Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery Read online

  But Faro was no longer listening, preoccupied with the vivid picture of a dead man, elderly with tanned arms and neck, and scratches on his arms.

  Mrs Wheeler was shaking her head sadly. 'Such a lot of misfortunes, he'd had . . . '

  'What was his name?' Faro interrupted.

  'Name?' Mrs Wheeler seemed surprised by the question. 'Harry.'

  'Harry what?'

  'I don't know. We don't go in much for surnames among the estate folk, unless they're tenants.'

  'What is his niece's name then?'

  'Porter. Jess Porter.'

  'And where does Mrs Porter live?'

  'She isn't married - and she lives at the west lodge. Just go down the main drive, turn right then left, about five minutes away.'

  Thanking her, Faro turned at the door and asked, 'One more question, Mrs Wheeler. Do you happen to know if Harry had a brother?'

  'I think he had, older than him, but dead long ago.'

  'Does he ever talk about him? About how he died, for instance?'

  'He was killed - in an accident.'

  'Do you happen to know where this accident took place?'

  Mrs Wheeler's expression indicated that the conversation had taken a curious turn. 'In Edinburgh - I think it was up at the Castle.'

  Again Faro thanked her, shaking her warmly by the hand. It all fitted perfectly and he had no further doubt that the dead man's name was Harry Femister, who would have been a young man in 1837 when his brother John died. He was so certain of his deductions that he sent McQuinn back to the police carriage with a message that they might have to take an extra passenger back to Edinburgh.

  As he walked along the twisting, tree-lined path towards the west lodge he had a sense of jubilation. Here was the stroke of luck, the link he had hoped for. Found, he thought, with considerably less effort and legwork than he had bargained for. For once, fortune had smiled on him and soon he would have the mystery unravelled as well as the secret of the two Queen Mary cameos: whether they were part of a treasure hoard and worth another Queen's ransom.

  A delicious aroma of baking bread, borne on the summer breeze, warned Faro that he had almost reached his destination.

  'You can't miss the cottage, Inspector, it's one of the originals, a lot older than this house. Been here for two hundred years or more, thatched roof and all. Jess is the local baker,' Mrs Wheeler had explained, 'makes her bread in the same oven as her father and grandfathers before her. The Porters didn't go in much for progress.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bakery door was open.

  'Miss Jess Porter?'

  A plump and comely woman of about forty whose rounded arms showed evidence of recent contact with flour came to the old wooden bench that served as a counter.

  Faro's early training led him to realise how very important were those first thirty seconds of meeting and how many details, relatively unimportant at the time, were to prove of great significance afterwards. Even as he took in her pleasing appearance, he had observed that her eager greeting died on her lips. He was not the one she had expected. She was disappointed.

  Once he had introduced himself, without further question she invited him into the large kitchen which served as bakehouse. Taking a cloth she wiped the table clear of flour.

  'Take a seat, won't you. Would you like some refreshment? It's a warm day.'

  As she bustled about the kitchen, Faro was aware that her eyes wandered constantly towards the window. He had only half her attention as she watched over his shoulder for that other caller so anxiously and imminently expected. Then, with a final despairing look, she took the seat opposite and spoke, as if suddenly aware of him for the first time.

  'Inspector - did you say?'

  'Yes, Miss Porter. We are making a few enquiries.'

  'Enquiries?' And with a puzzled expression that betrayed nothing of fear or guilt, she set the jug of home-made lemonade beside him. 'Then I dare say it's thirsty work in this weather. Help yourself.'

  Thanking her, Faro refilled his glass. 'I will, it's delicious.'

  He was heartily glad of the cooling drink. Despite cooking smells calculated to stir even the most flagging appetite, the kitchen with its huge baking ovens was intolerably hot for a summer's day.

  'What was it you wanted?' Jess asked.

  'Mrs Wheeler told me that you have an uncle lives here with you.'

  'He isn't at home just now. I can't tell you when he'll be back, either. Took himself off to Edinburgh a few days ago on a wee errand.' Her smile was cordial, unperturbed. Obviously if Uncle Harry had been contemplating a break in at the Castle, then she was in complete ignorance of such nefarious activities.

