Faro hardly listened. He was a very worried man. The significance of the time-lapse was ominous, it slotted almost too neatly into the grim discovery in the West Bow.
The two fatalities, he felt sure, were unlikely to have been coincidental.
'Any identification?'
'None. Pockets empty.'
Faro sighed like a man whose worst fears have come to pass as he followed Cranley, who said: 'You'll need to cover up.'
And as Faro withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, Dr Cranley continued: 'it's not a pleasant sight. Damn rum business, I'd say, in more ways than meets the eye.'
The doctor was strongly addicted to rum and cliches and Faro would have appreciated a less sensitive nose as well as a fortifying strong drink as he looked down on the remains of a middle-aged man. Of middle height and middle build, no longer with any features of distinction except for thinning ginger hair, his clothes worn but respectable, his description when circulated, Faro decided wearily, might fit one-quarter of the male population of Scotland.
McQuinn had been listening attentively to the conversation between the doctor and Faro. 'If he drowned down there, sir, why carry him all this way uphill to leave him in the shrubbery? It doesn't make sense.'
Faro sighed. 'His body was obviously concealed somewhere.'
'Not in the open air, that's for sure,' said the doctor. 'Animals would have got at him and there would have been maggot infestation by now.'
'There's been a lot of rain and his clothes would have been ruined too,' said Faro, examining the man's hands. Smooth, with no callouses, not the hands of a labouring man. And whatever his occupation, the dead man had not been a professional coachman with palms hardened by daily contact with horses' reins.
Watching Faro, Cranley said: 'He wasn't in the water long. Was that what you're looking for?'
Faro nodded. Within a few hours of being immersed in water the skin on the hands and feet of a dead body takes on a characteristic bleached and wrinkled appearance, commonly known as 'washerwoman's hands'.
'We'll see what the post-mortem reveals. But I can tell you one thing. I'd be prepared to swear that he's been kept in a closed dry place since he died.'
'Such as?'
Cranley shrugged. 'A trunk, or a closet,' he said grimly. 'Or some airless space, like a cupboard. Well, well, here's another little mystery for you to work on, Faro. If you want my opinion on this one - although I don't suppose we'll find any marks of violence - I won't be surprised if there was foul play involved somewhere.'
When Faro managed a wry smile, 'Not as much use to our students as the last one we had from you,' he added appreciatively, as if Faro was somehow responsible for the personal freshness of the corpses supplied to his medical students.
Faro had an unhappy feeling that they would get no further with the dead man in St Anthony's Chapel than they had with the mystery woman in the West Bow. But he would very much have liked an answer to one vital question.
According to Miss Fortescue's account of the events, the coachman who drove the Duchess from North Berwick had probably drowned when the carriage went into the river. Had the accident been prearranged and the coachman murdered, his body concealed for nearly two weeks to be resurrected and left at St Anthony's Chapel on the slopes of Arthur's Seat?
But why, when there were so many less tortuous ways a corpse could be disposed of? With plenty of water around, the River Forth was an obvious choice. Hopefully the body might drift out with the tide and never be seen again.
What was the purpose behind this sudden resurrection? He asked himself this as he watched the body being bundled on to a stretcher and carried down the hill by the two constables in the wake of Dr Cranley.
McQuinn remained with him, and now that the corpse had been removed, there was further evidence that its sojourn in the shrubbery had been brief. The leaves and grass where the body had lain were flattened but there was none of the yellow discolouration and decay that would have occurred had the vegetation been covered for several days.
'I had a walk round, sir, nothing to be seen out of the ordinary,' McQuinn added.
As Faro poked round the shrubbery with a stick and without much hope of finding anything significant, he smelt murder as well as decomposition in the air.
McQuinn frowned. 'It's only a thought, sir, but the fact that the man was drowned - well, do you think there could be a link with the missing Duchess?'
'I think there's a very strong possibility that they are connected.'
McQuinn nodded. 'Pity the newspapers couldn't produce a photograph of her. That would have been a great help. One thing I don't understand though, why keep the body - for a week?'
