[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  There were scores of such stories, at least one a year, but for Bertie, Royal sportsman, the thrill was in the kill. Once the lady had succumbed to his arms, the Royal eyes soon wandered. An expensive piece of jewellery for the lady, a knighthood and a bit more land for the husband and there the affaire ended. When next the ex-lovers came face to face, a chilly bow of polite acknowledgement was all the lady could reasonably expect to receive for services rendered.

  Bertie was always very discreet. Having the husband meet with a particularly nasty accident while his Royal person was on the premises, to say nothing of the publicity such a story might invoke, was clearly most embarrassing.

  'What happened exactly?' Vince asked curiously.

  'At the moment all I have are some vague theories,' said Faro with a sigh. 'Doubtless I'll have more to tell you when I get back.'

  'Wish I could come with you.'

  'So do I.'

  'Wait a minute. Elrigg's quite near Wooler, isn't it?'

  When Faro nodded agreement, Vince said triumphantly, 'I might just be able to look in, see how you're getting on...'

  The prospect of Vince's presence on any investigation was immensely cheering. Appearances were deceptive, none more than in his stepson's case. Bright curls and a boyishly handsome countenance innocent of guile disguised a keen brain, austere and analytical. Slighter in build than Faro, he was also capable of swift and often deadly movement when danger threatened.

  'The Gilchrists have a great aunt who lives near Flodden,' Vince continued. 'She's celebrating her birthday on Saturday and Livvy has hinted once or twice,' he added shyly, 'that Great-Aunt would like to meet me and of course, I would love to see the countryside.'

  Faro smiled. He had great hopes of Olivia Gilchrist, for this relationship had lasted the best part of a year, much longer than his stepson's usual run of disastrously short-lived courtships. Indeed, he had even developed a sentimental tendency to picture her fondly as Vince's future wife.

  The two young people were eminently well suited. Olivia had brains as well as good looks and infinite patience, all excellent qualities for a doctor's wife. There was only one problem that concerned him deeply. Since leaving school she had been tied to her mother's invalid cousin, who had brought up Olivia and her twin brother Owen from the age of ten after their missionary parents had died of cholera in India.

  When the hitherto strong and active Cousin Edith had been suddenly struck down in late middle age with a mysterious paralysis, Olivia immediately assumed the mantle of dutiful surrogate daughter, self-appointed nurse and companion. Vince assured Faro she did not find this arduous in the least since the two were devoted to each other, with a common love of books and music.

  However admirable, such devotion was also the one impediment to his stepson's possible matrimonial intentions. And Faro was forced to accept Vince's claim that this was merely a very dear friendship. Owen and he had been at medical college together and the trio enjoyed a pleasant friendship with no desire for change.

  'What precisely are you supposed to be doing at Elrigg?'

  'Investigating the disappearance of two paintings the Queen wishes to acquire for her collection...'

  At the end of his description of the paintings, Faro added helpfully: 'I might take along a magnifying glass, check over their vast collection. Who knows what I might come up with?' he ended cheerfully.

  Vince wasn't convinced. 'A bit thin as excuses go, don't you think?'

  'I couldn't have agreed more.' Faro sighed.

  'And hardly enough reason for an extended visit.'

  'I can take my time about it. I can use your imminent visit as a good reason for lingering in the area, taking a few extra days' holiday. Why not?'

  Vince frowned. 'That's all very well but it doesn't guarantee you unlimited access to Elrigg Castle. Besides, you don't know the first thing about art, Stepfather,' he added sternly.

  ‘I know that. Have you any better suggestions?'

  Vince was silent. 'Couldn't they have dreamed up something a bit more convincing for your visit, some more plausible excuse?'

  'Perhaps Her Majesty isn't rich on imagination - I expect Mr Gladstone had a hand in this one and as far as he is concerned a Royal Command refuses to recognise the impossible. It's all part of the divine right of kings.'

