[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  The man introduced himself as one of the governors, but his name, amid the creaking of the carriage on the uneven drive, escaped Faro who felt it would be impolite to ask him to repeat it.

  ‘I am greatly looking forward to your talk, sir. There are many questions about your career which have long intrigued me.'

  Faro nodded, but hardly listened, acutely conscious that time was short. Then, at last, a distant prospect of the school arose. Richly turreted, it was yet one more imitation Balmoral Castle, not a style of architecture that Faro admired, preferring the classical Georgian style.

  There were boys still on the cricket pitch and, walking down the middle of the drive, two uniformed pupils carrying bats. Faro had little difficulty in recognising the two men close at their heels as discreet bodyguards.

  The two boys, one fair, one dark, their faces partially concealed by the deepening shadows, turned towards the carriage. At that instant the two men also stopped, hands shot out on to the boys' shoulders, instinctively protective. One of the pair, by the way his right hand moved fast in the direction of his greatcoat pocket, was obviously armed.

  Such things were no doubt passed over unnoticed by the ordinary guests or visitors but many years of experience equipped Faro to observe matters irrelevant to the casual eye. And Vince had reminded him that the college was chosen for the education of many sons of royal houses. Doubtless they had bodyguards, thinly disguised as servants.

  As the carriage flashed by, Faro had a glimpse of the pair, one of whom was his companion from the gazebo, the boy he had so briefly met with Master Shakespeare tucked under his arm.

  A rumble across a gravelled forecourt and the carriage had reached the steps of the college. There waiting to greet him was the Headmaster and a flock of teachers in a flutter of black gowns.

  'Such an honour to have you, sir. Especially on Founder's Day, the great occasion of the year for us.'

  Introduced briefly to the group, shaking hands and with Headmaster Banes in the lead, Faro was brought into the vast panelled hall. Up the grand staircase with its stained glass window proudly sporting the Glenatholl coat of arms, his progress was marked by the gaze of portraits, benign, forbidding or merely superior, of former headmasters.

  'We have put you in the Gladstone Room, sir. Mr Gladstone usually honours us with his presence on Founder's Day,' the Headmaster added in reverent tones: 'He gives a splendid talk, but alas, we were unable to have him this year. Quite unfortunate.'

  And since they didn't get him, Faro realised, he had been second choice, though he was sure that had not been intentionally implied. Banes showed him into the room, and consulting his watch anxiously, hoped tactfully that half an hour would allow time for adequate preparation.

  'We will have the chance of a nightcap together with members of the staff in my study when the evening's activities are over,' he added soothingly. 'And a little extra entertainment provided by our very talented young pupils.' Faro had little difficulty in guessing that scenes from Shakespeare would be included as a special treat for their visitor.

  Preparing to leave him, the Headmaster looked sternly around the room, letting his gaze rest on immaculate bedcovers, smoothly draped curtains and a bedside carafe of drinking water. 'I trust you will find everything necessary for your comfort, sir. We will send someone to tell you when we are ready for you.’

  Faro was delighted to find that Mr Gladstone's room was equipped with the modern innovations of adjoining bathroom and water closet. There were towels and warm water. He shaved and at five minutes to five, earlier than he expected, a tap on the door.

  A quick glance in the mirror, he picked up his notes and, taking a

  deep breath, opened the door. But instead of standing aside for him to leave, the man, a servant he presumed, darted into the loom.

  ‘I must speak to you, sir. I know you are Inspector Faro. I have heard about you. An important matter I must discuss with you - a matter of life or death,' he added dramatically.

  His stilted English was to be expected in this college with so many pupils from far-off lands, and Faro sighed inwardly. He was becoming accustomed to this kind of thing, for despite having laid aside crime investigation, his reputation continued to follow him. Prepared to be patient and tolerant, since his retirement he had been accosted by some person who believed they had witnessed a crime or had certain knowledge of a crime about to happen. Or, most often, they required his help to track down a fraud case, a misplaced last will by which they should have been sole beneficiary.

  He looked again at the man. Now bare-headed, was he one of the bodyguards he had briefly glimpsed on the drive with the two schoolboys? But as recognition dawned there was another tap on the door.

  ‘Enter,' Faro called.

  It was one of the masters who bowed. 'We are ready for you now, sir. If you will accompany me - ' His tight-lipped frown in the direction of Faro's visitor clearly indicated that he wondered what he had interrupted, and that the man had no business in this region of the house.

  Faro looked at the bodyguard, smiled and said, 'Come and speak to me later. I must go now, I'm sorry - you can see - '

  The man gave him a despairing look, a bow and departed.

  As Faro seized his notes, he felt a shaft of fear. One of his strange intuitions of danger.

