Faro cursed. And no doubt getting rid of any damning evidence as to what had caused Rachel's death-fall, he thought, following Vince along the river edge in quest of another rowboat.
Suddenly a shout from the lifeboat about twenty yards from the shore. Torches moved in closer and they watched, sick with horror, as a sodden shapeless mass was pulled aboard.
The lifeless body of Rachel Deane.
'Rachel,' Vince screamed, lunging towards the water.
'No. No, lad,' said Faro and held his stepson, sobbing, while the boat with its dread burden drew ashore.
A small crowd had already gathered and Vince wrenched himself free of his stepfather's restraining arms. Head held high, he waded out into the shallows. From the boatman he gently took Rachel and carried her across to the greensward.
She looked so small, thought Faro, as if death had already diminished her. Tiny feet and hands, the gown clinging to the outlines of a childlike body, the bonnet drenched and shapeless but still tied firmly beneath her chin.
Chafing her hands and feet, Vince put his hands into his pockets and drawing out the satin slippers she had abandoned for that fateful climb, he tried to replace them on her feet, so stiff and cold and unyielding.
The alert had been given, the police van and an assortment of carriages were arriving as Vince bent over her and with considerable difficulty tried to untie her bonnet strings.
At last he succeeded and tenderly he spread out her dark hair, like a mantle about her shoulders. And it seemed to Faro, fighting back his own tears, that ruffled by the wind it was the only part of Rachel Deane that moved and lived.
Suddenly the watchers were pushed aside.
'Let me through. Let me through.'
Faro recognised the newcomer as Wilfred Deane, who took one look at the still form of Rachel and dropped on his knees beside her.
'Oh dear God—dear God,' he cried as, thrusting Vince away, he took over, trying in vain to chafe life back into her cold hands.
Vince watched him. 'Too late. You are too late,' he said dully.
Deane looked up, recognised him and sprang to his feet. 'Damn you, Laurie, this is all your doing. I might have guessed you had a hand in it. If you'd left her alone, none of this would have ever happened. Dear God, to take her own life.'
Deane swayed where he stood, his face ghastly in the pale light as two constables came forward with a stretcher.
'I will go with her,' said Vince.
Deane seized his arm. 'Oh no, you will not. You have done enough, damn you.'
'I'm a doctor—'
'A fine doctor. More like an executioner. Her murderer, that's what you are.' His voice rose to a screech. 'A callous brutal murderer. And, mark my words, you would hang for this night's work, yes hang, if I had my way—'
His face contorted with hate, Deane lunged forward. Faro seized Vince's arm and Deane's fist hit thin air.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, I beg you. This won't get you anywhere,' he said desperately. 'Try to be calm, for God's sake.'
Deane turned on him ferociously. 'We tried to warn him that my poor cousin was unbalanced.'
'She was not—'
'She was unbalanced,' Deane said slowly, 'and has been subject to fits of irresponsible behaviour since childhood. We all knew about it and tried to keep her from emotional involvements.' With a shake of his head, he added: 'We were warned long ago that such could throw her over the brink into madness—'
'You lie—you lie,' screamed Vince. 'I don't believe it—I won't—'
Deane laughed harshly. 'Then you had better try to believe it. Because you're going to have to live with this night's work for the rest of your life. You were in love with a madwoman.'
And turning on his heel to follow the stretcher back through the crowd to the police van, he looked at Vince and said sadly: 'We have that in common. So was I.'
The crowd moved nearer with sympathetic murmurs. 'Best get yourselves home. Out of those wet clothes. Catch your deaths. Aye, a good dram or two to warm ye.'
A police carriage rolled up and Faro thrust Vince inside. Then he retrieved the pathetic slippers and put them hastily out of sight in his greatcoat pocket.
But Vince had seen nothing. He lay back, his eyes closed, his face with its bruised black shadows the face of death itself.
Faro shuddered. There would be a reckoning for this night's work. That was for sure.
Somehow he got Vince upstairs and out of his wet clothes, while he forced several drams down his throat. Mrs McGonagall, alerted that they had tried to rescue a suicide, without thankfully having to be told the grim facts, had warming pans in their beds.
