The sight offended Faro, deeply. By no means a frugal man, he deplored such waste. Such a gown, now a bed for cats, would have fetched an excellent price in Edinburgh's luckenbooths, and provided meals in plenty for many a starving family.
Without any further compunction about searching the house for the missing baronet, he went down a few steps and opened an old studded door, where there was another surprise in store.
He was in a stone-walled chapel-like apartment. Instead of the religious symbols its mitred roof suggested, here were the accoutrements of the Ancient Order of Templars. Doubtless Sir Hedley had belonged to the order in his youth, as did so many of the nobility. But what struck Faro as extraordinary was that the room was clean and obviously well-tended and completely out of character with the sordid condition of the rest of the house. Who then was the guardian of this shrine, for Sir Hedley seemed an improbable choice?
The sight of this serene chapel left him with a sense of disquiet, as he pondered other inconsistencies such as Sir Hedley's apparently innocent role as rescuer of Miss Fortescue.
Had he misjudged Sir Hedley, dismissed him as a harmless eccentric? Was Vince's loathing unconsciously justified and did the Mad Bart, in fact, hold a sinister role in the Grand Duchess's disappearance?
By the time Faro had put some distance between himself and Solomon's Tower, the thought of Sir Hedley's complicity became even more unlikely, and as he approached the High Street, his sense of logic reasserted itself.
The truth was undoubtedly that he had been too involved with his own distaste for the West Bow. His eagerness to get the investigation over with as soon as possible had permitted the unforgivable in a detective. He had allowed his preoccupation with bitter personal emotions regarding his long-dead father to blunt his normally acute powers of observation and deduction.
With a dawning sense of horror at a nightmare that had already begun and from which there was no probable awakening, he could no longer delay reliving the scene from that moment Constable Reid summoned him from his carriage to view a beggar-woman's corpse.
This time he would proceed as a diligent detective on the look-out for anything even slightly out of the ordinary that would never be considered except in a possible murder investigation.
He stepped into the Central Office to be hailed by Danny McQuinn, who had newly returned from Aberdeen. Faro was glad to see his young sergeant again and, after a few moments' social conversation, he decided that McQuinn had better become acquainted with the case of the missing Grand Duchess. Once the bane of his life, the passing years had smoothed the rough edges of the Irishman's personality. Trust, respect and even grudging admiration had grown between the two men.
In addition, Faro recognised with gratitude that, on more than one occasion, he owed his life to McQuinn's quick thinking. And this had extended to members of Faro's family.
McQuinn was sharp, none better, and Faro was consoled that he made no immediate connection between the missing Duchess and the dead vagrant in the West Bow. Or at least if he did, then he refrained from comment.
'Drownings in the Forth, sir? Nothing reported. Weather's been good since the storm,' McQuinn added.
'Try further afield, McQuinn. Bodies can be carried right across the estuary to the coast of Fife or down the East Lothian coast.'
'What sort of a corpse are we looking for, sir?'
'A coachman, possibly in some sort of livery.'
'I take it he was driving the lady's carriage.'
'Yes.'
McQuinn thought for a moment. 'As both are missing, could there be some connection? I mean, like kidnapping, holding her to ransom.'
'I've thought of that.'
'The newspaper might have a photograph of her, sir. Dare say Miss Fortescue will oblige with a description of the coachman. Servants usually know one another uncommonly well.'
Faro watched as McQuinn pocketed his notebook, thankful that he could be relied on.
'I'll check with the North Berwick harbour authorities. With luck I might find someone who knew - or saw - this coachman. Shall I go to Aberlethie, talk to Miss Fortescue?'
'No. Leave that to me,' said Faro.
But first, the Wizard's House.
Faro's route to the West Bow took him close by the Grassmarket, a part of Edinburgh which had witnessed many grisly executions in Scotland's history. And here, he thought, he stood on the threshold of what might prove to be yet another sensational case in the annals of that country's crime.
