The Final Enemy. An Inspector Faro Mystery No.12.

by Alanna Knight

  Olivia was a talented amateur painter and hearing her talking to Mrs Brook, he thought this was what she should be doing instead of concerning herself with dreary matters of no importance whatever, such as whether it should be roast beef or lamb on the menu.

  He shook his head, unfolded the newspaper and turned to (he back page in search of the most important item - the results of the golfing championship at St Andrews' famous 'Royal and Ancient’ course.

  Meanwhile, unaware that his relationship with Imogen Crowe had been the subject of such speculation, Faro stretched out his hand to the pile of books beside him and selected one more challenge he had set himself - a foreign language to be speedily learned, or so ‘German in Six Easy Lessons’ implied. It would be a useful and necessary addition for his travels in Europe at the side of the Irish writer, his devoted friend and companion, as he described her.

  He would very much have liked to change all that and make her his wife, but Imogen would have none of it. She had been free too long and, in her early forties, she considered herself too old to have children even if she had wanted them.

  Imogen had a suffragette's attitude to marriage, to any threats to women's freedom for which she had fought so long. And Faro loved her independence, her wit and humour, her passionate dedication to the world's lost causes, although he failed entirely to convince her that he might be eligible for inclusion as a failed suitor. And most of all there was Ireland, her dedication to Home Rule, for which she had sacrificed much in the past, including members of her family murdered for their patriotism.

  So Faro followed her to France, to Italy, Austria and Germany, where he found himself for the first time at a considerable disadvantage. Unable to understand a word being said around him, he lurked in the background, a polite observer with a fixed smile, until Imogen, a natural linguist, became aware of his discomfort and embarrassment and patiently translated for him. This was a situation to be deplored, it annoyed him intensely and he made a stern resolve to put his retirement to good use.

  Having been constantly shamed and outraged by the British abroad, who believed that if they shouted loud enough in English their wishes could be understood and instantly obeyed, he determined that, as a prospective traveller in foreign parts, he would courteously learn to communicate with his hosts.

  At a recent dinner party in Sheridan Place, he mentioned the problem of learning German to a golfing friend of Vince's who was also Professor of Languages at the University. Immediately interested, since everyone who was anyone, he said, knew of Faro's fame as Scotland's most senior detective, the Professor assured him that if he liked solving mysteries then language was a particularly daunting one.

  'You have to have a natural ear, a natural aptitude. But perhaps I can help you with some short cuts. I have a couple of hours free on a Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps, if I may offer you the benefits of my experience - '

  Faro had been delighted. At this precise moment while he sat in his Edinburgh garden enjoying the autumn sunshine, Imogen would be in Munich, heading for Heidelberg University where she was to meet other Irish exiles, writers and artists, who had introduced her to a new passion - Wagnerian opera.

  She enthused in recent letters about Lisa, a new German friend and a diva. 'A wonderful Isolde with a life almost as tragic. You must meet her.' That pleasant thought spurred on his determination to learn ‘hoch Deutsch’ - high German, the accepted tongue for the circles Imogen travelled in.

  Faro loved to surprise Imogen, wanting her to be impressed by his perseverance and efficiency, confident that by their next meeting he would have solved his most baffling mystery at present - the basics of German grammar. Once he had cracked that code, he felt, he would be well on the way to success, and he had to admit that this new challenge of mastering language was very exhilarating.

  The pronunciation texts at their weekly meetings required considerable concentration from Faro, but the Professor was pleasantly surprised by his new pupil's dexterity.

  ‘Languages,' he had firmly maintained and warned Faro at that first meeting, 'are best learned when one is young.'

  He had had to change his ideas, however, for although it was still early days to expect Faro's abilities to stretch to philosophical conversation, his accent and understanding were outstanding. ‘Here is a man in his fifties,' he told his friends, 'a better and more apt pupil than many of my young and eager students.'

  ‘German in Six Easy Lessons’. Chapter Four.