Her husband stood watching, his clichés and profundities on the tragedy falling on deaf ears.
Faro took a sleeping draught from Vince's bag and, hoping for the best, administered it full strength. Once he was breathing deeply, Faro retired to his own room.
Removing his greatcoat, he took out Rachel's slippers and laid them reverently side by side on the windowsill. From his other pocket he removed her reticule. Strangely heavy, it contained only one object, that both surprised and alarmed him. A large flat stone.
Suddenly all thoughts of sleep had vanished. Astonished that he could be so detached and think so incisively at this time of grief for Vince, Faro felt almost guilty in his clinical recapitulation of Rachel Deane's death plunge.
As he reconstructed those last minutes in exact detail, remembering how tragically small and vulnerable this poor mad girl had seemed, he sought an answer to the enigma of her sad possessions.
And for some time he sat still, weighing them in his hands as if in some vain hope they might yield a meaning of deeper significance than a madwoman's whim.
Chapter Thirteen
After a night of horrendous dreams of which awakening reality was worst of all, Faro overslept that morning.
It was ten o'clock and he had decided against breakfast when Mrs McGonagall announced that he had a caller.
'He's waiting for you outside. In his carriage.' She sounded impressed.
Faro drew aside the lace curtain. The carriage bore what looked like the Deane crest. Tiptoeing into Vince's bedroom he saw that his stepson still slept.
'Let him sleep, Mrs McGonagall. If he should awaken tell him only that I had to go out and will be back soon.'
Wilfred Deane opened the carriage door. Greeted with a sympathetic glance. Faro decided that Deane also looked the worse for a sleepless night, tired and older than his thirty years, with all of his debonair self-confidence vanquished.
'Would you be so good as to spare me a few moments, Inspector Faro—I believe that is how we properly address you,' he added with a wry smile.
'That is so.'
'If you would care to accompany me to Deane Hall? And of course your stepson too, if he wishes.' Gazing across at the house from which Faro had emerged, he shook his head. 'What we have to discuss touches him most nearly. I am almost afraid to enquire as to his condition.'
'He was asleep when I left. I gave him a sleeping draught last night, it seemed the best thing to do—'
'Indeed, in the circumstances that was a wise decision.' As the carriage moved off, he leaned back against the fine leather upholstery. 'I realise this is a very early call. Perhaps you have not yet had time to breakfast,' he added tactfully with an understanding glance at Faro's unshaven face.
Rubbing his chin, Faro smiled: 'I am afraid I had little inclination towards food this morning.'
That sidelong glance of understanding made them allies. 'I have left instructions with the servants that we will partake of breakfast together while we talk.' A sudden dazzling smile brought a measure of charm. 'My valet is at your service too, if you wish to freshen up.'
Remembering the chaotic stunned effects of sudden bereavement in normal homes, Faro expected to see some evidence of deep mourning and was somewhat taken aback to find none.
On the surface Deane Hall's normal activities were quite unruffled and Wil
fred Deane's excellent valet performed the function of barber with smooth aplomb. The man made no reference to the house's young mistress having tragically died a few hours before and betrayed not the least curiosity as to Faro's presence at breakfast. It was almost, thought Faro, as if he were well used to the needs of his master's visitors.
Feeling considerably refreshed Faro went down the long staircase and into a panelled dining room bearing a forest of disembodied stags' heads on the walls.
Warming his hands before a welcoming fire, Faro indulged in some mental measurements and decided that this room might have cheerfully accommodated the whole of 9 Sheridan Place.
Wilfred Deane entered and indicated the seat opposite. 'Eat now, Inspector. We will talk later. We will both feel considerably better then, I hope.'
Instead of the humble porridge upon which Faro normally broke his fast, the huge sideboard displayed silver chafing-dishes bearing bacon, eggs, kidneys, sausages and two kinds offish, kippers and kedgeree.
Taking a modest helping Faro wished that he had more of an appetite. Wilfred Deane, he observed, was not in the least put off his food by the night's terrible events.
