Murder in Paradise

by Alanna Knight

  Mrs Lunn opened the door, the front door this time, but her greeting could hardly have been called genial as, without a word, she ushered him across the hall and into the library where Lady Brettle sat at a desk, head bent down, presumably catching up with her correspondence.

  As the housekeeper left them, Faro wondered if she realised that she had been considered strongly as a possible accomplice of the burglar. Or even worse, that she had been murdered, her body hidden.

  When Lady Brettle turned round to face him, Muir’s description ‘horsey’ fitted remarkably well. A formidable lady indeed, large bosomed, her heavily corseted figure creaking at every movement, Faro found himself searching in vain for the remnants of a once lovely woman who had wooed and won Sir Philip.

  Of course, had they been on more intimate terms, Sir Philip might have told him that it was never so. Like so many of his class, it had been an arranged marriage for money and dynastic purposes. When it was doomed to be childless, his duty done, Brettle had lost all interest and a chain of young and pretty mistresses took over that function of his life.

  Whatever Lady Brettle lacked in beauty she certainly made up for in intelligence as Faro soon found out, delicately rehearsing some probing questions, especially as Sir Philip had entered the room behind him. He now hovered, silent and listening, a hand resting on the back of his lady’s chair. His darting looks at Faro could best be described as consumed with anxiety that he gave nothing away of their own previous interview.

  And it was soon quite evident that this big, strong, aggressive ex-soldier was in awe of his wife and reminded Faro of a saying in the Edinburgh police that many a cock o’the walk in the force is just a poor feather duster at home.

  As he asked for a description of the missing jewels, Lady Brettle turned to her husband. ‘Don’t hover, Philip. I can deal with this matter. I know exactly what my jewels looked like. I don’t need you – go away, please, and do something useful.’

  With a last despairing look at Faro, Sir Philip managed to leave the room with as much dignity as he could muster after his humiliation.

  Watching the door close behind him, the formidable lady turned to Faro with a sigh. ‘I understand that you are a policeman and, fortunately for us, not from this area – or even this country.’ A tight little smile. ‘This makes what I have to tell you much easier. It must go no further and I must rely on your discretion.’

  Already Sir Philip had asked for his discretion. What was this new addition to the domestic drama, he wondered, as Lady Brettle handed him a written list of jewels.

  Reading it briefly, he asked, ‘Are there any drawings of these items? They would be an enormous help in tracing them.’

  Lady Brettle shook her head. ‘Alas, they would be of no help whatever, neither would the list I have given you.’ With a deep sigh, she said, ‘In fact, it is my wish that this investigation is dropped immediately.’

  ‘Do I understand that you do not wish to have your jewellery recovered?’ Faro asked in amazement.

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘May I ask why?’ He shook his head. ‘This is a most unusual request.’

  ‘It is indeed. To put it as simply as possible, if any of the items are recovered, it may well reveal the truth’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Faro. A very unpleasant truth. The real diamonds and rubies I sold long ago. My jewels are fakes. I had certain necessities, various debts of which my husband was unaware. I desperately wanted this house, he needed the money which I could not produce, so I sold my jewellery.’

  ‘Surely you could have told him. He would have understood your reasons for doing so.’

  Lady Brettle froze at his words, all the warmth and confidentiality faded. ‘I am not prepared to discuss our domestic situation with you, the whys and wherefores are none of your business. My only business with you, in fact, is to urge you to drop this investigation at once. I am not sure how far enquiries may have gone, but I understand it is only as far as the local police. On my instructions, Sir Philip was to await my return so that I might give a full description before taking the matter to a higher police authority.’

  A very convenient arrangement, Faro thought, remembering his conversation that also made certain Sir Philip’s young lady friend was not involved.

  ‘You realise, my lady, that this matter is in the hands of Constable Muir, not with me. I have no influence over the decision of the local police.’

  ‘Then you must think of something – some excuse. It is quite simple – that I had the jewels with me.’

