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

  Faro sighed. There was a running war between country constables and tinkers who were all too ready to appropriate possessions they regarded as discarded and useless. As this extended to misunderstandings about clothes innocently left to dry on washing lines, the crofters' resentment was understandable.

  'About the girl, Morag Brodie. What do the servants she worked with have to say?' he asked Craig.

  'They can all account for their movements. First place I checked. Naturally.' Craig sounded mildly indignant at this interrogation.

  'Even though Morag was a foreigner by rights,' Whyte intervened, 'the servants found her a sprightly but biddable lass. Only complaint about her I ever heard was a fondness for the bottle. And the lads.'

  'Her background has been investigated,' said Craig. 'And everything she told them about herself, which wasn't much, was reliable information. I checked it myself.'

  Craig was beginning to sound exasperated and Purdie said patiently, 'These are just the normal routine enquiries after a murder, as I am sure you are aware, Faro.' Pausing he added, 'I don't think you need worry over this one. We're pretty certain we've got our man. A few more loose ends to tie up and I expect to make the arrest within the next day or two.'

  'Oh, indeed.' Faro waited hopefully for Purdie to reveal the suspect's name. Instead he merely shook his head mysteriously, without offering any further information.

  'I gather you have very few crimes like this one round here,' Faro said to Whyte. 'It must have caused quite a sensation.'

  It was Whyte's turn to smile pityingly. 'They're a peaceful lot in these parts, Inspector, not like your city mob. Must be fifty years since the last murder.'

  'Were you the first to examine the body?' Faro asked.

  'Aye, sir. Jock, from Duncan's farm, found her in the ditch. Came straight for me. Never touched a thing.'

  'What were the nature of her injuries?'

  'She was stabbed to death, sir.'

  'Were there many wounds?'

  'No. Just the one.' Whyte touched his chest. 'Just here. Right to the heart. She must have died instantly.'

  'Indeed? Now that is very interesting. Tell me, have there been any other incidents in the neighbourhood?'

  'What kind of incidents had you in mind, sir?'

  'Incidents involving loss of life, let us say.'

  Faro realised he was going to have to spell this one out. Giving Whyte time to think, he watched Purdie who, clearly bored with the conversation, was trying to light a pipe. This was no easy task in that unsteady carriage, but one he managed with great expertise and without removing his leather gloves.

  'What about the river in spate?' he asked Whyte. 'Doesn't that claim a victim or two? There was a poem I remember when I stayed here as a lad—went something like "Blood-thirsty Dee each year needs three, But Bonny Don, she needs none."'

  And to Purdie, 'Perhaps you remember it too.'

  Purdie frowned, shook his head while Whyte's response was to regard Faro blankly.

  Deciding to prompt the sergeant's memory. Faro continued, 'My aunt told me that just a few days before the murder, Morag Brodie was nearly drowned, falling out of the cradle crossing to Crathie. The fellow with her who was drowned was also a servant at the Castle. A footman.'

  Whyte looked mutinous and said reproachfully, 'That's all past history, Inspector. Lessing's dead and buried, poor laddie. Nothing to do with the case,' he added huffily.

  'We've been all over this ground, Craig and myself. Very carefully, I assure you,' Purdie intervened gently. 'Believe me, we've explored every possible avenue.'

  'I do apologise,' said Faro abruptly.

  'Not at all, we're delighted to have your keen powers of observation on our side—'

  'Now that you ask for it, sir, here is another observation which I am sure has already occurred to you. Is it not strange that the lad who went to the trouble of rescuing her from drowning should have then risked his neck to murder her? I gather from your unspoken comments and other information that has come my way that your prime suspect is Lachlan Brown.'

  'That is correct,' said Purdie. 'The Brodie girl had jilted young Brown for the footman who was drowned.'

  'Jilting implies that there was talk of marriage.'

  Purdie shrugged. 'Country matters, Faro. Let us say rather that the two had been on intimate terms.'

  Faro was silent, remembering the evidence of a lovers' assignation in the upstairs room at the mill. With the footman Lessing dead, who else but Lachlan Brown could Morag have been waiting for?

