'Who ever heard of a policeman spouting Shakespeare?' asked Mrs Spens, who was born of the same mould as her husband and had been carefully chosen for her breeding. 'Sounds to me as if he hasn't half enough to keep him occupied, Percival,' she added severely, sharing with her husband the opinion that education should be restricted to the upper classes. 'It is my belief that no servant should be allowed anything stronger than the Bible and that only in an expurgated form. In the wrong hands the teachings of Christ might well be subject to misinterpretation,' she whispered with a shudder. 'You know the sort of sentiment, Percival, about the meek inheriting the earth.'
Spens patted her hand sympathetically. 'Quite right, m'dear, can't have the servants getting ideas above their station in life. What would become of us all then? I agree, my dear, some carefully chosen passages and that strictly reserved for a couple of hours on a Sunday.'
'Ah, blood will out, there's no doubt about it,' he was fond of quoting at the golf club to anyone prepared to listen, and sadly there were quite a few who agreed with his philosophy. Spens was regarded, however, as something of a bore, to be avoided if possible, especially as this was his hobby horse to be ridden on every occasion, an excuse for being an indifferent golfer.
'You can always tell. Look at those two young doctors,' he once said to his partner, patiently waiting to play his next shot. 'A fine example of breeding. High foreheads, classical features, splendid bone structure. No one could mistake them for the criminal classes.'
The doctors in question playing the hole ahead and unaware that they were the subject of Spens' attention were, in fact, Vince and Conan.
When it was pointed out to him that Dr Laurie was in fact Inspector Faro's stepson, Spens shuddered delicately but was prepared to overlook this shortcoming as a gross mismanagement of fate. He took refuge in mutterings about the Orkney people being different and that one could not account for the Viking influence, thereby completely missing the point that there was no blood relationship between the two men.
Conan Pursley did a wicked impersonation of the superintendent. He found him vastly amusing, until the day he was partnered with Spens in a match and was earnestly and enthusiastically discussing his work with the mentally disturbed. Spens sniffed and said abruptly that he was wasting his time and his medical knowledge in such endeavours and that all such people should be exterminated.
'Painlessly as possible, of course,' he added hastily, seeing Conan's grim expression. 'No one wants to cause them any extra suffering.'
Needless to say when reports of such encounters reached Faro's ears, he was not amused either. Those who saw them together guessed there was no love lost. If ever two men stepped off on the wrong foot, the superintendent and his senior detective were the perfect examples.
Right from the first meeting, Spens had been resentful, believing that Faro should have done the decent thing and retired at the same time as Mackintosh, instead of hanging on and keeping the exalted position from some younger man.
'After all, you'll soon be fifty. Can't expect expert efficiency at criminal-catching at that age. Stands to reason, body slows down. All that wear and tear through the years.'
Faro was outraged and kept his temper with some difficulty. It was clear that Spens based criminal detection on physical fitness rather than, first and most important, a fit and active mind.
What angered him more was that he was only a few years senior to Spens, but whereas that was perfectly all right for a superintendent sitting behind a desk, it was not the thing for a policeman regarded as finished at fifty despite all evidence to the contrary.
Or was it? He had to admit that on bad days his body was beginning to show ominous signs of wear, the effects of long-term ill usage, an unhealthy style of living with food too often forgotten or replaced by liquid meals in the form of drams or pints of ale. Thirty years of grappling with criminals had resulted in bullet wounds, knife scars and now a regrettable tendency for broken bones and wounds not to heal as fast these days.
Once he could ignore minor afflictions, now he was forced to admit that he no longer had sole command of that excellent working machine, his body. Of late the frosts of winter seemed to seek out all those injuries which were his legacy for active service with the Edinburgh City Police. Honourable scars, proudly won, but distinctly tiresome to a man whose round of criminal-catching might involve walking fifteen miles a day regardless of weather.
