Murder in Paradise (7 page)

Lena accepted the shawl without any trace of embarrassment. Why should she, thought Faro, who after all had considerable experience in concealing guilt over a murdered man, express any emotion over a mere lie regarding a shawl.

As she edged closer along the seat to make room for him, Erland said, ‘Lena has had a great idea. George Wardle is here on business to see Topsy and she thought it would be nice on such a lovely day, as an introduction to the area, to take him on a picnic. There’s a lovely spot near the mill stream. Just perfect, pretty as any of Ned Burne-Jones’s pastoral paintings.’

Pausing with an affectionate look at Lena, he leant over, kissed her cheek and said, ‘I have to tell you that this darling girl has been very busy preparing things. I might add that she’s perfect in the kitchen, getting in a little practice to be the perfect wife.’

Lena gave him a shy smile, pointing to the picnic hamper alongside. ‘Hardly – all I have done is to make a stack of sandwiches for three hungry men.’

Faro eyed her doubtfully. Lena and food did not go well together in his estimation. ‘And something to drink, too,’ Erland laughed.

Faro bit back the words, ‘Not cocoa, I trust,’ as Erland added, ‘Wine – lots of Topsy’s wine, perfect for an autumn day.’

They heard voices from inside the house as Poppy appeared, now fully clothed, followed by George Wardle. A discussion about jackets and umbrellas, which would not be needed, and suitable shoes, then they were ready to depart.

The only one who seemed too well dressed and formal for such an excursion was Wardle, Faro thought. All he lacked was a top hat, which he no doubt had left inside the house. Frock-coated, with a bright waistcoat and tapered trousers, elegant highly polished boots, he presented the perfect picture of the affluent London businessman. A strong face, a fine beard and moustache, he was imposing, a little staid and quietly attractive, rather than handsome. In his favour, although in his late thirties and still unmarried, he was the perfect catch for any designing woman.

Poppy seemed to think so. Slightly disappointed, Faro saw the two girls link arms with Wardle while he and Erland were left to carry the picnic basket between them.

As they walked the short distance to the mill stream their path led past the Mill Cottage looking oddly deserted. No sounds of sawing, no evidence of the distraught Mrs Tracy. Guiltily, Faro’s thoughts flew to the missing girl and the policeman in him said that he ought to be investigating that case instead of making merry with these four companions, the girls singing happily as they walked.

And yet there was reason for happiness. There is something about a sunny autumn day that is irresistible, as if summer, determined not to be banished for another year, has made one more dramatic farewell performance. The countryside around them gleamed, the fields heavy with corn ripe for harvest, the tall treetops already tinged with the red and gold that would transform this small piece of Kent with its undulating hills into a paint box of glowing colour.

Faro sighed. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to think ahead, to see it as it would be and for a moment he wished he had the ability to shift time forward, glimpse into that glorious autumn. For in a week or so, and certainly before these trees were winter-bare, he would be back on his beat, Edinburgh’s Leith Walk.

By then Erland’s wedding would be over – whether it took place or not. And for good or ill, no longer his responsibility.

He thrust aside melancholy thoughts of the immediate future. Today was one to remember and he would not sully this delightful interlude with fears for a future that lay in destiny’s hands. Today he would relish this small fragment of near paradise, let it take its place stored away with other past memories, the experience of Red House and the acquaintance of three remarkable men, Morris, Rossetti and Burne-Jones.

As the picnic spot was selected and mutually agreed upon, the bank of a stream shaded by willows, a tablecloth laid on the grass, the contents of the hamper spread out, sandwiches opened by the two girls, the wine uncorked, the glasses filled, Faro wondered how Wardle would react to this cheery informality.

Observing him a little closer as he was drawn into the general conversation, it was soon clear that Wardle could hold his own in any society. Cultured and knowledgeable he slipped into the chat that he had been educated at a ‘good’, i.e. public, school.

It was also soon clear to Faro, if not to the other members of their party, that Wardle was very obviously smitten with Lena. Was it his imagination, Faro decided, or did he direct all his looks and answers to questions towards her in particular? If he did so, then Erland did not – or pretended not to – notice, beyond regarding any man as his rival so certain was he of Lena’s love, with marriage only a couple of days away.