  Suddenly the blackbird's eulogy was interrupted by Jamie's triumphant shout.

  ‘I’ve killed your queen. Again, Grandpa. Bang - she's dead.'

  Faro's concentration had been distracted while he closed his eyes and tried to memorise a particularly tricky nominative clause.

  Now Jamie, with a cavalier disregard for rules, was lolloping his black bishop across the board.

  'Checkmate, Jamie,' Faro repeated patiently. 'Checkmate, remember. That's what we call it. Not kill!'

  He turned back to Chapter Four. The blackbird had flown away and all was silent. He was at peace with his world.

  But not for very much longer.

  That tiny unseen black cloud on the horizon was growing steadily larger and threatening to destroy everything. In the shape of Vince it was hurtling across the garden towards him. The bright day was over and life itself would never be the same again.

  'Stepfather!' Vince was in front of him, flourishing the newspaper. 'Stepfather, have you seen this?'

  Bewildered, Faro shook his head and Vince said: 'I've just read it. This assassination business in Mosheim. Listen, "An attempt has been made on the life of the Grand Duchess of Luxoria, the Kaiser's guest at his autumn shooting-party. Her equerry took the first bullet trying to save his mistress and died instantly. One of the Kaiser's guards was also fatally wounded."'

  Vince took a deep breath. 'There's a bit more, "Her Majesty the Queen is gravely concerned about the condition of the Grand Duchess, who is her god-daughter, as well as any danger threatening her favourite grandson, Kaiser Wilhelm."'

  Faro had gone suddenly cold, vaguely remembering seeing the headline as it had lain idly within reach while he and Jamie played chess. If it had aroused any feelings at all, they would have been of congratulating himself that this was one royal murder plot that was no concern of his.

  But Amelie... Amelie.

  Memory rewarded him with a vision of her sleeping head on the pillow beside him while a storm raged beyond the bedroom window. His bedroom window, visible here from the garden.

  He took the newspaper from Vince, hardly daring to read. The words swam before his eyes and Vince noticed that emotion made Faro's hand tremble.

  He had tried to abolish Amelie from his thoughts over the years, but the possibility of the new baby in Sheridan Place being given the same name had touched a core of unease.

  He had told himself long ago that his brief role in her life was over. By mutual consent the line had been drawn under it. Now old feelings awakened. How would he feel if she was already dead?

  His mind sped back over the years. Back thirteen years to the brief wild passion and the official announcement of the royal prince's birth. 'After many years of marriage to President Gustav, Her Highness the Grand Duchess Amelie has given birth to an heir. Born prematurely, despite fears for his survival, the prince shows every sign of being a strong, healthy infant.'

  A week later, Faro had received a letter with a Luxorian stamp. It contained a copy of the announcement and underneath in ink, the cryptic words, 'We have a son.'

  No further information arrived, no further communication across the years. Nor did he want any more than that. The child had saved her life from the President who had already attempted to kill her for having failed to produce an heir, determined to usurp the throne and have his mistress and his natural son installed. A child was vital to save the kingdom and Amelie's life.

  Faro could count as well as the next man but he had never told anyone of his suspicions conce
rning the child's conception, although he often thought that Vince knew and was troubled by the possible consequences of that brief interlude.

  For years now it had only remained for Faro to convince himself he had misunderstood Amelie's cryptic message, sent only to reassure him that she was still alive, safe and well.

  As time passed he began to believe it.

  He had never told Imogen.

  Chapter 3

  Monday afternoon and had Faro any reason for gratitude, it was to the work on his lecture, which had needed all his powers of concentration. Fortunately it had also kept his mind from dwelling on the bombshell Vince and the newspaper had dropped on his life that Sunday afternoon.

  Now, as the train steamed across the Perthshire countryside carrying him in the direction of Glenatholl College, he was again haunted by nightmare and indecision, remembering another train journey, across Europe with Imogen.

