He laughed. What an absurd idea. He had obviously embarrassed the poor woman by staring so rudely. And her in mourning too. Gravely, politely, he raised his hat in her direction. There was no acknowledgement although her swift movement of turning her back suggested a guilty anxiety not to be recognised.
Faro glanced quickly at Vince but saw that the lad's attention was distracted by the handsome houses and shops as the cart trotted its way through Ballater's main thoroughfare.
Faro sighed, for a moment obsessed by memories as Vince's words regarding his own late unhappy love came back to him.
'I see her everywhere, Stepfather. I have to restrain myself from accosting innocent young women because they remind me, in a walk, or a smile, of her.'
Faro straightened his shoulders, suppressing a shudder of distaste. He must take warning from Vince's experience, since his own infatuation was now an inexcusably long time ago.
Vince was smiling at him. 'Well, we're on our way.'
'We are indeed,' Faro replied, casting aside his sombre thoughts.
And so the two men set forth, one intent upon dreams of one day being Queen's physician and the other with dreams of a peaceful few days doing nothing more strenuous than a bit of fishing.
For Faro, however, a relaxing holiday on Deeside had in store a dreadful alternative.
Chapter Two
Their road led them past Knock Castle, a grim fortress staring down through the trees. Ruined and ancient, rooks flew forlornly around its desolate walls. A sad unhappy place, deserted, as if still haunted by the blood feud in which the eight sons of Gordon of Knock were extinguished in one day by their Forbes rivals.
Then a mile away from their destination at Easter Balmoral, through dappled trees, they glimpsed Abergeldie Castle. Rose-red walls enfolded a history of Jacobites in its dungeons and the spectral presence of French Kate burnt as a witch. But no ghosts tormented its present owner, the Prince of Wales, or the guests who attended his lively shooting parties.
Beyond the castle someone with an inventive turn of imagination had come up with an ingenious device of aerial transport. A strong cable stretched across the river. On it was a cradle in which two people were propelling themselves laboriously across to the opposite bank at Crathie, thus saving the walk round by the bridge which gave access to the main Deeside highway. Their efforts were being enthusiastically applauded by a band of shrill young people.
'Shouldn't fancy that myself,' said Vince.
Faro agreed. And as they travelled close to the river bank, he observed that Edinburgh's recent drought had also affected Deeside and the waters, normally noisy and frequently in spate, had their boiling foam tamed to a sluggish stream.
Even with hopes of fishing diminishing, Faro sighed pleasurably. Each visit to Ballater impressed him with the growing affluence he found there. Once the rich had come to the famed watering place at nearby Pannanich Wells, but the building of a railway and the added attraction of the Queen at Balmoral Castle had extended prosperity to Ballater. And the railway shareholders, aware of this growth in potential, had begged Her Majesty to allow the line to be extended as far as Braemar.
She would have none of it, however, unwilling to let her shy retreat be invaded any further, preferring to keep at some distance those holiday-makers from home and abroad anxious to follow the fashion set by the Queen of Great Britain.
As Faro silently approved her resolve, their driver drew aside and doffed his cap respectfully, giving way to an open carriage approaching rapidly down the narrow road.
'The Queen, gentlemen,' he muttered.
Faro and Vince just had time hastily to remove their hats as Her Majesty swept by, her widow's streamers dancing gleefully in the breeze. A pretty young girl with downcast eyes sat at her side. Princess Beatrice, Faro guessed, who looked as doleful and unhappy as the two ladies-in-waiting, their complexions somewhat blue with cold.
Standing on the carriage box, an imposing figure in Highland dress, rosy in countenance and obviously impervious to weather, was one of her Balmoral ghillies.
Chin tilted, the Queen moved a graceful hand and permitted herself a gentle smile in acknowledgement of the other vehicle.
'I'm certain she recognised you, Stepfather,' said Vince.
Faro felt that was extremely likely, for they had shared several encounters while he was in charge of her security in Edinburgh.
He smiled after the retreating carriage. The population thought of their Queen as stern and unbending but Faro had noticed an almost coquettish tendency in her dealings with men, particularly if they were young and handsome.