Poppy, it seemed, was also a keen observer and as soon as they reached the picnic site she tactfully abandoned Wardle and devoted all her attention to Faro, who was pleased and, he had to admit, a little flattered. However, seeing her in the pretty muslin dress with covering jacket, he could not quite clear his mind of that earlier picture of the naked girl on Gabriel’s studio couch.

He had never seen a completely naked woman before – except in French postcards circulated around the police station in Edinburgh. Brought up in an Orkney of capricious weather where folk of necessity kept well clad, not many clothes were removed even to go to bed at night and he supposed all lovemaking and conception was carried out under the bedclothes.

Seeing Poppy in the flesh, so to speak, had been a strange and exciting experience. He had never made love to Lizzie, and he had told Erland the truth that nothing had progressed between them further than a few chaste kisses. He had not until now thought of what it would be like to be married to Lizzie or any woman, for he could no longer be unaware, as Erland had hinted, that Poppy fancied him.

Although imagination failed to provide any future with this pretty girl and Erland’s fantastic idea of a double wedding was too ridiculous to take seriously, he still felt that he had some slight obligation to his past two years of what most folk would describe as ‘courting’ Lizzie.

Perhaps he was taking it all too seriously and Poppy’s role was merely to be the memory of a what-might-have-been, a romantic interlude in Kent.

At his side she stifled a yawn. Wardle’s rather pompous talk of his achievements in the London business world and his talk of William Morris were becoming a little tedious. Here was a man who certainly enjoyed holding centre stage.

Poppy, as though aware of Faro’s lack of interest, touched his arm and nodded towards the grassy slope behind them, a copse of trees crowning its summit.

‘There’s a splendid view over the whole county from there,’ she whispered. ‘Shall we?’

Without making any excuse that would appear obvious, they left the group, their exit causing no comment apart from a sharp look from Lena and another of Erland’s knowing winks.

Taking Faro’s arm, Poppy led the way up the little hill, where the tall trees fluttered a welcome as they leant on a fence. Below them, interspersed by the tiny shapes of farms and churches, a patchwork of quilt-like fields stretched out and folded their way in shades of green and gold to disappear in the muted blue of a far horizon.

‘Lovely, isn’t it? Was it worth the climb?’ Poppy asked with a teasing smile.

Faro laughed. ‘Indeed,’ and added, ‘A worthy escape.’

Poppy chuckled. ‘I see what you mean. He can be a little boring, poor George. But he is so good and kind, he means well and—’ Her voice dropped to an awed whisper as if they might be overheard. ‘He simply dotes on Lena, poor man. Doesn’t seem to care that there’s absolutely no hope for him, that she’s to be married to Erland in a day or two. Do you know, he asked her to marry him when we were in London together? Please don’t tell Erland…’

‘As if I would. Do you think he might challenge him to a duel or something?’

‘Of course not. He has no reason to be jealous – not at this late stage.’

But Wardle’s infatuation did seem extraordinary. Here was this rich man, a very eligible bachelor, with much of London’s society at his door, according to the tale he was still spinning to Erland and Lena down the hill there, ready to ask a woman to marry him on a few hours’ acquaintance. This was an emotion that Faro had never known and probably never would.

To fall in love at first sight. Yet Erland claimed to have done so too. He looked at Poppy. Was he missing something? Tentatively he took her hand and, leaning forward, kissed her gently.

At first nothing happened. The next moment, her eyes filled with tears and, with a hoarse little sob, she whispered, ‘Jeremy!’

Throwing her arms around his neck, in a mouth-clinging moist kiss, she thrust her body close. Taken by surprise by this uprush of passion, whatever thoughts and arguments existed in his mind only, his body had its own response.

Looking round he realised they were at a disadvantage, clearly visible to the others down the hill. Poppy was also aware of the fact, and she looked longingly towards the trees. He had little doubt of what was to come next, prepared to follow her. Fate, however, in the shape of George Wardle, had destined otherwise.

A shrill whistle. Erland waving, beckoning urgently.

‘What does he want now?’ demanded Poppy crossly. ‘I don’t want to go back yet – do you?’ she whispered urgently, clinging to his arm.

Of course he didn’t but there was little option as Erland was striding up the grassy slope.

‘Come on, you two. Didn’t you hear me? We have to go back, I’m afraid.’

‘Must we?’ said Poppy shortly. ‘It’s still very early. We’ve only been here an hour.’

