Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 (12 page)

'True, but with large families to provide for, tenants have always been proud and eager to seize the chance of putting their offspring to work at the Castle as early as possible.'

Vince nodded. 'And no questions asked presumably, a blind
eye conveniently turned by the Master of the Household on a
well-grown lad or lass of eight or nine who could pass for a twelve-year-old.'

Both men were silent for a moment, then as Vince refilled their glasses, Faro said grimly, 'It would seem that the McNairs had enough education to know about the contents of these letters or documents to get themselves murdered. And those Irish visitors at Miss McNair's cottage are a very sinister factor.'

'You suspect that the fire was started deliberately,' said Vince.

Faro sighed. 'I do. And, as far as I am concerned, I still have two murders to solve as well as an assault on my own person. Whatever is behind it all, Brewer, or someone in higher authority, decided it was worth his while coming to Edinburgh to warn me off—'

Vince did not find the story of the bogus wedding at St Baldred's amusing. He looked very concerned.

'I presume Brewer is Brewer?'

'Oh, no doubt about that. Mcintosh's known him for years and has been quite voluble about his achievements.'

'What do you conclude then? Brewer is sent down to meet you on a fabricated excuse regarding the death of two Balmoral servants and state documents, which he now declares were relatively unimportant but if they happen to fall into your hands they then they are to be destroyed—unread.' He shook his head. 'That doesn't make any sense at all.'

'It does to me, lad. I'm being warned off, that's what. Plain lied to. And, as I don't care to be taken for a fool, I shall proceed as if Brewer's visit never happened.'

'Hunt down the Fenians, you mean.'

'Exactly. They are lurking in the vicinity of Edinburgh, I'd
swear to that. And as the evidence so far indicates that they haven't yet got possession of these documents, they are also in circulation somewhere.'

'All this is pure speculation, Stepfather, and as usual you can't do anything to prove or disprove it.'

Vince paused and added lightly, 'The only Irishwoman you
ever encountered on a social level was that writer, Imogen Crowe.'

He could see by his stepfather's expression that he had touched a sore point.

Faro had hoped three years ago that she was sufficiently interested—even attracted—to him to keep in touch. But since the day they parted on the railway platform at Berwick Station, he had never heard from her.

True, he realized she was still writing books. In fact since their encounter at Elrigg he had held two of them in his hands in James Thin's Edinburgh bookshop. He had considered buying them, and had abandoned the prospect. They
would lie on the shelf unread, not only because his scant time
for reading was devoted to Scott, Dickens, and his beloved Shakespeare, but because they were romances.

Love stories. And he was afraid of seeing himself in any of the characters, lampooned, caricatured.

Imogen Crowe possessed a sharp, unerring eye, always
seeking out those weaknesses and flaws in a man's personality
that were best hidden and he suspected she might portray him as a rejected lover, in a cruel or pitying light.

'Ever hear from her?' Vince asked casually.

'No. Why do you ask?'

'I wouldn't have brought up the subject, Stepfather, but
Olivia and I thought we saw her at the theatre the other night.
We were sure it was her. Livvy had seen her, or someone deuced like her, a couple of weeks ago sitting in Princes Street Gardens. However, if she saw us then she didn't want to be recognized.'

He smiled, trying to make it sound trivial, as he added, 'She
was accompanied by a young man—about my age, or younger.'

Faro got the point. A young man twenty years his junior. So
Imogen had found a lover. No matter, no matter, he told himself. But dreams told him otherwise as he pursued her across the heathery slopes of Arthur's Seat, held her to his heart and whispered, I love you, I love you.

He awoke feeling elated, certain that he was going to see her again. They would meet quite by chance in the High
Street and she would explain away his fears, give a reasonable
and true explanation for her long silence.

The fickle character of dreams was soon made evident when at the Central Office the McNair case was closed, the Procurator Fiscal's ruling 'accidental death', and their bodies removed for burial at Crathie kirkyard.

John Brown had been good to his word. And so had Superintendent Mcintosh.

He was awaiting Faro's arrival next morning, flourishing a paper in his hand. 'You're acquainted with this case about the breakins at Stirling Castle, Faro. Well, the lads over there haven't made a deal of progress and they have appealed for your expertise—'

'On robberies, sir? Surely there are other officers—'

'Yes, yes. But you have the experience,' said Mcintosh
sternly. 'Right away, Faro, if you please,' he added, closing the door behind him.

Experience, no doubt, but Faro felt this was an excuse at Brewer's urgent instigation—or what he had called 'a higher
authority’ to divert Inspector Faro's energies into less troubled
waters.

As the Highland train steamed along the line towards Stirling, Faro gazed out on the Trossachs, with Ben Lomond snowcapped still and shimmering in sunshine. On the wooded foothills there were glimpses of fleeing deer herds
and, from tiny hamlets, children rushed out gleefully to wave
to the passing train. Horse-drawn traps waited at level crossings and farmers led cattle homewards for milking while on grassy hills shepherds with dogs rounded up sheep panic-stricken by the steaming monster on the railway line below.