  ‘And the Emerald Star too.’

  Her face changed. ‘That too. Unfortunately it is the only item of value that was stolen.’ She shrugged. ‘Unique and quite priceless. Of sentimental value but alas there is nothing I can do to recover it without revealing my unhappy situation regarding the fate of my jewels.’

  The emerald was a definite clue to the identity of the thief. For if he was, as Faro suspected, Macheath, that alone would have fitted his partiality for safe-breaking and stealing valuable property from large houses. It also strongly suggested that he had never left the neighbourhood of Upton and disappeared to London, but had remained with the sole purpose of uplifting Lady Brettle’s Emerald Star. He would doubtless be very disappointed to find that the rest of the items were fakes.

  ‘There were other items stolen. Two Dutch paintings.’

  She shrugged. ‘That is entirely my husband’s domain. Valuable, of course, so I believe, but not to my taste. Too dreary. I prefer Mr Millais myself.’

  As did numerous other much humbler households the length and breadth of Britain, with reproductions hanging on cottage walls and in parlours of long streets in industrial towns.

  ‘You must discuss this matter with Sir Philip. He is no doubt anxious to have his paintings recovered.’

  Far from it, thought Faro, who had reached his own solution to that particular mystery and he felt a surge of excitement for his conversation with Lady Brettle had confirmed his suspicions and also provided a motive that, despite appearances, the Brettles were in desperate straits financially and Sir Philip at least had taken action to solve one aspect of the problem. It also accounted for the lack of servants apart from the loyal housekeeper and the occasional maid, Bess Tracy.

  As he prepared to leave, Faro asked, ‘What of Mrs Lunn?’

  ‘Lunn was with me in London. She is in no way responsible for the break-in.’

  Faro was not at all sure about that as he asked, ‘Have you any theories, then, how Sir Philip found the kitchen door open with no sign of a forced entry?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can only guess that someone stole the keys,’ she said vaguely. ‘Had Lunn been here she would never have let them out of her possession for a moment.’

  From what he knew already, that seemed a lame excuse but he said, ‘I would appreciate a few words with Mrs Lunn, if you please.’

  Lady Brettle stared at him, as if she would have liked to refuse his request before seizing the bell pull.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mrs Lunn appeared and was informed that Mr Faro would like a few words. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ her ladyship added, observing the startled look on the housekeeper’s face. ‘Merely as a favour to us, to help clear up this inquiry.’

  Mrs Lunn looked at him darkly as if she too would like to refuse this request for an interview. Then without another word she led the way into the kitchen.

  Closing the door, she asked, ‘Well, what is it you want to know this time?’

  ‘This time I want to know how someone got access to your keys with such disastrous consequences.’

  ‘How should I know that?’ she bristled angrily.

  ‘As I recall you carried them around your waist on a chatelaine.’

  ‘Of course, and they seldom left my charge. Sometimes, when I was attending to other duties, I might have laid them aside for a few moments?’ She thought for a moment, frowning. ‘Anyone coming into the kitchen m
ight have—’

  ‘Anyone – such as?’

  ‘Well, Bess Tracy came from time to time.’

  ‘And you think she could have taken them.’

  Mrs Lunn looked startled. ‘You’re a policeman, surely you realise that keys are copied all the time by unscrupulous servants,’ she laughed mockingly. ‘All that is needed is a lump of wax, heated at the stove over there.’

  ‘And was the girl ever left alone to avail herself of such an opportunity?’

  ‘Sometimes – when I was needed in another part of the house.’

  Faro’s vague expression seemed to convince her, although he thought it extraordinary that she had such ready knowledge of how keys were copied.

  ‘Are you aware that the girl is missing?’

  She looked startled. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘She left home several days ago and has not returned.’

