Murder in Paradise Read online

  Hardly hearing their bright conversation about those inevitable wedding arrangements, he saw instead that hot dusty Edinburgh courtroom waiting for the trial to begin, the room packed, the audience noisy with clerks hurrying among the desks, distributing papers and official documents. A sudden hush as judges and lawyers took their seats, an absolute silence of anticipation as a trapdoor in the floor opened and Madeleine ascended, wearing a brown silk gown, lavender gloves and a white bonnet with a veil.

  An artist seated directly below Faro was already busily sketching, possibly for the various newspapers whose reporters were waiting anxiously for her image. Madeleine, as if aware of the artist, turned round to look at the reporters to see how they were getting along with the note taking carrying her name and notoriety into every British home. Not only in Edinburgh and Glasgow newspapers but even the London Times carried a daily report of the proceedings.

  The prisoner, a young lady of remarkably prepossessing appearance, took her place at the bar with a firm step and a composed aspect, her self-control never forsaking her for a moment…she entered the dock with all the buoyancy with which she might have entered the box of a theatre… her restless sparkling eyes, her perfect self-possession indeed could only be accounted for either by a proud conscience of innocence, or by her possessing an almost unparalleled amount of self-control. Through her veil she seemed to scan the witnesses with a scrutinising glance and even smiled with all the air and grace of a young lady in the drawing room, as her agents came forward at intervals to communicate with her.

  Any man would have considered her desirable. Faro recognised that. Small, slender, vulnerable and quite lovely. She carried a small vial of smelling salts which he never saw her use during that nine-day trial. Her Declaration was read out and verified and the Sheriff remarked that her answers were given clearly and distinctly. There was no appearance of hesitation or reserve but there was a great appearance of frankness and candour.

  The audience held their breath as the indictments to murder on three occasions, two in February and one in March, were read aloud.

  All eyes turned to Madeleine, who stood up and said in a clear voice, ‘Not guilty.’ She sat down again, her polite and gentle smile with no more emotion than she would have declined an invitation to a supper party. After that, silence. This was her one and only public utterance for she was not permitted by the law to speak in her own defence.

  Faro observed her closely and saw how with every witness her demeanour was the same. Calm and unruffled, she listened with complete attention, sometimes leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand.

  Only once, with the recitation of her letters which took an entire day, was there any change in her self-control. But even the flat monotone, the strong Glasgow intonation of the elderly Clerk of the Court, could not disguise the passion and the implications of the word ‘love’, often underlined emphatically, which indicated that there was indeed a sexual relationship. Some portions, however, were considered too obscene to be read out in court and were excluded by the three judges, and at such announcements she occasionally hid her face in her hands.

  As Lena did at that moment. But merely to burst out laughing at something outrageous Erland had whispered and the past of an Edinburgh courtroom momentarily blended into the present – a garden’s mellow sunshine, still warm for the winds of autumn had not yet stripped the trees.

  Above their heads a robin sang, his sweet serenade adding to that feeling of peace and serenity, of time eternal. Red House, so newly built as a marriage home for William and Janey Morris and a family life still to come, had a sense of belonging to the landscape as if it had been here awaiting their arrival.

  Faro bowed rather stiffly over Lena’s hand and, smiling, she made room for him on the rustic garden seat. It seemed impossible that she could not recognise him again, although there had been no smiles during their first encounter on that journey from the High Court to Slateford, meeting with her brother James, who would take her back to Glasgow and a reception from her stern father that beggared imagination.

  Faro remembered her perfume, a delicate scent of some unknown flowers. The same perfume she still wore and again it touched his senses, his masculinity yearning for this strongly desirable woman. Her slender shape, her features delicate and sharply defined, she would be the perfect model for Rossetti, with a beauty of bone structure that would wear well with time and defy age.

  Indeed she looked even younger than she had during the trial, just a mere slip of a girl. Impossible to imagine that the girl before him could have been capable of murdering anyone and against his will he felt a tinge of envy for Emile who had been her lover in the past and for Erland who had this new role in her life.

