And Faro knew now he would never forgive himself for not delaying, and being five minutes late in taking his place before the college audience. What had happened in this instance to his much-vaunted intuition, his awareness of danger?
Tragic future events were to confirm his regrets.
If only he had listened, danger might have been averted, an assassin apprehended. His target a boy, a pupil at Glenatholl and a foreign royal, was in the deadliest of danger, his mother shot - perhaps fatally - and his kingdom in peril.
And Faro himself would not be spared.
Chapter 5
Arles Castle was considerably older than Balmoral, somewhat worn and down-at-heel, its arrow-slitted exterior walls scarred by the bullets of Scotland's turbulent history. The turrets were no nineteenth-century architect's fairy-tale fantasy but had been built long ago with the practical purposes of defence in mind, including such niceties as pouring boiling oil on troublesome enemies.
Faro followed a footman to the upper apartments, pleasantly surprised that the occupants were untroubled by modernisation and the present craze for ornate ceilings and cornices. Instead the untreated stone was covered here and there by ancient tapestries and ragged old battle flags hung from the rafters. No handsome swirling oak staircase either, just a winding spiral stair, narrow for defence.
Sir Julian was waiting to make him warmly welcome with a hearty dram of excellent whisky pressed into his hand. As they talked, Faro considered his host. Approaching sixty, he retained the virile air of the distinguished diplomat.
An attractive, well-set-up fellow with handsome features, a head of thick white hair and a military moustache, the eligible and wealthy widower had disappointed many eager county ladies by marrying, three years ago, the pretty young woman who had nursed his first wife in her last illness. To his delight and the crowning glory of their domestic bliss, Molly had promptly presented him with a son and heir.
Julian's study was small, and warmly heated by a large fireplace. Beyond it was the Arles tartan-carpeted dining-room with massive refectory table, tall Jacobean chairs and tartan-covered footstools to elevate guests' feet above inhospitable icy draughts seeping under ancient ill-fitting oak doors.
After some polite interest in Faro's family - both daughters married, Rose in America and Emily in Orkney, Vince a successful Edinburgh doctor - Arles shook his head and said, "Bad business about Luxoria.'
‘Indeed,’ agreed Faro, for this was the very topic he wished to discuss. ‘Any news about the Grand Duchess?'
Julian paused to refresh the drams. 'There was never any mention of the extent of her injuries in the spray of bullets that killed the two servants. I gather the assassins had been lurking in wait for the shooting-party to return to the Kaiser's hunting-lodge. The ladies were riding in a carriage so it would seem that the Grand Duchess was their target.' He shrugged. 'Since there is no further bulletin, one can safely presume, I hope, that she has survived - so far. From my slight acquaintance with the lady, I fear she will be terribly distressed about those two servants who died.'
This was even better than Faro had hoped for. 'Your diplomatic career took in Luxoria?'
'Indeed it did. I was there fifteen years ago when the President was turning it into a military dictatorship, run by the generals under his command.'
'What was he like?'
Julian frowned. 'He was not a pleasant man. God knows how Amelie put up with him. She has held Luxoria together for twenty years since her father died, a fearful responsibility for a girl hardly out of her teens. Even then it had long been a melting pot for potential disaster, situated as it is on three frontiers. President Gustav, like some latter-day Hannibal or Attila the Hun, seized power by a military coup and forced a political marriage on Amelie. She had no choice but to marry him. It was either that or exile.'
He sighed. 'Then the marriage proved, at first, to be childless. If Amelie hadn't produced an heir, Luxoria would have gone to the dogs and her death warrant would have certainly been signed.'
'Was she aware of that?' asked Faro.
'Indeed she was, very aware,' said Julian grimly.
A maid appeared at the door. 'Yes, Simms. Lunch in half an hour. That suit you, Faro? Where was I? Oh yes, Luxoria.'
And he went on to tell Faro what he already knew from Amelie herself.
'The situation between them was made worse - if that were possible - when it became widely known that the President had a son by his mistress. And President Gustav was so eager to replace Amelie, any excuse would do. Lord knows how she's survived so far in her own country, he must be quite desperate to get rid of her to risk an assassination attempt in Mosheim.’
