‘How did you make this discovery?’ Macfie asked grimly.
And Faro told him about Vince and the refugee from the gypsy camp, how Vince’s strange behaviour had alerted him and, going into the stable where he was asleep, he realised that this gypsy was none other than McLaw, the man they were all searching for. ‘But before I could arrest him, Lizzie was on the scene greeting her long lost brother – in the Gaelic—’
Macfie interrupted shortly: ‘You realise that whatever your personal feelings, you are breaking the law and you have told me enough for you – and Lizzie – to both be locked up?’ Eyeing him sternly, he added: ‘It is beyond belief that you should have taken this step above the law, regardless of the consequences.’
Faro looked at him. This was not the Brandon Macfie that he had known, the old friend, this was the face of the man he might face across the courtroom. ‘In your defence you have only this man’s preposterous story.’
Feeling rather sick, Faro’s reply, ‘Which I believe’, was met by scornful laughter.
‘Try telling that to the jury. You have been incredibly gullible is all I can say in your defence. Does this wretch know what he is subjecting his sister and her family to by getting them involved?’
‘Indeed he does. He is now threatening, as I have failed in my attempts to find the real killer, that he will go to the police and give himself up, without involving any of us.’
Macfie sighed. ‘A noble gesture for a man on his way to the gallows. But not unknown. Even a guilty man would not wish to see a beloved sister suffer.’ He shook his head. ‘And in the circumstances, this is the only action that can save you. You must not restrain him – he must do it – and immediately.’
‘Not immediately, sir. Let him have a couple of days. I think I may have something I picked up at the croft, frail perhaps, but the only other incident also involves the poorhouse at Belmuir.’ Briefly he told him Mrs Brook’s story of the two sisters, the sinister accidents to Celia and Tibbie.
Macfie listened and smiled thinly. ‘You’ll have some difficulty proving anything to their discredit – a very highly thought-of organisation. And popular – do you know they have a waiting list for relatives of very sick and elderly persons to spend their last days there?’
‘I believe so, sir, but there have been two accidents involving Belmuir, which to me look suspiciously like murder. I suspect they do a lucrative trade in dead bodies, which instead of being reverently buried, are being sold in large boxes under cover as market produce and sent direct to Surgeons’ Hall for dissection by their students.’
Instead of the shocked surprise Faro expected from this announcement, Macfie merely laughed. ‘My dear lad, you haven’t discovered anything new. That trade has been going on for years. Unpleasant, I grant you, especially for relatives of the dead, if any. Distressing, but not illegal. Something had to be done after the notorious Burke and Hare scandal and let me quote you from the bill that was passed. Went something like this: “… that it should be lawful for executors and or another party in possession of the body of any deceased person to permit and allow body of said person to undergo anatomical examination.” And that included the administrators of workhouses. It stretched further, the poor could now sell the bodies of their sick and old relatives to the medical school as long as there was a written document and two witnesses. It also included – and this is where the poorhouses came into it – many residents who were illiterate or had no relatives. There was no law saying that they could not take money for their bodies which became the property of the poorhouse.
‘It is just a few years ago,’ Macfie went on, ‘in ’59 remember, that medicine became a regulated profession, requiring a formal education, and the dissection of three bodies was compulsory for all who wished to qualify. So whatever your finer feelings, this is not only legal but also necessary if medical science is to progress. At one time we were forced to rely on the gallows but there weren’t enough criminals to satisfy the demand and that’s how the resurrectionists came into being.’
He tapped the table, smiled. ‘Time for another drink, lad.’
‘No, sir. I must go. We have early supper.’
‘Very well.’ Macfie sighed. ‘I’m afraid you will get no further with your attempts to prove that Mrs Brook’s friend was killed by a runaway carriage and that the servant who witnessed the incident did not fall out of an open door in the railway train, trying to close the window.’
