To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6)

by Alanna Knight

  'I wonder who was behind that piece of inspired skulduggery.'

  'Indeed. And who do you think goes into a trance and speaks in the Prince's voice, calling her "Liebchen" and giving her tips on how to rule the country?'

  'Not Brown surely.'

  McIntosh nodded. 'The same.' He looked at Faro curiously. 'What's the chap like? I mean, to exert all this influence over Her Majesty?'

  'Sound as a bell, I'd say, loyal to the soles of his brogues. I hope you're not going to imply that he's involved.'

  McIntosh smiled into his beard. 'Not at all, Faro. That never crossed my mind. It was something quite different I had in mind. Er—do you think, I mean...' His eyes roved the room, searching for the right words to phrase that burning question, 'Is there any truth in the rumour?'

  'What rumour?' said Faro innocently, deciding not to spare the Superintendent.

  'Dammit, man, you know perfectly well. That he and Her Majesty are, er, well—to put it delicately—infatuated?'

  Faro laughed. 'Don't tell me you are being influenced by the popular press, sir. She needs a strong man, another Prince Consort, a father figure, but that's all. Someone with all the trappings of pomp and self-interest stripped away. Someone who would die for her if necessary but is much happier to live for her.'

  'I thought her Prime Minister performed that function,' said McIntosh, clearly disappointed. 'How does Mr Gladstone take all this adulation of Brown, I wonder?'

  'You must realise from your perusal of the newspapers, sir, that she cannot stand the man. He treats her with awe and reverence. She was overheard and quoted as saying, "He treats me like a public meeting."' Faro shook his head. 'No, she needs a friend, not a lover. Someone she can be a woman with, let her hair down, take a dram, for heaven's sake.'

  With a sigh, McIntosh picked up his gloves, smoothed them with his large hands and looked wistfully in the direction of his empty glass. 'And that is damned fine stuff.'

  'It is indeed. Made at our local distillery up the road. A little more, perhaps?'

  'Mm. Thank you. You were saying—'

  'John Brown makes her feel like a woman, not a Queen Empress.'

  'Rumour has it that he even chooses her wardrobe. Isn't that going a little far, don't you think?'

  Faro smiled. 'Not at all. After all, this isn't the first time a Queen has been mesmerised by a commoner. Take Mary Queen of Scots and Bothwell—'

  'Bothwell was an earl,' McIntosh exploded. 'Brown is a mere ignorant peasant. A ghillie, dammit.'

  'A ghillie he may be but ignorant, no. He's a dominie's son, well read—'

  'I suppose you're going to tell me this is a situation not unknown. Seems to arouse, er, um, passion in a woman of breeding, being wooed and won by a common soldier or servant...'

  Faro glanced at the Superintendent and wondered what kind of literature he read in his spare time. 'On the subject of clothes,' he said hastily, 'Her Majesty has no interest in gowns. Hasn't had much since Prince Albert died. Tends to wear the same black satin in Edinburgh every year.'

  'It has been noticed,' said McIntosh drily.

  'I'm not a man fond of dressing up myself,' said Faro uncomfortably, 'but I insist upon being clean and tidy and I feel shabby black is hardly in keeping with the Royal image.'

  McIntosh nodded. 'There's a story circulating that this Brown fellow was overheard saying to her, "Now what's this you've got on today, woman?" He didn't approve of what she was wearing.'

  He guffawed. 'Apparently she listened to his criticism and meek as a lamb went back and changed into something more suitable. Can you credit that?' And slapping his thigh delightedly, he added, 'Man, it would be more than my life was worth to criticise Mrs McIntosh's gowns.'

  Faro suppressed a smile, for the Superintendent's wife was known in the Central Office as 'The Tartar', managing to keep her large husband well and truly under her tiny thumb.

  As Faro walked down the road to where McIntosh's carriage waited, the Superintendent said, 'Any chance of an invitation to lunch or dine at the Castle?'

  'Not so far.'

  'Pity. Couldn't you get Brown to arrange a meeting, talk about those dogs—lost, weren't they?' he added vaguely.

  'Shot, sir. Dead.'