  She paused and Faro prompted, 'What kind of an errand would that be?'

  Jess laughed. 'Oh, don't ask me - I wouldn't be knowing that. Uncle Harry is a law to himself and he often takes himself off on little jaunts. Being a bachelor and so forth.' Then, conscious of Faro's unflinching gaze, she coloured slightly and said, 'Well, I might as well tell the truth, Inspector. You see, he's a wee bit - well, fey - simple, some folk hereabouts call it. Oh goodness, please don't mistake me, Inspector, he wouldn't harm a fly - not wicked with it, not that sort at all. It's just that he likes solitude, to commune with nature, he says, writes a wee bit of poetry and so forth.'

  'But he tells you where he's going?'

  'Sometimes, if he feels talkative.'

  'And this time...'

  'Oh yes, he had to see someone - at the Castle.'

  Faro's sense of triumph was now suffused with the dismay and indignation he always felt in having to break the shocking and totally unexpected news to an anxious relative that the loved one they expected home was never to return. This part of police duty even after twenty years had never ceased to offend his natural humanity. He felt the sickness growing at the pit of his stomach and asked, 'Did he tell you why?'

  She bit her lip, looked uncertain and then said, 'Well, I'm sure there was no harm in it. All rather silly, really - and romantic, but then Uncle is romantic. A long time ago - before I was born - his brother came across from Ireland because they were terribly poor and he expected to find the streets of Edinburgh lined with gold. He was disappointed, like a lot of other folk. Anyway, Uncle John...'

  'John Femister, was that his name?'

  'That's right. Well, he was strong and went into building work, got married to a nice Leith lass, my aunt Jean, and they had a bairn, a lass.'

  A shadow darkened Jess Porter's face and Faro gave a silent hurrah at this confirmation of his deductions so far. It all fitted so perfectly.

  'Then one day when they were doing repairs at Edinburgh Castle Uncle Harry's brother was killed in an accident. But Uncle Harry refused to believe it was an accident, some strange warning dream he'd had - I know you'll laugh, Inspector, but I told you he's fey. Anyway, he was sure it was part of some dark plot. Though why should anyone want to kill a poor Irishman working as a labourer? What could they possibly get from him? I can't think, can you?'

  Faro shook his head obligingly and Jess added slowly, 'Unless there really was buried treasure. That's why Uncle Harry believes his brother was killed.'

  A note of excitement crept into her voice. 'Their father was a school teacher and he taught them their sums and their letters. They wrote to each other, John trying to persuade Harry to leave home, but he felt honour bound to stay and help his father, dying of consumption he was. Two little sisters and no mother either. Then just before the accident, Uncle John wrote telling him that he must come without delay as he had found something that would make their fortune.'

  'That's what he said - a fortune?'

  'Oh yes. A fortune. The exact words. My goodness, I couldn't mistake that,' she laughed. 'I've had that letter read often enough to me through the years.' Hesitating, with an anxious glance, she continued, 'I'm sure it's all right telling you, being a policeman and so forth and I've no doubt he'll tell you all about it himself if you come when he's at home. He's
always on about the buried treasure at Edinburgh Castle. Tells everyone and that's really how he's got the name of being a bit simple with folk around here. They don't believe a word of it - how there's a fortune hidden away in a hollow wall in the Castle for anyone that finds it.'

  From his pocket Faro withdrew the Queen Mary cameo. 'Do you recognise this, by any chance?'

  Jess laughed delightedly. 'I do indeed. That's part -the only part, I might add - of the treasure he's always going on about. Shows it to everyone who'll listen, "My only brother died for this and one day I'm going to find the rest of it." He's devoted his whole life to this quest, Inspector, he even went to the United States and Canada, worked as a lumberjack and a gold miner, to try to raise money . . . '

  This was the second time he heard of Femister's work abroad and although he had only half-listened to Mrs Wheeler's account, he felt there was something else he should remember, some vital fact here that was in danger of being overlooked.

  'What did you say?' He was aware of Jess Porter's anxiety as she pointed to the cameo.