  Erland. He was hardly listening to the radiant Erland saying, ‘This is a perfect day for me—’ and taking Lena’s hand he placed it in Jeremy’s, linking the two together. ‘You are to be the greatest friends – my wife and my cousin, who is also my dearest friend. If I was a God-fearing man, I would thank the good Lord for this extraordinary coincidence of bringing us together in Red House.’ He grinned. ‘In God’s absence, however, I shall have to thank Topsy Morris.’

  Lena listened, smiling, and gently withdrew her hand. ‘It is good to meet you, Jeremy. And I share dear Erland’s sentiments.’

  Did she recognise him? He thought it highly unlikely that she had been aware of his presence among the many onlookers at her trial. Apart from a polite inclination of her head, a thanks for his escort to Slateford, he had not heard her voice until now. A pleasant educated upper-class voice with only the faintest trace of a Scots accent.

  ‘Erland has told me of the marvellous coincidence of you being down here on business.’

  Faro gave his friend a sharp glance as Lena said hastily, ‘Be assured that I shall be most discreet.’

  Erland shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. What kind of business had he invented? Were there any secret hints that he was a policeman?

  Lena was smiling, nodding towards the house. ‘Not a word to anyone, I promise. I hope you’ll complete your assignment but not too soon.’ Another tender smile at Erland this time. ‘Not until after our wedding or dearest Erland will be so disappointed. And so indeed will I, having met you.’

  Quite a fulsome little speech, Faro decided, unable to think of a suitable response, burdened by his own terrible thoughts about the situation he had encountered which seemed more fraught with horror than any possible meeting with his hidden enemy Macheath.

  ‘We are all north Britons,’ said Erland, ‘although people do confuse Orkney with Scotland, don’t they, Jeremy?’

  Faro looked at her. A sudden devil in him made him ask: ‘Do you know Edinburgh, Miss Hamilton?’

  ‘Lena, please.’ And looking up at the house as if the question required thought, she nodded vaguely. ‘Not really at all. I believe my parents took me there when I was a little girl but I have no memory of anything but the magnificent castle. Like something out of a fairy tale.’

  ‘Lena is from Glasgow, Jeremy. There’s always been rivalry between the two great cities, as you well know.’ Erland sounded apologetic and Lena sighed and nodded.

  ‘I would like to visit Edinburgh some day.’

  That was another lie. And watching Erland kiss her hand and whisper, ‘And I shall take you there, my darling, perhaps on our honeymoon,’ Faro’s lips narrowed. He had a sudden irresistible desire to say, ‘When you do, you should make a point of visiting the High Court, an unforgettable experience – it is where all the murder trials take place.’

  A girl ran out of the house towards them.

  ‘Where have you been, Poppy?’ asked Lena jumping to her feet.

  ‘Well might you ask. I thought I’d never get away from him. I’m exhausted, he’s been at me all morning,’ she groaned.

  What on earth was she talking about? Soon it became evident that Lena’s friend was another of Rossetti’s models.

  ‘Good morning, Jeremy,’ she sa
id and held out her hand. As the conversation had turned to exciting feminine matters such as what she had bought in London to wear for the wedding, to which the men were outsiders, Poppy turned to Faro with a comical shrug.

  ‘I hope you are enjoying your visit and that these two aren’t boring you to death with their wedding plans.’ Pausing to smile indulgently at them, she said, ‘It is all their conversation, you would think no one in the world had ever got married since Adam and Eve. Perhaps Jeremy would like me to show him the garden. Come along.’

  And as she took his arm in the manner of one who was an old friend – and a very attractive one, Faro had to admit – he decided that the two girls were not unalike in appearance, slender with slight frame and delicate colouring of the type that the artists seemed to admire in their models.