  Vince looked at him. 'Of course, the main reason is this so—called accident to Elrigg, I can see that. But why is the Queen so concerned - apart from the anxiety of having the future King of England branded as coward?' he added cheerfully. 'I dare say he'd outlive that one. Royal subjects have short memories, especially for a prince who is also a leader of society.'

  'True. But there is a complication. A difference of opinion between Bertie and his equerry - overheard - angry words in front of the whole castle before they rode out together alone. And only one came back,' he added grimly.

  'Bertie?'

  'Precisely. He said Elrigg had taken a bad fall from his horse. Help had been summoned on his way back to the castle, the local constable alerted. But when they arrived on the scene, Sir Archie was dead. Not from the fall. Someone had carelessly left a gate open and he had been gored by a bull.'

  'Well, that sounds feasible.'

  'Except that this was not the first time. On his previous visit to Elrigg, there was a similar incident with a fellow guest -'

  'Wait a minute. You aren't saying that he was there when Philip Gray died?'

  'I am.'

  Vince whistled. 'What a very unfortunate coincidence.'

  And at Faro's expression, he said slowly, 'You don't surely think he had a hand in it?'

  'There was a quarrel certainly - both times.' And Faro frowned again, seeing the damning words of the Prince's letter to his mother.

  'In Gray's case, he and Bertie had been playing at cards - for high stakes. Bertie doesn't like to lose and tempers ran high, there were hints at - certain irregularities-'

  'Cheating, you mean.'

  'Precisely.'

  'Gray had a reputation as a gambler,' Vince put in. 'It was well known, I heard about it when he was in Edinburgh...'

  Ignoring the interruption, Faro continued, 'The two went out alone next morning - Elrigg asked to be excused, indisposed with a bout of toothache. Bertie returned alone. Gray's horse meanwhile had bolted into the high pasture - the domain of the wild cattle. When he didn't return to the castle a search party went out and he was found, gored to death by one of the wild bulls.'

  'Very unfortunate. This quarrel between Bertie and Elrigg -what was it about?'

  'I have no idea.'

  Vince rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'So you think there is a possible link between the two?'

  Faro sighed. 'All I know is guesswork. Gray was young, handsome, adored by the ladies. Perhaps he was also anxious to enjoy Lady Elrigg's favours.'

  'A rival, you mean.' Vince sat up in his chair. 'Good Lord - you don't think -'

  'I'm trying hard not to - until I know a great deal more, Vince. This is, after all, circumstantial evidence.'

  'Yes, it is. And not very good at that, Stepfather. I can't seriously imagine the heir to the throne killing off his rivals for a lady's favours. After all, with the pick of the field at his disposal, so to speak, would he really care about one more or less drifting towards his bed? As for sullying his hands with murder, surely he has enough influence to discreetly engage someone to do the dire deed for him?'

  'Not with his already damaged reputation, Vince.'

  'Blackmail, you mean?'

  'Precisely. Think of the blackmail potential if the coincidence of these two deaths were made public.'

  Vince thought for a moment. 'True. We're in a far from happy position regarding the monarchy. I know he is not popular with his mother's less illustrious subjects, despite that leader-of-society role.'

  As Vince spoke, Faro remembered the Queen's comment: 'If he ever becomes king, he will find all these friends most inconvenient.'

  'Running away from an emba
rrassing situation is a long way from murder, Stepfather,' Vince reminded him.

  'Then why didn't he wait for Sir Archie to be brought back home instead of immediately leaving the castle?'

  'He did that? How do you know?'

  'Because he said so in his letter to the Queen. That was what was worrying him. That he might be thought a coward because he gathered up his entourage. And left immediately.'

  'Cut short his visit, you mean?'

  'Precisely. "I thought it best to withdraw" - his own words.'

  'But he didn't realise that Sir Archie was dead, did he?'

  'He might have waited to find out.' And Faro remembered again the whining tones of the spoilt schoolboy. 'Try as hard as I can, Vince lad, this doesn't sound to me like the behaviour of an innocent man.'

