At Faro’s puzzled look, he said: ‘Frank – he’s the barman here, Robson’s only son. Even as bit bairns they were always together.’
This was something of a revelation, and hoping there was more useful information coming, Faro explained that he had walked by the railway line and arrived at the back entrance of the poorhouse. For good measure and encouragement, he added that he had heard good reports of it in Edinburgh too.
Ben nodded. ‘A good place, aye, my widowed daughter works there. Its run by the Belmuirs and its not one of those awful places like the city ones, which are more like prisons for the poor souls.’ He stopped and nodded. ‘Aye, right enough, a good God-fearing place with a chapel on Sundays. My lass says the Belmuirs watch over them all, never known to turn anyone away.’
Leaving the old man with the hint that he would consider his offer of accommodation, Ben nodded eagerly: ‘Aye, tell your wife she can expect all the best of everything with us. Clean, comfortable bed, excellent food and plenty of it. And my wife waits on our guests personally, even does laundry, if necessary.’
Faro bought him another pint of ale and with a promise to consider Mr Hogg’s offer, going over to the counter to pay the landlord he said: ‘This is a very attractive place you have here, set around the green. More like a feudal village in the south of England.’
Robson’s eyebrows raised at that. ‘You’ve been down to England?’ he said in an awed tone, making it sound like a far-distant planet.
When Faro said yes, he shook his head and sighed. ‘I’ve never been anywhere, not even in Scotland. Been to Edinburgh a few times and didn’t like it much.’ He returned to polishing glasses. ‘I’m quite content. I was born here, on the estate, and I expect I’ll die here too unless I’m called on to fight in any of them foreign wars our lairds used to get involved in.’ He shrugged. ‘Have a lot to be grateful for. Belmuir has always been good to his tenants and set a fine example to us all. Provided the poorhouse over yonder. Gave up a bit of their land and helped finance it.’
Faro thought of the great, ugly building and decided they could have spent more on a better architect as the landlord continued: ‘Not like the ones in the big cities I’ve read about. Ours is a service to the community, not only to the poor and destitute but for the elderly who are sick and live alone, and there’s a special ward for TB sufferers, isolated from the rest of them in case of infection.’
Listening to him gave Faro an idea. He would call on the poorhouse and invent an aged, frail relative. In this case, his mother, Mary Faro, who would never forgive him for that word ‘elderly’, priding herself on her excellent health and being very secretive about revealing her age. Faro reckoned she must be late fifties at least, possibly sixties, but for this purpose, he told the landlord that she had been very ill (lie) and lived alone far from here (true). He added that they were at their wits’ end what to do about her.
‘Away on one of those islands in the north, we can’t visit her and she can’t stay with us, our cottage is too small and we’re expecting a new addition to the family soon,’ he added, making it sound as if they were already living ten to a room. ‘Besides, Ma is used to space, but she is getting frail and needs some nursing care now.’
‘And you can be sure she’ll get it,’ was the reply. ‘She’ll enjoy her last days in peace and quiet and you can see her too. This local train from Edinburgh is a godsend for visitors.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll have peace of mind, knowing your old mother is in good hands, receiving the best possible care. They watch over the sick and don’t work even the fit ones to death, either, like some of those other places; the fit ones work in the gardens. You maybe ken this already, but Belmuir is famous for their kitchen garden produce, sent regularly by train to markets in Edinburgh,’ he added proudly.
Leaving the inn, Faro took the short cut across the estate grounds to the poorhouse that the old man had indicated. Pretty woods and a winding path through thick shrubbery that suddenly erupted as two labradors darted towards him. He had a care about big strange dogs, a fear common to all policemen, and they were sniffing around him eagerly, probably alerted to the smell of Coll. Trying in vain to push them away, he looked round helplessly. Where was their owner?
A whistle and from the distant undergrowth a woman emerged and gave Faro the fright of his life.
In that first glimpse he thought he was back in Kirkwall, seeing Inga again.
Inga St Ola.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Inga St Ola. No, that could not be possible. Inga was in Orkney.
As the woman came closer he realised he had been deceived. Or was he never to escape his lost love, was she to be present in every woman, except his dear Lizzie? This woman was the same height as Inga, the same long dark hair and slim figure. Even her walk. But there it ended. As she came closer, those were not Inga’s eyes in a face, which was older and had been beautiful when young but age was taking its toll, the cheekbones sharper, the full lips thinner.
Speechless, he stared at her and she took his startled look for fear.
‘Your dogs, ma’am?’
‘Don’t see anyone else around, do you?’ she said mockingly. ‘And they won’t bite strangers, not unless I tell them to,’ she added mischievously, as the dogs ran back to her side and sat down obediently, regarding him eagerly, tails wagging in a frenzy of friendliness as if they would like to make further acquaintance.
At that moment, the undergrowth erupted a second time and a young man rushed on to the scene, flourishing a rifle. Even at a distance he looked angry. The woman laughed. ‘He won’t shoot you, either, although he’s a crack shot. Missed his target, however, and the rabbits we’re overrun with will live to enjoy our vegetables for another day,’ she added with a touch of malice.