Faro would early have loved the answer to that question. All it indicated to him was that the assassin was getting nervous.
Of the Grand Duchess's entourage, only Miss Fortescue now remained alive.
But for how long?
Chapter 12
As Faro and McQuinn emerged from the shelter of the ruined chapel and prepared to rejoin the police carriage, they were hailed by a figure toiling up the hill.
It was Leslie Godwin, leading a horse, and on the path below, Sergeant Batey.
'Shall I wait, sir?' said McQuinn.
'No. You head back.'
Leslie approached Faro eagerly. 'I'm out later than usual. Missed my early-morning ride.' He gave his cousin a quizzical glance. 'I expect Vince will have told you. We had a somewhat convivial evening at the Spec.'
Faro smiled. No doubt Leslie's tough and dangerous existence though the years made him impervious to the excesses of high living. Although considerably older than Vince, Faro decided that his cousin was also in better shape than either of them.
As they watched the forlorn cavalcade descending the hill with their stretcher, Leslie explained: 'Saw your policemen gathered and - ' He grinned. 'You know me - I decided there must be a story. As soon as I spotted you, I knew I was right. So here I am.' He sat down on a nearby rock, anchoring his horse's reins.
'Well, what have you got to tell me?' At Faro's stern expression, he laughed. 'Not another mysterious corpse, I trust.'
When Faro frowned, his cousin's eyes widened. 'That was meant as a joke - not in the best of taste, I realise.'
Faro received this observation in silence and Leslie whistled. 'Some connection between the two, eh? Well now.'
Faro couldn't think of a reply and Leslie continued sternly. 'Come now, Jeremy, don't you think it's time you brought me into this? You know I want to help and, who knows, maybe I can -'
There isn't anything - ' Faro began hastily.
Leslie made a dismissive gesture. 'Please don't try to fob me off, I'm an old hand at the game,' he added in wounded tones. 'Besides, I know that you are involved in what might turn out to be a scandalous piece of international intrigue.'
Faro felt suddenly chilled. 'And what makes you think that?'
Leslie smiled. 'From hints dropped - confidentially, of course - at the Spec last night,' he added with an impish smile, 'I gathered that none other than the Grand Duchess of Luxoria had gone a missing.'
Damn Vince. Drink loosened his tongue. He had never learned to control that particular student weakness. Damn him, Faro thought angrily as Leslie continued: 'And I suddenly realised that this is where I might be able to help you.'
'In what way?'
'The best possible,' Leslie regarded him triumphantly. 'You see, I've been to Luxoria. A couple of years ago when I was travelling across Europe, I had the honour to be received by members of the Royal family - '
This was an unexpected piece of luck. Faro looked at him gratefully. 'You met the Grand Duchess?'
Leslie shook his head. 'Alas, no, she was absent, if you please, with her husband, the odious President. As nasty a situation as anyone could imagine, a piece of emotional blackmail worthy of any grand opera.'
'How so?'
'I got the general drift, that her family had literally sold her to save their skins,
whatever they were pretending. You don't know the story?'
Faro did but he wanted to hear his cousin's version, which confirmed exactly what Miss Fortescue had confided in him. Then he added: 'He'd like to divorce Amelie and marry his mistress - if that wouldn't mean the end of his power.'
It was even worse that Faro had thought. The President had very good reason for disposing of the Grand Duchess, and a professional assassin could easily be bought for the kind of money the ruthless President was prepared to pay.
As they stumbled through the bracken, the short cut to the road far below, Faro turned and asked with sudden hope: 'Did you by any chance see any photographs of her?'
Leslie thought for a moment. 'I was only there very briefly, a few days. Hardly enough to do more than take a passing interest in my surroundings. There were some family paintings on the walls, sentimental reminders of the Royal Family in their heyday. But seventeen-year-old girls can change quite a bit with the passing years - not to mention an unhappy marriage.'
'But there is a possibility you might recognise her again?'
