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

by Alanna Knight

  Vince's earnest pursuit of right made him wince. 'Wait a minute, lad, here we are gossiping like a pair of old fishwives, tearing apart a lady's reputation when her story might be true.'

  But Vince was not prepared to let go. 'You can't mean that Lachlan was fostered by her, really the son of a friend who died.' Pausing he gave a bark of laughter. 'Stepfather, you surely don't believe that. How can you be so simple? Why, that's the thinnest story I've ever heard.' And shaking his head sadly, 'I'm disappointed in you, really I am. Here you are, a master of deduction, unable to see through an obvious tissue of lies. Unless—'

  'Unless what?' Faro demanded sharply.

  Vince regarded him narrowly. 'Unless you don't want to solve this one,' he said softly.

  And at that moment Faro suspected that in a flash of enlightenment Vince had solved the case for himself, the implication being that Lachlan was guilty of Morag's murder. Even as the monstrous thought took root, the scene at the river flashed vividly before him, touching a deeper, stranger chord of memory.

  What was it? Something Vince had said earlier? But he was too tired to think and determined to be in bed before his aunt and Tibbie returned and subjected him to the inevitable ordeal of retelling the rescue story for their benefit, he bid Vince goodnight rather sharply.

  He slept badly, nightmare scenes engulfing him. Over and over he was drowning with hands outstretched in front of him. But as he seized them, the fingers came away like sticks in his hands and he hurtled backwards into the falls.

  Next morning, hoping to escape with a light-hearted explanation for sodden garments left to dry by the fire, he found them all neatly pressed by Tibbie. As he related how he had slipped and fallen, how Inspector Purdie had rescued him, he remembered how strong his hands had been and the nightmare returned.

  'You can overcome anything, if you will it.'

  Anything but shrunken socks, it seemed, which he had placed on top of the hot oven.

  But Bella, as always, had a solution close at hand.

  From a drawer she took out a linen roll and withdrew a pair of kilt hose.

  'This was the last pair I ever made for your uncle. Finished them the day he died and never had the heart to give them away. At my age, it's gey daft to hang on to things. It'll no' be long now afore we're t'gither again, an he'll say to me, "Bella, ye daft besom, ye always were a hoarder. Whatever came ower ye." So take them, Jeremy lad.' And burrowing further, 'This too, his skean dhu. Ye should have had it long since.'

  Holding it, he remembered in an instant how his Uncle Ben had taught him to spin his bonnet on to the peg by the door. And by the same flick of the wrist, he had demonstrated how the skean dhu had been used in past ages with deadlier effect, to kill an enemy.

  And Faro, saddling up Steady, was surprised to discover he had lost none of his expertise. He could still score a bull's-eye on the old beam above the door. But he expected less dazzling results with the excuses he had on hand to offer Inga St Ola.

  On the way to her hotel he prepared himself for a very cool reception. Instead, Inga ran down the steps to meet him, grasped his hands.

  Ready with his apologies he saw her expression was one of relief rather than anger.

  'I am so sorry about yesterday—'

  'It doesn't matter—'

  'It is my own fault. I entirely forgot that I was to go out to Glen Muick—'

  She shook her head. 'When you didn't arrive I realised that something had happened.'

  Leading him to a garden seat, she sat down, spread her skirts and looked intently up into his face. 'I told myself that detectives are notoriously unreliable when they are engaged in the pursuit of criminals. And unexpected delays are the order of the day.'

  At his startled expression, she continued, 'That's why you are here, is it not?'

  Faro smiled wryly. 'I thought I was here for Aunt Bella's birthday and a fishing holiday. That, I assure you, was my intention.'

  Inga laughed. 'Jeremy Faro, you'll be the death of me.'

  'I'm glad you find me an object of mirth,' he said stiffly.

  'I don't, I promise you.' And suddenly she was solemn. 'I don't. Anything but that. But I can guess that whatever you are supposed to be doing, the real reason is something very serious.'

  A leaf fluttered down on to her lap and picking it up, she smoothed it out tenderly. 'I know you scorn this sort of thing, Jeremy, but I knew you wouldn't come.'

