At the clerk’s startled expression, he shouted. ‘My name is Mitchell and I demand to see someone in authority – at once.’
‘How can we help you, sir?’
‘It is too late for that. The matter concerns my father, who died a few days ago.’
‘Our condolences, sir,’ said the clerk smoothly.
‘I’m not interested in your condolences, I want to know why he has been laid to rest without my knowledge.’
‘A telegraph was sent to you, sir—’ the clerk began.
‘Without leaving enough time for me to make the journey from London to Edinburgh even on the fastest train.’
‘That was most unfortunate—’ the clerk blustered. ‘We did all in our powers to delay matters.’
‘You didn’t do enough. I was not even informed that he was at death’s door, simply that he had died and the funeral couldn’t be delayed. I demand an explanation,’ the man said, thumping the desk.
The clerk look scared and, leaving the desk, said: ‘I will find someone, sir, if you will just be patient.’
As she hurried out of the room, the man became aware of Faro for the first time.
‘How dare they do things like this, is it not bad enough losing a parent without finding that you were not given a chance to see them in their last hours or even see them to their grave?’ The bluster had gone, the man looked almost tearful. ‘It is dreadful, dreadful. I am the eldest, how am I going to break this awful news to the rest of the family?’
Faro was never to know, as the door opened to admit Sir Hector. He would have loved to stay and listen to that interview as Mr Mitchell was ushered into the private office. The clerk retired behind the desk and Faro pocketed the paper saying: ‘I must take this with me, there are some details I need to check.’
As he left, there were indeed many details to check, not concerning the admission of Mary Faro but why the so efficient workhouse with the admirable testimonial, the impressive tour by the master Sir Hector slipped up when it came to keeping records up to date and arranging funerals. Celia Simms had received the same treatment regarding her sister Agatha and here was another. How many more were there going undetected, bodies disposed of with indecent haste. An accident in the procedure or something much more sinister?
He thought of his mother and how angry she would be if she knew how he had used her as his cover story, and he thought of the little time he had spent being given a tour by the master. There was only one discrepancy in that tour and he was to remember its significance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
He had one more call to make. At the Coach and Horses. He could take the train from Fisherrow after he had a chance to talk to the proprietor and his son Frank. It might prove interesting after Nora’s revelations regarding Annie’s relationship with her stepbrother. And he would be glad of the chance of once again sampling their excellent fare – a pie and a pint of ale would go down very well after the morning’s work.
Both Frank and his father were serving. He had come at a busy time and there were workers, with the look of local labourers, enjoying an hour’s break.
Frank served Faro, who was once again struck by his striking appearance. Tall, good-looking and strong, there was something undeniably honest about his smiling countenance and welcoming manner, very different to whatever had been troubling him on that first encounter, as was Ben Hogg’s version of his relationship with Annie. The pair’s devotion to each other hardly fitted with Nora’s account of Annie’s relentless sexual pursuit of her stepbrother. However, it did offer up a grim possibility.
On the night of her death, had she been successful in seducing him, and when Charlie arrived home unexpectedly, Frank had been horrified at being caught in bed with his stepsister. In a panic that even though the room was in darkness he might have been recognised by Charlie, he had reacted violently by knocking him out. He was certainly taller and heavier built. Again Faro imagined the scene: had Annie threatened to tell his adored invalid wife in her desperation that he should not leave her, rushed after him, pleading? Had she tried to stop him leaving by seizing a knife and in the struggle that followed, she had died?
Faro was certain that was what had happened, but the sequel did not. He felt Frank would have faced the truth, that he would not have dragged her body back into the bedroom and placed it on the floor at the side of her unconscious husband so that when he awakened and found her dead, he would get the blame.
Frank, realising that this customer was a newcomer who should be politely welcomed, asked what had brought him to Belmuir and was he staying in the area? Faro shook his head and replied that he was just here on business and that he lived in Edinburgh. The young man smiled and wished him well and Faro could not think of any appropriate reason for raising the subject of his stepsister’s murder, particularly given the rumours of their relationship.
So he left knowing that he was no further on with proving McLaw’s innocence and that many men can have the face of angels and be devils inside, like the man he had just spoken to, and this also included Charlie.
He boarded the train with some misgivings. Nora was prejudiced, he had involved his mother in a lie and wasted Sir Hector’s time and made no progress in the accident or murder of Tibbie. ‘The unfortunate woman’, Sir Hector had called her. He was not the man struggling to stop her boarding the train, and any connection with Frank Robson seemed unlikely. He stared out of the window at the passing countryside aware, not for the first time, that the killer might be a faceless resident of the village, or even a casual visitor and that, as such, tracing him was an impossibility and Charlie McLaw would have to live with the stain of a murder he had not committed, a fugitive from justice for the rest of his life.
The train entered the dark tunnel and the approach to home, and Faro was soon to learn how narrowly Lizzie and Vince had escaped disaster in his absence.
The door opened and Lizzie ran out to meet him.
‘Oh, Jeremy. Thank God you’ve come. It was awful, terrible. You’ll never believe how dreadful—’
He put his arms around her. Through the window he could see two figures sitting at the table, his mother and Charlie. At least the worst he had been dreading hadn’t happened.