The man reached their side, stared down his nose at Faro. Faro guessed from their likeness that they were brother and sister as she smiled scornfully and said: ‘Rotten luck again, Hector.’ The looks they exchanged suggested hidden depths and, even before a stranger, hinted that these siblings might not be on the best of terms.
And turning to Faro, the woman who looked like an older Inga asked coldly, ‘May I ask what you think you are doing here? Might I remind you that this is private property?’
Faro began to explain about the poorhouse, found he was stammering, something he hadn’t done since childhood. This wasn’t Inga’s voice either. This was upper-class Edinburgh, the voice of aristocratic Scotland used to commanding servants. And all the time she was looking him over, narrow-eyed.
Although neither would ever know it, in that moment they had something in common, for he reminded her of someone she had known long ago, the love of her life, but a poor, insignificant artist, with no breeding. She couldn’t have him and her family had sent him packing and sent her off to salve her broken heart with an old aunt, married to a count in Bergen. When she returned home he had sought her again and lost his life in a shooting accident, so it was said.
But this man, this stranger, could have been the one she had lost but could never forget. Tall, fair-haired, above-average good looks, high cheekbones, a full mouth and slightly hooded deep-blue eyes. A good body too, she was sure, and a face like a Viking warrior, from what she recalled of museum visits in Norway all that time ago.
She sighed, pushed the memory aside and tried to concentrate. He was talking about the poorhouse.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me who I ought to see?’ He had asked a question and was waiting for her answer.
Allowed to wear plain clothes, it often suited him when meeting the public or making enquiries not to reveal his identity as Detective Sergeant Faro, and he cut a dashing figure in his dark greatcoat, which was long and suited his tall figure. While considering it wise not to reveal his identity, he had recovered his voice again. And she liked that voice too, a fine, deep timbre, a hint of an accent that wasn’t ordinary working-class Edinburgh. ‘The person in charge is not available at present,’ she said.
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bsp; Hector had approached, coming from the direction of the poorhouse, the manager who was never there. She looked hard at him, but giving Faro a sneering glance that suggested he was of less value than the rabbits, Hector turned on his heel and walked quickly away.
She said: ‘You may ask me about the information you require.’
‘And who might you be, ma’am?’ There was just a hint of amusement in his voice and she bridled at that. It indicated, as usual, that men thought women were incompetent at managing anything other than the domestic scene.
She drew herself up to her full height, tall for a woman and impossible to look down on a man who was two inches over six feet tall.
‘I am Belmuir.’
Faro frowned. ‘You are a relative of the laird?’ Then who was Hector?
Her back stiffened. ‘I am the laird. Lady Belmuir to you.’
Faro was taken aback, not used to dealing with lady gentry. It was a new experience, and remembering his manners, he made acknowledgement in the short bow to his betters that politeness demanded.
A gesture with her hand. ‘If you will accompany me, I will take down the details and pass them on.’
He made to follow her but she wasn’t walking towards the poorhouse. He was following her through a gate into a well-stocked and very large, walled kitchen garden where groups of people who were working between the rows of vegetables raised heads, then stood up and touched caps or curtseyed to their laird.
A quick inclination of her head, a smile and she walked rapidly towards another door leading into a formal rose garden. Two men pushing wheelbarrows touched caps, and said: ‘Good morning, m’lady.’
‘Good morning. And how are the new plants?’
‘Fairly well, m’lady, if the snow keeps off.’
‘Then let us keep hoping.’ Turning, she walked briskly up steps bordering a handsome stone staircase guarded by two heraldic lions and leading up to an ancient, studded door.
So this was home. Faro looked round briefly at the magnificent view and in the far distance the ruins of an old abbey, which he suspected had provided many of the stones of this new mansion two hundred years ago.
Opening the door that creaked with age, she looked back at Faro with no more interest than at the two labradors. ‘This way!’
They were in a panelled hall, with the sun throwing rich patterns through stained glass windows across a vast staircase winding upwards. A door opened and led to an interminable narrow stone corridor with appetising smells denoting kitchens.
She pushed open another door and a flustered, red-faced cook curtseyed ‘m’lady’. The dogs bounded to her side.
‘Feed these two. They’ve had their walk for today. And bring tea.’ Then to Faro, ‘Sit down,’ she said, pointing to the well-scrubbed kitchen table. As he took a seat she went to a drawer, rummaged about and took out a book and writing implements under the cook’s watchful eye.
‘Where’s the tea? Look sharp, now.’
The cook said nervously, ‘Them’s housekeeper’s books, m’lady.’
‘So what, I only want a page. See.’ As she tore it out the cook quavered and rolled her eyes heavenward.
‘Get the tea, now,’ said Belmuir emphasising each word. And to Faro: ‘Well, what are you waiting for? I haven’t all day. Your name?’
He told her and she repeated: ‘Jeremy Faro. And what is it you want?’
So he told her the lie, the story about his mother.
She listened, frowned, asked a few questions, and laying aside the pen, said: ‘Very well. We will see if we can accommodate her. A note from her doctor would be of some assistance.’ And standing up, a gesture of the hand again and he was dismissed, the interview over.