Apart from the obligatory mourning touches in Wilfred's attire, always readily at hand in large and affluent houses, there was no indication that he had lost the girl he loved and had hoped to marry.
As they set aside their plates and Faro refused a third cup of tea, Deane's gesture dismissed the hovering table-maids.
'I hope you feel a little restored now, Inspector.'
'I do indeed.'
'Good.' Pausing, Deane tapped his fingers lightly on the table in the manner of one who is giving careful consideration to what he is about to say.
'I owe you an apology for last night, Inspector. My behaviour was quite abominable—'
'You were not in the least impolite—to me.'
'I was to your stepson. And considering all he had been through. Being—being there when it happened. I must have seemed damnably callous.'
'Shock can bring out the worst in all of us, sir.'
Deane sighed. 'I hope some day he will forget my dreadful words. Unfortunately they are true. I spoke truth when I said that we had something in common—that I too loved Rachel. I would have done anything—anything for her. But there was one thing no one could do, no amount of devotion could cure. Her poor sick mind.'
He paused deep in thought. 'I would even have married her, you know. Not to live with her as man and wife, but as her friend and companion. Someone to take care of her during her fits of instability.'
They were interrupted by the sound of slow footsteps and the door opened to admit a tall man with a patriarchal beard. This was the head of the family, Sir Arnold Deane, still recognisable as the man who had been the charisma and life blood of Deane Enterprises.
Faro observed that unlike Wilfred Deane's, Sir Arnold's mourning went further than the clothes he wore. Here was the countenance one would expect to see in such dire circumstances, ashen, bewildered by grief.
'Heard you had a visitor, Wilf.' Although he leaned heavily on a stick, there was nothing lacking in his strong grip as they were introduced. By the intensity of his gaze, Faro realised that here was a man, like himself, who had the extraordinary and often life-preserving gift of summing up friend or foe in thirty seconds.
'Are you sure you are well enough, sir—' Wilfred Deane began.
'Well enough, young fellow. What's that got to do with it, may I ask? How can I be well enough? I've lost my only lass.' He sat down heavily and stared across at Faro, silent for a moment. Turning his head sharply in Deane's direction, he said, 'You've told him about her—her trouble?'
'Yes, sir.'
Sir Arnold sighed. 'Sorry your stepson had to be involved in our problems. He's a fine young chap and an excellent doctor. He'll go a long way but—' he paused and shook his head, 'some day, you, sir, and your lad, may thank heaven that he did not marry her.'
Letting the words sink in, the old man continued: 'Wilf here tells me that when Dr Laurie called at the house she did not even recognise him. You were with him?'
'I was.'
'Very distressing, very distressing. But this peculiarity in her behaviour was not unknown to us. Even in her own family circle, there were days when she pretended she did not know us and that we were strangers to her. Is that not so, Wilf?'
'It is indeed, sir.' And to Faro: 'It was like some vicious little game of let's pretend, or as if her mind was split in two.'
Wilfred Deane looked searchingly at Faro. 'I assume there is a certain amount of trust tantamount with your profession, sir, and what we are telling you is in the strictest confidence. In the past we have tried, and mostly succeeded, to keep Rachel's condition from becoming public knowledge. Pride in the family name—'
'Pride be damned,' Sir Arnold interrupted. 'If pride were all. You forget, I loved the lass. She was all I had left—' and Faro saw how Wilfred winced as the old man added, 'after my David died.'
Sir Arnold's only son had died in a riding accident when Rachel was a child. Was the old man about to mention the strange coincidence that the girl's mother had also committed suicide by drowning? But sighing heavily, he added: 'There is another perhaps more pressing reason for silence. It would also have a very adverse effect on our shareholders' confidence if they thought there was some—well, instability, in the firm who had contracted to build a two-mile-long bridge.'
So that was it, thought Faro. That was the reason, the financial stability as well as respectability. Two good reasons for silence. With commerce possibly the more urgent.
'I realise that Dr Laurie was probably speaking the truth about their assignation. Rachel was missing for a day or two. Slipped out of the house. It was not the first time, was it, Wilf?'