Leslie laughed. 'I don't know what you're getting at, but yes. I've got quite a good memory for faces, and if the setting was right, I suppose.' He paused, then added, 'There's a strong family resemblance to the House of Hanover and the Saxe-Coburgs. Hardly surprising since they're all related. And let's not forget that artists who know when they're on to a good thing tend to err on the side of flattery.'
He looked hard at Faro. 'What are you getting at, Jeremy?' And when his cousin didn't answer, he indicated a large boulder and, sitting down on it, made a place for Faro. Then smiling encouragingly, he said gently: 'Why not start at the beginning? Who was the last person to see the Grand Duchess?'
'Her lady-in-waiting, Miss Fortescue - '
'And where is she now?'
'At Lethie Castle - '
Leslie listened carefully, frowning occasionally as Faro told him the events of the disastrous landing at North Berwick and Miss Fortescue's flight to Solomon's Tower.
At the end, Leslie sighed, his only comment: 'Vanished into thin air. Just like that.'
Before replying, Faro said a silent prayer that his fears were groundless. 'I take it that the corpse in the West Bow that night didn't strike you in any way as familiar?'
'Familiar?' Leslie stared at him. Then as realisation dawned, he whispered: 'You mean - you think - '
'Well, could it?'
'Oh lord, Jeremy. I don't know. I haven't the foggiest. I didn't look at her very closely. You know how it is.' He looked thoughtful. 'Have you considered that another talk with the lad Sandy might be useful? It could well be that he's hiding something.'
And studying Faro, he shrugged. 'I'm no detective, you know, but right from the start the lad's manner struck me as suspicious.'
'That he was plain scared, you mean.' Faro smiled. 'It isn't every day that a twelve-year-old lad stumbles on a corpse. Or finds himself surrounded by the police.'
'I agree. It could be that the scent of the law so near home put him off. Most of these lads live by dubious activities, and as you know Batey grabbed him by the ear, with his hand in my pocket.' He laughed. 'Quite brazen about it, he was too. Yes, I think you would be well-advised to have a talk. And it would help if you had a coin or two in hand. Nothing like the sight of money for lubricating information.'
'I have tried,' said Faro. 'Called at the house when I left you the other day.'
'Well?'
'He wasn't at home, but I left a message with his mother and the promise of two shillings.'
Leslie nodded eagerly. That should bring him running to your door.'
They got up and walked in silence for a few moments before Leslie turned and added: 'If in doubt, you could have the corpse exhumed.'
'I'm afraid not. There is no resurrection for this particular corpse. All unknown and unclaimed bodies become the property of Dr Cranley and his students.'
'Dear God. You mean -' And Leslie made a grisly gesture of using a knife.
'Precisely.'
'How awful.'
And as if in accompaniment to grim realisation, they reached the park pursued by rain sheets that crept steadily over the hill, shrouding Arthur's Seat in thunderheads. The sky rumbled ominously in the grip of an approaching storm, reminding Faro that this swiftly changing weather signalled golden autumn would soon be replaced by dark November. Cold winter days, where early darkness made petty crime more profitable and detection a hundred times more difficult and uncomfortable.
On the road, Sergeant Batey was waiting. He helped his master to mount, looking neither to left nor to right. Faro might not have existed, nor McQuinn standing a few yards away.
Batey's behaviour made Faro uneasy. There was something unhuman about him, an attitude he had only ever met in the most hardened criminals, killers by inclination rather than by the circumstances that make men into soldiers.
He looked at his cousin Leslie, so open-faced and frank, then at the handsome Irish McQuinn, and was struck by the comparison. Batey might be a good servant perhaps, but not one Faro would have cared to keep under his roof.
Leslie waved a cheerful farewell with a promise to meet again soon. Winking broadly at his cousin, he called: 'You've given me plenty to think about. I'll let you know if I come up with any brilliant ideas.'
Faro watched the two men, so completely dissimilar, gallop back towards the Canongate. Then turning, he surveyed the ruined chapel thoughtfully. The sloping foothills of Arthur's Seat were almost deserted, except for one other domestic building, almost as ancient as the chapel itself.