‘Pretend to be helping me to take this in,’ she pointed to the washing hanging on the line and took a deep breath. ‘Gosse – Inspector Gosse was here.’
‘What!’ So it was worse than he had imagined.
‘I was pegging out a few more things when I saw him coming from the hill direction. He waved and shouted a greeting. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t run inside and close the door and warn Charlie. He was asking me how I was, very polite, with that ingratiating smile of his.’ She shuddered. ‘Said he was on his way back to the office, taking the short cut.’
‘What was he doing on the hill?’ Faro demanded. Was he looking for McLaw?
‘He’d been on a case, that’s all he said. Something about the tunnel.’
Something to do with Tibbie’s accident or murder. That was at least a relief.
‘He was just being polite, I expect. But I was terrified. I could hardly talk to him. He kept chatting on and on, how was I? How were we enjoying the cottage? I knew he was hoping I’d ask him in, give him a cup of tea. But all I could think of was getting rid of him. I hoped Charlie had heard us talking and was hiding in the box bed. I had to keep him out at all costs. Fortunately, like a prayer answered, Vince appeared, just home from school.
‘And that diverted him. He transferred his attention to Vince. I was sorry, as I could see by the gleam in his eye that my little lad was in for yet another interrogation, but I left them to it and dashed into the cottage, closed the door and whispered to Charlie to keep out of sight, and then to my horror, I heard footsteps. He was outside, still chatting to Vince. I opened the door, I had no idea what I was going to say, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask him inside, manners or no manners.’
She paused for breath. ‘And at that
moment, your ma came back from the Pleasance shops with her basket. I had to introduce them, I said this was your boss, Gosse bowed.’ She rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I wish you could have seen him kissing her hand. And she was thrilled. I could see she was going to ask him in. She might mention Charlie and I’d have to invent something about my brother here on a visit—’
‘What are you two doing standing out there gossiping? It’s chilly, that’s a sharp wind.’ Mary Faro appeared at the door, overcome by curiosity. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea.’
‘Let’s go in, then.’
She took his arm. ‘Your inspector was passing by. Such a nice gentleman,’ she added, and remembering that bow and the hand kissing no doubt, with a sharp glance at Lizzie, ‘We do things differently in Orkney, always invite a stranger in for a cup of tea. It’s one of our strictest rules, as you know, Jeremy. Never keep anyone standing at the door. He must have thought us very rude,’ said Mary with a sharp glance at Lizzie. She had clearly liked his flattery and would have enjoyed more of the same.
‘We do things differently in Edinburgh, Ma,’ said Faro solemnly. ‘And the inspector wouldn’t have expected to be invited in. He’s a very busy man, Ma.’
‘I know that and he was very reassuring.’
‘About what?’
‘About this terrible killer you’re all searching for. It’s in all the papers, he said, but the police were on to it and we were quite safe. “Don’t you worry, madam,” he said, “you are quite safe here and we will get him any day now.”’
Late that evening, alone with Lizzie, Faro thought of the irony of it all, even as Gosse was speaking, the wanted man who was giving him so many problems was in the box bed just yards away, and any day mere seconds away from discovery.
Faro shuddered as Lizzie said: ‘I’ve been thinking, I was silly to panic. I could have introduced him to Charlie as my brother, he looks quite different from the posters.’
‘Never you believe that. Gosse has seen McLaw many times, he would certainly have recognised him, shaven or no. And if so, instead of getting into our warm, comfortable bed this night, we would have been languishing behind bars in the city jail. I let your imagination provide what would be in store,’ he said grimly and did not add, ‘Or what sort of future there would be for our baby.’
He gave her a fond kiss and said, ‘Goodnight, Lizzie dear, sleep well.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Faro lay awake most of the night, there was much on his mind to make sleeping impossible. Indeed, as he moved from side to side endeavouring not to disturb Lizzie, and going over the events of the past few days, he wondered if he would ever sleep peacefully again. Just a little more than two weeks ago he had been a happy, though very slightly bored, detective sergeant, his main irritation the tiresome daily contact with Inspector Gosse. Their dislike for each other was cordial which did not add rich harmony to the situation, especially as the inspector was determined to make life as uncomfortable as possible for Faro.
On social occasions, people he met, who had nothing to do with the police, smilingly asked him if he enjoyed working on a murder case. Who could? For him it meant carrying a vivid impression at the front of his mind of the corpse of the murdered victim. The worse the case, the stronger his determination and the keener his focus, and although the word ‘enjoy’ had no place in the process, he had to admit that this was the most interesting and exciting part of an investigation. Thinking it through, detail by detail, the search for parallels, motives and method, the careful piecing together of every detail that might help him by letting the character of the murderer into his mind. What kind of a person did this? What was his background, his state of mind, his usual daily life, his work, his family and friends? And then, what triggered such violence for all the elements according to what McLaw had told him – if this was true – this had not been the impulse of a scared man, rather than a methodically calculated, planned act of anger or revenge.
Faro had made notes about everything from the details of the scene of the crime as recorded at the trial. Not enough to be interesting and all pointing to one of the many open-and-shut cases of domestic murder.