  'I said, Inspector, that my uncle never lets that out of his sight - or his possession. So how did you come by it?'

  Solemnly he opened the parcel containing the jacket. At the sight of it, realisation slowly dawned, and she raised her hands to her mouth with a small scream. 'Oh - oh - something's happened to him . . . '

  'I'm afraid so, miss.'

  'Oh, how dreadful, poor Uncle. Is he - is he ... '

  'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

  The tears welled from her eyes unchecked and suddenly helpless in the face of her grief, Faro took her hand. 'Oh poor dear Uncle. What was it?' she sobbed.

  'He met with an accident in Edinburgh.'

  'An accident? Him too? And he's dead? Dead,' she repeated. 'I can't believe it - I just can't believe it. Is he in the hospital?'

  'No, miss. In the city mortuary. And I wonder, could you come back with me, just to identify him?' A convulsive shudder shook her and Faro stretched out a comforting arm. 'I know, miss, I know. It's not a nice thing to ask a young lady, but you seem to be his nearest relative.'

  'I am that,' she sighed. 'His wife Jean was my mother's sister. I'm all he has since his other niece went up in the world. Her that married a title. I'll never forgive her, she could have done so much to help him. He wasn't asking for charity, just wanted a little money to help with his enquiries and he was willing to work for her, to earn something. Bitch that she was, she had him put from her door. "Don't let that mad old man come near my house again, or I'll get my husband to have him put away in the asylum.'"

  She began to sob again and Faro put his arm around her plump shoulders. 'Come, we have a carriage waiting down the drive, it'll take you into Edinburgh and bring you back home, of course. It won't take long,' he ended lamely.

  'That's kind of you, Inspector, but I can't come this instant,' she said, with a glance towards the ovens. 'I have my batch of loaves to take out. That'll be another half-hour - and oh dear, there's my morning rolls to get in and by the time I get back . . . ' She made a helpless gesture. 'I'll never manage. And then . . . ' Again that glance towards the window.

  'Are you expecting a visitor?' asked Faro gently.

  'Well, not for me really. A man wanting to see Uncle urgently about some enquiry he had made.'

  'Does that happen often?'

  'Sometimes. He's always asking about history. I don't think he'll be coming now, but I'll leave a note on the door for him. If you'll wait till my baking's ready, please . . . '

  In desperate need of breathing fresh cool air, Faro decided that sitting in this over-heated kitchen any longer was a frightful penance which even delicious home-made lemonade could not comfort. 'I'll wait for you down the drive.'

  With his hand on the door, he turned: 'Those letters you mentioned - did your uncle keep them, by any chance?'

  'Yes, he did, and they'll be in a big tin box he has hidden away in his bedroom.' She smiled sadly. 'I never let on that I knew about it, and I've never looked inside.' Her eyes filled with tears, and she took a handkerchief out of her pinafore. 'I don't suppose it will make any difference to him if I read them now, will it?'

  'There might be something to help us with our enquiries. We'd be very grateful, especially as your uncle seemed certain that his brother's death wasn't an accident and if there is some evidence in those letters, then the police should know.'

  'You're quite right, Inspector. He would have wanted that- oh poor Uncle,' she sobbed again. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, I just can't believe that all this is happening. He went out so bright and cheerful, just the way he always does -and now - this.' Drying her tears, she went to the table and with an air of determination floured the board and took up the huge baking bowl.

  Faro watched her and asked, 'Did he have any friends in Edinburgh that you knew of?'

  'A few drinking cronies and he used to visit an old friend who was in the hospital.'

  'One thing more. Did your uncle ever mention a fellow he used to know - Dowie by name, dead long since, I imagine.'

  'Peter Dowie, you mean.'

  'The same.'

  Jess Porter smiled sadly. 'He didn't die, Inspector. He's still alive - the one in the hospital.' She coloured and added, 'The East House.'

  'The asylum, you mean.'

  'Yes. Uncle just told folks it was the hospital. He didn't like to say asylum because folks round here thought he was a bit of a daftie, himself. And he knew it.'

  'What about Dowie?'