But as his footsteps led him through the Lawnmarket past his cousin's lodging, he was guiltily aware that he was sorely neglecting Leslie Faro Godwin. The temptation to do something normal again, to see a pleasant smiling face, to talk to a man whose only interest in crime was its value as a news item, was overwhelming.
As Faro walked along the narrow wynd, his nostrils were assailed by increasingly unpleasant odours of cooking, cats and human excrement.
Looking up at the bleak lodging, once more his mind flew in vivid contrast to his own comfortable but mainly empty house in Sheridan Place. Doubtless it would be useless to try and persuade his cousin to change his mind. Too much time had been lost, the indication had been that Leslie Faro Godwin intended his stay in Edinburgh to be brief.
Faro smiled wryly. What would his mother make of all this? It was some time since he had written to her in Orkney and his conscience smote him regularly on his neglect of his daughters, Rose and Emily, who were fortunate indeed to receive even a postcard from him on rare occasions.
He could almost hear his mother's reproachful sigh when she heard about Leslie Faro Godwin. A firm believer in ‘There's no one like your own flesh and blood', she would have been horrified at his treatment of a close relative, despite any reminders that the Godwins had abandoned her after her husband was killed. 'That was a long time ago,' she would say, 'you've both come a long way since then. Thank God.'
There was no response to his rap at the front door. It was unlocked and he entered a dank dim corridor where doors on either side indicated other apartments. Following a narrow, evil-smelling stair twisting upwards, he found himself outside the first-floor apartment which Leslie had indicated from the street. Here was a more promising door, and Faro tapped on it. As he awaited a response, he heard voices within. His cousin was at home.
The door was opened by a tall, dark and swarthy man of villainous aspect. A pock-marked countenance was not helped by a huge scar which puckered one side of his face. He looked like an old soldier who had seen many campaigns, and even as Faro awaited his reply as to whether his cousin Mr Leslie Faro Godwin was at home, he decided that, used as he was to dealing with violent men, this one belonged in the category he would have avoided encountering on a dark night.
'Someone to see you, master.' Faro recognised the voice as one of the two he had heard.
'Who is it, Batey?'
So this was Sergeant Batey. A man with the cold dead eyes of a killer. No doubt he was loyal to his master. Certainly, Leslie Godwin would be safe wherever he went with this man to look after him.
'Sez he's yer cousin.'
'Jeremy? Do come in -'
Godwin was alone, seated near the window. He rose to greet Faro, book in hand. The window was tiny, and the dim light revealed a room furnished with only the meagre essentials. There were two other doors, which might lead either into more rooms or into cupboards.
Godwin's greeting was cheerful. He cut short Faro's apologies.
'No need for that, Jeremy. I'm always full of good intentions and promises that I never manage to fulfil. With the best will in the world, time just runs away with me.'
He paused, giving Faro a curious look. 'Any developments with your West Bow vagrant?' he asked eagerly.
Faro hesitated then shook his head, anxious that the fewer who knew about the missing woman, the better for all concerned. Particularly himself. So he decided against mentioning Miss Fortescue, realising that however loyal a cousin, the newsman who was also Godwin might
find the temptation of pursuing such a story irresistible, thereby making it public property with results that would be nothing short of disastrous.
Leslie had observed his hesitation, for he smiled. 'I scent a story somewhere.'
'I'm afraid we didn't get very far with our enquiries.'
'I've seen that lad who found her a few times, by the way. Sandy, wasn't that his name? Batey caught him with his hand in my pocket the other day. He lives just round the corner in one of the tall lands, Bowheads Wynd, they call it.'
This was an unexpected stroke of luck. 'There are a few questions I'd like to ask him about that night.'
Godwin looked at him. 'D'you know, I had the same feeling. That he knew a lot more than he was telling us. For instance, I shouldn't be at all surprised if he knew what happened to the woman's clothes.'
'Clothes?' Faro was a little taken aback by this astute observation.