  'Oh yes.' McIntosh was not an animal lover and obviously wondered what all the Royal fuss was about. 'Try to impress on Brown that Her Majesty owes you an audience. And it would be an excellent chance for a little quiet investigation.'

  On the step, he turned once more. 'There's one question you haven't asked me, Faro.'

  'And what it that, sir?'

  'Who is the brains behind the Prince's Party?'

  'I haven't the least idea.'

  McIntosh laughed. 'You should, Faro. He's an old enemy of yours.'

  'Really? I have accumulated a vast number of those through twenty years with the Edinburgh Police.'

  'But not many as clever or as wily as this one.' And watching Faro's expression eagerly, he said, 'This time we think it is Lord Nob's handiwork.'

  Lord Nob. Noblesse Oblige. A devil with a dozen names and a dozen faces, whose background was noble perhaps, rumour had it, even Royal, but whose true identity no man had ever cracked and lived.

  Their last encounter had been in what Faro's notes described as 'The Case of the Killing Cousins'.

  On a stormy clifftop in Orkney he thought he had seen the last of his adversary. Faro groaned inwardly.

  Closing the carriage door, McIntosh leaned out of the window.

  'I see you recognise the gravity of the situation. This is one of national peril. This isn't something you handle alone, Faro. Get Purdie on to it, d'you hear,' he repeated. 'Believe me, you are going to need all the help you can get. We're relying on you. Faro. See to it.'

  Chapter Six

  Faro found Tibbie in the barn. She had taken under her slender wing the welfare of Steady. Loving animals great and small, she announced proudly that he had been given his dinner.

  With the rest of the day to himself until visiting time at the hospital, the idea of sitting with his fishing rod by the banks of the Dee now appalled rather than appealed. Especially as he brooded upon the fact that every boulder might now conceal the hidden presence and watchful eyes of his old adversary.

  Considerably more in keeping with his temper was the challenge presented by marching out to confront danger. And by solving the sinister mysteries looming around him perhaps he might finally outwit Noblesse Oblige.

  Horseback was an excellent alternative to exploring the countryside on foot in search of clues. A rider could not only move faster, he could also penetrate less accessible areas than one in a pony-cart.

  Steady seemed to agree with him and made no resistance to being saddled up. If it wasn't too idiotic, thought Faro, he appeared to be smiling knowingly. The cause, he discovered, was a slight malformation of the upper lip due to a couple of missing teeth.

  As they trotted off down the lane, the pleasure of riding through a golden, crisp-aired day with the sun still at its zenith brought a delightful sense of well-being.

  Ten years ago, before the advent of horse-drawn omnibuses in Edinburgh, this had been his usual method of travelling into the countryside on the track of criminals.

  But in town he never felt safe in the narrow crowded streets and wynds of the High Street and its environs. In that vast criminal underworld where lurked many hazards, a man on horseback was particularly vulnerable.

  With a half-formed plan in mind he found himself drawn towards the area across the river where Morag Brodie's body had been found. He did not doubt the efficiency of Purdie and Craig and realised there was little hope of any overlooked clues—especially as he suspected the girl's body had been taken from the ruined mill on the Balmoral Estate, to be discovered on the road which, according to Purdie and his map, led to Bush Farm.

  Was his obvious deduction the right answer? That this had been to divert suspicion to the discarded lover, Lachlan Brown?

  Climbing the s
teep brae, with its twists and turns, he had an unexpected stroke of luck. The sound of creaking wheels and a farmhand emerged driving a haycart.

  Faro drew Steady in to let him pass.

  "Tis a fine day, mister.'

  Faro replied in kind.

  The man was middle-aged, cheery-faced. 'Ye've missed the Mains road, doctor.'

  'Doctor?'

  The man eyed the horse and Faro's tweed suit reflectively. 'Aye, sir, ye'll be visiting the maister. Een o' the bairns has the croup.'

  Faro shook his head. 'Alas, I'm not the doctor, and I fear I'm lost.'

  The man's curiosity was thoroughly aroused. 'Stranger to these parts, are ye, sir?'

  'Not quite. I'm biding with my aunt Mistress MacVae at Easter Balmoral.'