  They had been close to the Luxorian border and Faro had shown a firm reluctance to visit a writer of Imogen's acquaintance who was living in the capital. Accompanying her never failed to reveal an unlimited swarm of exiled Irish writers and displaced artists, a world-wide fraternity of which Imogen, it seemed, knew every one.

  How would she react to the outcome of a romantic encounter, too brief to be dignified as a love affair, he wondered anxiously. Would she even care, used as she was in her dealings with the suffrage of women to the less conventional aspects of a Bohemian life? Would she be sympathetic to a child whom he could never acknowledge as his own?

  There was no action he could take. He was helpless to do more than watch and wait for the official newspaper reports, no easy task for a man used to swift decisive action all his life. If only he could travel to the Odenwald, find out for himself - there was always the excuse of Imogen as far as Vince and Olivia were concerned.

  Had it been Luxoria he would have been tempted to leave on the next available train, throw caution to the winds. But that was hardly sensible. His German wasn't up to it yet, regardless of Amelie's insistence that Luxoria was very Anglophile, a common factor shared by many minority European states with close kinship to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. According to Amelie, almost everyone - by that he had guessed she was referring to the upper classes and court circles - spoke fluent

  English.

  Faro was not convinced. His long association with the Edinburgh City Police had developed in him instinctive faculties of caution and tact in dealing with difficult and dangerous situations, particularly regarding impulsive action where personal emotions were involved.

  Besides, his hands were effectively tied until after Glenatholl and his visit to Arles Castle. He regarded the latter in a hopeful light, not merely as an opportunity to renew an old acquaintance. Since Sir Julian had been an ambassador in various European courts, perhaps it would yield significant information about Luxoria.

  'Perth!' shouted the guard.

  Faro strolled along the platform with his overnight valise. He had declined the offer of being met by the Glenatholl carriage. There were always hiring cabs at railway stations, he had assured them. At least, such was the case in Edinburgh. Or was he being strictly honest? Was he merely delaying the moment of arrival at the college, of stepping down into a vast array of masters and pupils eagerly awaiting a famous man's arrival?

  He did not want that. More than ever he needed time to himself, to think over his talk and plan his next move. All his life, in times of crisis he had learned the value of his own society, of retreating into his own thoughts. Although he sometimes found it difficult to convince his family, and his two daughters in particular, that being solitary was not the same as being alone.

  Yes, it had been a good idea to keep his train's arrival time to himself, he decided, sitting back to enjoy the glory of a perfect autumn day and surprising the cab driver with his request to be put down at the college gates.

  ‘It’s a fair step, mister, a mile or more,' the driver said, looking his 'fare' over with the gimlet eye of long experience. ‘Another sixpence will see you to the very door.'

  Although in appearance every indication of a gentleman, smartly dressed and carrying hand luggage, in the driver's experience, well-to-do travellers were often the most ready to niggle over a few extra coppers. He looked slightly confused realising from Faro's shrewd expression that his thoughts had been rightly interpreted.

  ‘I like to walk, cabbie. And it’s a fine afternoon for it.'

  The entrance to Glenatholl was marked by a handsome lodge and a winding drive of rhododendrons. A riot of colour in summer, no doubt, but now flowerless, the unmoving mass of dark impenetrable green appeared gloomy and somewhat forbidding.

  Faro consulted his watch. Still almost an hour before he was due to give his talk. Time for a little exercise, time to breathe and stretch his long legs. Time, also, for that last invaluable glance at his notes, to commit as much as possible to memory.

  He hated the idea of standing at a lectern reading his almost illegible writing and he hated wearing the eyeglasses he needed for such tasks these days. It wasn't so much pride, the threat of increasing age and its toll on such faculties, he could deal with that, but he had a natural abhorrence of relying on anything, however trifling, that threatened his independence. And eyeglasses he regarded as such, a crutch for use ‘in extremis’, a weakness not yet for public exhibition.