Godwin laughed. 'Surely, Jeremy, you saw at once that the dead woman was no vagrant. Such hair and hands never went with a beggar's gown. They belonged with silks and satins, with jewels and fine clothes.'
'So you think they might have been removed?'
Leslie nodded eagerly. 'Undoubtedly the case. And the lad Sandy might have been scared to rob a corpse himself but he would have soon seen the possibilities of making some profit out of those who don't share such a sense of delicacy. It was probably all taken care of, long before he was sent to summon the police.'
'You could be right,' said Faro.
'Of course I'm right.' Leslie continued: 'From my slight acquaintance with the Grassmarket, I see plenty of booths selling clothes for pennies. Mostly rags.'
Pausing, he studied Faro thoughtfully. 'But what we might dismiss as rags might keep a poor family in food for a week.'
Faro smiled wryly. Obviously he wasn't the only member of his family who had inherited the ability to observe and deduce.
'A splendid idea, Leslie. Well worth following. But not what I came for - Shall we have dinner one night? Say, the Cafe Royal? Saturday evening at seven?'
Accompanying him to the door, Godwin said: 'Look, I'd like to help. Seeing that I was in at the very beginning, there with you, so to speak, when the woman was found. If I see the lad Sandy again, I'll try and buy some information for you. A few pence might work wonders at loosening his tongue. Really - I mean it.'
He put a hand on Faro's arm. 'I want to help you solve your beggar-woman mystery. Not only for the news value either.' He grinned. 'Just because I enjoy a challenge.'
Faro left him and walked down the stone stairs, suddenly happy and confident. Having his cousin's assistance was exactly what he needed to solve this baffling case.
Chapter 8
Faro's route to the West Bow took him past the entrance to Bowheads Wynd, where he decided to call on young Sandy. A couple of shillings thrust into his hand, with the promise of more to come, should be ample to loosen the lad's tongue about his gruesome discovery and the events which took place before he summoned Constable Reid to the scene.
Faro had to knock on several doors before he received even a scowling oath in response to his enquiry. Whereas his cousin's lodgings were merely shabby and poor, Bowheads Wynd was depressingly lacking in hope as well as cleanliness of any kind.
From each opened door, his nose was overwhelmed by the stench of crowded humanity within. He remembered that these tall 'lands' had once been the pride of Edinburgh, town residences to the nobility, lived in by one family only - along with their many servants. Now each room on all six floors was occupied by perhaps twelve people - a man and a woman, their swarm of children and maybe a couple of elderly relatives or hangers-on.
He had almost given up hope of finding Sandy when at last a woman, with several small children clinging to her skirts, answered to the name of Mrs Dunnock. Her clothes were clean, shabby but neat, and when she spoke she nervously pushed a gold bracelet back from her wrist.
'I'm his ma. What d'ye want wi' him? What's he done this time?' she said wearily, her manner that of a parent used to receiving constant complaints about her unruly offspring.
'Nothing. Just tell him Inspector Faro came by.'
'Inspector Faro?'
Mention of his name panicked her. She stepped backwards, glancing over her shoulder as if someone else might be listening.
'You're a polis!' she said accusingly, as if he had wheedled his way to her door under false pretences.
'I'm a detective, Mrs Dunnock.'
She took a great gulp of air, her hands clutched her wrists and she pointed to his tweed cape and hat. 'Proper policemen wear uniforms.'
'Detectives don't.'
'And that gives you the right to come poking your nose into what don't concern you? We ain't done nothing wrong,' she added in a pathetic whine.
'Neither has Sandy - at least not that we know about,' he said. 'Just tell him there's a couple of shillings for him to put to good use.'
The woman's eyes glittered at the mention of money, almost as if he had given her a glimpse into paradise. Her defensive manner softened so rapidly, he guessed that this was obviously not what she had been fearing as the outcome of his unexpected visit.
She managed a smile. 'He's no' at home, but I'll tell him, mister. Where d'ye bide?'
'He knows that too,' said Faro, and lifted his hat politely as he walked away down the steps.
