The Missing Duchess Read online

  He smiled. 'She is young still to give up hope.'

  'In years, perhaps. But after fifteen years of marriage it seems highly unlikely. Besides, Gustav has a mistress who has recently presented him with a son.'

  She paused to allow the significance of that remark to sink in.

  'Are you hinting that your mistress might be in danger?' Faro asked. Here at last was a clue, the one undeniable reason for murder. Royal princes throughout history had resorted to the disposal of barren wives by fair means or foul, when presented with an heir, even an illegitimate one.

  'Danger?' Miss Fortescue repeated. 'I don't think that has ever entered her mind. Amelie refuses to divorce him, for by so doing, she would relinquish any hope of restoring the Royal party to power. Besides, she has learned through all these dreadful years that personal interests must never be allowed to intrude where her main duty lies. To her country and her people.'

  She looked at him. 'Perhaps it is difficult for you or anyone not of royal blood to understand such things, Inspector.'

  Faro smiled and shook his head. 'Not for me, miss. I understand perfectly. I know all about duty. It is, or should be, a policeman's first rule. To his sovereign and to the people he serves.'

  Miss Fortescue laughed and put a hand on his arm. 'Why, Inspector, we seem to have a great deal in common.' And eyeing him shrewdly: 'I was right, I am sure. Amelie would approve. She would trust you.' With a sigh she went on: 'Knowing how powerful Britain is in world politics, she had some thought that Her Majesty might be able to intercede on her behalf. That by selling some of her jewels she might even be able to raise an army, bring the Royal party back into power.'

  'Drastic measures, miss.'

  She regarded him dolefully. 'I know. I see now what a mad scheme that was. But, as I said, Amelie is a creature of impulse.'

  There was nothing Faro could think of as an appropriate response. Worried by his silence, she said: 'You will respect my confidence, please, Inspector - I must beg of you -'

  'Of course, you have my word, miss. I was just wondering about these jewels. Any idea where they might be?'

  'Under the waters of the River Forth by now. With all our other possessions,' she said bitterly.

  'Including the photograph she was taking to Her Majesty, I believe.'

  'That too.'

  'Is there nothing more you can tell me about your mistress? Anything that distinguishes her in particular?'

  Miss Fortescue shook her head. 'It is so difficult, Inspector, when you have been with someone every day, practically all your life, to try and say exactly what they look like. There are lots of photographs in the palace at Luxoria, of course.'

  And utterly useless by the time they reached Edinburgh, Faro thought grimly. A germ of an idea had grown out of this conversation though. Was it too fantastic, he wondered?

  This coachman. What did he look like?'

  'The coachman?’ she repeated, surprised by the question. Shaking her head she laughed lightly. 'You know, I haven't the least idea. He just looked like, well, a coachman.'

  Faro tried again. 'Was he young or old?'

  'Of middle age, I expect,' was the prompt reply.

  'Short or tall. Stout or thin?' Faro persisted.

  'Middle height.' She looked at Faro's withdrawn expression and added apologetically. 'Well, you see, I only saw him very fleetingly.'

  Obviously Faro was expected to know that coachmen, like soldiers and policemen, all looked alike. How foolish of him to expect otherwise. So much for McQuinn's theory that servants had intimate knowledge of one another.

  'Had he served long in your mistress's employ?'

  Miss Fortescue frowned. 'Oh, no. He merely met us when we disembarked at North Berwick. As a matter of fact, I hardly saw his face.'

  Ah, then perhaps his idea wasn't so fantastic after all.

  Thee were now spots of rain, an ominous sky. Faro hoped the approaching storm would contain itself for a little longer.

  'I'm truly sorry about the photograph, Inspector. So much was lost that night.' Her sigh made Faro feel just a little ashamed of his concern for what must seem to her of little consequence. There was a slight pause before he asked: 'What was your mistress wearing when the accident happened?'

  'Wearing?' Miss Fortescue repeated. 'I think - yes, a woollen travelling cape. Yes, it was violet, her favourite colour, velvet trimmed.'