  'He's been there for years, he was a lot older than Uncle and he'd been crippled and gone the way old folks do sometimes, so they said, because of the accident long ago. Same one as killed poor Uncle John.'

  So Femister was fey and simple and Dowie was senile. They must have made a pretty odd pair, thought Faro, as Jess continued, 'Uncle hasn't visited him for a while now. They told him at the hosp - asylum that he wasn't well enough to have visitors any more. That he'd turned violent. For a while Uncle went faithfully each week, but he gave up when they kept on turning him away.'

  'Did you know him at all?'

  She shook her head. 'When I was a wee lass, I went to the hospital with Uncle, but it frightened me, you know the way bairns are.' She smiled. 'But he seemed a gentle, quiet soul. It was a great shame, they were great mates, loved talking all about the past.'

  Faro decided on an immediate visit to Dowie. Even in madness, there could be lucid flashes of the past which might yield useful information.

  As he was leaving, with a reminder about the letters, she nodded. 'I'll just have a quick scan through.'

  'The whole box would be a great help, miss, if you would.'

  She smiled wanly. 'I don't suppose the dead have secrets any more, do they?'

  He bit back the rejoinder, 'You would be surprised, miss, how many of them do. A look at our files in the Central Office would convince you.'

  This was better, far better than he hoped. If it hadn't seemed like an intrusion on her grief he would have offered to read the letters on the spot. Poor lass, she was very upset and taking it very well, trying hard to be normal.

  As he limped back in the direction of the main drive, he discovered that his feelings of triumph and jubilation on having solved the dead man's identity had been overtaken by that strange sense of foreboding.

  The closed-in path was overgrown and dim, the uneven ground made rapid progress difficult and when the bushes rustled at his side, he felt his scalp tingle with apprehension. This was so strong that several times he stopped and looked over his shoulder with his walking stick clutched as a ready weapon.

  After the third time, he shook his head: I'm being fanciful, this won't do at all. But the shadowy arm of nightmare poised above the Castle Rock persisted, the moving shadow at the corner of his eye which swiftly melted into invisibility. The feeling of being followed by someone who was no fool, no newcomer to the business of tracking his quarry.

  He was greatly relieved to emerge in the drive, wh
ere he found that McQuinn, at the housekeeper's invitation, had established himself in the kitchen and the handsome young Sergeant was surrounded by the usual bevy of twittering, admiring females.

  As always, the sight annoyed Faro out of all proportion. McQuinn, who had so little to offer in the way of entertainment as a companion to his superior officer, beyond a taste for tuneless Irish jigs whistled uncomfortably shrilly at close quarters, was once again showing that he had hidden depths when it came to amusing the ladies.

  'We're ready to move now, McQuinn,' he said with a brusqueness that quelled the maids and sent them scuttling away on their kitchen activities, with reproachful sniggers in his direction.

  'Right, sir. Back to Edinburgh.' McQuinn, who could move very fast, could also on occasion act with such deliberate slowness that amounted almost to insolence. Heavy footed, reluctant to withdraw from his circle of admirers, he followed Faro on to the drive.

  'Where are we off to now, sir? Carriage is down the drive.'

  'I know that, McQuinn. I've found out who the dead man is - his niece is coming back with us to identify the body. We'll take the short cut - this way.'

  'That was a piece of luck, sir,' said McQuinn prepared to be agreeable for once. He adjusted his long stride to his superior officer's stumbling gait, while Faro briefly supplied the details regarding Jess having recognised the jacket.

  'The cottage is over there, where you see the smoke.'

  'Looks like the lum's gone up,' said McQuinn.

  'It's a bakery,' said Faro impatiently.

  'Smells like burning thatch to me.'

  Faro sniffed the air. McQuinn was right. 'Come on, hurry, man.'

  Faro, using his stick to propel himself along, left the clearing just as McQuinn reached the cottage door. From every aperture smoke billowed out and flames shot from the chimney and the burning roof thatch. As he hobbled across with a growing sense of disaster, he saw McQuinn trying to open the door, his efforts encouraged by a small band of estate workers who had also raced towards the blaze.