She held out her hands. 'I wanted to gather her in. Warn her. And then I knew it was useless, whatever lay ahead I could do nothing to prevent it happening. It was already written,' she added heavily.
'And I made a resolve. If she was what Lachlan wanted, then I would do all in my power to help them. But I didn't think it would come to that. I also knew it was very one-sided. Lachlan was not enamoured. So when he wrote me that they had been married by habit and repute, I was taken aback. Hurt, too, that I had not been invited even as a witness.'
'Did he give you any reason for the haste?'
'I presumed the worst. That she was carrying his child. When I heard of the tragedy, of course, I came at once. I was shocked to learn that she had left him immediately after the marriage, such as it was, and that he had never seen her again.'
Faro wondered if she knew the full story, of the £250 and the mysterious benefactor, but she was asking the question he dreaded.
'I gather they have not found the murderer yet? Who do they suspect?'
Faro was saved an answer when she continued, smiling, 'I'm sorry, I suppose that is secret information. At least no one could suspect Lachlan, for which I must be thankful. And I gather he has been very helpful to the police.'
That was news, thought Faro cynically; obstructive would have been a better term.
On the outskirts of Ballater was a tiny private hotel, set among pretty gardens.
'This is where I leave you,' said Inga.
'When shall I see you again?'
Inga's face was in shadow. 'Do you really want to?'
'Of course I do.'
'Do you think that is wise?' A vestige of pain sounded in her voice this time.
He took her hand, held it tightly, not wanting to let her go. 'Wise or not, I would like to see you.'
'Very well. How about tea this afternoon?'
'Splendid,' he said, taken aback by her unexpected eagerness.
'Here, about four? Till then.' She smiled and he saw in the sudden dazzling radiance Lachlan's resemblance to her. Whatever Inga St Ola pretended, unless she had a twin sister, Lachlan was undeniably her flesh and blood.
And probably his.
Helping her down, wondering whether he ought to kiss her or not, he found the decision was spared him. Turning abruptly she hurried up the gravel path to the hotel door.
Watching her disappear inside, disappointed that she did not once look back, he climbed into the pony-cart. His emotions in turmoil, he arrived back at the Crathie Inn. There his appointment with Inspector Purdie served to remind him that at four o'clock he could not take tea with Inga St Ola, for he would be on his way to Glen Muick and the Queen's picnic.
'Damn. And damn again,' he swore.
Chapter Eleven
The Inspector was comfortably ensconced at a table by the window. As they shared a dram. Faro recounted the morning's events, how he had met Lachlan's mother.
'An old acquaintance of mine from Orkney days.'
Purdie's eyebrows lifted in faint surprise, especially as Faro after a little embarrassed throat-clearing drank up hastily, in the manner of one eager to change the subject.
Purdie's bespectacled eyes glinted in amusement. 'So you are hinting that the money was honestly come by.'
'I believe so. Willed to the boy by her former employer.'
Purdie nodded. 'So we have settled that mystery. Good. Incidentally, I have returned personally to Bush Farm the banknotes Craig—er, removed. I shall recover it from him later,' he added grimly.
'How did you explain it?'
'I left the envelope on the kitchen table. I did not even try to explain.'
Faro frowned. 'Will that not leave young Brown with a poor impression of the police's integrity?'
'Transparent lies would be even less likely to impress him,' said Purdie. 'Besides I suspect that he is no stranger to fabrications. A Scots marriage, did you say? I have never heard such rubbish.'
'It happens to be true, sir.'
'It will never hold up in a court of law.'
'Except in Scotland,' Faro insisted, regarding him thoughtfully. As so often happened, an English upbringing had sadly blunted the Scots 'lad o' pairts' to the manners and customs of his ancient heritage.
'Hrmmph.' Purdie scowled. 'And what's all this salmon leistering the Queen is so interested in? Why doesn't she leave the catching of fish to her menials?'
'I presume it is all part of her wish to share in the peasant life of her tenants. She sees Balmoral as her own rustic Arcady.'