He shrugged. ‘There is too little evidence and you are not likely to find any more from the poorhouse. Honor would be appalled. It was her father’s brainchild and she is very proud of his efforts to help the community – which indeed has spread in all directions. She is an excellent laird and is having problems keeping Belmuir going, losing money. Not much help from her brother who is in charge of the poorhouse but has a lifestyle that is, to my mind, rather deplorable.’ Pausing, he added ruefully, ‘I’ve known Honor since she was a girl. A good lass. Pity she never married, a bit past that now.’
A tap on the door, Mrs Brook looked in. ‘Her Ladyship’s carriage, sir.’
Macfie laughed and said. ‘Ah, yes. The Café Royale.’
Waiting for Mrs Brook to bring down Macfie’s evening cloak, Faro said: ‘About my visit to the poorhouse, sir, there was something I think you should know.’
A few words about what had been troubling him and as they descended the steps together, he said: ‘I’ll give that some thought, lad, but my best advice, and indeed my only advice, is that you let McLaw give himself up – and as early as possible.’
Honor looked out of the carriage and seemed surprised to see Faro. Her look at Macfie was a question and he laughed. ‘No, my dear, he is not coming with us. Besides, I like having you all to myself.’ And to Faro: ‘My warmest regards to Lizzie and to Vince. Tell them I am looking forward to resuming our Sundays together.’
Faro watched the carriage depart and wondered whether those Sundays would ever be the same again. Worst of all, once McLaw walked into Gosse’s office and gave himself up, what had he left behind? A ruined marriage, for he could expect Lizzie never to look at him again with respect and admiration. Nothing in his life could ever be the same.
As he approached that once welcoming cottage, with the lamplight shining in its window, he thought of the task that lay before him and the emotional scene that must inevitably follow next morning when he said yes to Charlie, this is the best thing for you to do; when he watched him kiss his sister and, taking him firmly by the arm, they walked out past the builders with their scaffolding and their hammers, across the Pleasance and up the High Street to the police station. And what lay at the end of it?
For Charlie, his brother-in-law, who he had failed so badly, a hangman’s rope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At the cottage, while they were having supper, PC Oldfield handed in a note. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, the lad said it was urgent.’ It was from Honor Belmuir, that he was to meet her at Moray Place at nine o’clock as there had been a discovery concerning the stolen painting.
He guessed that if Gosse had been around when the message arrived, he would have been delighted to go to Moray Place, but the inspector had a strict rule of not working after hours.
Faro sighed deeply. He had problems enough at present without this lady who seemed intent on believing he had magic powers to find the thief, which, for Faro, was as impossible as finding Annie McLaw’s killer, especially as he did not believe the painting had been stolen in the first place and that it would turn up eventually as having been ‘mislaid’.
It was not until he reached the New Town and climbed the steps to the imposing town house that he remembered Macfie and Honor were having supper together.
He paused on the threshold, had he made a mistake in the date? Was it tomorrow evening?
To his surprise it was Sir Hector who smiled and opened the door: ‘Servants’ night out. We don’t need the full staff here until we officially move in, when we will brin
g them from Belmuir.’ Seeming equally surprised by finding Faro on the doorstep, he asked: ‘What can I do for you, Mr Faro?’
‘I had an urgent message from your sister.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. She has an engagement, been delayed and sends her apologies. Said I would do just as well. Come in, come in.’
As Faro followed him into the hall he said: ‘The good news is that the Leonardo has been found. If you will follow me,’ and leading the way up the lofty staircase, three flights leading to the top floor where Hector, walking ahead, now leant against the balustrade. ‘Quite a climb. I’m out of condition, I fear!’
His face was flushed by the exertion, the toll of a hearty lifestyle that didn’t include a great amount of exercise beyond trailing round the estate grounds of Belmuir Castle shooting rabbits and drinking rather heavily when he was not thus engaged.
‘You seem remarkably fit, Mr Faro.’
Faro made no comment, he was looking up at a remarkably fine portrait of a boy’s head that was undoubtedly the one that had been reported as stolen.
