Missing by Murder
An Inspector Faro Mystery
by
Alanna Knight
Chapter 1
The discovery of a woman's body in the Wizard's House in the West Bow was a sombre end to what had been an unusually convivial evening for Detective Inspector Jeremy Faro.
The Annual Regimental Dinner in Edinburgh Castle had provided everything to his taste; victuals excellent, drams in constant supply, toasts short and witty. But the highlight of the occasion was his reunion after many years with his cousin Leslie Faro Godwin.
The war correspondent was guest of honour. That in itself was something of a novelty where newspapermen were still regarded by the rich and famous with suspicion. Jackals of society, who earned a contemptible living by scandal-mongering and exposing the shortcomings of their betters for the titillation of their readers.
'Gentlemen sometimes wrote for the press, but newsmen were rarely gentlemen.'
Whoever penned that sneering epithet had never encountered Leslie Faro Godwin, thought Faro proudly as he listened to his cousin's talk. Leslie, who was five years his senior, was the veteran of many campaigns. Brave as any soldier, utterly fearless, he had 'lived in the cannon's mouth', as he described it, for twenty years and made light of his imprisonment and torture by the late Emperor Theodore of Abyssinia during the early years of the war which had ended in 1868. Now after eight years of dodging Maori spears in New Zealand and Ashanti spears in Africa, he had recently returned from covering military operations in the Malay Peninsula.
The evening's entertainment left scant opportunity for private conversation between the two men. As they dived for shelter from the heavy rain to await their carriages, Godwin shouted: 'Edinburgh weather never changes, that's for sure.'
'It can be relied upon to be totally unreliable,' said Faro as they shook the moisture off their evening capes.
Godwin regarded him with satisfaction. 'Good to see you after all these years, Jeremy. You're quite a celebrity.' He chuckled. 'Hardly surprising really. You had a very enquiring turn of mind, even as a small child.'
'I appreciate your delicacy. Some called it just plain nosey!'
'Perhaps, but it paid off. You certainly fulfilled your early promise.'
'And so did you to all accounts.'
Faro glanced at his cousin approvingly. Experiences calculated to turn most men's hair white overnight, had not even flecked with grey his thick dark hair and splendid military moustache. Difficult, Faro thought, to label him as past forty.
'It has been a very long time,' said Godwin, as if he read his mind. 'All I recall is that I was an unpleasant little beast, such a bully,' he added apologetically.
If that were so, then Faro realised it had not quelled the hero worship of a lonely four-year-old child for this older cousin. And he still remembered vividly the sad and terrible nightmares that had persisted long after their parting.
Their rare meetings had been memorable occasions in which he first set foot in the awesome splendour of a New Town mansion. There Thora Faro Godwin enjoyed a very different lifestyle to that of her policeman brother Magnus, Jeremy's father.
Thora's progress had been steadily upwards on the social ladder, from the day in Orkney when she met Hammond Godwin, a rising advocate and Member of Parliament. Struck by her beauty, for she had little else to offer, he had married her.
'I remember the last time we met quite clearly,' said Faro sadly. 'It was at my father's funeral.'
'Of course.' Godwin nodded. 'And I felt very grown up and important at being allowed to follow the cortege with the men, for the first time.'
His words brought the scene back vividly. Whatever the circumstances, that last visit to the Godwins had been a farewell gesture. They were never again invited to Charlotte Square. A child did not understand such things, but Jeremy's mother, once a domestic servant herself, recognised and respected, without the least resentment, a social gap too wide to be bridged by anything less that the courtesy of attending a poor relation's funeral.
Mary Faro knew her place. She would not have dreamt of embarrassing her widowed sister-in-law by calling upon her without invitation.
'We must meet again, catch up on the family news,' said Godwin heartily.
'Where are you staying?'
'I've rented a place in the Lawnmarket. What about you? Married? Children?'
'A widower, alas. I have two bairns - girls - staying in Orkney with their grandmother.'
Godwin looked at him. 'Orkney. A long way from Edinburgh, isn't it?'