Deane nodded. 'Indeed it was not. When she came home or more often was found and forcibly returned, she relished the secret of where she had been, with a childlike delight in keeping us in the dark.'
'Fortunately we mostly knew where to find her.' Sir Arnold smiled tenderly at the memory. 'With her old nurse in Errol. There was no need for concern on those occasions.'
'As far as we know, sir, or were able to find out,' contributed Wilfred.
A heavy silence followed as this information was left to settle with Faro.
'It would have been a great help to my stepson,' he said, 'if you had taken him aside and explained some of what you have told me.'
'I realise that now, and if we had had the slightest idea that—'
Sir Arnold, suddenly overcome, stood up, seized his stick and said: 'I cannot bear this. I am ill. You must excuse me.' He looked dazed, shocked as if realisation had just dawned.
Wilfred Deane touched the bellpull and the butler appeared. 'Sir Arnold will return to his room now.'
The old man brushed aside Faro's outstretched hand and stumbled from the room, dashing the tears from his eyes. They could hear him sobbing aloud as the door closed.
For a moment the two men stared at each other, unable to find the right words. When the sound of footsteps faded Deane continued: 'I realise we should have warned your stepson. Believe me, we would have told him. But how were we to know that he was to be trusted? He might—' He shrugged. 'He might have decided to make some capital out of it.'
'Blackmail, is that what you mean?' demanded Faro sharply.
'Indeed. It has been tried before,' said Wilfred softly. 'There have been other young men. We managed to keep it from Sir Arnold but Rachel was eager for romance and adventure. There was constant danger that she would take up with anyone—and I mean any man,' he stressed the words significantly, 'just for a passing whim.'
Suddenly he put his hands over his eyes. 'Dear God, we should have had her committed. But we couldn't face that, the thought of having her a prisoner for the rest of her life in one of those awful bedlams.'
And Faro found himself recalling Superintendent Johnston's words, that even in the most talented families who produce fi
nancial wizards, fate has its little joke and allows genius to spawn the occasional simpleton.
'We tried to do the best we could. This is a large house and we could keep her safe with us, with so little evidence of restraint that I doubt whether even the servants were aware of what was going on. And in those often long sane times, when she was sweet and loving, we foolishly thought that the demons inside her were quelled for ever. She was very clever, you know, and even in her darkest days she could show diabolical cunning. She could outwit us all.'
Wilfred leaned back in his chair. 'And now it's all over. I wish I could say thank God she's at rest. But I can't and I never will.'
There seemed nothing more to say and as Faro stood up to leave, Deane said: 'There will be a funeral, by the way, next Thursday. A small private family affair. If you wish to come—and of course, Dr Laurie.'
'Alas, I am afraid my return to Edinburgh is imminent. I have pressing matters awaiting me there.'
'I quite understand. Nevertheless, if Dr Laurie wishes to be present—at the graveside, there will be no attempt to prevent him so doing. And if he wishes to pay his last respects at the house here, we can promise him our sympathy and understanding.'
As they shook hands he added: 'Will you please convey my sympathy to your stepson. We are both in the same boat, alas, we have both to recover from a broken heart, if you believe such a condition exists.'
And opening the front door: 'There is one more thing, but it may be of some comfort to Dr Laurie. Tell him, as far as Deane's is concerned, that his post with us is secure. There is no question whatever of his being dismissed. We are happy to retain his services as our resident doctor.'
Faro left Dundee hoping only that this was the end of Vince's unfortunate love affair. But in that, as in all else concerned with the events of the past few days, he was mistaken and Vince's involvement with Rachel Deane was to have far-reaching and terrible consequences for all of them.
Chapter Fourteen
In the days that followed Faro could not rid himself of the guilty feeling that he had abandoned Vince at his most vulnerable. Although his sympathetic breakfast with Wilfred at Deane Hall and Sir Arnold's magnanimous attitude towards his young doctor made nonsense of such notions, the certainty that Vince was in mortal danger persisted.
A Quiet Death (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.5) Page 11