Purdie laughed harshly. 'Without any of the hardships. I am sure it has not gone unnoticed by you, Faro, that this is the sort of thing that brought Marie Antoinette to the guillotine. I, for one, will be heartily glad when I see Her Majesty safely aboard the Royal train in Ballater. This whole exercise has been an absolute farce, a waste of precious time, don't you think?'
And without waiting for a reply, he went on, It must be plain to our assassin by now that he cannot succeed when everyone except the Queen seems to know his intentions and is healthily alert. Don't you agree?'
Faro didn't. Through twenty years of dealing with violent criminals he had developed an acute sense of danger. 'I imagine there are always at least a dozen corners where an assassin might lurk unnoticed in the Castle. And another dozen weak spots in security arrangements, that have been overlooked by everyone concerned.' He paused. 'Except the assassin, of course—who must manage to stay one step ahead.'
'You are forgetting someone else.'
'Am I?'
'Yourself, Faro. We have it on record that in dealing with crime, it is Detective Inspector Faro who has always been that one step ahead.' He laughed. 'Why else did you think I wanted your help on this case?' And stroking his beard thoughtfully, 'Tell me, what is the secret of your success? Luck, care or intuition?'
Faro shrugged. 'A little of all three.'
'Let's hope for all our sakes that none of these attributes has deserted you. You are coming to Glen Muick?'
'I am. Perhaps you would care to share the pony-cart?'
'Thank you, no. I would offer you the carriage but I have various things to do, enquiries which may take some time.'
Purdie hesitated as if about to impart their nature, then shook his head, saying, 'I will see you there.'
Glen Muick was the Queen's favourite area. She loved its 'real severe Highland scenery', and the loch which could look noble or sinister according to the mood of the weather.
As Faro rode Steady along the narrow rough track by the loch, the glen whose name meant 'darkness' or 'sorrow' was living up to its name.
It could hardly have been less inviting. He had forgotten that visitors, expecting a deer forest to be a picturesque dense tree-covered expanse, found on closer acquaintance a sparse wood on the lower foothills and sides of burns. Above, the naked mountainside covered in huge boulders and wild heather stretched skywards.
He was thankful that his destination was not Altna-Guithasach, called somewhat inappropriately 'The Hut'. In the higher and more treacherous reaches of the mountain, the bothy had been built for the Queen and her beloved Prince Albert.
When he died it held too many memories for her to visit it. But she could not desert her dear loch, so seven years later she built the Glasalt Sheil by its shores, accessible by boat or road.
At last the house appeared against the distant hills. Across the heather the sound of guns reverberated. The afternoon shoot was still in progress.
Faro shaded his eyes against the light. Small puffs of smoke and birds rising into the sky indicated that the sportsmen had now reached the wilder stretches of the hillside.
Steady did not care for this distant activity. It made him nervous. In deference to his horse's distress, Faro decided to anchor the reins to a large boulder and strike out on foot across the heath towards 'The Widow's House'.
Keeping to windward so that he might circle the guns and approach by their rear meant hard going. He was no tracker and the
gnarled burnt-out roots of heather clung to his ankles one moment, while the next he found himself slithering across a treacherous slope or ploughing through an oozing bog marsh.
Leaping across a tiny stream he missed his footing, tripped and fell headlong. The fall which winded him also saved his life.
As he hit the heather, the air above him whistled and he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet slam against a boulder and ricochet into the water.
He raised his head timidly, expecting to see one of the Royal party hurtling towards him, angrily questioning his right to be there.
Preparing to give a good account of himself, he stood up and stared round indignantly.
There was no one in sight. He had the vast boulder-strewn landscape to himself but for a belt of stunted trees and a glacial rock of large proportions on the horizon.
Even as he considered that as the direction from which the gunfire had emanated, another shot rang out. Dropping like a stone into the heather, he lay still, no longer in any doubt that he was the target.
Around him all was silent as before and with a fast-beating heart, he considered his next move.