This behaviour had not escaped attention—in particular her reactions to Inspector Faro who fulfilled all the conditions implied by the word attractive. In addition to towering over her physically, he could also make her laugh.
He was always taken by surprise by that hearty guffaw. It was startling in its almost masculine intensity and considerably more whole-hearted than the genteel merriment, if any at all, one might have expected to issue from the rather formidable Royal visage.
Remembering that laugh gave Faro cause to ponder as to whether there might be something after all in the press lampoons.
Vince asked, 'Would that be John Brown with her?'
'It would,' replied Faro. Could there be a grain of truth to justify the sneering epithet 'Mrs Brown'?
Memories as always came flooding back as the carriage climbed the steep hill to Easter Balmoral. In common with the Queen, Bella had been a widow for more than ten years. Her husband Ben had been ghillie at Balmoral in its humbler days before the present castle was built, when it was home to Sir Robert Gordon, who sold it to the enthusiastic Royal couple, the then young Queen and her adored Prince Consort.
Good Prince Albert had not lived long to enjoy his new home but the Queen still preferred her Highland retreat, the 'dear Paradise' she and Albert had created, to Buckingham Palace. Because of this rumours were rife that Her Majesty was in danger of becoming a recluse and a hermit. This did not pass unobserved in London. The gossip distressed and annoyed Mr Gladstone and the elder statesmen, in addition to presenting a ready target for the anti-monarchy faction.
The carriage turned a corner and there, nestling against the gentle foothills of Craig nam Ban, sat the familiar cottage. Smoke issued from its solitary chimney, wafting the haunting smell of peat towards them.
But the breeze also carried a more acrid odour. Twenty yards distant was a burnt-out ruin. The two men turned, stared back at it.
'That was Nessie Brodie's cottage,' said Faro.
Vince sniffed the air. 'Must have been quite a blaze.'
'And recent. I hope no one was hurt.'
The road was rocky and uneven and the driver failed to hear his question. Doubtless Aunt Bella would regale them in some detail. But as they stepped down, the door flew open and down the path to greet them came Tibbie, whom Bella had adopted when she was a little lame girl many years ago.
There was no welcoming smile as she ushered them indoors.
'Yer auntie's no' here, Jeremy. She's in the hospital.'
And before Faro could do more than utter a shocked exclamation of concern, Tibbie went on, 'She's no' ill. Naething like that. She had an accident. Naething broken, thank the Lord, a few scrapes and burns. Did ye no' get ma' letter?' Faro shook his head. 'I posted it myself twa-three days sine. When Dr Elgin told her it wasna' likely she'd be fit to be home for her birthday. She was that upset. Said I was to write to ye straight away. I dinna ken why ye havna' got it.'
Her rising indignation refused to take into account that most letters from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, let alone Deeside, took at least a week to arrive at their destination.
Vince and Faro exchanged glances. How exceedingly fortunate that Mary Faro had insisted that her visit with the children remain a surprise, otherwise the disappointment would have been doubly hard to bear.
As Faro sat down at the kitchen table, the atmosphere overwhelmed him. He was ten
years old again and nothing had changed. Walls steeped in a hundred years of peat smoke, sheep's wool for weaving, the daily baking of bread and bannocks, all combined to open a Pandora's box of memories, happy and sad.
'What happened to Auntie?' he asked Tibbie. 'Was she on steps cleaning out the cupboards again?'
'No, indeed she wasna'. Worse this time. She went plunging into Nessie's cottage. Ye'll have seen it as ye came by. Or what's left of it. Bella saw the fire from the window here and awa' she went, fast as her legs would carry her, to rescue poor Nessie.'
'I presume she succeeded.'
'Aye, she did that,' said Tibbie proudly.
'At ninety,' said Vince in shocked tones, 'she should have known better.'
Tibbie turned a bitter look on him. 'She doesna' think she's ninety, ma laddie. She's that spry onyways, it's hard to credit. Why, I mind well—'
'Just tell us what happened,' Faro asked with desperate patience.
'She got Nessie out but a beam fell, mostly missed her, the Lord be thanked. Flying sparks gave her one or two burns and she got a few bruises. Nothing serious, as I've told ye, but her breathing was bad.'