Another word. ‘You would need to walk back to Fisherrow, but the train halts at Belmuir. This is one of their days for taking market produce into Edinburgh.’ She turned and looked at the huge clock with its merciless tick dominating one wall. ‘You have five minutes before it leaves. Go back by the short cut.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
He wasn’t going to call her ‘m’lady’. He was no servant; a polite bow, no more, and she watched him walk away through the door. She liked that walk too. She had noted his address was near Solomon’s Tower. Almost a ruin, the ancient pele tower, so old its history was lost, the very stones hinted that it had arisen out of the extinct volcano that was Arthur’s Seat. That was an illusion, of course, but the past was important to her and she was a patron of a society to preserve ancient monuments, now at the mercy of the developers who wanted to pull down the tower and make room for their plans of opening up the area with more of their vile terraces. She had signed a petition against it, using what influence the Belmuirs, her ancient name, would have.
She felt sudden excitement at this desire to see Mr Jeremy Faro again. His image that so reminded her of the once beloved ghost from her past had reawakened a memory to haunt her. The society’s meeting next week would provide the perfect excuse, a reason to call at his cottage, find out more about him. She had a pleasing fantasy that he was unmarried and therefore not inaccessible.
Faro took the short cut through the rose garden and the two gardeners looked at him curiously. They looked healthy, well cared for. Small wonder, Belmuir sounded like an admirable laird overseeing a desirable poorhouse far superior for most of its inmates than the homes they had come from.
Had McLaw also worked with either of those two gardeners? He had not time or excuse today for conversation with them, but he wondered if they too, while accepting that McLaw was guilty, were also sympathetic, knowing an intolerable life with a cheating wife who was caught in the act and therefore deserved what was coming to her.
He reached the halt just in time, the train was gathering steam, preparing for its return journey to Edinburgh. As it moved, a woman was approaching the fence from where he had seen the market produce waiting to be loaded.
She was lame, looked distressed, and must have signalled the train to stop. Then he saw she was being pursued: a man rushed forward, seized her bodily and dragged her away. She was obviously calling for help, against the sound of the train engine.
Faro was helpless to intervene, and as the train began to gather speed, he said to one of the railwaymen sitting opposite, quite unconcerned, ‘Didn’t you see that? They could have stopped the train for her.’
‘Can’t do that, sir.’
‘The woman was lame and she was trying—’
The railwayman grinned and yelled above the noisy rattle of the engine. ‘Come on, sir. One of their loonies at it again.’
‘What do you mean?’
The man sighed. ‘Trying to get away, of course. Have to be watched, they’re at it all the time.’
There was no going back now, and he could hardly leap off the train and rush to her assistance. Too late for that. And loonies trying to escape presented a darker side, a grimmer tale than that so widely spread of a splendid poorhouse with perfect living conditions.
Faro had another reason for disquiet, the lame woman in the scene he had just witnessed was perhaps not one of the loonies. Lame, pale and thin, she fitted Mrs Brook’s description of the missing Tibbie.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Returning to Edinburgh, Faro left the train and walked over to Sheridan Place.
Mrs Brook looked relieved to see him but her eager smile faded when he shook his head and told her that Tibbie was not at the Simms’s house in Liberton. Trying to reassure her by mentioning that she had been seen by one of the neighbours getting into a gentleman’s carriage, this information alarmed Mrs Brook. Having omitted witnessing the scene from the train that hinted to a fierce argument, for her his report neither implied a highly improbable romance nor security and she said: ‘I fear she has been kidnapped.’
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, although the same thought had entered his own mind.
‘Well, sir, it’s like this. What other reason would this gentleman have? Tibbie knew no one, she wa
s a recluse like Miss Celia and she knew her place in society. She was from a different class, so what would a gentleman with a carriage want with a lame servant lass who was no longer young?’
Faro guessed that she was well ahead of him in interpreting what had befallen Tibbie as dangerous and frightening. After all, she was a witness to Celia’s accident. She had reached the Mound just after her mistress had been knocked down and had seen the carriage responsible bounding down the hill, apparently out of control. Celia had been dead on arrival at the hospital, but it would have been sensible to expect that the carriage owner, if this was a dreadful accident he had been unable to prevent, would have at least made himself or herself known by an enquiry about the woman who had been injured.
However he looked at it, Faro’s suspicions were growing steadily stronger that this incident was linked with the mysterious disappearance of Agatha’s dead body and the empty coffin.
Leaving Mrs Brook, he sighed. He had failed in his promise. She had been hoping for consolation and was feeling let down, expecting too much of him, believing that as a friend of Chief Superintendent Macfie he shared a similar aptitude for solving mysteries.
Faro now had an added concern for her welfare. He could not warn her without arousing her fears, but if there was some sinister purpose behind the disappearance of Tibbie, then she might also, by association, find herself in deadly danger.
Heading homeward past the thunder of hammers and flying dust and grime as another skeleton of scaffolding headed skyward, he acknowledged a cheery shout from the workmen. After all, they were not to blame for the disfigurement of what had once been a peaceful country scene. They were not responsible for the miscalculations of the developers and architects who employed and paid them. They were merely family men like himself.
Akin to Murder Page 8