  The farmhand was immediately interested. 'That was an awfa' business about the fire—' Suddenly he pushed back his bonnet, scratched his brow. 'I ken who ye are, mister,' he added stabbing a finger in Faro's direction. 'I wasna' far out in thinking ye were the new doctor.'

  'He is my stepson.'

  'And ye must be Mistress Bella's nevvy, the policeman,' was the triumphant response.

  'Correct.'

  The man chortled delightedly. 'We've heard all about ye, sir. Solving all these mysteries.' And leaning forward confidentially, he added, 'Did ye ken that there was a murder hereabouts?'

  'I did hear something of the kind,' said Faro vaguely.

  'Aye, I could show ye the exact spot, if ye'd care to see it.'

  Leaping down from the cart, he led the way back and stopped by a bramble-filled ditch some twenty yards distant.

  He touched the verge with his boot. 'Here, sir, this is where she lay. I'll no forget it in a hurry, sir. For it was me that found the puir lass,' he said proudly.

  'You must be Jock?'

  'The same, sir.'

  This was indeed an unexpected piece of good fortune.

  'Early morning it was, I was on the way up to the fields here. And there was this bundle of rags, I'm thinking. Then I saw it was a woman. Och, a drunken tinker, her hair was over her face. When I tried to wake her up,' he gulped at the memory, 'I thought it was mud dried on her dress. Then I saw it was dried blood. She had been stabbed in the chest.'

  'Did you touch anything?'

  'Nothing, sir. I ran and telt the maister. He's an invalid, puir body, been in a wheelchair for nigh on twa' years. He was right upset about it, told me to saddle up and ride into Ballater to get Sergeant Whyte. And Dr Elgin. There's been an inspector, a top man from London,' he added in tones of awe. 'He asked me a powerful lot of questions—and the maister too. He has it all written down, just exactly like I've telt ye.'

  Faro did not doubt that. 'Did you know the lass?'

  'Everybody kenned Morag Brodie,' Jock said slowly. 'A foreigner, no' frae these parts, working up at the Castle. The Crathie Inn was een o' her haunts wi' the rest o' the servants.' Again confidentially he whispered, 'Aye, a fair bucket o' drink they took, but kept themselves to themselves, o'course,' he added with a wry smile. 'Superior to the rest o' us.'

  He stopped to watch the distant figure of a woman, carrying a basket.

  'That's ma missus. Brings ma piece to the end o' the road.'

  The haycart trundled off down the lane. Five minutes later Faro emerged from the ditch without any new evidence but with an abundance of scratches from the close-packed bramble hedge.

  At that moment he was thankful that this particular case was not his responsibility and that Purdie had the killer already in his sights.

  Why then did it continue to trouble him? Was it the vague possibility that the murder of Morag Brodie had its origins in a plot to kill the Queen?

  He sighed. His search for whoever killed the Queen's pet dogs seemed even more ludicrous in the light of Superintendent McIntosh's monstrous revelations.

  From the distant hill, the echoes of gunfire, the faint plumes of smoke and clouds of birds rising indicated that the sportsmen were still busily engaged in the morning's activity.

  Shading his eyes he stared across the river and wished he could see inside the mind of the assassin who at this moment lurked somewhere behind the granite walls of Balmoral Castle, tranquil in afternoon sunlight.

  He turned Steady's head, briskly trotting downhill until they reached the river bank and the bridge which gave access to the Castle gates. As they entered the drive, a landau approached carrying four passengers.

  Faro recognised General Ponsonby, the Queen's secretary, and Prime Minister Gladstone. Sitting opposite them were two large gentlemen. With only the most cursory observation, stolid countenances and military bearing betrayed them as the security guards, Captains Tweedie and Dumleigh.

  The General, who knew him, bowed and obviously identified Faro for the others who now turned and regarded him intently.

  As they disappeared he found himself close to the spot where the Queen's dogs had been killed. When his presence in the grounds was revealed to Her Majesty she would, he was certain, express her impatience if he did not have some substantial progress to report to Brown within the next day or two.

  If word of the Queen's dissatisfaction with his investigations reached the popular press, then his whole reputation might be under threat. He could imagine Her Majesty's scornful reactions on her next visit to Edinburgh: 'Inspector Faro, you say. Have you no one else? Why, he could not even discover who killed our precious dogs.'