  'I should have thought that the answer was rather obvious,' Purdie continued. 'Consider the workings of human nature, if you please. When Brown rescued her and at the same time let her lover drown,' he added emphasising the words, 'he had hopes. When she refused to go back to him, with heaven knows what reproaches, well then, that was that,' he concluded, with an expressive gesture across his throat.

  And Faro realised that the Inspector's speculation fitted perfectly his deductions at the mill.

  They were in sight of Bella's cottage. 'This is where I leave you,' he said.

  A handsome closed carriage stood in the roadway outside the gate.

  'Ah,' said Purdie, 'I see you have a visitor.'

  Faro shook his head. 'Someone enquiring after my aunt, I expect.'

  'We're on our way to Bush Farm. Brown's place.' Purdie paused significantly. 'Bush Farm is very close to where the girl's body was found.'

  And as Faro stepped down, he continued, 'I was hoping I might persuade you to accompany us. Take part in a little private investigation, if it would amuse you.'

  Faro was tempted but his conscience prevailed. He thought about the Queen's dogs. That was his most urgent priority.

  'Perhaps tomorrow, then?'

  Inside the cottage was the last person he had expected to see: Superintendent McIntosh patiently awaiting Detective Inspector Faro's arrival.

  His presence spelled out one word.

  Trouble.

  Chapter Five

  Superintendent McIntosh dominated the tiny parlour where his huge bulk was being viewed with polite anxiety by Tibbie as he settled uncomfortably, overflowing from one of Bella's diminutive armchairs.

  Greeting Faro's entrance with relief, she bobbed a curtsey and hurried into the kitchen with promises of a pot of tea and some fresh pancakes.

  Watching the door close, McIntosh said sternly, 'I am here incognito. Faro. This is strictly off the record.' And glancing round the walls nervously as if they might conceal a listener, 'I travelled by carriage from Aberdeen immediately after the wedding—'

  A chronicle of trials and tribulations followed, sufficient to convince the uninitiated that in the manner of bees to honey, Superintendent McIntosh attracted disaster.

  As for the incognito, Faro thought cynically that a closed carriage outside Bella's cottage would have already become an urgent topic of conversation in every kitchen in Crathie and surrounding areas. The entire populace would now be exchanging theories and speculation about who might be calling on Mistress MacVae. And her away in the hospital.

  'I thought it wise not to use the telegraph on this occasion.'

  Faro was again grateful for his thoughtfulness, seeing that private messages were an impossibility. All communications were avidly read and their contents subject to endless discussion long before fourth- or fifth-hand they reached their destination. Only those to the Castle under the Queen's personal code were necessarily treated with any reverence.

  'It must be something very serious to bring you out of your way, sir.'

  McIntosh smiled grimly. 'It is indeed. The wedding made that awful train journey a little easier to bear. The sooner they get that damned Tay Bridge built the better.' He sighed. 'I found myself having to kill two birds with one stone. If you will forgive the inappropriate simile, since it is my most urgent desire to prevent a second bird falling to the gun. A disaster that would be. A national disaster.'

  McIntosh was addicted to hi
s mixed metaphors and all Faro could do was listen patiently.

  'Do I take it your visit concerns Balmoral and a member of the Royal Family?'

  McIntosh seemed astonished that Faro should have made such an obvious deduction. 'Indeed, yes. Her Majesty, Faro, no less. We have just heard from sources at Scotland Yard that there is to be an attempt on her life. Here, before she leaves at the end of the week.'

  Faro had a sinking feeling that his intuition had been right. That there was more involved in the servant girl's murder than a jealous lover. It also explained the real reason for the presence of a detective from Scotland Yard.

  Two deaths, both conveniently buried and accounted for. Two of the Queen's pet dogs shot. Faro thought rapidly. Could all four put together in the right order add up to the Queen's life in danger?

  'About this girl who was murdered. Is there a connection?'

  'Highly unlikely.' McIntosh shook his head. 'You're to stay out of that, Faro. I've warned you. They've got Scotland Yard on the case. We must be careful not to create any ill-feeling,' he added nervously.