Faro sighed at these tantalizing glimpses of a world utterly desirable and now utterly alien to him. Suddenly he was wistful for this other life akin to his childhood in Orkney and so remote from the great city of Edinburgh he had chosen to live in.

How good it would be to step off the train and follow that tree-lined track up into the hills. If only a man were free to follow his dreams. And he realized how seldom the nature of his work with the Edinburgh City Police allowed him the luxury of a holiday. As one case closed there was always another awaiting him in the wings.

He sat back in his seat. Instead of rebelling at his temporary
removal from Edinburgh, this time he would obey. Instead of damning Mcintosh for extracting him from a murder
investigation he would be grateful to him, grateful to the higher authority that had left him with two fewer murders to solve.

For once, he was going to enjoy himself.

The approach to Stirling was impressive. The Gateway to the Highlands, a royal burgh and county town, it was a place of considerable historic significance, the choice of the most obvious strategic site on what had been the principal ford of the River Forth for the ancients who had created the town
always with defence at the forefront of their minds. They had
built their Castle on an extinct volcano, akin to Edinburgh's
Castle Rock and the Bass Rock, with a similarly commanding
position over the landscape.

In medieval days it had controlled the main north route through Strathallan to Perth, a convenient and vital base from which to show the Royal flag in central Scotland.

With a day in hand before this early meeting with the Stirling
Police, Faro decided to climb the steep hill up to the Castle and explore at first hand its Royal historic connections.

Alexander I had died within its walls in 1124. A few years later King David I referred to his 'burgh of Stirling', already a place of some importance long before two of Scotland's greatest battles were fought in the neighbourhood.

The original site of Stirling Bridge had changed long ago but the decisive battle where the great William Wallace trapped and routed the English army under the Earl of Surrey in 1297 had gone down in history, as had Robert the Bruce's defeat of Edward II at Bannockburn in 1314.

A turbulent existence led to relative peace under James I a
century later when the town expanded and the Castle became
a popular Royal residence for the Stuart Kings. Here James II
was born and his son James III enthusiastically made architectural improvements. Here Mary Queen of Scots was crowned as an infant after the death of her father James V at Falkland. Here her son James VI, and I of England, was both christened and crowned. In his turn he had the Chapel Royal rebuilt for the christening of his son Prince Henry.

The town of Stirling, like Edinburgh, was recognizably
divided into old and new, thought Faro, the suburbs stretching
out like groping fingers to a modern residential district for its
affluent citizens.

In search of suitable lodging near the Castle he walked down the cobbled steep approach to Castle Wynd, St John and Spittal Streets. Like Edinburgh's High Street they contained good surviving domestic buildings dating from the sixteenth century: Argyll's Lodging, Mar's Wark and the handsome Guildhall, which was the centre of government.

The exterior of an attractive tavern appealed to him. This would best serve his purpose. A pleasant comfortable room
and the excellent supper he was served confirmed the wisdom
of his choice and he retired that evening well fed with every care firmly banished from his mind.

Next morning he presented himself at the local police station and was duly transported to the Castle by an earnest sergeant with a sheaf of papers relating to the breakins.

Faro examined the scene, read through the documents with their interviews of the suspects of which the sergeant was inordinately proud. The evidence was laid before him by the
sergeant in a most efficient manner, and they both agreed on the vital clue that established the criminal's identity. All that remained was an arrest and trial, neither of which need concern Faro personally.

Returning to the little tavern he also decided that his journey
had been a waste of the Central Office's time, confirming his suspicions that it was a conspiracy between Mcintosh and Brewer to distract his attention from the McNair murders.

Once the thought would have angered him; now it suited
his purpose to humour his Superintendent by obeying orders,
grateful to the circumstances, however dubious, that had removed him from the contemplation of violent crime. Let someone else enjoy the headache of sorting out whatever machinations were emanating from Balmoral Castle under the stage management of the Queen, ably assisted, he did not doubt, by John Brown's advice and counsel.

He would remain in Stirling until the criminal was charged
at the end of the week, regard this as a well earned rest and, taking advantage of the mild, sunny weather, indulge in his once-favourite pursuit of exploring local beauty spots and historic monuments.

And remembering Vince's sage advice about crossing bridges before he came to them, he also deliberately thrust
Lachlan and Rose from his mind. Lachlan had not asked Rose
to marry him and, until he did so, there was no reason for Faro to take any action.

As for Fenians—he hoped he had heard the last of that dreaded word in this peaceful town.

His hopes were short-lived.

An item in the daily newspaper indicated that in Stirling, at least, they were at large.

A young newspaperman was in custody, charged with Fenian sympathies and subversive behaviour.

His name was Seamus Crowe. It was the name that drew
Faro's attention and as a heavy shower of rain had put paid to
his plans to walk towards Flanders Moss, he decided to satisfy his curiosity by attending the nearby courthouse that morning.