‘What if the Kaiser had been in the carriage with her?’
Julian shuddered. 'An international incident that doesn't bear thinking about. The consequences could have been a war in Europe. Any excuse would do for countries who are watching Germany's policy of annexing smaller states.' And regarding him thoughtfully, he added:
'This is top secret, Faro - quite unofficial, of course - but rumour has it that the Kaiser has indicated he would be more than happy to gather Luxoria under his own imperial umbrella, offer Amelie and her loyal countrymen his official protection. Certainly, Her Majesty would approve.' He laughed. 'Indeed yes, she would even add a grandmother's blessing. I had that piece of information from Her Majesty's own lips. Very pro-German as you would guess and she loves to relate how her beloved Albert often theorised with the Kaiser's grandfather that he wished to see a liberated united Germany under the leadership of an enlightened Prussia.'
He sighed. 'I was glad to get out of Luxoria, and in one piece, I can tell you. Gustav's ambition was boundless. I fancy a case of "After Luxoria, the rest of Europe",' he added wryly. 'A madman, but I imagine if Kaiser Wilhelm gets his way, he will sort him out. And despite his imperial ambitions, it will be no bad thing for Amelie. He's been her friend and supporter ever since they met, you know.'
Pausing, he smiled. 'It was at Balmoral in '78.1 was an equerry then so I had a ringside seat, you might say. They were both favoured visitors, adored by Her Majesty and meeting for the first time. Despite the difference in their ages, or maybe because of it, there was an instant rapport between them. Amelie, gentle, sympathetic and quite beautiful, was every man's ideal of a princess and I could see Willy, as everyone called him, was very taken with this lonely woman, unhappily married, with a young baby, who seemed to understand all his particular problems that no one else wanted to know about. And that did not include the physical infirmity of a withered arm, for God knows, the lad had gallantly overcome that through the years.
'He was nineteen years old and everyone at Balmoral knew he wanted to marry Princess Eliza Radizwill but, essentially Prussian in outlook, he had accepted the impossibility of alliance with a non-sovereign princely family. But he pined for his lost love and carried her miniature with him. I understand he and Amelie wrote long letters to each other until their next meeting, six years ago, again at Balmoral, at one of those innumerable royal weddings.
'Willy had done his duty, made the best possible marriage for Prussia, but not the happiest for himself, with Princess Augusta Victoria, generally known as Dona, of the House of Augustenburg. Once again the bond between two unhappy people was renewed. Once again both were seeking sanctuary and I am fairly certain that was when Willy, an inveterate traveller, offered Amelie the refuge of his hunting-lodge.
Julian smiled. 'It's at Mosheim, near Heidelberg. Wooded country, on a hill-top, overlooking a river, picturesque and with stunning views. Twenty years ago while on a tour in the Odenwald, his parents discovered high above the town, in a forest noted for its wild boar, a picturesque but almost derelict medieval castle. Restored and modernised, they realised this would be the perfect setting for their shooting-parties.
‘Amelie has been a regular guest, popular with even Kaiserin Dona, who doesn't regard the older woman as a potential rival although she's lost nothing of her charm for
Willy. Poor Amelie, she's had such rotten luck. What's more, for many years she's gone in daily terror of her life.
Her husband, she knows, has been behind several unsuccessful attempts to have her poisoned, and once the wheel of her carriage was tampered with and it went off the road down a ravine. The coachman died, but miraculously she and the young prince were thrown clear. That was just a couple of years ago.’
He frowned. 'About this latest assassination attempt, it must be obvious that Luxoria cannot survive the present turmoil in Europe and Amelie can no longer hold the reins single-handed. Seeing the results of the President's disastrous military rule, I suspect she has needed little persuasion that the people of Luxoria would be better off under the canopy of Imperial Germany.'
For Faro, listening, many things were becoming clear and he was thankful indeed that he had accepted his old friend's invitation. Julian's connection with Balmoral was well known to him, but his link with Luxoria was an unexpected bonus.