Suddenly he saw a movement, a head raised about twenty yards above him and hastily withdrawn. His assassin no doubt. And he cursed the fact of being unarmed and completely vulnerable to attack.
In a fist fight he was confident that he could hold his own, but he could do nothing against a man with a gun.
Except to escape by using guile and cunning.
The watcher had moved. Keeping out of sight, he heard the footsteps of someone leaping through the heather. They were heading in his direction.
He thought fast, realised he had one chance—only one, and that was to lie perfectly still, play dead until his attacker was upon him.
Keeping his head well down, he listened to the thumping of his own heart. The footsteps were close now, he could hear his assailant breathing.
He braced himself against another bullet thudding into his flesh and when instead a hand touched his shoulder, he sprang into life, with the speed of a coiled spring suddenly released. In a second, the roles were reversed. He had his man, arms twisted behind him, face down in the heather, cursing and threatening.
Turning him over, he discovered the startled countenance of Peter Noble looking up at him.
'Mr Faro. For God's sake, let me go. What the devil has got into you? You're breaking my arms.'
Faro relaxed his grip enough to allow him to struggle into a sitting position.
Noble stared at him ruefully. 'I thought you were dead.'
'Then I am sorry to disappoint you.'
'Disappoint? What are you talking about, sir? I was watching you come up the hill when someone back there took a pot shot at me. At least I thought it was me. Then I saw you fall.'
As Noble spoke Faro saw he carried no gun. He did a quick calculation. If the footman had intended to kill him out here on the hill, he would not have approached empty-handed. In case his quarry was only wounded he would have come prepared to make certain, to give him the coup de grâce.
Noble looked round nervously, shaded his eyes against the horizon. 'This really is too much.' And taking Faro's arm, 'Hurry, sir. We're obviously in someone's line of fire. They shouldn't be allowed, such rotten shots. No regard for people's safety.'
Following Noble through the heather, Faro asked, 'What were you doing up here? Why weren't you with the guns?'
'I was sketching, sir.'
'Sketching in the middle of a shooting party?'
'I dabble, sir. Her Majesty is very encouraging. Come. I'll show you.'
He led the way up to the large rock, behind which were spread out his materials and easel. He pointed to the half-finished painting.
'It's a fine sheltered spot. As you see, quite safe from the guns. And a splendid view of Glasalt. At Her Majesty's request,' he added proudly.
'It's very good.' And it was. What was more, whether Noble lied or not the colour was still wet and to Faro's inexperienced eye, the composition represented several hours' work.
Noble's chosen site was also invisible from where he had been walking up the hill. On the road far below, Steady was happily cropping the grass where he had left him.
Now from over the hill another man appeared at the run. It was Purdie this time. Cupping his hands he was shouting, 'Faro—Faro.'
Faro came out from behind the boulder, waved vigorously.
Purdie stumbled over the heather breathing hard. 'I heard shots from this direction. There were no guns. I feared the worst.'
'I seem to have got myself in the wrong place.'
'You look a bit white about the gills.'
'Someone took a pot shot at Mr Faro, Inspector,' said Noble excitedly. 'Perhaps even two shots.'
Purdie's face as he looked at Noble registered disbelief. 'I was over at Glasalt.' He patted the telescope in his pocket. 'Keeping an eye on things. As I was scanning the terrain, I saw you leave the horse. I fancied you might be heading in the way of the guns so I sent Craig to direct you. Where is he, anyway?'
The three looked round. Of Craig there was no sign.
Ignoring Noble, Purdie took Faro's arm firmly, led him out of earshot. Staring across at the footman who was regarding his painting indecisively, he asked, 'Tell me, what exactly did happen?' He sounded worried.
'A bullet whizzed over my head, ricocheted. There was a second shot which, according to Noble, he thought was meant for him—'
'According to Noble,' repeated Purdie heavily.
'It could have been a mistake, sir. The Royal party are notorious bad shots—'
'Look again, Faro, see the direction the wind is blowing the smoke. There are no guns firing over this area.'