  'Is that so? I assure you I do try to keep my word—'

  'You don't understand. I don't mean it like that at all. Listen, I was looking forward to your visit. It was a lovely afternoon and then quite suddenly, it was all changed. Different. As if a giant shadow came across, between me and the sun.'

  She looked around as if hoping to find some measure to fit the description. Then turning to him, she said, 'I knew you were in terrible danger. That your life at that moment hung by a thread. And there was nothing I could do—no warning I could give. So I concentrated hard, prayed, "Deliver him from evil."'

  'What time was this, Inga?'

  'Three o'clock had just struck on the hall clock.'

  Faro looked away. He had checked his watch when he arrived in Glen Muick. Two thirty. He must have been walking for half an hour when he had fallen in the heather, the assassin's bullet cutting the air where a second before his head had been.

  Mistaking his preoccupation, Inga sighed. 'I know it's silly and you disapprove, Jeremy. But I can't help it, I just know things. I don't want to but I do.' Smoothing out the leaf again, she shook her head miserably. 'I don't want to be a witch, but that's what I am.'

  He took her hands, said softly, 'Your prayer worked, Inga. I nearly had a very nasty accident.'

  'What happened?'

  'Oh, I got in the way of the stalkers' guns—'

  'Dear God, how awful—'

  'My own stupid fault,' he said lightly, knowing he must not worry her further.

  At that moment a bell sounded within the hotel. 'Would you care to stay for lunch with me?'

  'I would love that.'

  As they took their seats at a table overlooking the garden, he said, 'You were right. I am here on a case.'

  'Can you talk about it?'

  'I think so. It will make you smile to see how far is the mighty detective fallen.' He told her about the Queen's dogs and was grateful that she did not find it amusing. An animal lover, she considered it a serious matter, and worthy of his skill in detection.

  'The Queen leaves tomorrow or the next day and I still haven't solved her mystery or produced her criminal.'

  'Don't you think it was most likely an irate farmer?'

  'I'm not sure. Perhaps you could use your second sight on that one?' And he laughed suddenly, placing his hand over hers on the table. 'What a team we would have made, Inga. Think of it. With your psychic powers and my practical ones. Quite unbeatable. Don't you agree?'

  But his laughter died at the pain on her face. Contrite, he longed to say, Oh Inga, what did I—or Fate—between us do to you? All these wasted years, so empty and barren for you taking care of Saul Hoy whom you didn't love. And parted from Lachlan, whom you did.

  He thought of the years they might have shared as husband and wife, and his mind raced ahead toying with the fleeting ghosts of other children they might have had. Instead he had Lizzie and Rose and Emily. And Vince, Lizzie's son—the lad dearer to him, he had told himself, than ever his own son could have been.

  As they were silent tackling the game soup which was steaming hot, he thought about the future.

  After the Queen left Balmoral with danger and a national catastrophe averted, he would return to Edinburgh and to the less sensational everyday crimes that were the legacy of a great city. And in his own home, the pressing domestic problem posed by his housekeeper Mrs Brook and the care of her invalid sister.

  As for the murder of Morag Brodie which had begun it all, that was Inspector Purdie's to solve. And he was thankful for once, that this was not his province.<
br />
  He looked across at Inga. What on earth was he thinking about? Dear God, how could he go and leave her son, even if he wasn't his, to the mercy of the law? Especially if the lad was innocent. For he suspected a certain ruthlessness in the Inspector from Scotland Yard.

  Purdie had a reputation to uphold and Faro guessed that he had already made up his mind that Lachlan, in the absence of any other suspect, must be guilty. In the Inspector's eyes, a suspect would be guilty until he was proved innocent.

  There was no way to convince him unless, within the next thirty-six hours, Faro could produce the real criminal.

  The maid interrupted his reverie, removing the soup plates and bringing in poached salmon. Inga smiled across at him.

  'How long are you staying?'

  'I shall be leaving on Saturday, in all probability. And you, Inga? What are your future plans?'

  'I have applied for a situation of housekeeper. There are two possibilities in the area. Big houses, that sort of thing. And one with a professor in Aberdeen.'