  Danger to himself? Perhaps - 'a matter of life or death'?

  Chapter 4

  The Founder's Day talk went well despite Faro's misgivings. Questions were invited but they were few in number and from the masters who seemed to particularly relish the sound of their own voices. In one notable case, Faro felt he was in danger of listening to yet another lecture, on the moral obligations of a policeman, which was a novelty to the speaker and, judging by a restive audience, a bore to the pupils.

  Faro's talk was applauded politely, the boys perhaps a little in awe of the great detective, although he had tried to be informal and put them at ease by humanising his talk with amusing anecdotes against himself.

  He noticed that the boy from the gazebo and his companion were seated in the second row. Behind them their bodyguards, one he recognised as the man who had come to his room to enlist his aid on a matter of great urgency.

  The elder boy was dark, with high Tartar cheekbones, a complete contrast to the classical good looks of his junior who later that evening acquitted himself well in his Mark Antony speech.

  There was no programme for the entertainment and the boy thanked by the Headmaster was addressed merely as 'George'. Presumably his identity was well-known to everyone but Faro. In the interests of the college's much-vaunted liberalism, all the performers were referred to by Christian names only.

  George's companion was the star of the evening, a convincing Prince Arthur in Shakespeare’s ‘King John’ pleading tearfully for his life. He received well-deserved applause.

  'Well done, Anton,' said the Headmaster. 'Well done, boys.'

  As the young actors returned to their seats, George continued to remind Faro of someone he knew. The devil of it was that he could not think who, or where they might have met before. However, since George was a common British name, Faro decided that the boy was most probably related to the swarm of minor European royals invited to Balmoral each year by the Queen. As most were of the same blood -line, there was often a striking resemblance to the House of Hanover.

  Released at last from what had seemed like an interminable procession of scenes from Shakespeare, well-meant, well-played but an addition to the evening which he could have well done without, Faro was looking forward to the 'nightcap' in the Headmaster's study.

  Politely sipping a glass of sherry, his hopes immediately shattered for something stronger like a dram of good whisky, he chatted politely to the very important invited guests, the governors, masters and their wives.

  It was soon obvious that his lecturing was not quite at an end as he was called upon by various individuals to answer a number of rather naive questions about criminal activities. These mo
stly concerned the apprehension of jewel thieves, a pressing anxiety and obsession of the wealthy.

  As he answered as best he could he realised how sheltered were their lives. How sadly unaware they were of the dreadful measure of city violence amongst those poor humans, that lost stream of society they would shudder away from as their inferiors.

  Released at last, he retired to Gladstone's heavily panelled room and sent a picture postcard of the school, from the stationery in the writing desk, to Imogen.

  Around him impressive became oppressive, since every available space on mantelpiece and wall was occupied by almost as many pictures of the Royal Family as he had in Sheridan Place. Signed and presented to him, unwillingly displayed and discreetly removed, his wishes for an uncluttered desk were ignored as all were reverentially restored by Mrs Brook, Olivia and even Vince, when his back was turned.

  Yawning, he lit a pipe and decided it had been a somewhat longer day than he was used to. But having promised to talk to the bodyguard who had appeared earlier that evening and at such an inappropriate moment, he felt obliged to wait a while before preparing for bed.

  Certain that he would never sleep in that monumental bed, he nevertheless drifted away in the armchair by a dying fire to be awakened by the sound of rapid footsteps and raised voices in the corridor outside.

  Was it a fire alarm? he wondered anxiously.

  Opening the door, he looked out. A master, dressing-gowned and very flustered said, 'A slight disturbance, sir. One of the boys sleepwalking I expect. Too much excitement.' But his smile was strained, even lamplight could not conceal his anxiety.

  'Sorry you've been disturbed, sir. Nothing for you to worry about. Our apologies - these things do happen,' and with a quick bow he was off, speeding down the corridor and out of sight.

  At last silence reigned. The clock on the college tower struck midnight. He had slept longer than he thought and as there was no possibility of his visitor arriving now, he prepared for bed. Perhaps the bodyguard had second thoughts; perhaps it was not so much a matter of life and death but an imperfect way of explaining something in English.

  No doubt if the matter was serious, the man would seize some opportunity of communicating with him in the morning. Yawning again, he climbed into bed, and despite his misgivings, fell asleep.

  He was awakened at dawn by pleasing country sounds, cows mooing, a cock crowing, horses trotting and a flock of quarrelsome sparrows airing their grievances on the roof above his head.

  A maid appeared with a breakfast tray. He could not avoid seeing that she was upset. She looked scared and her hands trembled.

  'Something wrong, my dear?' he asked, thinking as he did so that he was probably letting himself in for a tale of woe concerning a sad love affair, or a disagreement with matron.