He was blessed with an iron constitution and a bone structure twice as strong as most mortal men, and this accounted for his survival against fearful odds. The gift of his Viking ancestry had seen him through many potential disasters. That and an extra sense, the 'second sight' his mother called it, warned him of dangers existing and gave him premonitions of those to come, hovering unshakeable and invisible, clouding his waking hours.
He fully realised that if the machine was no longer in good working order then he must think sensibly in terms of retirement, let younger men take over. Perhaps nature was telling him why he felt so apprehensive of what the future had in store. Or was it merely seasonal? he thought hopefully. The effect of gloomy winter days and chilly risings at six o'clock, whereas on summer mornings he cheerfully greeted the birdsong in his garden at first light.
Persuading himself that the weather was to blame, since the thought of an inactive life horrified him more than a quick sharp death, he was already dreading the approach of the next decade of his life.
He could not stay young for ever; growing old was inevitable, as natural as birth itself. Sometimes he was aware that at the back of his mind was a plan to defeat that dreadful prospect of retirement. He would use all the experience and expertise of his days with Edinburgh City Police and set up as a private detective, able to pick and choose what cases most intrigued him.
Travel had always been his other love; now he would have a chance to move further afield with his investigations as well as being free to go to Orkney and see his daughter Emily and her new husband on a long visit.
And then there was America and his ex-Sergeant Detective, Danny McQuinn. A new continent, new people and ways of life; that was the thought that most pleased and exhilarated him, for he had never been out of Britain in his life, hardly ever travelling any further south than the borders.
What a world of excitement awaited him beyond the confines of the English Channel. Paris, Italy, the Black Forest - he could visit them all and if he was bored he could confidently offer his services to the local chiefs of police!
Spens was regarding him across the desk. 'Got any evidence this time?'
'Not yet, sir.' He began patiently to explain the manner of the discovery.
Spens waved it aside. 'I know all that. Angus came in with a report on his way to the mortuary.' Head on one side, he beamed. 'My lad did very well, I gather. Very helpful to your two doctors. They must be quite proud of him.'
Pausing to give Faro a chance of favourable comment and disappointed not to receive any, he continued, 'Need a strong stomach for his kind of work. Always wanted to work on crime cases. Fascinated by all my books on the subject. Had to keep some of them out of his way, I can tell you, when he was a wee lad. His mother thought such things weren't decent reading for a youngster.'
He sighed happily. 'A little more experience and he'll be ready to assist the police surgeon. That should get it out of his system. He'll go far, I'm sure.' Again he paused. 'And what do you think, Faro?'
'Oh indeed, he'll go far, sir.' But Faro was careful not to state in which particular direction the overly ambitious young doctor would travel.
Later he sat down at his desk and wrote his report on the day's events, clearly and precisely, from the moment he had been summoned to the discovery of the body until it had left his sight to be carried to the police mortuary.
At this stage of the investigation, speculations were superfluous and he preferred to keep his observations to himself for the moment.
He glanced through some papers that needed his att
ention, put a note in his diary and hurried across to the Sheriff Court where he appeared briefly as a witness in a Customs and Excise fraud case.
The proceedings were lengthy and extremely tedious and he emerged feeling weary and dispirited. He had sat through so many identical cases that he almost welcomed a crime where he could use his own powers of deduction.
As he walked home down the Pleasance towards Newington, the church clock chimed four, but it was already dark, the road ahead filled with fitful moonlight.
A full moon, bright, exotic and mysterious, crept over Arthur's Seat. For some reason it made him think of Conan's story that nurses and wardens at the asylum walked warily when the moon was full.
'Throughout man's history, it has always been a time of vulnerability for the mentally disturbed. Even the mildest of patients become moody, their unpredictable behaviour dangerous to others as well as themselves.' Conan had smiled grimly 'We were warned to look over our shoulders, constantly on guard for an outbreak of violence. Moonstruck madness, they call it.'