  Mrs Lunn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is that all? From what I gathered she had a dreadful life at home, and it wouldn’t be the first time she had walked out to get away from that dreadful father of hers.’ With a mocking laugh, she added, ‘But missing? It’s just an everyday occurrence with girls like Bess Tracy – I think you’re making far too much of it. Making it sound far too sinister.’ A pause and she added coldly, ‘Is that all? I have duties to catch up with.’

  Faro said, ‘I regret having to detain you but there are a couple more items that you might be able to help me with. The two missing paintings from the library.’

  She shrugged. ‘Those dreary old things. I didn’t even know that they were valuable although I dusted them regularly.’

  ‘Did Sir Philip tell you of their value?’

  She quavered. ‘No-o. But I kind of guessed – why else would anyone steal them when they already had her ladyship’s jewels?’

  Why indeed, thought Faro. As he was leaving, he asked another question: ‘Did your nephew also have access to the keys when you were presumably occupied in another part of the house?’

  She stared at him. ‘Nephew? what nephew? I have no nephew, who told you that – you must be dreaming.’

  But his question had taken her by surprise. She was scared.

  He went on, ‘I mean your occasional lodger then, the gardener from Red House who you said came to stay with you while the Brettles were abroad.’

  She banged a fist on the table and, red-faced, said angrily, ‘I don’t know what you are on about. I have no nephew and I don’t know where you got the idea that I ever took in a lodger. The very idea! And if you intend rushing to her ladyship with such tales about me – she would never believe such a thing. You must be mad, Mr Faro, and I advise you not to spread such silly wicked rumours, ruining a lady’s reputation like that.’

  Mrs Lunn’s statement had been absolutely accurate in one aspect, that of denying she had a nephew. The Honourable Paul, that young man with the unlikely surname of Jacks, had claimed acquaintance having seen her in church. Her natural suspicions were soon put at rest by his charming manner and his flattery, the latter an experience new to her years and her long sojourn with sir and madam.

  While she was cutting flowers in the garden he had appeared. Watching her, he had volunteered the information that he was a gardener at Red House. Could she recommend suitable lodging?

  Mrs Lunn was impressed by his educated accent, especially as he was such an ordinary-looking man, not at all that young or what she expected of the upper classes. His kind remarks were so reassuring, however, especially when he was so confidential with a sorrowful tale that he was only here because of a difference of opinion with his father, who was in the House of Lords no less, over an arranged marriage.

  He must be younger than he looked, she decided, as with a gentle rather absent smile he continued that he had other plans, a sweetheart his lordship considered most inappropriate to his position in society. The only son and heir, he decided that his absence from the family home would give his otherwise devoted parent time to reflect.

  A chance acquaintance had led him to Red House and as the gardens at the family castle were a showpiece, it seemed an appropriate refuge. Happy working with the lads there was one problem – the sleeping arrangements. He shuddered; he had never shared a bed with anyone as an only child – it was a new and unpleasant experience, especially as bathing facilities were not in evidence.

  Mrs Lunn found herself in sympathy, even more so when he added that she was so like his aunt who had a title and both, he added, such gracious ladies.

  As he stood up and thanked her for the delicious tea and bowed, afraid she might never see him again, she said hastily, ‘I could give you a bed here – if you would not object to the kitchen sofa.’ He eyed it and said it looked most comfortable, if she was quite sure it would not inconvenience her. Overwhelmed, he gave her a great hug. It was her birthday that week and not even Lady Brettle remembered after all these years. Her new friend brought flowers and a bottle of wine, which they shared. In the course of convivial conversation she showed him the rest of the house, giggling and stumbling rather a lot.

  And that was that.

  Faro left the Brettles. On his way to the police office, the rain began and Jim Boone’s cottage would have made an easy and speedy access to the main road, he thought regretfully. Small wonder that the Brettles had been so anxious to add it to their property…

  The old man was visible in the porch and once again considering his friendly overtures at their first meeting Faro was tempted to walk over and have a cheery word in the hope that he might well have observed something significant regarding the Brettles’ burglary.