'Best I could do under the circumstances. A detective's life was bad enough for my poor Lizzie, hardly ever seeing me. Too many hazards for my daughters.'
'Surely there are admirable governesses in Edinburgh?'
Faro laughed. 'Maybe so, but not affordable on my salary. Besides, they have a better life in Orkney. Are you married?'
Godwin smiled sadly. 'I was once - a long time ago.' He sighed, staring ahead as if seeing it bleakly. 'But successful marriage and parenthood require the presence of a reliable husband and father and I could never guarantee either role. So - it ended.' He paused and sighed again. 'Even my parents have long gone. You are alone, too?'
'Fortunately, no. My stepson Vince Laurie is a doctor and we share a house on the south side of the town. An agreeable arrangement - for the present - until he decides to take a wife.'
As they studied each other, Faro was unaware of a common bond, a sense of identification running through both their lives. His desire to hear more of Leslie Godwin's early life was frustrated by the arrival of the carriages.
'Share mine,' he said. 'We'll set you down at your lodging.'
As they stepped forward another guest emerged from shelter. Staggering wildly towards the carriage, waving his arms frantically, it was obvious that he was heavily intoxicated.
'Shall we...?' Godwin whispered. Faro nodded and the man gratefully accepted their offer of a lift.
As they bundled him inside, he hiccupped his name at them three times without leaving them any the wiser, while his rendering of a sentimental ballad threatened any attempts at conversation.
'Thank heaven the rain's stopped,' said Godwin, opening the window in an effort to disperse the whisky fumes from their now inert companion.
'That's much better.' Faro smiled.
'It is indeed. We must meet again soon, cousin.'
'Of course. Here's my card.'
Godwin pocketed it and sighed. 'I don't have one, I'm afraid. I'm never long enough in one place to indulge in the niceties of polite society.'
'Where is your permanent home?'
Godwin looked at him and laughed. 'My dear fellow, I haven't enjoyed the luxury of a permanent residence for more years than I care to remember. A poste-restante address, the most comfortable hotel, friends... such have been my homes.'
An idea was taking shape in Faro's head as he asked: 'How long are you to be in Edinburgh, then?'
Godwin shook his head. 'Haven't the least idea. All depends on what assignments come up. Meanwhile, I am working on my war memoirs.'
Faro looked suitably impressed and Godwin smiled. 'I have been trying to compile them for a very patient publisher for more than ten years now. I thought that coming back to Edinburgh might offer opportunity and inspiration... What the devil - '
Their carriage lurched to a halt precipitating the drunken man across their knees.
They stared out of the window. They were in the West Bow, the main thoroughfare whose zigzag steep descent from Castle Hill to Grassmarket marked one of the most ancient and characteristic streets in the Old Town. Hazardous for vehicles in almost any weather, their progress was halted by a small crowd that had gathered in the middle of the roa
d, where they harangued a harassed-looking policeman who was holding a young lad in a firm grip.
Faro leaned out of the carriage door and the constable, recognising him, saluted smartly. 'Good evening, sir. Constable Reid, sir.'
'What's the trouble?'
'Laddie here taking shelter from the storm found a woman's body in the Wizard's House.'
'The Wizard's House.' Godwin nudged Faro. 'How appropriate for a sinister discovery.'
'I've sent for the police doctor. Glad you're here, sir,' he added gratefully. 'Perhaps you would care -'
'Very well, Constable,' said Faro. 'Don't wait,' he added to Godwin. 'This may take some time.'
Faro stepped out of the carriage reluctantly. He had his own personal reasons for hating the West Bow. It was just yards away, where the West Bow joined the High Street, that his policemen father had been killed by a runaway carriage forty years ago.
Now stumbling into the unlit house on the heels of the Constable and the lad, whose name was Sandy, Faro's scalp prickled with that primeval sense of unease, of being in the presence of death.