‘Here it is. Yes, we have it back again. Have to apologise for an unfortunate mistake. Our parlourmaid discovered while she was dusting that the frame was cracked’ – he shook his head – ‘the other explanation, which we did not pursue, was that she dropped it. Anyway, that put her in a panic. It had to be repaired before its absence was noticed, so she took it to the picture-framers in the High Street. Her mother is quite ill and as she is easily distracted, she forgot to collect it.
‘Well, well, that’s all past,’ he added with a cheerful grin while Faro decided that it was a very thin explanation and that somehow the Belmuirs had realised that the burglary story would not go down with the insurance people. As this was a quite a sudden volte-face, perhaps Honor had mentioned it to Macfie who was in her confidence and he had warned her off.
‘We keep it up here as the sunlight is disastrous for old masters.’ Hector was still leaning against the balustrade. ‘You need to stand back here for a better look.’
Faro moved cautiously. After that steep climb, he had a fine view of the marble floor in the hall sixty feet below. He shuddered; it would not do to have vertigo, he thought, as he stepped back.
He was not prepared for what happened next. Sir Hector said: ‘Have a good look, Mr Faro. For this is the last thing you’ll see on earth.’ So saying, he raised his fist, struck out at his face. Faro ducked, his back against the balustrade. Cursing, Hector seized him and tried to throw him over bodily. He struck out again, but with only a bloodied nose, Faro dodged, recovering from the shock of this attack. If there was to be a fight then they were of equal height but Faro was an experienced fighter who had tackled many criminals, many desperate men. This was not one he had expected to encounter.
And Hector had the advantage: Faro’s back was against the balustrade and with the weight of the two men there were ominous sounds of creaking and as Hector tried to grab him by the throat and push him over, the wood began to crack and Faro knew that they would both crash to their death on the marble floor far below.
Hector’s grip was relentless. He was choking. Slipping, slipping – nothing to hold on to, Hector’s red, grinning face above him.
Then another face, a woman’s. Hector shouting: ‘Help me, help me with him. You took your time getting here. Help me, damn you.’
So she was in it too, Faro thought sadly. His last thought. No escape from death now. But suddenly he was free, staggering against the balustrade. The fight had moved on, and now it was Honor with her arm around Hector’s neck. Pulling him down, off balance.
‘You bitch!’ he was screaming.
Footsteps and another arrival, Macfie breathing heavily, behind him a couple of constables.
Macfie gasped out: ‘You all right, Faro? Saw it all on the way up. Thank God I got here in time.’ Out of breath he said: ‘Took me an age to climb all these stairs. I’m an old man, you know, a bit out of condition,’ he added as the screaming, blustering, swearing Hector was handcuffed.
Macfie, while out of breath, had enough left to say: ‘I am arresting you, Sir Hector Belmuir, for the attempted murder of a police officer.’
‘I think you might include the murder of Annie McLaw,’ said Faro.
‘That wasn’t murder.’ Hector yelled. ‘She was a prostitute and it was self-defence. Started screaming at me, thought I had killed her wretched, drunken husband, and as I tried to leave, she went for me with a knife, a knife – damn her.’
Honor watched silently as Hector, screaming obscenities at her, was escorted down the stairs. Her first thought was not Faro but Macfie. ‘Are you all right, Brandon?’ And taking his arm while he protested that he didn’t need any help going downstairs, she led the way back down into the dining room and indicated the table.
‘We need fortification, gentlemen,’ and while she went to the sideboard and poured out three very substantial drams, Macfie turned to Faro: ‘With your information that Hector had let slip, I told Honor.’
Handing them their glasses, she raised hers. ‘I already knew that he had killed the McLaw woman. Stabbing is a messy business and he gave me all his excuses and his bloodied clothes to burn. It was our carriage that knocked down that poor woman on the Mound. He was terrified that she might reveal his dealings with Surgeon’s Hall and that her servant might recognise him. So he kidnapped her. But it was too difficult to keep her locked in the poorhouse, so he let her go – an accident on the railway train with an open door.’