‘I know, my dear girl. And it’s a shame to have to end it all so soon. But George has just informed us that he has an appointment with Topsy at four. Damned nuisance, but it would look terribly rude if we just sent him on his way.’

Faro wouldn’t have cared at that moment. He would not have worried about being rude to George one bit, in fact he would have enjoyed the experience. However, discretion must play a part and an exposed hillside was hardly the right sort of place for the lovemaking he guessed was occupying Poppy’s thoughts.

She was holding his hand tightly. He looked at her, shook his head, mouthed, ‘Later.’ Together they ran back down the hill, where Lena was gathering up the contents of the picnic hamper, helped by George.

As they made their way back to Red House with George doing most of the talking, Faro wondered if the others were hating him as much as Poppy and himself.

In retrospect, for Faro, there was an idyllic quality about that sunny afternoon, a moment lived out of time, neither past nor present, simply a moment of magic emanating from his Red House experience, an interlude that seemed to have the power to invent a time and place of its own, regardless of the busy world outside. A world of movement, of trains passing by in a dreamlike landscape and an oasis away from terror, danger and death.

It was also a time of self-examination, of discovery.

As they returned to Red House, preparations for the pre-wedding masque were in full swing. It was to have, as would have been expected, a medieval theme relished by everyone.

There was an atmosphere of excited anticipation – the occupants had a childlike love of dressing up, adults returning to their school days, artists reliving the portraits they had created, a return to innocence that made it hard to believe that these grown-ups lived lives of intrigue, with adulterous emotions of illicit love simmering under the surface.

As Poppy gossiped to Faro, it was already obvious to everyone that newly married Janey Morris and Rossetti were in love and that was the reason his long-time model and bride of just a few months, Elizabeth Siddall, looked perpetually anxious and unhappy.

Erland told him that the two ladies were dressed as Hippolyte and Helen of Troy from Gabriel’s painting of Chaucer’s
Legend of Goode Women
.

‘Somewhat ironic in the circumstances, isn’t it?’ he added in a delighted whisper.

An added excitement for the ball were the medieval dresses from Morris’s overflowing costume wardrobes worn by the models, perhaps a little more shabby with wear – and occasionally spots of paint – and as it was a masked ball identities were to be strictly concealed: veiled headdresses for the ladies, crowned with leaves, replicas of Rossetti’s painting of Dante’s ‘Beatrice in Eden’. In addition men and women alike were issued with velvet face masks, hopefully creating a new allure and mystery. Except that Faro decided the faces behind the masks would be very easy to identify, although the ladies headdresses and flowing veils made recognition a little more difficult, especially as Poppy and Lena were of similar height and colouring.

His hopes that he might quietly be overlooked in these preparations were doomed. Unsurprisingly, Topsy Morris had found a very convincing Viking costume for him: a leather doublet, leggings and a very convincing helmet complete with horns.

‘This isn’t the same costume as you’ll be needing for Gabriel’s Tarquinius.’ He grinned. ‘We thought it would be more comfortable than a warrior’s armoured breastplate, but not so dramatic.’

As Faro contemplated the result in his bedroom cheval mirror, he had little faith in the velvet mask concealing his identity. He realised that his suggestion to Erland of paying for his board and lodgings had been taken advantage of by the artists. He would have much preferred putting his hand in his pocket and handing over the few guineas rent involved, he guessed that Morris and company did not require.

Considerable thought and lavish preparations for the masque had been taking place behind the kitchen doors, hinting that money did not seem to be in short supply whereas male models certainly were. His only hope was delaying tactics, that he might be summoned back to Edinburgh before he was summoned to Rossetti’s studio.

For convenience, the round table had been replaced by long trestles to accommodate the guests, the banquet complete with roast pig, numerous fowls, fish in the shape of salmon and a variety of shellfish, Morris’s special delicacy ordered and delivered that day. All were presented with a lavish display of vegetables from the gardens, always ready at hand, served in several different sauces and relishes with an assortment of excellent wines from the Red House cellars.

As a final dash of grandeur and sense of occasion befitting a meal that might have been served at the Knight’s Round Table, Morris their host, with Gabriel Rossetti, Ned Burne-Jones, their womenfolk and the principal guests (including George Wardle, conveniently seated alongside Lena and Erland) were provided with a ‘squire’ stationed behind their dining chair to serve them their food and wine individually.