  As Poppy steered him towards the summerhouse in its romantic seclusion beyond the rose garden, she did not appear to notice his monosyllabic response to her polite questions, preoccupied as he was with the possibility that Erland had told Lena that he was a policeman and she would remember him as the Edinburgh constable who escorted her from the High Court.

  But it was the transformation in Erland that troubled him most. How on earth was he to avert the imminent disaster, the death blow to his happiness when the truth about Lena Hamilton was revealed?

  There was an alternative, of course; the only one. To keep that information to himself and leave Erland and Madeleine to their fate.

  Fate, however, had other plans and was to take the matter out of Faro’s hands in the form of the pre-wedding masque and the advent of a newcomer to Red House, Topsy Morris’s business manager, the wealthy and highly eligible bachelor, George Wardle.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There was no escape from the present or the charming girl whose attentions he would have normally found extremely flattering. Leading the way beyond the rose garden to the secluded summerhouse, she indicated one of its rustic seats and asked gently, ‘Are you here for your cousin’s wedding?’

  Faro thought for a moment. A lie perhaps? ‘Not entirely. I happened to be in the district on business.’

  Had Lena kept Erland’s promise of secrecy or did she also know that he was a policeman?

  Poppy looked at him eagerly, her expression demanding further information, and he said, ‘I’m here on business for an Edinburgh client.’

  ‘You are in property then?’

  ‘In a way.’ That much was vaguely true.

  ‘When did you last see Erland?’

  ‘A long time ago. In Orkney when we were young, at school in fact…’

  She frowned. ‘How odd – I thought you were in constant touch with one another – being cousins, family and that sort of thing—’

  She sounded reproachful and he hastily interrupted. ‘He isn’t really my cousin.’

  ‘But he said—’

  ‘His family and mine are distantly related – in a small island community that often happens. We are just school friends from way back although Erland likes to pretend that we are cousins.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘That is not unreasonable – to claim kinship, when one is alone in the world. I feel so sorry for Lena, you know. A wedding without any family members present.’

  A useful introduction to that painful topic, Faro thought, and asked, ‘How did you two come to meet?’

  ‘Here. I’m a local lass, got a job as a kitchen maid when Mr Morris was engaging staff for the house. Then on one of his visits Gabriel spotted me and insisted that I should model for him. I was flattered and impressed and, as I’m fond of fine sewing, it sounded like a better option than scrubbing the stairs.’

  Faro looked at her, unable to believe she had ever served in such a lowly capacity, as she went on. ‘My mother lives in the village – a widow – I’m the eldest and I have three younger sisters—’

  ‘Do you know the miller and his family?’ Faro interrupted eagerly. ‘I have to visit him.’

  Poppy grimaced. ‘I don’t envy you. From all accounts he is not a nice man, a bully. He has a very bad reputation. Everyone feels sorry for his wife and daughter.’

  And that, Faro decided, was the lead he was looking for as he asked, ‘Is Bess a friend of yours?’

  She shook her head. ‘Hardly know her. She’s a bit younger than me.’ A shrug. ‘Quite frankly, Mam didn’t like us associating with the Tracys.’ Her reticence explained many things to Faro without the need to ask any more questions. There was one Poppy put to him.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ And a curious glance. ‘What’s your interest in Bess?’

  ‘Oh, just part of my enquiries.’

  Poppy gave a wry smile. ‘I gather Bess always has plenty to say to a good-looking man. She won’t fail you there, for sure.’

  She laughed and her knowing glance made him uncomfortable. He would have liked to ask if she knew Bess was missing, but such a question would require a tortuous explanation that he was not at all keen to give.

  Changing the subject he said quickly, ‘You get along very well with Lena.’

  She nodded. ‘I do indeed. She is my best friend. From the moment she arrived with Erland. I would do anything for her. She is a wonderful person, so kind and understanding with everyone.’

  They were no longer alone in the garden. A lot of unseen activity nearby indicated the gardeners were approaching.