Again Purdie glanced back at Noble who seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings. Paint brush in hand, he was concentrating his efforts on Glasalt Sheil.
'There was no one else here, Faro. Except him.'
'True. But I didn't see any evidence of guns among his equipment.'
Purdie dismissed his theory about Noble's lack of a gun.
'He could have concealed it just a few steps away in the heather. If you were merely wounded, then he had only to snatch it up. God, man, you were unarmed.' And looking round, 'The heather is the perfect place for hiding spent bullets too.'
Purdie sighed. 'I think you are taking this far too lightly, Faro. I regard what has happened as a serious attempt on your life. All the evidence seems to point in that direction.'
'In the circumstances I'm afraid I have to agree with you, sir,' said Faro glumly.
'It's what I've been expecting. That we were to be the targets.'
'We, sir?'
Purdie smiled grimly. 'Indeed, yes. The second bullet wasn't for Noble. It was for me. I was in full view dashing across the heather towards you. I don't need to impress upon you the gravity of the situation, Faro. Our murderer is getting desperate. He is running out of time. He knows that we are on to him and that we are both too dangerous to live!'
Raising the telescope, he scanned the horizon, handed it to Faro. On the hillside, the tiny figures of the shooting party, so clear he could see their heads moving as they chatted, were making their way slowly down in the direction of Glasalt.
'We might as well do likewise,' said Purdie. 'Let me have another look. No. Absolutely no sign of Craig.'
'Where can he have got to?'
'He might have missed us, got lost and tagged on to the beaters. Yes, I imagine that's what has happened.'
As they walked downhill. Faro turned. Now far above them Noble had emerged from the boulder and was making a cautious descent with easel and painting materials.
The afternoon was still warm and the heather was filled with the steady drone of insects. Faro signalled a young beater to fetch Steady.
As Purdie yelled 'Drat them!' striking out ineffectually at the cloud of midges, Faro realised he had been too preoccupied with a different kind of attack to notice their very painfu
l presence.
On the sloping lawn beside the Widow's House, where already the party had formed into groups, the picnic was being unpacked by the ghillies.
Brown solemnly withdrew a whisky bottle from the carriage. He held it high to the accompaniment of cries of delight.
'Just in case of need, ye ken,' he said straight-faced.
'Will it help my midge-bites, Brown?' called one of the ladies.
'Aye, if ye drink it down, it will help ye to forget them.'
Faro looked round the assembled throng. The Queen was there with her pretty young daughter, Princess Beatrice, and their ladies-in-waiting; the two Captains Tweedie and Dumleigh, General Ponsonby, Mr Gladstone; the ghillies, Grant and Lachlan Brown; the beaters, young lads in rough tweeds, bonnets and shabby brogues.
Servants appeared from inside the house to dispense tea, scones and Dundee cake, all of which Faro thought fell far short of Aunt Bella's standards.
A party from Invercauld House made up the numbers. They were chiefly notable for their piercingly shrill English accents as Mr Gladstone regaled them with stories of his remarkable feats of hill-walking:
'... a mere bagatelle. Nineteen miles up Lochnagar. Came back fresh as a lark.' And patting his puffed-out chest, he surveyed them proudly. 'Sound as a bell. Not bad for a man past sixty, you'll agree.'
A burst of applause and delighted cries of 'Well done, Prime Minister,' brought a dour glance from the sovereign he tried so hard to impress.
Pausing in her conversation with Princess Beatrice she darted a glance, so frankly murderous, in Mr Gladstone's direction that Faro had to restrain himself from laughing out loud.
His eyes searched the little group. While their menfolk had indulged themselves with bringing down game birds on the hill, the ladies had prudently remained at Glasalt. Now they sat with their crinolines spread around them, a circle of pretty, gaily-coloured flowers on the grass, their faces protected from the insects' attacks by wide-brimmed hats and the dextrous use of fans.
To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6) Page 13