'Shock, of course,' said Vince firmly.
'Aye, like enough. Onyways, the doctor thought she was better in the hospital considering her age and the like...'
'And Nessie?'
'Och, she's in the hospital. There's the pair of them in beds next to each other. Nessie's getting on fine. Nothing more than a dunt on her puir head. But she has a bad heart, ye ken. Bella's fair desperate to be home for her birthday. But there's no telling whether they'll let her out in time.'
She looked at them sadly. 'I doubt ye've come all this way for nothing though. If only ye'd got ma letter—'
'Not at all. We would have come anyway,' said Faro hastily. 'Vince has business here.'
'Business? What like business?'
'I'm going to work at the hospital. Help Dr Elgin.'
Tibbie greeted this news with delight. 'She'll be right glad to see the both of ye. She's that proud of Vince here. Always telling everybody what brains ye've got. And as for ye, Jeremy Faro,' she added turning to him. 'Ye were aye her favourite.'
And nodding vigorously, 'Aye, it's providence ye came. For she needs a wee bittie cheering. The nurses are having a hard time of it, I hear, she's that energetic. Having to keep to her bed is a sore trial.'
As Tibbie bustled about setting the table with remarkable speed for one so lame, she carried on a breathless non-stop monologue, one that neither Faro nor Vince had any possibility of turning into the remotest semblance of a conversation.
'—and what sort of a journey had ye? What like in Edinburgh?' Before Faro could do more than open his mouth to reply she had shot off again, answering the question for him.
By the time soup and bannocks appeared on the table, Tibbie was forced by the necessity of feeding her guests to let a few words pass their lips. Her occasional comments on their journey allowed their narrative to reach as far as Ballater.
'And we met the Queen on the low road,' Vince interposed smartly, thereby receiving an admiring look from his stepfather.
'The Queen, was it? Well, well.'
When he mentioned Princess Beatrice, Tibbie sighed. 'Bless her dear heart, she's that shy although she's past seventeen. Never has a word to say for herself when she comes visiting with her ma. The Queen still calls her Baby. I hear tell she doesna' want her to get married. Wants to keep her at home for company.'
'There was a ghillie with them, tall fellow with reddish hair and a beard?'
'That would be Johnnie Brown.'
Tibbie's attention was momentarily diverted by the need to remove bannocks from the oven and Faro, consoled that his aunt was in no danger, asked, 'What about this murder, Tibbie?'
'Och, I was just coming to that. Ye should have been here, Jeremy. Morag Brodie, niece to puir Nessie. Or so she claimed. Stabbed, she was—'
A sound from outside and Tibbie turned towards the window.
'There's Johnnie Brown now. The verra man himself,' she said excitedly. 'Goodness gracious, he's coming here.' Darting a fleeting glance in the one mirror to see that her mutch was tidy, straightening her apron and staring wide-eyed from Faro to Vince and back again, she prepared to open the door.
'What on earth can he be wanting? The Queen was in for her visit and a cup of tea just before the accident.'
The visitor who entered seemed to fill the whole room. Brown was a splendid figure of a man, in the Highland dress of kilt and sporran-purse (bearing the head of some fierce beady-eyed animal), with great strong legs in hose and brogans, and a plaid thrown carelessly across his shoulder to serve as robe or bed, where necessity arose. Perched on his red-gold hair was a Balmoral bonnet.
Gazing from John Brown to his stepfather, Vince decided that even in a much larger gathering, these two men could easily overshadow everyone else by their presence.
He recognised not only a physical similarity but felt as if the giants of old had materialised as they solemnly shook hands and took stock of each other. Both men, he guessed, had in common that rare quality of being shrewd observers of character. Perhaps both knew or had been brought up to the old adage, 'Look well on the face of thy friend, and thine enemy, at first meeting, for that is the last time thou shalt see him as he really is.'
Vince was surprised to see that Brown had been followed into the room by a young man of his own age. Black-haired and blue-eyed, he would have been handsome but for the look of disquiet on his features.
'No, not disquiet,' Faro was to remark later, for it was a look he recognised. 'He reminded me of a sullen guilty schoolboy, grown-up but defiant still. And afraid.'