  'Perhaps the business with the actor made him nervous - it was an appalling coincidence after all.'

  Faro looked at him sharply. 'I'm no great believer in coincidences, Vince, and this was altogether too strange. No, it won't do, lad. Think about it. Put yourself in those royal shoes. How would you - or any decent fellow - have reacted had you gone riding with another guest - even one you didn't care for - when you saw him thrown and injured?'

  Vince frowned. 'Lacking medical knowledge, I'd have tried to make him comfortable before tearing back for help. And I'd have gone back to direct the rescue party to the spot.'

  'Exactly. You wouldn't have rushed back so carelessly that you left the gates open with an injured man lying there and wild cattle in the vicinity.'

  Vince shook his head. 'Not unless...'

  'Unless? You see the doubt. Now you realise what we're dealing with.'

  Vince sighed. 'No doubt Bertie will tell you a convincing story. Settle all your fears.'

  'I'm afraid not. As you well know, the first place we look for a murderer is within the family circle or close friends, or known enemies, but this is one occasion when I am not allowed to interview the prime suspect.'

  'Not allowed - I don't see -'

  'Of course you don't. I have been expressly told by Her Majesty that His Royal Highness is not to be interviewed and no mention of his name is to be made. He wishes it kept secret that he was ever at Elrigg at the time of his equerry's death.'

  Vince's mouth twisted in distaste. 'All this rather bears out Bradlaugh's scandalous letter, doesn't it?'

  The Prince of Wales was twenty-seven in 1868, his behaviour already notorious, when the radical Member of Parliament's sentiments were made public. He wrote, ‘This present Prince should never dishonour his country by becoming its King... neither his intelligence nor his virtues entitle him to occupy the throne.'

  Vince shook his head. ‘I don't envy you this one, Stepfather. A good clean murder would be much more your style.'

  As Faro agreed with him, the future of what lay in wait at Elrigg was very fortunately veiled.

  Chapter 3

  Faro's chief regret as he prepared for a hurried departure from Edinburgh was that he had no time to acquaint himself with the brief of a successful art valuer and investigator. His acquaintance with art was limited to sojourns in the National Gallery as a refuge from the rain or to rest his feet.

  His fondness for the Gallery had begun more than twenty years earlier in 1850, when, as a young constable, one of his first assignments had been in the Royal Escort party.

  The Prince Consort, turning sharply after the ceremony of laying the foundation stone, momentarily lost his balance. Faro sprang forward, dignity was restored and he was thanked with a warm handshake, a kind word and gentle smile. This was Faro's first encounter with the Royal Family and in one of his weird intuitive flashes he saw a great deal into the character of Prince Albert.

  Now, as he headed towards Waverley Station, he wished time had been available to acquire some additional facts about wild cattle. His present rudimentary knowledge was limited to the Highland variety whose menacing horns had cast a terrifying shadow over his childhood holidays with his Aunt Isa on Deeside.

  He was still subject to nightmares involving heart-thumping chases which now coloured his mental pictures of the Elrigg herd and he resolved to keep the animals at a safe distance since he disliked all cattle, his distrust extending to the allegedly docile and domestic varieties, such as the dairy cows being led across the meadow past the railway track.

  And so, armed with scant knowledge of painters and almost none of cattle, Inspector Faro boarded the south-bound train and prepared to emerge at Belford Station transformed into Jeremy Faro, art valuer and insurance investigator.

  * * *

  He had a particular fondness for trains. Had his mind been free from anxiety, he would have enjoyed this opportunity to stare idly out of the window and welcome those inspired avenues of thought that often helped him solve his most difficult cases.

  On occasions when the compartment was shared with other passengers, he indulged in a silent game of Observation and Deduction. Sifting through the minute details of their wearing apparel, gestures and habits, he would produce evidence of their stations in life and their reasons for boarding that particular train.

  As a boy, Vince had been introduced to this novel game and had found it both an admirable and often hilarious way of passing many an otherwise tedious winter journey.