The Wizard's House, as Weir's Land was commonly known, had a bad reputation. Empty for years, the passage of two centuries had failed to dispel the aura of evil left by its one-time owner Major Weir, warlock extraordinary, burnt at the stake in 1670.
Inside the house, along a narrow passage, a high-windowed room provided enough light to reveal what looked like a bundle of rags but was in fact a woman lying as if asleep on the floor.
'Let's have some light,' Faro said irritably. 'Turn up the lantern. Are there no candles?' he added desperately.
Constable Reid smiled wryly as he held the lantern higher.
'Doesn't seem to make much difference, sir. And we can't get candles to stay alight.'
'What do you mean?'
'They keep blowing out, Inspector, that's what.' He looked round anxiously. 'As if someone was standing right behind them,' he added, managing, at Faro's stern glance, to turn an uneasy laugh into a cough of embarrassment.
'You shouldn't believe everything you read, Constable.'
'It's a gey uncanny place though, Inspector. And I'm not given to being fanciful.'
Faro could believe that. Constable Reid was a new recruit from Glasgow, nineteen and tough as old boots.
He bent over the body. A beggar-woman in a sour ragged gown. He wasn't very good at guessing women's ages, but she looked youngish, not much past thirty. At least there was no blood, no signs of violence.
'Any means of identification?'
'Nothing obvious, sir. Except that life is extinct. I know that is all I have to establish - before the doctor comes - ’
'Quite right, quite right, Constable,' said Faro.
He found himself wishing that Vince had been with him, that he didn't have to touch the corpse himself. He pushed aside a quantity of soft fair hair and laid his hand on the cold flesh of her neck. There was no pulse.
'Some poor unfortunate by the look of her. May I join you?'
Turning, Faro found Godwin looking over his shoulder. His surprise at the request must have shown, for his cousin sighed.
'You never get used to it, do you?'
Faro shook his head, grateful for his understanding. If there was one thing more distasteful than the discovery of a corpse it was one without any means of identification. In his book, that always spelt trouble.
'Wait until you've seen as many as I have, Jeremy, and not neat and tidy as this one.' Leslie paused and added apologetically: 'I hope I'm not intruding.'
'Of course not.'
Godwin nodded. 'This is not just morbid curiosity, I assure you. First lesson for any newsman worth his salt is never to miss any opportunity. A corpse and a wizard's house, well, there's sure to be a story in it somewhere, at least a couple of paragraphs,' he added cheerfully.
As they regarded the body, which Faro realised had probably been dead for several hours, he could see that the lad Sandy was becoming restive. Hopes of the reward his chums had urged might be in the offing if he informed the dreaded 'polis' were fast fading. The appearance of Inspector Faro and the other gentry on the scene in their evening finery, replaced such heady prospects with less pleasant possibilities. They might ask him questions, lock him up in a cell.
Shifting from one foot to the other, he announced with determined regularity that he wanted home. 'I only found her, your worships. I never done nothing.'
Constable Reid drew Faro aside. 'Shall we let him go?'
'I think that would be in order. Get his name and address, though.'
Gratefully, Sandy stammered out the information and bolted from the scene, his hand tightly grasping the shilling that the gentlemen had given him plus an extra penny and instructions to summon a carriage. His tornado-like exit almost swept Dr Cranley, portly and majestic as a ship in full-sail, off balance.
The Police Surgeon's examination was brief: 'Natural causes. Massive heart attack, I'd say. Vagrant, taking shelter, no doubt; although she looks uncommon well-fed,' he added.
As he straightened up, regarding the fetid dark room of death with disgust, the stark contract of men in evening dress surrounding the corpse struck Faro anew.
'What makes you think she was a vagrant?'
Cranley regarded him irritably. He knew Inspector Faro's reputation but he was already late for a supper engagement and intended to be out of this vile hole as speedily as possible. Death he was used to, but he feared for his elegant clothes where every movement produced an acrid cloud of dust.