  But this was distress of a different kind.

  'One of the servants, sir. He fell out of a dormitory window last night. He was trying to close it, leaned out too far. Slipped and fell - right down on to the flagstones. He's dead', she ended on a shrill note.

  While sympathising with her distress, Faro considered the folly of boys' windows being kept open on what had been a very chilly night.

  Doubtless, he thought, one of the spartan conditions of life in a public school. He realised that this unfortunate accident had been the disturbance, dismissed as a sleepwalking pupil, that was not supposed to trouble him. 'These things do happen.’

  But Faro wanted to know more. His blood was up, here was a mystery in the making, in the most unlikely setting of Glenatholl College. He was at it again, as Vince would say, aware that he must steel himself against a regrettable tendency even in retirement to treat every accident as a potential investigation.

  Breakfasted, with still no sign of his urgent visitor of last night, who had perhaps thought better of that 'matter of life and death' after a good night's sleep, Faro was ready to leave the sanctuary dedicated to Prime Minister Gladstone. In the cold light of day he was now regretting the impulse to spend a few hours with his old friend at Arles Castle, consumed with anxiety for any official news regarding Amelie.

  He picked up his valise and glanced briefly in the mirror. Startled by what he saw, he looked a second time. But before he could sort out some very weird thoughts, there was a tap on the door. Ah, the bodyguard - at last. He did choose inopportune moments.

  Faro opened the door to a prefect who said that the Headmaster was waiting to bid him farewell. At the foot of the staircase, Banes asked if he had slept well and thanked him again for his magnificent and interesting lecture.

  'Very unfortunate,' he said, in reply to Faro's question about the accident last night. 'A loose catch on the window. One of the, er, servants - a foreigner, alas - didn't know about such things.'

  'Indeed. Who was this foreign gentleman?'

  The Headmaster looked uncomfortable. 'No one you would know, Inspector. Pray do not concern yourself about our domestic affairs. They are trying, very trying indeed, and inconvenient. But such things happen.'

  Again that phrase, now curiously doom-laden, and observing Faro's expression, the Headmaster added gently, 'I can see it in your face, sir. How readily the mind of a great detective turns to crime. But, let me assure you, if this was a case for concern then we have a very adequate and, if I may say so, very efficient police force.'

  And that, Faro thought, put him nicely in his place.

  However, as the Arles carriage arrived at the front door, it was closely followed by one, from long acquaintance, Faro recognised immediately as a police carriage, dark and discreet, with curtained windows. As a man emerged, there was nothing for it. The Headmaster had to make an introduction.

  'Inspector Crane.'

  The Inspector was a young man and Chief Inspector Faro's name had been a legend for a very long time. Such a long time, in fact, that as the Headmaster explained about the Founder's Day lecture, Crane was obviously taken aback to find Chief Inspector Faro not only still active but still alive.

  'Very pleased to meet you, sir,' he said in awed tones.

  A quick explanation followed regarding Faro’s presence, a beam in his direction. 'An excellent lecture on crime in our society, Inspector Crane. It would have interested you. Nothing to do with the unfortunate accident that brings you here,' the Headmaster added flippantly.

  'Indeed no, sir. I'm sure such wicked deeds never occurred to your boys,' said Crane and Faro noted a touch, the merest flicker, of sarcasm in his tone. 'Anyway, we mustn't delay you, sir, this is a purely routine matter.'

  Indeed, did it happen often? was Faro's unspoken question as he contemplated the prospect of more than a hundred normal specimens of boyhood, of mixed temperaments and nationalities, all bored with respectability and hell-bent on mischief. Such activities tolerated by indulgent parents as the necessity of sowing their wild oats before taking their rightful place in society.

  'We must let you get on with your retirement, sir,' Crane added heartily. 'No need to worry. We're pretty smart here in Perth Police, we know what we're about.'

  And Faro had to leave. In a mood of sudden exasperation, he acknowledged that there was no way he could follow Inspector Crane and sit in on the inquiry. It might have ended there had he not witnessed a scene as the carriage halted at a corner of the drive.

  George was running ahead, with Anton trying to console him, for he was clearly upset. Behind them, panting in the rear, one of the bodyguards. Only one.

  As the carriage swept past, Faro heard the bodyguard shout, and even with his inadequate German Faro knew what 'verboten' meant.

  And where was the other bodyguard? The one who was in such distress but had failed to visit him after the lecture?

  Suddenly he knew the answer. The foreign bodyguard who had wanted to talk to him so urgently was not an admirer of the reported exploits of Inspector Faro, not someone with a domestic problem, or there to request the autograph of a famous policeman. It had been, as the man said, a matter of life or - in his case - de
ath.

  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.