  'I have just made Inspector Purdie's acquaintance.'

  'Have you indeed? Then remember it's the Queen's safety you are to concentrate on, Faro. There have always been attempts and rumours of attempts. Not only in London either. As you well know, we've been plagued by them in Edinburgh. Fenians with guns, mostly out in the open. This time it is different. This time it is to be an inside job.'

  'You mean in the Castle itself?'

  'I do. And by someone close, with access to Her Majesty.'

  Dear God, the thought made him shudder when he remembered the informality of the daily life at Balmoral. An assassin just had to get lucky once, be in the right place at the right time.

  'We have been led to believe that all staff are closely vetted by her security guards.'

  McIntosh chortled. 'Captain Tweedie and Captain Dumleigh, known popularly, I understand, as Tweedledum and Tweedledee.'

  Faro smiled at this allusion to the instant popularity of Lewis Carroll's sequel to Alice in Wonderland, a particular favourite with his two daughters.

  'Can you imagine,' McIntosh chortled, 'two big watchful ex-policemen trying hard to look like footmen or pretending to be personal assistants to equerries?'

  'Surely all the known Fenians and anarchists have been accounted for? And that last troublesome batch are now safely behind bars.'

  'True, Faro, true. We have an excellent secret service in operation and it would be very difficult, given their present sources of reliable information, for any known undesirables to be "slipped" into Balmoral. But this is a new one on us. A domestic assassination.'

  Pausing he regarded Faro solemnly. 'The Prince's Party, they call themselves. Recently sprung to our notice. Supposedly they are the staunchest of patriots, their cause the good of England, their message that Queen Victoria neglects her duties and should retire as she is no longer fit to reign over us. She should abdicate and let the Prince of Wales take over the throne.

  'They'll go to any lengths, believe me. I'm not saying, between you and me,' he added again with that nervous glance around the room, 'that it might not be a bad thing for the country. Many of the Queen's disgruntled statesmen—and her subjects—would agree with them.'

  Once upon a time. Faro would have disagreed strongly. His Royal Highness had a reputation for wildness and the frequent scandals surrounding him were suppressed with difficulty and great expense. Only marriage to an excellent virtuous Princess had tamed him.

  He was very popular in Deeside and the indiscretions that many of his nobles had condemned would, when he was King, be dismissed light-heartedly.

  'A dam' fine fellow, just sowing his wild oats, y'know,' is what they would all say. His past was one many a less illustrious elder son and heir to a noble house would emulate, as the natural thing to do.

  'I see by your expression that you don't understand what all the fuss is about,' said McIntosh. 'But we have good reason to believe that there's a sinister motive behind this group who are using the Prince as a front. And once they have him on the throne, then they'll twist him around their little fingers. By fair means or foul,' he added slowly.

  When Faro gave him a hard look he nodded grimly, 'You get my drift.'

  'Blackmail?'

  'The same. They'll soon make it obvious that they are in real terms far from being passionate patriots. The opposite in fact. What they stand to gain is that they will use their power to take over the country. And between us. His Royal Highness has left evidence of indiscretions, letters and so forth, enough to merit a national scandal if they were made public.'

  'This is incredible. Whatever he did in the past, we're talking about matricide, sir. It's well known that he doesn't get on with his mother. But matricide...'

  'It's been done before—Medicis, Borgias.'

  'That was in the Middle Ages, we're living in civilised times.'

  'Are we? I wonder. Before you get virtuous about it, the Prince, we are informed, has no idea that they plan to get rid of his mother. He would not unnaturally be glad to inherit, but irritation with a parent is a long way from killing them off. If that was the way of it then most of us would be orphans. Nationally, there was never a better time for the Prince's Party,' McIntosh ended gloomily.

  'In fact,' he added in a treasonable whisper, 'I doubt sometimes whether she would even be missed. The country as you well know if you read your newspapers is very anti-monarchy just now. They take badly to her preoccupation with Balmoral. And, dare I say it, with John Brown.'

  Faro had met the Prince of Wales and was relieved to hear that he was not personally involved in this treasonable plot. Apart from a high-spirited reputation for being both susceptible and unreliable where a pretty face was involved, Faro found him witty, roguish and intelligent. He didn't doubt that Bertie would make an admirable and responsible king some day.