  However, remembrance of those threatening words regarding trespass, reinforced by the savage dog, at present invisible, was a sufficient deterrent against a second try.

  As he walked down the drive his thoughts returned to the recent interview with Mrs Lunn, whose reactions to the missing Bess Tracy were similar to Constable Muir’s. Why was it then he could not shake off the feeling that the girl’s disappearance, taken so lightly because of her wild reputation, had sinister implications?

  As for Mrs Lunn’s downright lie, denying what she had told him regarding a nephew, the seasonal Morris gardener and her occasional lodger, Faro was certain that he held a clue to unravelling this particular mystery

  The steady downpour was a deterrent to visiting Constable Muir and he decided to return immediately to Red House.

  Poppy and Lena were in the drawing room, sewing pieces of embroidery in cheerful colours at woeful variance with their black gowns and sad faces. All that was missing from Lena were the widow’s weeds to have added the ultimate expression of grief.

  Faro could not escape meeting her while he remained under the same roof but realised that beyond the conventional remarks the suspicion that she had possibly poisoned Erland, despite the doctor’s diagnosis, would not let him rest and would remain to torment him for the rest of his life.

  He knew now that whatever happened he must leave this house, he no longer qualified for hospitality as Erland’s friend and he should seek lodgings in the village. He had the words ready when the door opened and Morris came in with Rossetti.

  ‘Leave us, old chap? You certainly cannot do that. You are still our most welcome guest and we insist that you make Red House your home until your business in this area is settled.’ And turning to Rossetti, ‘Isn’t that so, Gabriel?’

  Rossetti nodded eagerly. ‘It most certainly is. Besides,’ he added with a certain lack of tact, Faro thought, ‘we have a painting to complete. I have just begun The Rape of Lucrece and those sketches of you, for which I am very grateful, have been of considerable help. But there is nothing like the real thing, and as Poppy is already modelling for another painting, I have decided to have Lena as Lucrece. She has a little more fire than our dear Poppy,’ he added in a whisper, looking towards the two girls standing by the window, ‘if you know what I mean.’ He chuckled with a sly look. ‘Besides it will be the perfect thing for taking her min
d off poor Erland.’

  From his short experience of modelling, Faro thought that standing still and silent for hours was hardly the best antidote for taking one’s mind off anything as Rossetti said, ‘Well, old chap, what do you think?’

  Faro couldn’t think of an answer except that the idea of posing as Sextus Tarquinius with Madeleine Smith as Lucrece was utterly horrifying.

  However, the eruption into the room by Ned Burne-Jones with a domestic crisis about finances and the united cries of indignation that followed as they searched for an immediate solution gave Faro’s future as a model a temporary respite.

  As he left the house a second time for the police office, the telegraph to Sergeant Noble and his usual terse reply, suddenly the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed him. Hearing the distant rattle of a train steaming north, seeing and smelling the smoke, he yearned again to be heading homewards to Edinburgh – to admit defeat, face Noble’s anger and scorn, his colleagues’ whispers as he returned again to his regular beat on Leith Walk, having thrown away this one chance of the first step on the ladder of his ambition.

  Everything had progressed far beyond him, his futile search for Macheath and the extraordinary behaviour of the owners of Brettle Manor, their reluctance to have a robbery investigated because of the shaming secrets that would be revealed were outwith the limits of his experience so far with the Edinburgh City Police.

  Erland’s tragic death, the terrible suspicion he was totally unable to prove, that set the note of finality upon this assignment in Kent. To these were added his own surge of guilt, of being personally responsible because he had not warned Erland in time, and worst of all that he had never properly responded to the bond of friendship he owed his Orkney friend.

  If he needed gratification for his visit to Red House, with reasonable grounds for suspicion that the theft of Lady Brettle’s priceless emerald bore all Macheath’s hallmarks, by a simple process of observation and deduction he had solved the mystery of the highly valued missing Dutch paintings.