Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery Read online

  'No one.' There was no hesitation in his reply.

  'He sent me a note. That he had found something important. I think it might have been concerning the inventory of Queen Mary's jewels. Do you know anything about that?'

  'Only that he asked me for a missing page. I did not have it and told him it had disappeared when the items were being catalogued. It had been mislaid at the printers.'

  'When was this and who were the printers?'

  'A local firm who I am told were burnt down two years ago. All this happened before I came to work at the Castle.'

  Dismissing Forster, Faro could not rid himself of the uneasy feeling that Mace's accident had been stage managed. For reason or reasons unknown someone had found his presence inconvenient.

  If his suppositions were correct, then the exploding pistol was the work of the same hands that had pushed the dead man to his death on Castle Rock. He saw again that vision of a huge spread of wings above him and heard the rock crashing past him.

  And all these dire events, he was certain, bore the mark of the same assassin.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vince looked at the note Mace had sent. 'Now we'll never know what it was.'

  'If only I could have examined the body,' said Faro, 'that would have given some clues. But what can I do? I can hardly insist to Sir Eric that we have a full police investigation.'

  'Death by misadventure is becoming somewhat commonplace, associated with these unfortunate jewels.'

  'I have still some avenues left unexplored,' said Faro, taking out his father's notes. 'Tomorrow I shall try to interview Colonel Lazenby's widow. We've made enquiries and she still lives in the same house at Aberdale.'

  The day was bleak, grey and the sunless peninsula echoed to the despairing cries of sea birds. Through the dismally unwashed windows of the hired gig, which had seen better days, Faro stared out along the twisting road, through a plantation of sea buckthorn, twisted and deformed into grotesque shapes by the harsh winds blowing across the Forth from the North Sea. Even on a sunny day, he suspected that the atmosphere of direst melancholy hinted at by those unhappy trees would persist.

  The house, set well back from the road in comparative isolation, had a look of neglect, of continuing sorrow. The door was opened by an aged servant, whose suspicious expression suggested that there were few visitors.

  'She doesn't receive callers.' And the door was about to be closed again. To say 'Detective Inspector' would further confuse and would be even less likely to gain him admission.

  'Tell her, please, that I wish to talk to her about her late husband, the Colonel. My father knew him,' he said, with a complete disregard for the exact truth.

  This statement did not have the softening effect he had hoped for. The servant leaned out of the door. 'Get away from here. Get away - at once.' Suddenly alert and looking over her shoulder into the dark shuttered interior, she said, 'And tell whoever sent you that Mrs Lazenby is not to be drawn on that subject. That subject was closed long ago.'

  Faro was immediately alert. The maid's attitude was promising. It hinted at a mystery, and clues might be forthcoming.

  'For God's sake, leave her alone,' the old servant now pleaded, almost tearfully. 'Let her stay in her daft world - she's safe from everybody there.'

  'What is it, Wilson?' The voice was followed by a shadowy figure emerging from the gloom.

  'Just a caller, madam. A traveller. Nothing important. Go you inside where it's warm.'

  'A traveller did you say?'

  'Aye. But he's away now.' As Wilson made to close the door, Faro caught sight of a pale face, long untidy white hair and a bedraggled gown. Wilson's attempt to close the door finally was impeded by Faro's walking stick.

  'Good morning, madam. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs Lazenby?'

  'You have, young man. And who are you?' And pushing the maid aside, she said sharply, 'Oh for goodness sake, Wilson, let me see him. Who are you? Who sent you?'

  'I'm Detective Inspector Faro, Madam. My father, Constable Magnus Faro knew your late husband, the Colonel.'

  'Theodore, Theodore,' she whispered and all suspicion vanished. 'Is there news of my darling at last?' An angry expletive from Wilson and Mrs Lazenby turned sharply. 'You may go, Wilson, I will take care of the gentleman. Come inside. I will be with you in a moment. Meanwhile, Wilson will prepare tea for us.'

  Wilson bobbed a curtsy and ushered him into the dark hallway with a look of ferocious anger. 'Now you've done it, Mister Clever Detective,' she whispered. 'This was one of her rare times of being in her right mind. And now she'll be back again in that terrible darkness. All thanks to you. Damn you and damn all men.'