  'The plan, if plan there is, is being presented to the Prince by a body of his admirers, earnest well-wishers and loyal Englishmen.'

  'And Englishwomen perhaps?' Faro added. He could see it was just possible that the Prince might be manipulated by the ambitions of one of his current aristocratic mistresses.

  'You have a point there, Faro. The theme is that the country is being mismanaged under the present Government by a monarch who has so little interest in her subjects, she hardly ever deigns to appear in public. She prefers to hide away most of the year with her wild clansmen in the Highlands of Scotland.

  'And to many Englishmen anything north of the Tweed means that the people still live in caves. The only interest most of the wealthy have is in buying land, estate and titles. They don't see the real country.'

  It was true. In ever increasing numbers they came up twice or sometimes only once per year to shoot over their vast estates, have a continuous house party for several weeks and then disappear back to the Home Counties. These were, in fact, the notorious absentee landlords whose advent spelt ruin and desolation to the Highlands of Scotland.

  McIntosh drained his glass. 'And, of course, you must see the drift of this plan. If they succeed and the Queen is got rid of then the Prince will inevitably be full of terrible remorse. Worse than that, he will only ever be a puppet king. They will make sure of that. They will make the laws, he will sign the State documents but one step out of line and they will need only to whisper one word in his ear.'

  'What do you want me to do, sir?'

  'Word is that the Queen must be in London for the State Opening of Parliament next Monday.'

  'But that's less than a week away.'

  'Exactly.' McIntosh counted up on his fingers. 'We can expect her to leave here on Friday or Saturday at the latest. So you have four days to find the killer before he strikes.'

  'But that's impossible—'

  'Nothing's impossible, Faro,' said McIntosh sternly. 'Use your much vaunted powers of observation and deduction on this. We're putting you on extended leave. You stay here until the Q
ueen is safely back at Buckingham Palace. Understand?'

  Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he added, 'The fewer people who know you're here the better.'

  Realising Bella's talent for gossip, not to mention Tibbie and the eagle eyes of all the locals. Faro said vaguely, 'I expect it may have got around that my visit is purely social. For my aunt's ninetieth birthday.'

  'Keep it at that, if you can. I understand Purdie's a top man at Scotland Yard. Normally this would have been a case for the Aberdeen police. Fact is with the murdered girl having been a servant at Balmoral, etc., etc. It's all in the letter I had from the Chief Constable. Take Purdie into your confidence, Faro. In the unlikely event that he doesn't know all about this already.

  'Get his help,' he added desperately. 'Don't be too proud to ask. Between the two of you, you should be able to thwart this attempt. Get John Brown on to it too. He's loyal and devoted, by all accounts. You've met him, of course.'

  'The day I arrived—'

  Reluctantly Faro told the Superintendent about the Queen's dogs, but the reaction he had dreaded wasn't forthcoming. McIntosh merely dismissed it as somewhat eccentric behaviour to be expected of a Royal personage.

  'Whatever next, Faro?' he said brusquely.

  'But do not be side-tracked. This other matter is vital. Prevent the murder, Faro, without trampling on too many Royal toes, or outraging too many duchesses.'

  'That won't be easy, sir.'

  'Use your influence with Brown, indulge him about the dogs. Enveigle yourself into the Castle as much as you can. Look around. You're sharp-eyed. Good heavens, man, I don't have to spell it out to you.'

  He paused. 'Incidentally, it's well known that the Prince hates Brown.'

  'So does his brother Prince Alfred. The Queen was furious when he once refused to shake hands with a commoner, a mere ghillie,' said Faro.

  McIntosh shrugged. 'Possibly that would go for most of the Royal children. In their eyes Brown is a peasant with an overblown idea of his own importance. Moorcock turned peacock is the Royal whisper. Have you heard the latest?' Without waiting for Faro's reply, he went on, 'He's now extended his power over the Queen by introducing her to seances. Seances and spiritualists, if you please. Putting her in touch with Prince Albert.'