'You think that was the reason behind the hunting-lodge incident?
'Oh, indeed yes. It takes little imagination to see President Gustav's hand very clearly directing the assassin's gun. Another thing, I suspect that it was on Willy's advice that Amelie decided to send the boy over here to school last year. An only child, she adored him, would do anything - ' he shrugged, 'even I suspect, turn Luxoria over to Germany in return for the Kaiser's protection. Doubtless it's a bargain package and he has promised to restore the boy to the throne when he reaches his majority.'
‘A puppet government, you mean?'
'Exactly, but better for Luxoria than the ruthless man who has driven the country to the brink of anarchy and financial ruin by his excesses.'
'Surely Gustav has a good case for ruling in his son's minority?'
'You mean, God forbid, should the worst happen?' Julian shook his head, smiled wryly. 'If the lad is his own son, that is.'
Faro's heart beat louder than usual as he said, 'Indeed? The birth was heralded as the child of their reconciliation.'
Julian laughed out loud. 'I have always had my doubts about that. The premature baby, the oldest trick in the world. Remember the carriage accident Gustav arranged. He wasn't afraid that the child would die. In fact, that was probably his intention. Kill two royal birds with one stone - or a broken wheel.'
He shook his head firmly. 'No, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if Gustav knows or suspects the truth.'
'What truth?' Even to his own ears, Faro's questions sounded sharper than was necessary.
Sir Julian's eyes narrowed. 'Let me take you back to that first meeting between Willy and Amelie in '78. She brought the wee lad along with her, she was even then seeking a refuge from her husband. There was something I overheard - '
His eager look vanished. 'No matter, no matter. One must be discreet about such things.'
Faro was very eager to know what exactly he had overheard, but to his questioning glance Julian again gave that shake of the head. 'Whatever was the truth, I think Her Majesty knew what was what. She and Amelie were often closeted together. Once or twice I saw them walking in the gardens, heads down, Amelie clearly distressed, bravely trying to conceal tears. I know enough about women to believe that confidences of a very personal and, I suspect, a highly dangerous nature were being poured into the royal ears, and that Amelie was over in Scotland precisely to take advice from her fond godmother.'
A thought flew unbidden into Faro's mind. Did Amelie come again to Scotland only to seek refuge in Balmoral with her son? Or was it a subterfuge, a yearning to meet him, let him see the child?
'Eliminate the mother first, then the son would be no problem,' Julian went on. 'If Amelie dies as a result of this murderous attack, then I wouldn't give much for the lad's chances of surviving to adulthood. Mark my words, he will be next,' he added grimly. It was a terrible thought. 'You say he's at school over here?'
Julian grinned. 'Yes. Just a few miles from where you are sitting right now. He's at Glenatholl, no less. You might even have met him last night. Now, what's his name?' He frowned. 'John - no, George. Yes, George - a splendidly Hanoverian name for a Luxorian prince, don't you think?'
And Faro knew what had been tormenting him, why the boy had looked so familiar. He had unknowingly solved that particular mystery when he caught a fleeting glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror at Glenatholl that morning.
There were voices in the hall.
Chapter 6
The arrival of Lady Arles, proudly bearing son and heir Augustus to meet Julian's old friend, could not have been timed for a less opportune moment. However, this interval of domesticity for admiration of the new infant, who regarded him with deepest suspicion, was a blessing for Faro, a cover for his confused thoughts.
There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, revelations that with a little gentle probing and a few more drams consumed by his host might bring forth a great deal more in the way of speculation than Julian was prepared to admit.
How infuriating - Lady Arles was to join them for luncheon. He groaned inwardly. Such a unique opportunity lost, a chance that might never come again.
Later he remembered little of the polite conversation that ensued, beyond Julian's nostalgic comments on days at Balmoral, accompanied by some excellent wine. Rather too much, in fact, Faro thought idly, watching one bottle empty and another appear. He realised he was allowing his glass to be refilled with alarming regularity.