Chapter 6
There were voices in the hall as Faro opened his front door. Kate had been visiting Olivia and, about to leave, she was fastening her cloak with its silver brooch which she wore constantly. Among many more valuable jewels, Faro guessed this was her favourite.
When he had first admired the unusual design of an owl perched on a crescent moon alongside a smaller moon bisected by a cross, she had touched it fondly: 'The owl moons clasper. Family heirloom, you know. Very precious. Given to us by Prince Charles Edward Stuart while he was in the Highlands raising the clans.'
Faro had suppressed a smile. So many houses allegedly told the same romantic tale of a prince in the heather, that he had slept in as many beds as his thrice great-grandmother Queen Mary, a far greater number than would have been needed during his short time in Scotland.
Olivia and Vince had been suitably impressed but Faro had thought little of the brooch as a genuine antique or as a work of art until Conan's parents visited Solomon's Tower that autumn.
William Pursley, landscape gardener to the aristocracy, could not forgo giving advice on the dense undergrowth that passed as a garden. Such a neglected wilderness was an unforgivable sin that outraged his sensibilities and before they could protest he was out with a spade, digging vigorously at the stubborn, tangled weeds of centuries past.
Suddenly he called to them and they trooped out to be confronted by a large square stone, weathered by the passing centuries.
'It must have been here for hundreds of years, there's some sort of inscription under the lichen,' he said triumphantly. Taking a knife, while they watched intrigued, he carefully scraped away the thick green encrustations to reveal a large but exact replica of Kate's brooch.
'The owl moons clasper!' gasped Kate.
'The very same, dear. What a strange coincidence,' said her mother-in-law.
Sir Hedley, called upon to express an opinion, merely grunted. 'Never seen it before,' he said shortly and went back indoors, showing a complete lack of interest in their activities.
Kate, however, was very excited by the stone's discovery, certain that it must be connected with the missing French gold sent to Scotland in 1745 to finance the Young Pretender's disastrous uprising.
As they crowded round the stone, one glance told Faro that it was much older than Kate's clasper. Even lacking an archaeologist's knowledge, he realised that the stone must have formed part of the Templars' Chapel which had preceded the present Tower, and had probably played some significant role in their mystic rituals.
Faro's observations did not please Kate. She gave him an angry glance, refusing to relinquish the romantic legend. Taking command of the situation she insisted that they dig a pit beneath the stone in search of the buried treasure.
'Think of it, what a find,' she said, clasping her hands and watching Conan and Vince hurling out spadesful of soil, ably directed and assisted by William Pursley and less enthusiastically by Faro.
Every time they stopped digging for lack of breath, or to ease aching backs, she leaned over excitedly, saying, 'Well, have you found something?' She was rewarded with a negative shake of the head, a groan and a sigh as more soil was flung out of the hole.
Watching them throw down their spades as darkness fell, Conan attempted to ameliorate his wife's disappointment at the broken dream of buried treasure with a promise to write to the Society of Antiquaries.
'I'll send them a drawing of the stone and the clasper. See if they know anything about its history.'
Faro sighed. This was not the first time he had encountered Charles Edward Stuart's missing French gold.
It had figured in an earlier case at Priorsfield when a skeleton, dug up in the gardens with a knife in its ribs, was assumed to be the missing Frenchman who had failed to reach his destination, the gold accounting for the sudden wealth of the owners of the then humble inn.
Faro had little faith in buried treasure. Mostly it turned out to be buried secrets best left unearthed, as he and Vince had found, more likely to destroy than enrich the inheritors.
Olivia was intrigued by Sir Hedley's lack of interest in such an exciting discovery.
'Why do they call him the Mad Bart?' she asked on the way home.
'It's just a local nickname,' said Vince.
'He seems harmless enough.' She sounded relieved. 'I mean, was he ever dangerous?'
Faro laughed. 'Not a bit. I understand he earned it from shouting abuse at passers-by, particularly royal carriages travelling along the road in front of the Tower, on what he regards as his property, en route from Holyrood Palace to Duddingston and beyond.'