Solomon's Tower. Not very far away, in fact quite conveniently accessible and offering splendid opportunities for hiding a body. With or without the Mad Bart's knowledge or consent, he thought grimly.
Narrowing his eyes, he remembered Miss Fortescue half-alive, staggering into the Tower, her story not quite the same as the one the Mad Bart had produced. And on the off-chance of finding him at home, he decided to call and direct a few searching questions on what had really happened that night.
He was unlucky. There was no human response to the clanging bell which, however, alerted the feline inhabitants. As he opened the door, he was engulfed in a purring tide of cats, all intent on insinuating themselves about his ankles. Faro no longer had any worries that Sir Hedley might be lying dead in his cat-haunted tower. So, restraining them from escaping into the garden, and having endured enough strong and unpleasant odours for one day, he beat a hasty retreat.
Before going out to Aberlethie to see if Miss Fortescue could shed any light on the identity of the corpse in St Anthony's Chapel, Faro had decided to make certain that the dead man was not already on the Edinburgh City Police's missing persons list.
At the Central Office, Sergeant McQuinn had forestalled him. He shook his head. 'No one even resembling him, sir.'
'You're quite sure?'
Faro was surprised, having expected several missing men of similar ordinariness whose descriptions might roughly fit the one he now thought of as the missing coachman.
‘I’ll make the usual routine enquiries, sir, but it looks as if we might be landed with a Mr Nobody.'
The missing persons lists was not, Faro knew, completely reliable. For every person who disappeared and was urgently sought by relatives for reasons of love or loathing or by creditors for lucre, there were dozens more husbands and wives, sons and daughters who disappeared discreetly and whose relatives for their own reasons kept silent. If enquiries had been made, doubtless the police would have found that these same people were grateful to see the last of their missing relative, saying their prayers each night that they might never again be troubled by the sound of that dreaded footfall crossing their threshold.
'We've had the list of the contents of the Duchess's jewel box distributed, sir. None of the pieces have turned up with any of the legitimate dealers.'
'It's early days for that. How about some of the illicit ones?' Even as he spoke,
Faro realised the hopelessness of such a task. Fences would be hanging on to them for a month or two until the scent grew cold, or trying to sell them on the Continent for quick disposal.
More than an hour had passed since Faro and McQuinn had left the scene on the road below St Anthony's Chapel.
On the off-chance that Dr Cranley had made a discovery of some importance, they went together to the mortuary where, having just completed his grisly business, the doctor was washing his hands.
Giving Faro a triumphant look, he said: 'I was right, you know, he was drowned. His lungs had ballooned as a result of distension with water. That's how he died, but he wasn't in the water for long -'
As Dr Cranley proceeded to reiterate what Faro knew already, he listened politely, then took his leave.
Outside, McQuinn said, 'Looks as if we have a murder inquiry on our hands, sir.'
Tm afraid so.' Faro looked at his watch. 'Take care of the preliminary business, will you, McQuinn. I'm off to Aberlethie - there's a train to North Berwick in half an hour. I want to talk to Miss Fortescue again.'
'You think she may know something?'
'My thoughts are leading steadily in that direction, McQuinn. Something vital to the case, that she doesn't even realise she knows until she's prompted and it surfaces into her memory again.'
McQuinn looked at him frowning. 'You think the dead man might be the missing coachman?'
'I am fairly certain of that, at least.'
As Faro was leaving the Central Office, Constable Reid came up the steps. 'A burglary inside the Castle, sir.'
'Civilian?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You take care of it -'
The constable looked uncomfortable. 'Colonel Wrightson asked to see you specially, sir. Urgent, he said it was.'
'Very well.' Constable Reid's cape gleamed with rain, and as Faro looked with little enthusiasm upon the downpour, the constable said encouragingly, Til get you a carriage, sir.'
Five minutes later, the police carriage was toiling up the High Street and the Esplanade, transformed into twin rivers of brown water and debris from overflowing gutters.
[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals Page 27