  Today, however, Faro was offered no such diversions. Consumed by anxiety at the prospect ahead, his assumed role was as uncomfortable as an ill-fitting overcoat. Everything seemed to be wrong with it and his misgivings refused to be distracted by the passing countryside.

  For once, the beauty of a late-spring day failed to beguile him and he was left quite unmoved by the soft green grass and radiant meadows of the East Lothian landscape. Glimpses of the North Sea, notorious for winter storms, now stretched out to embrace a cloudless horizon radiantly blue and setting forth gentle waves to lap golden beaches with a froth of lace. He remembered his mother's favourite saying: 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.'

  Had he ever entertained such noble and simple faith, it would certainly have been destroyed by many years of dealing with hardened criminals in a world where neither the guilty nor the innocent were certain of being rewarded by their just deserts.

  Earlier dealings with the monarchy had taught him that failure was tantamount to treason in royal eyes and, as for what lay ahead, this might well prove to be the last chapter in his long and faithful employment with the Edinburgh City Police.

  If the future King of England was a murderer, or at best, a coward, capable of manslaughter, then Detective Inspector Faro was expendable and his distinguished career would be abruptly and quietly brought to a close.

  Trying to shake aside his gloomy thoughts, he realised that his most urgent consideration was how to convince Elrigg Castle of his bogus identity. Perhaps that would be hardest of all, suspecting as he did that his sober dress was inappropriate for anyone connected with the art world.

  Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window, he considered the craggy high-cheekboned face which betrayed his Viking ancestry, the once bright fair hair still thick but now touched with silver.

  He sighed. A tall athletic body and deepset watchful eyes told him that his disguise was incomplete. He looked what he was - a policeman, a man of action more accustomed to criminal-catching than browsing idly among valuable paintings.

  His dismal preoccupation was interrupted as the train was leaving Berwick Station. Suddenly a porter threw open the door and thrust a young woman into the compartment. Breathless, she threw a coin into the man's hand and as the train gathered speed sat down on the seat opposite.

  Faro's sympathetic smile and murmur - 'Well done, well done,' - was dismissed in a single scornful glance.

  As the newcomer withdrew a book from her valise and proceeded to read with deep concentration, her attitude presented Faro with a unique opportunity of trying out his Observation game.

  Glad of some diversion from his melancholy thoughts, he decided cheerfully that this on
e was not too difficult. The lady had not come far, for she carried little luggage, only one small travelling bag. Her numerous veils and scarves worn over a cloak of waterproof material indicated that she was used to and prepared for all weathers.

  This was confirmed by the condition of her boots, sturdy footwear with scuffed toes, which had seen a great deal of rough walking. She retained hat and gloves so he had no means of seeing hair colour nor of identifying her marital status.

  A veiled bonnet concealed most of her face from all but occasional glimpses and her slim figure suggested that she was probably in her early thirties. There Faro knew he was on shaky territory, the first to confess he usually erred on the side of gallantry where ladies' ages were concerned.

  He studied her carefully. Even in the simple matter of reading there was something purposeful and decisive about the way she turned the pages. Here was no nervous, unsure female unused to travelling alone and about to visit a sick relative. She did not look in the least anxious but, suddenly aware of his scrutiny, she looked up from her book and fixed him with a fierce stare.

  Embarrassed, he hastily pretended to sleep while continuing to observe, through half-closed eyes, her reflection conveniently provided by the compartment window.

  When the train arrived at his destination, he was surprised to see the chilly lady push open the door ahead of him, spring lightly along the platform and claim the hiring cab which Faro soon discovered was the only vehicle the station provided.

  One long road disappeared westwards into the hills. According to his map, in that direction lay Elrigg and he leaped forward: 'We are possibly heading in the same direction, madam.'

  Head averted, she did not seem to hear him.

  He persisted. 'May I be permitted to share your carriage, we appear -'

  But before he could explain further, she cut him short with a withering look. 'And where might you be going?'