Between courses, each preceded by an appropriate toast and eulogy in the form of a poem or reading, Morris was persuaded, not unwillingly, to deliver some readings from his own works. He chose an extract from an early draft of
The Earthly Paradise,
an epic poem, he explained apologetically, that he was engaged on at present.

A respectful hush descended on the assembled diners as his sonorous voice proclaimed:

‘Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,

Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?

Love is enough, though the world be a-waning,

And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining.’

In the applause that followed Faro decided that there must be a message for more than one of those present. As if the thought had also struck Poppy, she whispered, ‘In the absence of a minister, that was a kind of grace before meals, almost a prayer, wasn’t it?’

And Faro, remembering her passionate response to his kisses, had no voice for complaining. The message was clear. Glancing at Poppy, he touched her hand; love was enough. Let the evening take him where it would.

While the meal continued, from the musicians’ gallery, a worthy addition to the dining room, they were serenaded by some enthusiastic but amateur performers. These were, Faro guessed, local residents, their shortcomings lost in the loud conversations, particularly from their host, whose voice got louder as did his roars of laughter as the evening progressed and the wine store diminished.

As the squires paid due attention to the needs of the guests, Faro recognised among them some of the gardeners who had been recruited for this purpose and suitably adorned in medieval costume. To his embarrassment, he was certain that he recognised his personal squire as one of the lads he had asked about Bess Tracy’s whereabouts and later he wondered if he had imagined that fleeting, knowing look, now observing him with a somewhat clinging Poppy.

He could not, however, mistake another knowing look and one of considerable satisfaction from Erland seated opposite, obviously delighted that matters between Faro and Poppy were moving in what he considered the right direction. He did not seem to observe that George Wardle was completely monopolising Lena, who did not seem to mind in the least.

Wardle was the only one of the assembled guests who had refused to wear a medieval costume, but had been persuaded into a medieval lawyer’s dark robe complete with eye mask. It did not diminish his appeal as Lena appeared to hang upon every whispered word, laughing and smiling up at him.

As the meal progressed, and sampling all dishes but avoiding the shellfish to which he was allergic from his Orkney days, Faro thought fleetingly of staid dining tables in far off Edinburgh’s New Town society in their Georgian houses. And as an evening like this was never likely to occur again, remembering the passionate but sadly brief interlude with Poppy at the picnic that afternoon, with each refill of his goblet he resolutely banished all thoughts of being faithful to the absent Lizzie. Their relationship so far was limited to chaste goodnight kisses, his experience of sex and the rapture of first love still untouched from his early days in Orkney with Inga St Ola.

He glanced quickly at Poppy. Was that who she reminded him of? Those lost rapturous days. Certainly there was a distinct resemblance between the two passionate women. As for his Lizzie, he had to admit she was pretty enough, but on reflection he doubted that she would thrill and excite him as a lover. He acknowledged that she failed to stir his senses as did his first love and now Poppy.

Poppy and Lizzie were of a similar age yet could not have been more different and he suspected that, even though Lizzie had borne a child, she had much less experience of men than the vivacious girl at his side. Perhaps the shocking circumstances of Vince’s birth had made Lizzie extra cautious of any display of passion. Bearing this in mind, Faro was extremely careful to exercise self-control and never scare her off.

Poppy’s goblet replenished once again, she moved closer and smiled tenderly up at him. As their heads came momentarily close together, he was aware of an argument behind him between his squire and his opposite number, the squire across the table where Erland and Lena were sitting,

Faro could hardly distinguish the words through the noise of conversation and the drift of music from above their heads, but he caught small phrases: ‘Who do you think – who told you – no mask…’

He could make nothing of the altercation but turning in his chair he saw that his squire, unlike those across the table in his line of vision, was wearing a velvet mask which had apparently upset the other squire.

But Erland was demanding his attention. Flourishing the wine bottle, he said tipsily, ‘Never mind the argument. My friend over there has lost his goblet. Get him another – meanwhile,’ he hiccuped, ‘I want Jeremy to drink a toast to us. Here’s mine.’

Lena smiled, slid the goblet across the table and offered Erland her own, Faro’s to remain untouched. Both hands were needed at that moment to applaud their host as Morris took the floor once more and delivered another lengthy epistle, its content lost upon most of the assembled company, some of whom were already fast asleep at the table.