  'What's that you're gossiping about, Wilson?' Mrs Lazenby had returned with a shawl covering her bedraggled bodice, in her hand some yellowed papers and a key.

  'Just telling him I hope his feet are clean,' murmured Wilson.

  'Quite correct. Quite correct.' And handing the key to the maid: 'Unlock the drawing-room door, if you please.'

  'But madam - you can't . . . '

  'Do as I say. We have a guest who knew the master.'

  As he stood beside the frail old woman in the dark hall the smell of old flesh, long unwashed, filled him with faint disgust. From the opened door there floated out the disused air of many years, mixing with this miasma of human misery and tragedy. In this inappropriate setting he was even more conscious of bad odours than in the foul-smelling, rat and human infested warrens of Edinburgh's slums.

  'And now the shutters, if you please.'

  The room was flooded with light, revealing an expanse of ghostly sheeted furniture and ornaments, their outlines lost in the dust and tight cobwebbing of many years.

  As if aware of the appalling picture of neglect before them, Mrs Lazenby gave a cry and tottered quickly towards what at first glance looked like a table, but seizing the sheet she revealed a grand piano. Coughing at the dust disturbed, she raised the lid.

  'Theo's darling wedding gift to me. My beautiful piano. Listen to its lovely tone, sir. I play very well, he tells me.' She pressed out a few chords and hummed a tune which she tried in vain to find. With a sigh she put down the lid again.

  'I seem to have forgotten it. I do play it very well.'

  Suddenly she leaned against the piano and looked round, as if seeing the room for the first time. 'I was about to offer you a chair, Inspector. But I think we will be more comfortable upstairs.' With a shake of her head, she said, 'This used to be such a pretty, elegant room, Theo's favourite. It is a little large, of course, but so many parties, filled with people.'

  And now it's filled with sad ghosts, thought Faro with a shiver, as he followed her up the handsome oak staircase. She opened a door.

  'I trust you will not think it indelicate to be received in a bedroom. In my young day, ladies always received morning guests in the boudoir. But things have changed very much these days, not altogether for the better, I'm afraid.'

  Faro looked round. If anything this room was more appalling than the ghostly drawing-room. Here was a temple of mourning and one that their dear Queen would have approved. What was worse, the room stank. And the next moment, he knew the reason why.

  'This is the bed my beloved Theodore slept in. These are his sheets and his pillow. See the dent where his dear head rested. Nothing has been changed since the day he died, his nightgown and nightcap are there waiting for him. See. Over there his razors.' Pausing she opened a large wardrobe. 'And all his clothes as they were the morning he went out, went out never to return.' The sentence finished on a sob. Dabbing at her eyes, she continued, 'Do sit down, Inspector.'

  He took the only chair, at her insistence, while she sat on the dressing table stool. What did she see in the mirror, he wondered? Not an old woman in a gown that had once been satin ruffled and now hung in filthy shreds and tatters, for, aware of his eyes and mistaking his expression, she smoothed one sleeve in a coquettish gesture.

  'This was his favourite dres
s of mine. A little out of fashion, I fear, but I wear it for him, so that when he returns, he will know nothing has changed. Nothing.' She looked at Faro through the mirror. 'He is coming back soon? Is that what you have come to tell me, that his tour of duty has finished? Please tell me what I long to hear. I have waited so long.'

  Faro was struck dumb. How could he remind this mad old woman that her Theodore had taken his own life, that her life with him had been a lie. That he had chosen death rather than return to her after his sordid involvement with the wife of a fellow officer had caused a regimental scandal.

  As if interpreting his thoughts, she said, 'You must not believe what they tell you. There is no other woman, there never was anyone but me in Theodore's life. We live only for each other, live only for the days and nights we can be together. Soon he will have his dream - and mine - his son, our lovely baby son.' At that she began to weep. So sudden a change of mood caught Faro unprepared and he was helpless before this storm of grief.

  The noise alerted the maid Wilson, who burst into the room. 'What have you done? I told you so, I told you so. Now I hope you're satisfied. Don't say I didn't warn you. Come on - out.'