Macfie took her hand, kissed it gravely. ‘You’re a good lass, Honor. Always were – despite—’ A shadow crossed his face, and she finished it for him.
‘Despite my obnoxious brother, you mean?’ With a shrug she went on. ‘Naturally, he expected me to help. He always was a coward.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve waited for this moment a long time, Brandon. A very long time. And the only way to give him what he deserved was to go along with his plan, catch him in the act. I told Brandon, and here we are.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My revenge, you could call it.’
And as if aware of Faro for the first time. ‘He ruined my life once and after the incident with the McLaw woman, which I am ashamed to say he persuaded me to overlook, for the sake of the scandal, the family name dragged through the courts.’ She stopped and regarded them both sadly. ‘But I don’t care about that now. What have we to lose – we have lost almost everything. What use is a damned name? We are the last of the Belmuirs and that won’t save us from extinction. That painting upstairs, that we were trying to pass off as a burglary, was our last resort. But I knew, somehow, that the insurance people wouldn’t oblige – despite the family name,’ she added bitterly.
‘The day I called at your cottage, Faro, the carriage had to stay on the road, and I saw all those wanted McLaw posters, everywhere, even on the builders’ scaffolding.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Suddenly I couldn’t take it any more, I couldn’t stand by and let an innocent man hang. I knew how desperate you must be to prove it when Hector came to me and said: “They’re on to us. I found that damned policeman crawling about the croft on his hands and knees. Well, he was wasting his time. I’ll see to it that he won’t be long with us. Accidents can happen.”’ Pausing, she looked at him. ‘I knew he intended to kill you. And I told Brandon, about the return of the Leonardo and how easily a man could fall to his death down all those stairs.’
Macfie said, ‘Thank God we got here in time. An overturned cart delayed us. And he was wrong about Jeremy here not knowing. Hector had let slip some clues—’
Faro interrupted, ‘Such as reading all the details about the woman Tibbie’s fatal railway accident when they had never been reported in the newspaper—’
‘Really,’ Honor interrupted. ‘How clever of you, Faro.’ But there was no warmth in her voice as she added to Macfie: ‘What will happen next? To him – apart from a great scandal to shake the walls of Edinburgh. Our final humiliation.’
Macfie shook his head, s
aid firmly. ‘A confession before witnesses, which will clear McLaw.’ He touched her hand. ‘I will do everything I can, my dear, use my influence where it matters most to prevent your humiliation, but your brother must pay for his crimes. He’ll get by on manslaughter, I shouldn’t be surprised about that. You can be sure that a jury will see to it. He killed a prostitute in self-defence, the very idea of hanging a titled man of a great family for that is preposterous. And McLaw will get a pardon – I’ll see to that. A free man.’
Honor sighed and the old man put his arm around her. She took a deep breath.
‘Brandon, Brandon, I’ve waited a long time, many years now, for this. When I was a child he killed my horse for throwing him, my dog for biting him and … and—’ she stopped, ‘something more important.’ In a voice hardly audible she looked at Faro and added, ‘He took away my great love, the only man I ever wanted, and destroyed my life.’
Macfie listened impassively. ‘Revenge is one thing, the law is another.’
‘And seldom do they meet,’ she said bitterly.
Suddenly weariness struck them. It had been a long and terrible end to the day and Honor saw them into the carriage that would drop off Macfie at Sheridan Place and take Faro to his cottage. She watched Faro climb in and held out her hand.
‘I owe you a great debt, Mr Faro.’ And suddenly that warm hand in hers was not enough. She leant inside and kissed his cheek. ‘Alas, a debt I can never repay,’ she whispered.
Macfie was silent as the carriage moved away and Faro, feeling embarrassed, had to say something. ‘Pity she never married. This man she wanted died in an accident, I take it?’ There was a silence, so long he wondered if Macfie had heard him or had fallen asleep.
And then a sigh that was almost a sob. ‘Aye, that was Sandy, my Sandy. Too poor, a policeman’s son.’ He shrugged. ‘Not from the right class.’
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