Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 (17 page)

Faro looked through the window at the station clock. 'I must go or I'll miss my train.'

McQuinn nodded. 'Forgive me if I make myself scarce, sir.
I can't afford to be seen with a detective in a place as public as
a railway station.'

'How do I contact you?'

McQuinn frowned. 'You don't. I can't come to Edinburgh for obvious reasons.'

'What if I have information for you?'

'That's different. There's a jewellery repair shop near the docks in Leith, in Hailes Wynd. There's another just like it, tiny and unobtrusive, here in Wallace Close. If there is no one at home, put a note in the door: "Goods ready. Urgent
collection.'' I'll know it's from you. If the shop is open, which
it is on rare occasions, ask for Mr Jacob—that isn't his real name—show him your watch and say. "This was a gift from
Mr Lyon, it's gaining time." He'll pass on the message and I'll
meet you back there in the public bar.'

'Has Mr Lyon any significance?'

McQuinn laughed. 'Only if you know your Bible, sir. Daniel—my name—in the lion's den, remember?'

As they shook hands, Faro said, 'Take care, McQuinn—I mean O'Mahony.'

McQuinn smiled. 'I will that, sir. You can rely on it. If I'm alive you'll be hearing from me.'

The Edinburgh train had been signalled and as Faro waited on the platform he was aware of being watched.

On the other side of the railway line, he recognized the two men awaiting the train going north as the pair he had pursued
in the graveyard.

Without another thought for what the action might cost him, Faro leaped up the stairs and across the line as the Inverness train drew alongside the platform. When the steam
subsided a little he realized that the two men had disappeared.

Frantically he ran up and down staring into the windows of the compartments.

'Are you boarding the train, sir?' asked the guard, observing
this odd behaviour.

'No. I'm looking for someone.'

'Can't hold the train any longer, I'm afraid.' And so saying
he blew his whistle and Faro watched the train slide out of the
station.

He heard another whistle and, frantically rushing back over the bridge, was in time to see the Edinburgh train steam away
from the platform.

Damn and blast. Damn and blast!

He had lost his quarry and his train. He looked at the noticeboard and discovered there was a three-hour wait until the next, the last of the day.

He sat on the seat regarding the now empty railway line.

And suddenly he didn't care. Maybe destiny was assuming a new role despite McQuinn's revelations. For, having missed his train, the possibility of seeing Imogen again suddenly loomed.

And, at the back of his mind, the teasing thought that she would be in need of some comfort after the day's sadness. The sort of comfort that only a man in love could give a woman.

As he headed back into the town, he decided there was some compensation in disaster after all.

As he walked out of the railway station Faro realized that he
was once again acting on instinct. Taking a chance on Imogen
Crowe being alone and spending the night in Stirling, he was
drawn back to the same hotel where they had dined the day they went to Inchmahome.

The booking clerk told him that Miss Crowe had Room 16 but her key was not on the board. The man gave him a wry look as he asked for a room near by.

'Room 8, sir.'

As Faro washed his face and regarded his reflection in the mirror, he saw the image of the double bed behind him and reflected upon how this night might end for both of them.

With his hand on the door, he was about to go downstairs to the dining room when a commotion in the corridor alerted him. Running footsteps, raised voices and a woman's scream.

He threw open the door. Imogen Crowe was fighting off an
attacker. The gaslit corridor gave too little illumination to identify the man, except that his heavy build suggested to Faro that this was one of the two men he had seen boarding the Inverness train.

At his approach, the man fled and, thrusting Imogen into his room, Faro set off in pursuit, realizing that he had been
fooled by an old trick in Stirling railway station. The two men had boarded the train and left it at the signals halt.

As he reached the stairs, he saw that the man had gone. A noisy wedding reception was in progress in the ballroom and he might well have mingled with the crowd.

But Faro's main concern was Imogen. He ran upstairs and found her putting her hair up before the mirror in his room.

'Are you all right?'

She straightened her dishevelled dress. 'Thanks be to God—and that I have a few tricks of self-defence up my
sleeve,' and staring ruefully at a torn cuff, she smiled. 'But I've
never been so glad to see anyone when you opened that door.
Like an avenging angel, all that was missing was the fiery sword.'

Seeing how pale she was he asked gently, 'What happened?
Why were you being attacked?'

She sat down on the bed and stared up at him. For the first
time he realized that she was afraid, trembling. 'You know the
answer to that, Faro. Better than I do.'

He shook his head. And before he could say a word, she went on, 'Those two men—'

'Men—I only saw one.'

Again she smiled. 'There were two of them. I disabled one on the stairs, left him gasping for breath.'