'Look at her rags. Filthy. Nothing underneath either,' he added primly, hastily adjusting the ragged skirt he had lifted to reveal a bare thigh. 'Fallen on bad times, I expect, usual story. We'll do a complete post-mortem when we get her to the mortuary. Ah, here they are, at last. You've taken your time,' he added impatiently as two constables bearing a stretcher stumbled along the narrow passage.
Reproached for their tardiness, they explained that they had been delayed at Leith by an 'incident'.
Followed in solemn procession by the living, the dead woman was carried out to the police carriage. Under the flickering lamplight Faro tucked one of her limp hands beneath the rough blanket.
His quick glance confirmed Cranley's diagnosis that she had indeed fallen on bad times. And very recently too. The last resort of starving women who possessed such splendid hair was to sell it to the wig-makers. But like her hair, her fingernails were not only clean but well-grown and neatly manicured,, her palms uncalloused.
These were hands that had not seen anything resembling hard work in a very long time. If ever.
Undoubtedly a lady's hands.
Chapter 2
At 9 Sheridan Place - the home Faro shared with his stepson -Dr Vincent Laurie, newly elected treasurer of the local golf club, was wrestling with his predecessor's accounts. He was therefore only mildly interested in his stepfather's encounter with a long-lost cousin, especially since he knew nothing of Godwin's family connection and had nothing but contempt for their neglect of widowed Mary Faro and her young son.
Vince prided himself on being a man of the people and the Godwins belonged to the social system that had branded him illegitimate after his mother, a fifteen-year-old servant, had been seduced and abandoned by a noble guest in the big house where she worked. Even though she had eventually regained respectability through marriage to Jeremy Faro, such scars were burned indelibly into Vince's soul.
'The family's behaviour wasn't Leslie's fault, Vince. He was just a child at the time.'
Then why has it taken him so long to track you down, Stepfather? Answer me that.'
'He's been abroad for years,' said Faro defensively, with an added reason for wishing Vince to think well of his cousin.
'I'm not convinced.'
'You will be when you know him better. I'm sure of that. If you'd been with us last night -'
As he went on to describe the scene in the Wizard's House, Vince paid careful attention. Eyeing his ste
pfather shrewdly, he said: 'I take it you disagree with Dr Cranley's verdict that death was from natural causes.'
Faro shrugged. 'I'm not sure. But let's just say, this was no beggar-woman.'
'No doubt your "missing persons" will provide a satisfactory explanation.'
On the list Faro consulted in the Central Office the following morning, there was no one who fitted the description of the dead woman in the mortuary.
Dr Cranley stared at him resentfully over the top of his spectacles. Detective Inspector Faro's appearance signalled that the routine the police surgeon endeavoured to keep as smooth and untroubled as was humanly possible could be in imminent danger of severe disruption.
Faro regarded the sheeted figure. 'Any marks of violence?'
'Only a bruised and swollen wrist. She had fallen quite heavily. My findings have confirmed that she died of a massive heart attack.'
'Surely that's unusual in a woman so young,' said Faro. In death, there remained an indefinable look of refinement about that waxen face.
Cranley shrugged. 'Heart failure can happen at any age, Faro. And I would speculate, it is not all that unusual in the case of a protected and pampered middle-class woman who is suddenly subjected to direst poverty.'
Faro sighed, his attention again drawn to clean hair, to delicate hands with long tapering fingers and neatly manicured nails. They worried him.
'What makes you so sure she was middle class?'
Cranley sighed, drew back the sheet. 'Observe the narrowness of her waist, the distorted line of bosom and hips. I would say that she was richly corseted for most of her adult life. You don't get that shape among the poorer classes, Inspector.'
'So what would make this one become a beggar?'
The doctor eyed him pityingly. 'Many things, Inspector. Family scandal, for a start. Bankruptcy. A faithless lover - or a straying husband -'
'I suspect this lady, whatever her station in life, was unmarried.'
'Indeed?'
'Observe the third finger of her left hand. Married women tend to bear marks of a thick wedding ring, the skin it covers is paler due to lack of exposure.'
The Missing Duchess Page 1