'Maybe he's softened with age,' said Vince, 'but we have it on good authority that he used to rush out and shake his fist at them, shouting, "Hanoverian upstarts", "Go back to Germany", "German lairdies, the lot of you", and similar insults.'
Olivia giggled. 'How awful.'
'Particularly if you happened to be one of the outriders of Her Majesty's carriage,' said Faro. 'I will say for the Queen that she remains implacable, staring grimly in front, hopefully either too involved in admiring the scenery or stone deaf-'
'Or both!' said Vince.
' "Long live King Jamie, long live the Stuarts" were Sir Hedley's milder statements - it might be called disturbing the peace with treasonable conduct,' said Faro.
Solomon's Tower was and always had been a staunchly Jacobite stronghold from the days when Charles Edward Stuart visited it on his arrival in Edinburgh, dining with the then occupier and considering what to do next while his followers were somewhat more damply and inconveniently encamped outside.
The contemporary account read:
The detachment passed without being observed by the garrison of Edinburgh Castle, so near as to hear them distinctly call their rounds, and arrived at the nether bow Port without meeting anybody on their way, and found the Flodden Wall of the Town which flanks the Pleasants [sic] and St Mary's Wynd mounted with cannon but no person arrived.
Their demand for admission refused, Mr Murray [of Broughton] proposed to retire to a place called St Leonards hills [Arthur's Seat] and after securing themselves from the cannon of the Castle, to wait for orders from the Chevalier where to attack the town.
'It must have been a memorable occasion for the Prince staying in the Tower, if you are right about it having once been a Templars' Hospice,' said Olivia.
Faro nodded. 'As a building with a long and bad reputation, and the Prince known to be susceptible to omens, he must have been aware that this roof had often sheltered his thrice great-grandmother Queen Mary, and was her secret rendezvous with the Earl of Bothwell.'
'Indeed,' said Vince. 'They had both enjoyed its hospitality, and little good it had done either of them.'
'Or Scotland,' added Faro sadly. 'And Kate's brooch doesn't look like an ancient plaid pin to me.'
'It's just a replica,' said Olivia. 'She told me that the original was far too valuable historically and that it's
kept in a glass case in Edinburgh Castle alongside a modest amount of jewellery and miniatures belonging to Queen Mary, including the rosary she wore going to her execution. Such sad relics,' she added.
Now as Kate stood on the front doorstep at Sheridan Place, she sighed. 'What a glorious moon. So beautiful.' She touched her brooch. 'The clasper likes moonlight, the silver glows even brighter somehow.'
Across her shoulder, Olivia grinned at Faro. Too practical to take such nonsense seriously, and knowing Kate's romantic story, she was much readier to accept Faro's theory.
'Allow me to escort you to the surgery,' he said.
She laughed. 'Thank you, you're very kind, but Conan's visiting his parents today. He's worried about his mother.'
A shadow touched her face as she realised the reason for Faro's offer. A woman had been murdered not a quarter of a mile from where they stood.
'Brent is always available for Kate and Conan,' Olivia reminded Faro gently. 'Ah, there he is now.'
They watched the carriage disappear around the corner. A wisp of a final wave from Kate then Olivia said, 'The snow does look quite magical. Moonlight changes everything, doesn't it?'
Gazing up at the sky, Faro sighed. It was a time of such beauty, whose obverse was danger and evil. The words from Macbeth leapt into his thoughts, conjured up from some deep-seated awareness that all was far from well: 'By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.' He was right to feel uneasy. Murder had been committed. But where there was murder, there had to be a solution. In his experience there were very few unsolved crimes.
Someone, somewhere, always held the vital clue. What could account for his sense of imminent disaster? Everything possible had been set in motion to track down the killer.
Police constables had been alerted to make discreet inquiries from neighbours and tradesmen around the region of Miss Errington's house and details of any suspicious circumstances or persons would be reported back to him.
The Coffin Lane Murders Page 4