'Well done, well done,' he whispered.

His companion recovered quickly enough to follow me. My room is just along the corridor. But how miraculous to find you here.'

'I missed my train—'

'That's a miracle too. I saw you at the funeral. I hoped to speak to you, but when I turned round you had disappeared.
Of course, I understand the reasons why you might not want to be seen in public with a known Fenian.'

'That's not the reason at all, Imogen. The fact was I was chasing your same two men, who I have every reason to believe attacked me in Edinburgh and here in Stirling—'

'You too, Faro? I thought they were on your side.'

He shrugged, not quite ready to bring up the delicate subject of the McNairs and her association with them. 'They are probably hired bullies.'

'They were trying to murder me, right enough, throw me bodily over the stairhead.' She shivered. 'There's a marble floor below. I couldn't possibly have survived. But they'd
make it look like an accident—or another suicide.' She turned
to him, her eyes full of tears.

'Seamus was murdered, you know. He never hanged him
self in his cell. You couldn't get me to believe that. I saw him
the night before and he was talking of going back to Ireland
to his wife and baby son. Sir Hamish had promised he'd try to
get his sentence shortened, perhaps a reprieve if he'd give up what he called terrorist activities, and go home.' She shook her head. 'A good man, Sir Hamish, for a Member of your Parliament.'

Faro did not bother to contradict her and she regarded him thoughtfully. 'You haven't told me why you were chasing those two men, Inspector. Tell me, I'm curious. I thought you were both on the same side,' she repeated, 'fighting Fenians. Why on earth did they attack you in Edinburgh?'

'Because I'm trying to save another damsel in distress.'

'Is that so?' She laughed, as if this were a novel idea.

'Oh yes, I do it all the time. You'd be surprised.'

'And are you always successful?'

'No. Not always,' he replied.

She waited for him to explain further and then went back to
smoothing her hair. 'I'm surprised you haven't managed to get yourself a wife then, out of the proceeds. Was your damsel in distress young and beautiful?'

'Quite the contrary. She was poor and plain and middle-aged. I think you were possibly acquainted with her. Her name was Bessie McNair.'

Imogen's brow darkened. There was a moment's confusion.
As her eyes slid away from him, declaring her guilt, he knew
that she was going to deny all knowledge of the dead woman.

'What makes you think that, Inspector?' she asked softly.

'Because you—and Seamus—were described to me by the sisters who lived next door. They'd seen you at the house.'

She sighed. 'Well, you might as well know the truth, seeing
that you know so much already. I was needing background for
one of my books and, when I was travelling in Deeside, I stayed at Bessie McNair's cottage. She was a sewing maid to the Queen, you know. So when I was in the Edinburgh area, I decided to look her up again, and take Seamus along.'

Faro shook his head. 'It won't work, Imogen.'

'I don't know what you mean, "it won't work". It's the God's honest truth.'

'According to the two ladies next door, you were there on separate occasions.'

She laughed bitterly. 'Oh that!' Then, with a sigh of resignation, 'You know everything, don't you?'

'I just wondered why a young newspaperman should find her so fascinating. They don't usually waste their time visiting elderly ladies, unless there is a story somewhere.'

'She had been a Royal servant.'

'Why should that be of such great interest to a Fenian?' Again he paused. 'Unless she had something of great value concerning Royalty to hand over to him.' And when she didn't reply, 'Such as stolen secret state papers pilfered from Balmoral.'

She laughed. 'State papers. Is that what they are telling you,
Inspector? Well, well.'

'I know they were important enough for your friend Bessie McNair and her brother Davy to be murdered.'

'She sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with horror. 'They murdered them. I can't believe it.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'Mother of God, how horrible. And all for a journal and a few letters.'

'What kind of letters?' he demanded sharply.

'Love letters, Inspector.'

'Love letters!' Faro exploded.

'Oh yes, and a few drawings and poems. All very personal,
letters exchanged between Royal lovers.'

'Who—'

'The Queen, of course. And her trusted servant, John
Brown. Mostly from her. She's a great writer of letters, keeps
a diary and journal. There's a secret one she carries round with her. If that ever found its way into the wrong hands—
There are drawings and poems and she refers to Brown as her
husband, moans that she cannot acknowledge him in public. There are some very intimate details—I gather.'

It was Faro's turn to sit back as he remembered a previous occasion when the Queen in love was wildly indiscreet. Except that the object of her abandoned passion was her husband, Prince Albert. Widowed, she had to be restrained by General Sir Charles Grey, her Secretary, from publishing
their correspondence with each other, 'including intimate and personal details relating to Her Majesty's marriage which might seem unusual to include in a work intended for general readership'.