  'This is a big change for you.'

  She shrugged. 'Without Saul, I have no desire to stay on Balfray. Besides, I want to be near Lachlan. It is all so different from the plan I made for this visit. I had thought to see him with a wife, a life of his own.'

  'I thought you couldn't bear to leave Orkney.'

  'Did I say that? It seems I did feel that way a long time ago. Now time seems to be running away from me, the old man with the scythe. The death of someone close always makes you aware that time is the enemy-'

  He looked at her and thought how young she seemed; indestructible, this woman who was fast approaching middle age. Her black hair was still unstreaked with grey, eyes unlined, deep as bluebells, skin still satin-smooth.

  'If Vince stays at the hospital, then who knows, we might all meet up again?'

  With the turmoil she aroused in his heart, he wasn't sure that it was such a good idea.

  As they prepared to leave, he apologised once again. 'I am sorry about yesterday. Truly.'

  She shook her head, studying his face as if trying to remember every feature. 'It doesn't matter. As long as you are safe.'

  Beyond the garden the distant river glittered silver. As he prepared to mount Steady, she watched him nervously, intently, smoothing on her gloves. Those gloves- another gesture he remembered.

  His chaste goodbye kiss upon her cheek, she said, 'Be careful, Jeremy. That shadow, it's still over you, you know.'

  The bright smooth lawn had been tranquil in sunlight. Suddenly the peace and stillness of that perfect autumn afternoon was invaded by a startled rookery, their raucous cries and ragged wings swirling overhead. And he saw the sudden fear on her face as she glanced skywards.

  Fear that neither would put into words.

  Corbies. Those traditional birds of ill-omen.

  Inga was watching them too. Closing her eyes, she was still as if for a moment she no longer occupied her body, still so shapely and comely, like that of a young girl.

  'You're not out of the wood yet, Jeremy. There's danger, evil everywhere. All around you. And in the least expected places. Take care, dear friend, take care.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  Faro's route took him past the Crathie Inn to discover that Inspector Purdie had already left.

  There was a message for him. He tore open the envelope.

  'Plans are all changed. The Queen has announced her intention of remaining at Glasalt until her time of departure. I need not dwell upon the opportunities offered by a house so remote and virtually unguarded. Come at once.'

  The last line was heavily underscored. Faro could imagine the chaos at the Castle, with frantic servants and only John Brown pleased since at Glasalt he enjoyed the full limelight of the Queen's informality.

  In the light of his most recent deductions Faro had relived over and over in minute detail those desperate hours in Glen Muick. He had not the least doubt that Purdie was right.

  The murder attempt would be made at the Widow's House.

  The only hope of saving the Queen was in keeping one step ahead and in passing on certain vital information to Vince. But at Beagmill he was again thwarted. The two doctors had been called out to an accident case at the sawmill some ten miles distant.

  Leaving an urgent message and praying that Vince returned in time, he set off for Ballater where he had some considerable difficulty in convincing Sergeant Whyte that he was in deadly earnest.

  Following the bewildered policeman to the telegraph office, he stressed the urgency and hoped his two messages would be taken seriously by the startled clerk and not regarded as a hoax at their destinations.

  Riding towards Glen Muick he decided that it was unlikely any attempt on the Queen's life would be made during the hours of daylight. At least such an attempt would not be made by one man acting alone, who would prefer to have the situation under his command with as few witnesses as possible.

  In Glasalt he was interested to see the original numbers much depleted. Princess Beatrice and her lady-in-waiting had returned to Balmoral, for which he was grateful.

  The young princess did not share her mother's enthusiasm for the great outdoors and on the excuse of a mildly sore throat had returned to the Castle. The excuse, flimsy as it might seem, was enough to alarm the Queen thoroughly, for her over-protection of 'Baby' included excessive worries about her health.

  At the Queen's insistence, Mr Gladstone had also been returned to the Castle. He took a dour view of being deprived of the opportunity for another of his twenty mile walks through the hills.