His mind switched back to other similar cases he had solved, killers he had brought to justice, recovering faces, conversations and what he had learnt in these few years as a detective.
‘Think yourself into his mind. You are he, get into his shoes and walk around in them. Think like him, fear what he feared and, above all, remember Macfie’s unfailing maxim: Think of the motive.’
He sighed as he went back to the beginning, the day he had returned to Edinburgh and McLaw had already been sentenced to death for the murder of his wife. Not an uncommon murder by any means. Case closed, or so he believed, scanning the report of the trial and picking up the list of duties for the day. Then to crown it all and infuriate Gosse, who had been in charge of the investigation, McLaw, on his way to jail to await execution, had escaped and was on the run, with police all over the country alerted.
Little imagining, as retired Superintendent Macfie joined them for their usual Sunday walk and supper at the cottage, that Vince, working on Saturdays at the High Street antiquarian bookshop, was about to be involved in the owner’s death. And although it was plain to everyone that it was the work of McLaw on the run – although Charlie denied this – how Gosse had gloated over this chance of making life a bit uneasy for Faro by constantly interviewing his stepson and scaring the lad with the grim fact that he had discovered Mr Molesby’s body and so that made him the prime suspect.
Then there had been the chance meeting on Princes Street with Mrs Brook, Macfie’s housekeeper. Recognising her and seeing she was so upset, on an impulse he had invited her into a cafe, hoping to calm her with a soothing cup of tea, only to listen to a horrendous tale of warring sisters who left it too late for reconciliation and of a coffin full of stones where Agatha Simms’s body should have been. The Belmuir poorhouse where she had been an inmate was clearly culpable, then her sister, determined to find an answer, was knocked down and fatally injured by a runaway carriage on the Mound. Could this be dismissed as coincidence? Celia had been an old friend of Mrs Brook and she attended the funeral to be met by the distraught servant Tibbie who had witnessed the accident and related the whole terrible story. And when that maid disappeared and also met a fatal accident on the Innocent Railway, he found himself with two possible murders while the search for the missing McLaw continued.
Then there was the attack on an elderly gentleman in Castle Hill and a description that fitted McLaw, sighted in Glasgow by the police, with the stolen wallet and money still on him. A jubilant Gosse went off to bring him back in person, no escape this time, only to discover that the recaptured criminal was not McLaw. Angrily, a frustrated Gosse had offered a £50 reward with posters of the wanted man displayed, the inevitable result being that people from everywhere claimed to have seen him and wanted that reward. And although this was a constable’s job, Gosse had enjoyed the humiliation of Faro by sending him to interview them personally.
Worse was in store. Kindhearted Vince had given shelter in the disused stable beside their cottage to a gypsy allegedly fleeing from a forced marriage by his tribe. When Vince, providing him with food and hoping to help him escape, was not enough, this gypsy had decided to take matters into his own hands and when Vince’s mother, only observed distantly, went out shopping, had entered the cottage to see what money he could find. He was not as safe as he thought. Vince came home early from school that day and Lizzie forgot her purse. He was caught in the act.
Faro suspected that Vince’s gypsy was the missing McLaw and he was also on his way home only to find something so dreadful he could never have thought it possible. He knew nothing of Lizzie’s early life before she left the Highlands aged fifteen, pregnant with a child by rape, and now Faro faced the shocking revelation that McLaw was her younger brother.
Bad enough, but even worse was the fact that he, Lizzie, and Vince were all g
uilty of concealing and sheltering a wanted murderer. For Lizzie, expecting their first child, her brother’s fate might be disastrous. So Faro was placed in the terrible position of seeing the end to his career, his marriage and Vince’s future.
While Faro was considering his options, Charlie McLaw had refused to escape, maintaining that he was innocent and that he did not intend spending the rest of his life as a fugitive. There was only one solution and that was for Faro to find Annie’s killer and make McLaw a free man. Listening to McLaw’s story, Faro had an intuitive feeling that he was hearing the truth; that Gosse had seized on the usual verdict, so easy to deal with that this was a domestic murder, a man comes home and finds his wife with another man and kills her, without knowing any of the facts behind that marriage.
McLaw had presented him with the proverbial needle in a haystack. Where was he to start without a clue to lean on? He had a suspicion that the poorhouse lay behind it all, and Agatha Simm’s empty coffin hinted to a dark trade in selling cadavers to the medical school, a once grisly business begun by the resurrectionists and Burke and Hare, now legalised under a Parliamentary act by which bodies in the possession of workhouses – poorhouses in Scotland – could be donated ‘to undergo anatomical examination by appointed organisations’, in fact, medical schools.
There was more trouble on the horizon, quite unexpected and looming in his direction, in the shapely form of Lady Honor, laird of Belmuir, a very determined lady when she set her heart on something – or someone, in this case Detective Sergeant Jeremy Faro. She had decided to track him down in his lair, with the excuse of looking over the property at Solomon’s Tower, the ancient tower house that was under her protection, while on her way to take up residence at her town house in Moray Place.
Akin to Murder Page 19