  Progress at last, thought Faro. 'And underneath -?'

  But before Miss Fortescue could reply, the storm broke above their heads, a jagged streak of lightning split the sky, followed by a thunder-clap. The spots of rain turned into a steady flow.

  'Oh dear. Oh dear, I must leave you, Inspector. I must run -'

  Aware that she could never run anywhere in those slippers, Faro in a gallant gesture removed his cape and slipped it around her shoulders.

  Her tender, grateful smile was his reward. 'You are so kind, Inspector, so very kind.'

  'You had better hurry, miss.'

  'But your cape - you will get wet.'

  ‘I’ll get it later. Go - quickly -'

  He watched her disappear as the deluge broke, and turning, he ran swiftly towards the railway halt, which afforded little shelter beyond an ancient oak tree.

  He was greatly relieved to hear the distant sound of a train approaching. By good fortune it was on time, but too late to save him from a drenching.

  As the train steamed to a halt, a carriage door was flung open to allow a man to descend to the platform.

  The passenger was the historian, Stuart Millar.

  Chapter 10

  'Why, Inspector Faro. What are you doing here?' Stuart Millar demanded.

  Faro explained that he had been visiting the Lethies.

  'But you are soaked through, man. You must come back with me.' He pointed. 'That's my cottage over there.'

  The guard blew his whistle. Millar put his hand on Faro's arm. 'I won't take no for an answer. Elspeth will have supper ready, I'll get you some dry clothes and you can get the later train.'

  Faro considered his wet clothes and the tempting invitation. Tempting and convenient, too, since it would give him a chance to find out what the historian knew about the Lethies and Major Weir.

  Millar put up his umbrella and they raced through the rain.

  At the cottage, Elspeth was absent. A note said that his supper was in the oven. Taking Faro's coat to the kitchen to be dried, Millar returned with a smoking jacket: 'Put this on. My apologies, Inspector. This is my sister's guild evening. Dear, dear. And I'm playing cards with friends - but never mind. We have an hour or so -'

  Faro did not mind in the least. In fact he was grateful for this unique opportunity that the storm had brought his way. It was no difficult task to lead the conversation towards the slums of Edinburgh and the proposed demolition of the West Bow.

  'Major Weir? We don't know much about the Major's early life except that he was born near Carluke and was an officer in the Puritan army in 1641. He served with Montrose during his Covenanting campaign and after the execution of Charles I he retired and settled in Edinburgh and became Captain of the City Guard.'

  Millar paused and smiled at him. 'I expect .all this is well-known to you. And that the City Guard was not as blameless or efficient as our present-day police force. According to legend, however, it was based on an ancient secret society whose original members were present at the sack of Jerusalem. In the confusion afterwards these respectable Edinburgh citizens ransacked King Solomon's Temple and carried off the portrait of Solomon. There were rumours, however, of more important thefts.'

  'Such as?'

  'King Solomon's Rod, the staff Moses carried when he received the Ten Commandments and which he used subsequently to divide the waters of the Red Sea to see his people safely over to the land of Egypt. But I digress -'

  'You were telling me about this remarkable Major.'

  'When he retired form the City Guard he became absorbed by spiritual matters. The West Bow was v
ery respectable in his day, occupied by a hard-working and fanatically religious group of tinsmiths, known as the Bowhead Saints. The Major lived there with his sister and became known as Angelical Thomas for his powers of oratory. And according to the records he was never to be seen "in any holy duty without his rod in his hand".

  'He had an imposing personality and presence, as well as the gift of the gab. Very tall and saturnine, he always wore a long black cloak. Possessed an astonishing memory too. Could quote reams from the Scriptures and had a genius for leading public prayer, quite irresistible to those who heard him, from all accounts. The staff, he said, was his gift from God, his Holy Rod. It had some strange power, could turn itself into a snake or a serpent, and he was able to work some minor miracles and produce magical effects from rags and powders thrown into the fire.'