  A more willing member of the princess's escort was General Ponsonby, a worried man with much to arrange in the light of the Queen's changed plans. Captains Tweedledum and Tweedledee were firm in their resolve to remain. The Queen had somewhat ungraciously agreed.

  To Brown in his role as temporary master of the household was given the task of allocating bedrooms. Built with an eye to accommodating guests, the main house contained several spare rooms and there were others in the so-called barn and stables outside.

  In addition to the security guards, the party at Glasalt was now composed of the Queen, Lady Churchill, John Brown, and Inspectors Purdie and Faro. As for servants, Lachlan Brown would take care of the horses and Peter Noble, a man of many accomplishments, would put aside his paint brushes and be in charge of supper.

  Ponsonby left with a request for roast partridges, some salmon, chicken, Scotch trifle and Dundee cake: 'A simple picnic hamper plus two kitchen maids would be adequate.' The Queen had stressed also the need for lots of good wine.

  She was less than delighted when they arrived under the personal supervision of her Prime Minister, who was determined not to let his sovereign out of his sight.

  The Queen received his return with ill-concealed exasperation, almost rudely turning her back upon him as he bowed. Only Mr Gladstone was unaware of her petulant sigh of disapproval.

  Faro had witnessed exchanges like this before and decided that Mr Gladstone was either deaf or insensitive, or conveniently, a little of both.

  The Queen announced that all were here to indulge in pleasant relaxation and joyful activities. She would spend the afternoon sketching the view across the Loch of Darkness and Sorrow.

  It now transpired that this was her urgent reason for remaining at Glasalt. The water-colour begun on her last visit was to be an anniversary present for Princess Vicky and her husband who were romantically inclined towards Deeside. For it was here that Prince Frederick had proposed. And while she painted, her lady-in-waiting, Lady Churchill, would read to her and Brown would remain in attendance.

  Accordingly the visitors dispersed. The Captains elected for fishing, and Faro's sharp eyes detected a couple of rifles, hard to conceal, as unlikely fishing rods among their equipment.

  'Have you any plans, Faro?' Purdie asked.

  Faro decided to keep these to himself. He spoke vaguely of riding along the shore of the loch.

  'You wouldn
't care to accompany me?' Purdie enquired. 'I thought I might go in search of our missing policeman. A good walk would do us both good.'

  Unfortunately this was overheard by Mr Gladstone and nothing short of deliberate insult could dissuade him from accompanying the Inspector, who gave Faro a despairing gesture.

  Noble left the house with them, carrying his easel, determined to complete his painting of Glasalt unless light and weather failed him.

  Faro had his own reasons for a careful search of the hill where his life had been threatened. Brown's two collie dogs watched wistful-eyed the guests assembled in the yard. He was calling them to heel when Faro asked: 'Would they come with me?'

  'Aye. They would that.'

  'Very well. Come!'

  'Are you sure you wouldn't care to join us, Faro?' said Purdie, viewing dogs and horse with curiosity.

  Gladstone, whose speech on the splendid qualities of hill-walking and his own indomitable prowess was in full flood, viewed this interruption with disfavour. Faro watched the two men depart with some amusement, even the younger, taller Inspector having problems matching his stride to the elder man. At last Gladstone's voice faded and the two disappeared.

  Faro rode up the hill and stopped to take out the field glasses which were always accessible at Glasalt. Noble was approaching the boulder where they had met the previous day, while Tweedie and Dumleigh were heading downwards to the loch.

  Faro took stock of his surroundings. He was going to need a great deal of luck to find what he sought on that wild desolate hillside where Craig had disappeared so mysteriously.

  He found that stalking was in fact a great deal easier in the heather than in the streets and wynds of Edinburgh, especially with a couple of borrowed dogs.

  His search was rewarded, alas, and it was a sadder if considerably more enlightened Faro who started back for Glasalt. The fact that his theory about the second shot had proved correct did nothing to alleviate his distress as a chill mist rose from the loch and embraced him.

  There were few things which struck naked terror into his heart, but fog—heavy blanketing fog, silent and unrelenting—was one of them. For years he had been unable to find one good sound reason to account for such a nonsensical fear in a grown man.