  Suddenly aware that he was running out of time, he shuddered. He had at most four days to discover the dog-slayer and avert a plot to murder their Royal mistress.

  This was Tuesday. At the end of the week the Queen left once again for London.

  If she was still alive.

  As he rode towards the Castle, the drive appeared to be deserted and he realised how easy it was to gain access to the Castle. No guards, no policemen. Just as the Queen wished it to appear, a normal country house.

  Dear God, that it was so.

  He looked up at the windows, all empty, close-curtained in tartan. He turned away, frustrated, helpless to avert the catastrophe taking shape within those walls.

  As he started back down the drive the sound of loud barking presaged the appearance of three liveried white-wigged footmen, leading a selection of assorted dogs.

  At the sight of his horse the dogs became even more agitated, while Steady greeted the tirade with remarkable calm, snorting a little but remaining aloof.

  The footmen meanwhile with great difficulty and much disentanglement of chains at last succeeded in quieting their charges.

  While Faro expected to be challenged on his right to be riding about on Royal property, they merely regarded him sullenly. Touching his whip to his hat in brief salute, he trotted past and out on to the road leading to the bridge, suddenly elated by the encounter.

  Did the footmen normally walk the dogs? If so, had this been one of the duties of Lessing, Morag Brodie's drowned lover?

  He was to find the answer to that sooner than he expected when, a few hours later, with Steady again saddled to the pony-cart, he set off once more for the hospital.

  Bella greeted him cheerfully: 'I'm being let home tomorrow for ma birthday—' The door opened to admit a somewhat breathless Vince. 'I was just telling him the grand news—'

  'You go on one condition. Great-aunt,' said Vince sternly. 'That you promise to take care and not do too much.' And turning to Faro, he added, 'Dr Elgin has given me the evening off. I wonder, could we have supper together? I'm told the food is excellent at the inn.'

  'No need for that, lad. Tibbie'll give ye both a bite to eat.'

  'That's all very fine, dear. But we're not going to impose on Tibbie. Besides it's time I made the acquaintance of the locals. Agreed, Stepfather?'

  'Agreed.'

  'Forgive me carrying him off, Great-aunt. He will be all yours, I promise, from tomorrow morning.' And to Faro, 'Ten minutes, at the entrance?' And turning back to Bella, 'I'll look in and see you two ladies later.'

 
In the next bed Nessie remained motionless, apart from her heavy breathing.

  Bella looked towards her anxiously. 'The puir soul. She gets that upset, cries a lot about Morag. And the Queen's sewing. Always was a worrier, ye ken. The nurse had to give her something to make her sleep. Puir Nessie, she's upset at me going. She wants home too.'

  'But where will she go?'

  'She can bide with me, of course,' said Bella indignantly. 'No one goes without a roof over their heads hereabouts, Jeremy. There's always good neighbours. And cottages falling vacant on the estate. The Queen's a kind caring body, never forgetting them as has served her.'

  She smiled at him, picking up a ball of wool and needles from the bed. 'Now off you go and have yer supper, lad. I have the heel of my sock to turn and then it'll be bedtime. See and come early for me in the morning.' He hugged her fondly, promising to do so.

  Vince was awaiting him in the lobby and greeted the pony-cart with delight. 'No more walking today, thank heaven. It's not a very big hospital, but the corridors seem uncommon long. Especially as I have to attend both men and women patients and when Prince Albert designed the dratted building, he omitted to make any communicating door between the two wings. I cannot imagine how it hasn't killed Dr Elgin years ago.'

  The coaching inn was busy, obviously extremely popular with locals and visitors alike. They found a corner table near a cheerful log fire and over an excellent meal of broth, roast beef and Athol brose, Faro told his stepson of his conversation with Purdie and the two policemen, and his meeting with Jock at the murder scene.

  McIntosh's secret visit and the plot to kill the Queen, he left until the end.

  Vince whistled. 'This is incredible, Stepfather. What a hornet's nest you've stumbled on this time. But you know, I'd wager that Inspector Purdie knows about it. And that's the real reason for his presence here.'