  'Gunpowder, of course,' said Faro, 'and very impressive for the superstitious. All you are telling me about the Major describes an alchemist who could convince ignorant folk that he was in fact some kind of a minor prophet.'

  'Exactly,' said Millar. 'If he had kept it that way, all might have been well. But there was a dark side too. He had one weakness. Ladies could not resist him and he couldn't resist such earthly temptations. Eventually, in his seventies, he took ill, and knowing that his life was near its end, he made an amazing confession of depravity and blasphemy which included a statement that he and his sister had sold their souls to the devil on the road to Musselburgh. This so shocked the authorities that the Lord Provost of Edinburgh summoned the City Guard and thrust them both into the tolbooth for safe-keeping.’

  'In prison, however, the sister lost her nerve, perhaps knowing all to well the dreadful fate that awaited witches and warlocks, and she implored the bailies to secure the Major's staff. He was, she assured them, powerless without it. But if he were allowed to grasp it then he could drive them all out of doors, regardless of any resistance they might make. She further explained that the devil had given the staff to her brother that momentous day in 1648 when, in exchange for their souls, they were transported to Musselburgh and back again in a coach pulled by six black horses which seemed to be made of fire.’

  'The Major was burnt at the stake at Greenside in April 1670 - I expect you know it, a village between Leith and Edinburgh. A few days later his sister met the same fate in the Grassmarket. To the end, she was more concerned about her brother's staff than their terrible sentence. When she was told it had been burnt with him, mad with rage, she tore off all her clothes to die stark-naked.'

  While Faro listened, a picture was taking shape in his mind. The road to Musselburgh passed through Aberlethie. Destroyed by the Reformation, the priory was in ruins and the Crusader lay on his ravaged tomb.

  'The bailie in charge of burning the Major's rod described it as looking like a serpent, hissing like a snake, as it perished. The Major's money was entrusted to his care. He took it home with him and locked it in his study. None of his family slept that night. There were dreadful noises issuing from the locked room, as if the house was going to fall down on them -'

  'This bailie,' Faro interrupted. 'Do we know his name?'

  Millar smiled. 'Yes. Bailie James Lethie.'

  'Lethie!' Faro exclaimed, and Millar nodded.

  'In all probability a relation of the present-day family.'

  'The original castle - when was it built?'

  'Begun in September 1670, completed two years later.'

  Surely it was no coincidence that it had been built by the same bailie soon after he had both the magic staff, which he had been entrusted to burn, and the Major's money, too.

  No great feat of detection was needed to unravel this two-hundred-year-old mystery. Major Weir's secret was certainly in the staff he carried, and he issued warnings about its supernatural powers in order to keep it safe. Everyone who came into contact with him would be too terrified to steal it.

  Intriguing as this information was, Faro decided that it contributed little to the more urgent matter of solving the mystery of the missing Grand Duchess. He did not greatly relish the prospect of facing an irate Prime Minister and having to give an account of his failure to the Queen herself.

  When Faro took his leave of Millar, he decided to walk over to the priory before catching the next train.

  The storm had cleared and left in its wake the legacy of a mellow autumn evening with the rich smell of damp earth and a sky, azure and cloudless, echoing with birdsong.

  As he looked down at the Crusader's Tomb for the second time that day, his experience was quite different from his earlier visit. Gone was the electric atmosphere which he had interrupted between Miss Fortescue and the two men. Now he felt there was nothing left in this heap of mouldering stone, nothing in this effigy that could help solve his more immediate problem.

  The truth or fiction behind the history so colourfully interwoven with legend that had once marked this spot had been lost for ever under the dust and ashes of centuries past.

  Often, when Faro stood on a spot where history had been created, he would have given much to be transported back in time for just one brief glimpse of that magic occasion. He could never walk towards the new university on Chambers Street without seeing Kirk o' Field on its site and wishing with all his heart that he could have been there and solved one of Scotland's most tantalising mysteries.

