'No, that was my stepson, Dr Laurie,' said Faro in a tone of annoyance.

  'I see,' said Briggs, a mocking smile indicating that he saw all too clearly. 'Jean hinted that there was love in the air.'

  Faro found scant comfort in the knowledge that he had been right about Kathleen's rich protector, apparently common knowledge to everyone but his stepson. Shrewd and intelligent in many ways, honest himself, Vince would never be so unchivalrous as to doubt a lady's word or her virtue.

  As Briggs continued to regard him with veiled amusement. Faro cursed Jean McGonagall. 'The fact is,' he began coldly, trying not to sound as angry as he felt, 'my stepson is merely escorting the young lady to the circus.'

  And changing to a safer topic: 'The show was excellent, the clowns were particularly fine. Where do you go next?'

  'Down to the Borders, then across to Galloway. Willie of course was just here for the one night, especially for the Queen. What a nerve to make up a poem for her like that. Didn't you think so?'

  'I thought he did very well. It was very brave of him.'

  'I suppose so.'

  Faro was relieved to end the conversation as someone called Briggs' name.

  Turning on his heel Briggs suddenly swung round to face Faro again. 'They never found why my lassie drowned, those Dundee police.'

  'So I understand.'

  'I will never rest until I find out why she did it. And if there was a man involved, I'll kill him.' Briggs studied Faro intently as if trying to read his thoughts. 'The police say the case is closed.'

  Guiltily, Faro remembered Ramsey's post-mortem, and how the doctor had certain knowledge that Polly had been murdered but was powerless to do anything about it. He hated lying to Briggs but there were too many innocent people involved and he had given his word to Vince.

  'I expect they did their best,' he said lamely.

  'I doubt that their best is good enough. And it doesn't bring my lassie back. Pity you hadn't been on the case, Inspector. I hear that you always get your man.'

  'Well, not always, Briggs. Just sometimes,' he added sadly.

  There was no more to be said and with a brief salute Briggs went back to the circus tent.

  Faro watched him for a moment, noting the weary defeat of his shoulders. Briggs looked stooped and old and Faro felt suddenly ashamed that he had been angry with him. Angry with himself, too, and wishing that he had been asked by the Dundee police to help find Polly's murderer, who was probably still at large.

  As was the murderer of Rachel Deane. There was not the least doubt in his mind about that.

  Vince was at breakfast next morning, reading The Scotsman, when Faro put in an appearance. He had slept badly.

  That was a splendid party afterwards, Stepfather. Pity you missed it, you should have been there. All this chasing of criminals is very well, but not when it seriously interferes with a chap's social life.'

  And pointing to the newspaper: 'Willie got a mention here for his performance. He'll be pleased about that.'

  Faro said nothing, pouring himself a cup of tea. He didn't feel particularly hungry.

  Vince smiled across at him. 'What, no breakfast? Anyone would think you had had a
high old time, wining and dining last night. Is there something you aren't telling me about? A secret assignation?'

  Faro grimaced. Obviously Vince was back again in his old teasing manner. He should be grateful for that.

  Vince had returned to his newspaper. 'Good Lord. Good Lord. Sir Arnold is dead. Here it is. Late notice. Died in the early hours of this morning.' He looked across at Faro. 'He's been very poor ever—ever since—' He still found difficulty in alluding to Rachel's death. 'A bit wandered, poor old man.'

  He sighed. 'Wilf will be in full charge now. I don't suppose it'll make any difference to me, but I'm sorry. I shall miss Sir Arnold. He's been good to me.'

  Faro dreaded that Sir Arnold's funeral, coining so soon after Rachel's, would reopen that well of sadness for Vince, only now healing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vince returned two weeks later, full of information about Sir Arnold's funeral, one of the largest Dundee had ever seen.

  'Brought it all back to me, so soon after Rachel. The graveside, the vault. All that sort of thing,' he said sadly.

  As usual he spent the entire weekend with Kathleen. After the first rather uncomfortable evening, Faro had not renewed his invitation for her to dine with them at Sheridan Place, although he realised guiltily that he must do so soon.

  However, it was a very subdued Vince who returned from taking Kathleen out to dinner on the Sunday evening.

  'I will be taking the 6.25 train tomorrow morning, Stepfather,' he said, looking in to say goodnight. And opening his bedroom door: 'By the way, I might not be home again for a little while.'

  At Faro's questioning look, he said: 'I made up my mind tonight to ask Kathleen to marry me.'

  'And—?'

  'She declined my proposal.'

  Faro felt a curious sense of relief as Vince continued:

  'Everything seemed so right and it would have made the McGonagalls very happy—'

  'You don't marry someone to make their relatives happy, dammit,' Faro said sharply.