Polite applause and cheers followed, goblets were raised in more toasts to absent friends and artists. Faro stretched out his hand, but Erland’s goblet was no longer in front of him, its place was empty.

Deciding it had been removed by one of the squires, he called for another. This did not seem significant until much later when even through a wine mist Faro returned to that incident in absolute clarity. His exceptional memory and gift of total recall was to be of considerable importance in retrospect. Then he was prepared to swear that Lena, handing Erland her own goblet, had watched him carefully as he drank the contents. Moments later, or so it seemed, Erland stood up abruptly, swayed and almost fell, recovered and headed towards the door.

Everyone laughed. Too bad, too much to drink!

Lena rose and followed him out. When they did not return, Faro, suddenly sobered, whispered to Poppy that he needed to go outside, the excuse to relieve himself.

The sharp night air cleared his head momentarily, he lingered for a while under that star-filled sky, the trees around him shimmering, rustling, silvered in moonlight. Somewhere a village clock solemnly struck four. The night was almost over. Soon it would be the dawn of another day, and thankfully as it was Sunday, he would be spared a visit to Constable Muir. He wondered cynically whether villains like Macheath were aware of this convenient rest day and the opportunities it offered.

Reluctant to leave the peaceful garden and return to the raucous noise within the dining room, he saw that the places Erland and Lena had occupied were still empty.

Gazing upon the scene, he wondered how he could extract Poppy from an animated conversation with Gabriel who, circulating among the guests, was leaning over her chair. Was she arranging their next sitting, he wondered as, back in the hall, apart from frantic voices and busy sounds emanating from the kitchen area, the rest of the house seemed strangely quiet.

Indecisively he lingered, the idea of more food and forced merriment suddenly abhorrent. Climbing the stairs none too steadily, his senses telling him that he was to pay dearly for the effects of all that wine, bed was the only sensible alternative.

Halfway upstairs, he leant on the banister, listening to the quiet. It seemed likely that Erland and Lena had decided that they had also had more than enough of the banquet and had retired to Erland’s room.

He would have liked to know the outcome of Erland’s hasty departure from the dining table and that all was now well with him but could hardly intrude on them. Nevertheless, he was unable to rid himself of a growing anxiety, a feeling that something was wrong.

Suddenly he heard his name.

Erland was sitting alone in the shadows at the curve of the staircase overhead. Faro ran up to him. ‘Where’s Lena?’

‘Gone to bed.’ Erland groaned. He put his hands to his head. ‘Dear God, Jeremy – I feel awful.’

In a wavering gesture he grasped Faro’s hand, his own cold and clammy for all the warm atmosphere. ‘I’ve never felt as bad as this before. I feel as if – as if I’m going to die,’ he whispered.

Faro regarded him anxiously. There was little light in the ensconced candles but enough to see that Erland certainly looked ill, pale and sweating as if in the grip of a fever.

Consolingly Faro said, ‘Too much wine, I’m afraid. That’s what’s wrong with you. I don’t feel any too good myself. There’ll be sore heads all round tomorrow.’

‘That’s it – the wine.’ Erland rallied with effort. ‘Don’t usually feel this bad though. Must be a bad batch. Hope Lena’s all right.’ He shuddered. ‘Feel as if – as if I’ve been poisoned.’

At those words, so ominous to Faro, with a groan he sank his head in his hands again. ‘Thankfully I’ve managed to vomit most of it out of my system. I think my stomach must be quite empty now.’ He stood up shakily leaning for support against the banister.

‘Are you going to be all right?’ Faro asked.

Straightening up with effort, Erland said, ‘I think so. I’m for bed. Lena’ll be asleep by now. I’ll try not to disturb her.’ Smiling weakly, his legs seemed shaky and Faro helped him to the bedroom door.

Faro hovered anxiously. ‘Do you need any help?’

Erland, shaking his head, whispered, ‘No. Thank you, old chap. Lena will tuck me in.’

Faro remained outside the closed door, listening.

There was no sound of voices and he walked slowly back to his own room, wishing Erland hadn’t mentioned the word poison. Knowing what he did, the scene at the dining table of Lena handing Erland her goblet returned vividly to him, his thoughts coldly reviewing it in minute detail.