An adept at shallow breathing, he was glad to fully extend his lungs again, for even the reek of smoking chimneys in the High Street was ambrosia compared to the vile stench in the fetid house he had just left, with its dreadful odour of rotting meat. God only knew what cheap cuts the poor got from the flesher's disease-ridden stocks, and why many more did not succumb to food poisoning. And as always his final thought when faced with direct poverty was: But for the grace of God, there go I. For such he was fully aware might have been the squalid circumstances of his own life, but for an accident of fate that had made him a policeman's son with a widowed mother prepared to make material sacrifices for his education.
Even in broad daylight, with a thin sun turning the Castle into the setting for one of Sir Walter Scott's romances, Faro approached the wizard Major's abode with reluctance. Its chilling atmosphere and sinister emanations had remained untouched by passing years and changing seasons. Facing north-east, its windows were untroubled by sunshine, but it was not aspect alone which added to the feeling of foreboding and melancholy.
Clocks from all over the city were striking eleven o'clock, and it was a bright sunny autumn morning, yet Faro observed how passers by avoided the tall shadow thrown across the narrow cobbled street by the Wizard's House. Men hurried along, heads down, while women, wrapping shawls closer about their heads, drew small children more closely to their sides with a hushed word of warning.
Through the doorway with its ironic inscription, 'Soli deo honor et gloria, 1604', Faro proceeded along the low vaulted passage which led through the tall land to a narrow court behind. There, solitary and sinister, stood the entrance to Major Weir's house. Legend had it that the wizard had cast a spell on the neighbouring turnpike stair so that anyone climbing up it felt as if they were instead climbing down - to the infernal regions below being no doubt the implication.
Faro shuddered. Only the appalling coincidence of a woman's body and a missing duchess, the nightmare possibility that they might be connected, had driven him back to this hell house.
His last visit had been made in darkness; now every detail of the building, every stone, might conceal a vital clue to the mystery. The discovery of a corpse pronounced as dead from natural causes would involve no search for clues except for the purpose of identification.
The door was slightly ajar. Hanging by one creaking hinge, it was unlocked and Faro doubted whether it had seen a key for that purpose in living memory. With only the vaguest idea of what he was looking for, what might be of significance in this puzzling case, Faro was suddenly hopeful. Long undisturbed dust is of admirable assistance to a man s
earching for evidence of violence and the Major's house was most obliging in this respect. In the thick coating on the floor were the recent footprints of the policemen intermingled with tiny animal tracks identifiable as rats and mice.
Closer observation revealed a clean but wide trail in the centre of the dirt from the front door into the squalid scene of death, ending at the place where the body had been found. He sat back on his heels. Some of the dust had caked into mud. He crumbled it in his hands. Something, or more likely, someone had been dragged along the floor, someone whose garments were wet. Searching carefully again he discovered threads, a piece of cloth caught on a rusty nail. No ordinary cloth either but a shred of fine lace, which he pocketed carefully.
A little further into the room, near an inside drain, the light from the dim window above touched a thin line of gold. He bent down and dragged out a chain bearing an ornamental cross.
Not a Christian crucifix but an eight-pointed cross pattee. Weighing it in his hand, he wished he hadn't found it here, for he had seen the emblem of the Templars very recently. On a backcloth in the chapel in Solomon's Tower.
And a chill - cold and malevolent as the wizard's ghostly hand - stole over him as he remembered that Major Weir had been a Templar as well as a member of the Edinburgh City Guard.
Did this indicate a further sinister twist to the mystery and did the solution to this nineteenth-century disappearance have its roots back in history?
Taking it a step further, was the Mad Bart's Tower a Temple of Solomon and Sir Hedley Marsh the last of its guardians? Could his life as an eccentric and a recluse be a disguise for a secret and never-ending quest?
No. It was too preposterous a theory even for Faro. Besides, it led him far from the missing Grand Duchess, a mystery which must be solved urgently if he was not to find himself facing an irate Prime Minister.
The Missing Duchess Page 6