  What had really happened that February night? And was the Queen of Scots implicated in the destruction of her odious husband, Lord Darnley? Now there was only hearsay, dry as dust. But if one could have been there to pick up the clues and prove Mary innocent, then her desperate plight might have changed the whole course of Scotland's history.

  Such is the stuff dreams - or nightmares - are made of. And now, in like manner, Faro wished for a time machine that could carry him back to the scene of David de Lethie returning triumphant from the Crusades, bearing with him a strange trophy.

  But tonight he was not the only pilgrim.

  Miss Fortescue walked cautiously through the shrubbery. A manservant who had the unfortunate look of a gaoler hovered at a discreet distance, trying to look as if he hadn't been instructed to keep an eye on her.

  It was an interesting idea, one which would bear further investigation, Faro thought as he stepped out of the shadow of the priory wall.

  As for Miss Fortescue, she was not at all put out by his sudden appearance. She smiled. 'Why, Inspector Faro, I am so glad to see you. I have your cape. It is thoroughly dry now - if you would care to accompany me -' She motioned towards the castle.

  'Of course.'

  Opening her reticule she handed him a paper. 'I was to have this posted to you, Inspector. It is a list of the contents of the jewel box -'

  After a quick glance Faro thrust it into his pocket, as Miss Fortescue continued: 'I hope it helps. It's the best I can do, until Her Highness can confirm the contents.'

  Faro found this even more surprising. 'When do you think she is likely to arrive?' he asked politely.

  'Oh, I've been thinking it over and I haven't the least doubt that she'll just walk in. Or send us a message from Balmoral. Her Highness is like that. She's very resourceful and impulsive.' She paused to let that sink in. 'But I am most concerned about that poor coachman.'

  'Isn't it possible that he may be with her?'

  She shook her head. 'I'm afraid that he may have been sent with a message and something has happened to him.' Her eyes filled with tears and she put a hand on his arm, gazing up into his face appealingly. She looked bewildered, overwhelmed by frightening circumstances entirely new in her hitherto sheltered life.

  'What do you think we should do meanwhile, Inspector?'

  'My colleagues and I are doing all we can to find out what happened. How much do you remember, miss?'

  Again she shook her head. 'Only the fierce storm, the carriage swaying. A tree fell. And then - oblivion.'

  'What was your last sight of Her Highness?'

  'We were clinging to each other.' Her voice broke
for an instant. 'The coachman yelled a warning. The bridge is down. I remember falling free of the carriage, rolling down the hill and hitting the water. I thought that was the end as I sank. Then I came to myself, my clothes dripping wet. I was lying on a load of hay. Being carried along a dark road. You know the rest, Inspector.'

  He looked at her. 'What are you going to do now? Until such time as your mistress returns for you,' he added hastily.

  She shrugged. 'Wait for instructions of some kind. I have no reason to return to Luxoria - if - if -' And in her eyes he read the words neither dared to say, in case by so doing they gave them the breath of life and a monstrous reality.

  'What about your family and friends?' he asked gently.

  'I have no commitment of any kind. As you probably realise, I am not a national.'

  'You are British?'

  'As Scottish as you are, Inspector,' she said proudly.

  Faro bowed, not feeling this was the time or place to explain that Orcadians consider themselves from a country apart.

  'The Queen is, as you know,' Miss Fortescue continued, 'much in favour of Scottish governesses and maids. There are such intimate connections between Her Majesty and most of our royal houses.'

  She fell silent and Faro, anxious to return to the more urgent topic in hand, prompted her: 'When the storm interrupted us you were telling me what your mistress was wearing when the accident happened. A violet travelling cape with velvet trimming, was it not?'

  'Yes.'

  'And underneath?'

  Miss Fortescue frowned. 'A blue merino dress, with long sleeves, an embroidered yoke and a quantity of lace around the neck.'

  Faro would have given much at that moment to produce the piece of lace he had found in the West Bow. But the time was not yet ripe. He needed to know a great deal more about the part Miss Fortescue had played before producing such evidence.

  'What jewellery was she wearing?'