By the time Lady Arles prepared to depart, having wisely refrained from the wine since she had an afternoon engagement (referred to by her husband as 'Another of your good works, my dear'), Faro had accepted their pressing invitation to extend his visit to include dinner, stay overnight and return to Edinburgh the following day. Behind this decision was the fervent hope of more confidences and revelations of royal indiscretions at Balmoral and elsewhere. But he knew this was not Inspector Jeremy Faro at his best. He desperately needed to think and think clearly, no easy task after the reckless depletion of the Arles' excellent wine cellar.
Most of all he wanted to talk about George, the boy in the gazebo at Glenatholl, whose face, a fleeting image, had been familiar. Dear God!
But confidences from Julian were to be further denied him. The estate factor, Lawson, looked in with some papers for signature and Julian, by now somewhat hectic in countenance, decided that fresh air would be a good thing. He wanted to show his guest the stables, the new horses, the old chapel. Faro trotted at his heels inventing ploys to lead his host back to agreeable reminiscences of Grand Duchess Amelie. But far off days in Luxoria were no longer on the agenda.
Julian excused himself. Estate trees to be felled and sold for timber. Lawson needed to show him the woods in question. So Faro went back to the Castle and, in the room they had prepared for him, fell gratefully on to the bed and - thanks to the effects of the wine - slept soundly until the dinner gong alerted him.
Awakening in strange surroundings, his first thought was that it had all been a dreadful nightmare and he had dreamed that the boy he had met at Glenatholl was his son.
He sat up with a groan and a hangover of mammoth proportions told him it was no dream but reality. Worse was to come when he shaved in preparation for going downstairs and encountered in the mirror that fleeting likeness to the boy he had been in far-off Orkney days. The face than now lived again in Glenatholl College...
Sounds of merriment issuing from the drawing-room dashed any hopes he had entertained of extracting information from Julian. There were other guests for dinner that evening; nice, pleasant country gentry with whom he had not one thing in common and who asked the same questions put to him after his Glenatholl lecture, about burglaries mostly and how they could be prevented. And how thieves who were apprehended might be discouraged from further wrongdoing by a hanging!
Faro was not a sympathetic or patient listener to the problems of the wealthy for whom a few pieces of stolen silver, that did not pivot their world or throw it out of joint,
were nevertheless regarded as a catastrophe of fearful proportions. The conversation, or the wine, or both, left him with a giddy feeling that instead of being within a decade of a new century, time had moved backwards and deposited the present company in the age of Hanging Judge Jeffries.
A valiant but useless effort to convince any of them that much of Edinburgh's petty crime was brought about by the necessity of survival proved futile. 'By men who would have qualities as honest as any around this table,' he explained, regarding his companions' shocked countenances, 'if only they had work to do, and money to buy bread for their starving families.'
Julian's applause and 'Well done, Jeremy' averted a dangerous situation as did his call for more wine and change of subject to the price of flour. As for problems with the tenants - 'Impossible to cope with them,' put in another guest, with a final outraged glance in Faro's direction, 'Getting quite above themselves these days.'
Somehow Faro got through it all, retired most gratefully to his waiting bed once more, slept well and, after an excellent breakfast, was sped off for the late morning train.
Watching the carriage disappear down the drive, Julian realised that his wife's entrance yesterday had saved him from a major indiscretion. A scene he had witnessed in the gardens at Balmoral eleven years ago. A scene that he had discreetly kept to himself and, indeed, had tried to put out of his mind.
Walking alongside a tall yew hedge in the gardens, he had paused to light a pipe when he heard voices from a concealed arbour on the other side. Her Majesty and one he recognised as the Grand Duchess Amelie. She was crying. 'But he is so near at hand, could I not see him, just once? Just once, when the train stops in Edinburgh? I long for him to see his son.'
'Never. Never!' said Her Majesty. 'My dearest girl, you must never admit that even to yourself. You must put him from your mind instantly. To try to see him again, even to think of it, would be a disaster not only for yourself. Dear God, if you would be so indiscreet, at least think of the child's future.'
The Final Enemy. An Inspector Faro Mystery No.12. Page 4