  'Wait a moment,' said Faro. 'I want to talk to your mistress. I'm sure she'll calm down.'

  'Calm down.' The maid burst out laughing. 'Calm down. Her? You'd better go while you're safe, before she gets violent. When she remembers that this isn't nearly forty years ago and that her beloved Theo is dead and gone . . .' she sighed. 'A few more minutes, that's all it takes, then she'll be a raving madwoman.'

  Faro looked at the sobbing prostrate figure now lying on the bed, as the maid continued, 'You wouldn't think she was very strong but she is. And violent too.' She rolled up her sleeves, showing deep scars, long healed. 'That was a knife she turned on me. I have other marks too, on my scalp. Everywhere. Come along, sir.'

  At the front door, Faro asked, 'Why do you stay with her?'

  The maid shrugged. 'Been with her since we were both youngsters. She was only seventeen when she met the master. It was love right away and they got married before he returned to his regiment. They were married only two years when he died and she lost the wee lad. She was never sane after that, but I've stuck by her. I'll not let them put her away. She gave me a new life when I was going to be transported. I owe her that life and I'll stay with her till the day she dies.'

  'Then why does she attack you?'

  'She looks for the master. And when she can't find him, she thinks that I have done him in, in her poor confused mind.' The noise of sobbing had changed in intensity. The old woman was screaming now, beating her fists and her heels on the bed. 'Come quickly, Inspector, don't linger. If she doesn't see you before she opens her eyes, she'll have no idea that you were here. I'll tell her that it was another of her nightmares, soothe her with a drop of laudanum. With a bit of luck, she'll be right as rain in the morning, back again in her lost world, the poor love.'

  'She has no idea what really happened to the Colonel?'

  Wilson shook her head. 'Not now, not any more. She would never believe that he took his own life.' She looked at Faro. 'And it wouldn't surprise me if she was right at that. For I can tell you one thing, sure as God's in His heaven and Jesus Christ is His son, my master never committed suicide over a woman. That I'll never believe, no more than she does. He worshipped his young wife. After it happened, way back, she appealed, you know, tried to clear his name, but no one would listen.'

  'This appeal - on what grounds?'

  'Oh, she believed he was murdered and it was made to look like suicide. You see, he was left-handed, but the gun was in his right hand.'

  'And did the police investigate this?'

  'They didn't get a chance. It was a regimental matter, not a civilian thing, quickly hushed up. The police didn't bother themselves.'

  'One of them did.'

  'Oh, and who was that?'

  'My father. He also died soon after the Colonel. In an accident.'

  'My God. Is that true?'

  Her words were lost in screams from the room above.

  'I'll have to go to her. She may do herself a mischief. Listen to that.' The screams had turned into a tuneless chant.

  'What's that? Singing?'

  'Is that what you call it? This is where it all begins - the violence. I'll have to look sharp.'

  Faro listened. 'That tune. That's the one she picked out on the piano.'

  'That was the master's favourite. Can't remember its title, something about a red river. They used to sing it together.'

  Those few chords mingled with the screams of Mrs Lazenby continued to echo dismally in Faro's head long after he thankfully boarded the waiting gig and headed for Edinburgh. An hour later with McQuinn and a police carriage, he set off for Piperlees.

  The door was opened by the housekeeper. Sir James was not at home. At the sight of a uniformed policeman, and mention of a jacket that might have been stolen from Sir James, her attitude changed to one of cautious politeness.

  'Sir James's valet, Mr Peters, might be able to help you.'

  The house, built to look medieval, Faro recognised as being of fairly recent date. The lofty hall was not an unpleasant place to take a seat, surrounded by splendid portraits of Piperlees past and present, as well as their favourite racehorses and dogs.

  Peters the valet was elderly. He descended the vast and heavily ornamented staircase cautiously, but to Faro's delight he recognised the jacket immediately.