Introduced as Lachlan Brown, as they shook hands, Faro presumed the lad was kin to the newcomer. Was he John Brown's son, despite there being little resemblance between them?
Perhaps aware of their thoughts, Brown explained. 'Ma ghillie. Ye're no needed here, lad,' he added.
And Lachlan Brown, thought Faro, was very relieved indeed to take his departure. Throughout the visit as Brown accepted a dram from Tibbie and answered her bombardment of questions, Faro found himself intrigued by the identity of that oddly unhappy and watchful young man.
He had encountered many like him in his long career: those who, guilty or innocent, are made extremely uncomfortable and often rendered inarticulate by the presence of the law.
Why was Lachlan like that, Faro wondered? Certain that they had not met before, Faro felt there was nevertheless a haunting familiarity in Lachlan's appearance, an attitude, a gesture he seemed to recognise from a long way off. As if he was watching someone he knew well, distorted by a fairground's 'house of mirrors'.
Disturbed by the futile attempt to remember, he turned again to John Brown. Meanwhile his own lack of attention had been noted by his stepson who was busily comparing the two men.
Studying Faro critically, Vince again noticed his lack of sartorial elegance. The detective had deplorably little interest in clothes; they were to him at best a necessary covering rather than a prideful luxury.
Vince knew from his duties among the Edinburgh poor, that all they could afford or ever hope to possess was one set of clothes, and that probably fourth- or fifth-hand. But why Faro should wish to emulate such unfortunates was beyond him. In a vain bid to fit his stepfather into the manner of life his position in society demanded, Vince had taken it upon himself to offer advice, which was accepted with good-humoured resignation and a complete lack of application.
Take the matter of boots. Faro failed to recognise that in his profession, which entailed an extraordinary amount of walking, a second pair was almost a necessity of survival. But Faro loved his old boots; the older they were the more he loved them, and the less willing was he to part with them.
Suddenly Vince realised why Faro had remained standing, partly hidden by the table. He was in his stocking feet. The new boots which Vince, ashamed of him, had insisted he 'break in' for the Deeside h
oliday had been removed and thrust aside, aching toes and a blistered heel thus relieved.
Vince now watched with interest and amusement what must happen next. Faro could not with politeness remain standing while John Brown was about to accept a seat and the refreshing of his dram. He must step forward and reveal all.
But even parted from his boots which lay accusingly distant, Faro was in command of the situation.
'You must excuse me.' He pointed. 'New boots, you know. Confoundedly painful.'
John Brown laughed, held up a hand. 'Man, think nothing of it. I ken fine the feeling. See these auld brogues o' mine. Ten year, I've had them. I love them like a lassie,' he chuckled. 'Man, the agonies I suffered breaking in yon new pair I must wear in Her Majesty's presence chamber and in her blasted drawing-room. Wummin, wi' their dainty feet and their dainty ways, they canna ken what we men suffer.' With a loud guffaw he slapped his bare leg delightedly.
And that was that. Suddenly, all embarrassment gone, both men were grinning at each other like apes, thought Vince.
Chortling happily, touching dram glasses, bound by common recollections, vying with each other on the matter of uncomfortable and abominable footwear, they stretched out their feet to the blaze.
Vince felt his presence was superfluous although John Brown tried politely to draw him into the conversation, putting him at his ease by talking softly and carefully, as if yon puir young Edinburgh laddie didna' understand the Highland speech.
Faro listened with some amusement, realising that they had the advantage since the Gaelic and not Lowland Scots was John Brown's native language.
As for Vince, he merely sighed. This was an all-too-familiar sore point, recalling the manner in which his Dundee patients treated him: as if he was still a wee school laddie and unaware of the ways of the world. If only they knew.
The next moment, Brown seemed to remember the reason for his visit. All jollity was suddenly wiped from his countenance, and he slammed down the empty glass on the table, refusing a refill.
'Inspector Faro, Dr Laurie,' he said, 'ye are doubtless wondering what has brought me to your doorstep with all haste the minute ye've arrived.' Pausing dramatically he looked from one to the other. 'Gentlemen, I am here on the Queen's business.'
To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6) Page 2