  A group of hooded figures came into view. Sacking over their heads and shoulders, protection from the weather and doubtless the falling apples they gathered, transformed them into medieval figures from an ancient pastoral tapestry, a picture of harmony in keeping with their surroundings as they toured the gardens with their wheelbarrows.

  Two of the group were engaged nearby in the thornier prospect of trimming the roses and seemed to be chatting amiably to each other, but this was hardly a suitable moment for Faro to dash off, leaving Poppy without explanation, to elicit possible information about Bess’s swain.

  As he watched them with suppressed frustration, wondering if one of the two fitted the role of Bess’s ‘very respectable chap’, perhaps imagining that his preoccupation was boredom, Poppy asked, ‘Do you like roses? Topsy would only allow those of the perfumed variety. He said roses had to smell like roses or they were just a hollow mockery. On his instruction the petals are all harvested and made into perfume by the ladies. Look, here he is.’

  Poppy waved to Morris and he approached with his easel from the direction of the shrubbery where he had been making sketches of various wild flowers, destined to play their part in designs for one of his wallpaper and tapestry projects.

  Faro observed that there was considerably more paint on his clothes and hair than was justified by painting a few flowers and, in fact, he looked more of a labouring man than the gardeners, whose garb was neat and tidy by comparison.

  Poppy greeted him with a polite good day but, almost embarrassed by this encounter, Morris merely stared at her and at Faro as if he had never seen either of them before. With a bow, a puzzled frown and mumbled response, head down, he darted towards the courtyard.

  Faro decided that he was not the only one who suffered from preoccupation as Poppy whispered, ‘He’s like that. Totally absorbed in whatever he is doing at the moment—’

  The sound of a gong nearby erupted into the silence, frightening birds enjoying a quiet siesta on their various tree perches, into noisy squawking flight.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Faro demanded.

  Poppy leapt to her feet. ‘That’s for me. I must go.’

  ‘Have they no clocks in the house?’

  Poppy smiled. ‘Gabriel needs me again. The gardens are so large, we are all apt to get lost. He is sure we will wander away and this is his way to summon back to the studio any models out for a breath of air. I enjoy sitting for him, it’s easy work and I earn a lot more than I did in the kitchens,’ she added candidly, her sigh and wistful glance indicating that she would have much preferred to stay with her new companion.

  A
house without clocks, a medieval garden with gardeners to match. Faro felt as if he had stepped back in time. Only the chug-chug of an engine and a puff of smoke from the nearby railway line as a train headed towards London reassured him that this was indeed the year 1860.

  Now that Mr Morris had departed, the hooded figures were taking an early break from their labours, talking and laughing together as they did justice to pies and mugs of ale brought over by two of the kitchen maids, who received plenty of flirtatious comments in recompense. One of the men might well be the missing Bess’s suitor, Faro decided. But as he walked purposefully towards them, they all looked round, sprang to their feet and stared at him, not in an unfriendly manner but just polite and curious.

  ‘Is there something the matter, sir?’ one asked.

  How could he respond? It was impossible to ask that question, it sounded too banal – and embarrassing. Yet the question must be asked.

  ‘I was looking for a young lady. Bess Tracy – do any of you know her?’

  Knowing looks were exchanged, a nudge, a giggle suppressed. Obviously Muir was right about Bess Tracy’s reputation, a suspicion that had been reinforced by Poppy’s hints. And now those arch glances from the gardeners, surveying this well-dressed man, this toff, shouted louder than any words the truth of the matter; they clearly thought rumours had reached him regarding the remarkable abilities of the local whore, and they could guess his intentions.

  As heads were shaken, Faro realised that he lacked the courage to turn his back and walk swiftly away. Instead he lingered, expressing a sudden interest in the variety of apples, enquiring which of them were mostly used for cooking.

  This brought an unexpected bout of enthusiasm and it was with some difficulty that he managed to extract himself from the merits of the varieties the names of which he would never remember.