  'Yes, of course. I remember this garment very well. Sir James wore it about two years ago. A favourite of his, when it was the height of fashion. You will notice that the lapels are narrower now, seats are broader, and - those buttons.' Shaking his head, he added, 'How well I remember those buttons and the trouble they caused, Inspector. You see, Sir James lost one and we could never get a perfect match. Well, the master being a stickler for perfection as you might say, he refused to wear it ever again.'

  'What happened to it after that?'

  Peters frowned. 'I seem to remember that it hung in the wardrobe for some considerable time, until he decided to get rid of it.'

  'Have you any idea who he might have given it to?'

  Peters scratched his cheek thoughtfully. 'Now that's a poser, Inspector.'

  'Someone on the Castle staff, perhaps,' suggested Faro helpfully.

  Peters shook his head. 'Hardly, Inspector, more likely one of the tenantry or some benevolent institution. We are of a size, the master and myself,' he added ruefully, 'but I am never allowed to inherit any of his grand clothes. He's very strict about such things, bit of a hoarder. He would get positively enraged if he happened to meet any of the Castle staff wearing his discarded clothes.' He smiled grimly, 'Especially his own valet, if you see what I mean.'

  Faro sighed deeply. After this promising start, it looked as if he had now reached yet another road that led to nowhere.

  'May I ask you how you came by it, Inspector?' asked Peters with a nervous glance at the jacket.

  'Of course. It was worn by a man who was killed in an accident - and who had no other means of identification.'

  'Dear, dear. Nothing to identify him. That was awkward.'

  And Faro, on impulse, withdrew the cameo. 'Only this. It was found beside him. Fell out of his pocket.'

  'May I, sir? Very old, isn't it? Am I right in thinking it's very valuable?'

  'You don't happen to recognise it?'

  'No. It isn't one of our treasures.' And as Peters handed it back, Faro studied his face carefully. Unless the old valet was also a superb actor, he was speaking the truth. Noting the Inspector's doubtful expression, Peters added, 'You might ask Sir James when he gets back on Friday, Inspector - if you wish. However, you could take my word for it. I've served Sir James and his father before him for forty years. I think I can say I know every family trinket quite intimately.' And pointing to the cameo he said, 'That one I have never seen in this house before. I'm certain of it.'

  Ushering Faro towards t
he door, and the waiting sergeant, he added, 'If you doubt my word, Inspector, you might have a word with Mrs Wheeler, the housekeeper. She's been at Piperlees for as long as I can remember and there isn't much that goes on in this family that she doesn't know about. She's a kindly soul.'

  Peters rang the handbell and, as they awaited the housekeeper's arrival, Faro asked, 'Has Piperlees been troubled at all with this recent spate of burglaries in the neighbourhood?'

  'No, thank goodness, we have not. We've been very lucky, or rather Sir James is a great stickler for bolts and bars on everything.' Looking at Faro, he smiled, 'Curious that you should mention those burglaries, Inspector, because it did just occur to me, that that piece, old and obviously valuable, might have come from one of the big houses.'

  As the baize door opened, Peters introduced Mrs Wheeler and bid them goodday. 'Please let me know if I can be of further service to you, if you wish me to arrange a meeting for you with Sir James.'

  Mrs Wheeler shook her head and confirmed Peters' statement that the brooch, as she called it, didn't belong to the Piperlee family. She showed even less knowledge on the subject than the valet. 'A pretty bauble, Inspector, and of course those jewels will be paste. They do these imitations very well these days, don't they? A body can hardly tell the genuine article any more.'

  'What about this jacket, Mrs Wheeler? Have you seen it before?' asked Faro, holding up the garment for her inspection.

  'I should just think I have, Inspector.' And looking round to make sure that they were alone, she dropped her voice to a whisper, 'I know that the master dislikes meeting any of the staff wearing his discards, as you might say - and what an eagle eye he has for that sort of thing. However, when Mr Peters said it was to go to some charitable organisation I thought, well, charity begins at home. So I gave it to Jess at the bakery, for her old uncle.' She touched her head. 'He's not all there, poor man, but he's harmless, a good worker, too . . . '

  'Works on the estate - out of doors?'

  'Why yes. How did you know that, Inspector? When he was young he was a lumberjack and a gold miner, oh the tall stories he'd tell if he had the notion...'