  As he walked, the heavy green bushes opened into a vista of archery course and playing fields where boys were playing out-of-season cricket, doubtless using the time for valuable practice. Beyond the fields arose the turrets and roof of the college. Across an expanse of turf near at hand was a walled garden. Hoping to find a seat for his meditations, Faro found the gate open and was soon making his way down a terrace flanked by stern-visaged toga-clad Roman senators.

  Excellent! The right company for one making a speech, he decided, walking between the two lines of statues to a gazebo, in keeping with the style of ancient Rome overlooking an artificial lake. The swans on the lake, although the same ghostly white as the senators, were at least living and watched his approach with curiosity. Bathed in sunshine, the gazebo's stone benches would provide a tolerably warm place with enough light to read his notes.

  His profession of catching criminals unawares had taught him to walk noiselessly. ('Like a prowling cat,' was Vince's verdict.) He had not lost that ability and suddenly discovered that he was not alone. From the other side of the stone benches, which were high and placed back to back, a small figure emerged with a startled exclamation.

  A boy, aged about twelve he thought, with a book in hand. He had not heard Faro's approach and now, blushing scarlet, he bowed. The miniature frock coat, striped trousers, winged collar and college tie indicated a pupil.

  'My apologies, sir. I - I am just leaving.'

  Faro smiled. 'Not at all. I believe you were here first.'

  The boy came fully into the light, still clutching his book and Faro was amused to see, in large gold letters, ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’.

  Faro warmed to the young reader, for he had a similar edition it home, the last birthday gift from his beloved Lizzie. He never tired of the plays and sonnets and it was the companion of many of his travels. After so many years, travel-worn with loose pages here and there and generally dog-eared, its decrepit appearance managed to offend Imogen's sense of tidiness. She was constantly threatening to buy him an up-to-date edition and he, equally as constantly, saying he didn't want one. This was an old friend, its companionship older than her own and that was that!

  The boy, aware of his gaze, clutched the volume self-consciously. 'I have to learn Mark Antony's speech for tonight. We are to entertain a very important guest.'

  Faro smiled. 'Indeed.' He decided it would be unkind to add to the boy's embarrassment by revealing his identity. Instead he asked, 'Do you like Shakespeare?'

  'Oh, very much indeed, sir. I should like to be an actor.' A shake of the head. 'Although I don't care for
learning speeches.'

  'Neither do I,' was the sympathetic reply.

  A good-looking boy with fair hair tending to curl, deep blue eyes, good features, tall and slim. Faro had seen someone who this boy reminded him of, something in his manner, but the devil of it was that he couldn't think where. He certainly had presence and looks enough to suggest he would make an actor, as in sudden confidence, he went on:

  ‘I have often thought I would like to run away and go on the stage. It would have been easy had I lived in Shakespeare's day, sir, when boys played all the female roles. Though I should not care greatly for that,' he added hastily. 'I'd rather be Julius Caesar than Lady Macbeth.'

  Faro laughed. 'Is there any reason why you should not be an actor when you leave college?'

  The boy coloured slightly. ‘My mother - she would never permit it - I have other obligations, you see.' That sounded like a set piece. 'But I do like Shakespeare very much. He is my favourite since I came to Bri- to Glenatholl.'

  'You are not British?'

  'No, sir. I - I - ' He looked round suddenly confused. 'I must go. I am to practice cricket now. I am in the house eleven.'

  Faro smiled. 'It was good to meet you, young sir. Good luck with your speech - and your prospects.'

  The boy bowed. 'Thank you, sir.' And with an endearing shy smile, 'I hope our famous speaker is as nice as you.' After that little speech and another bow, he leapt down the steps and was away, hurrying down the avenue between the Roman senators.

  Faro watched him go, remembering that the school rules undoubtedly held a clause indicating that boys were forbidden to talk to strangers in the grounds and, further, that it was not good form, quite impolite really, ever to talk about themselves or refer to their elevated position in society.

  The college prided itself (according to Vince) on firmly abiding to the principle that 'A man's a man for a' that', although Faro guessed they would have singularly failed to put Robert Burns at his ease or his maxim to the test.