She watched him turn out all the pockets.
'You'll find nothing there,' she said defensively. 'I've already had a good look in case there might be a paper with an address of relatives.'
Faro looked at her. 'No coins or anything like that?'
She coloured slightly but shook her head.
She was lying, for the jacket he held answered the description of that given by Lachlan Brown to his visitor from Glen Gairn, and Faro had a sudden vision of the two dead faces lying side by side in the mortuary.
The possibility that they were related brought alarming implications that somehow the woman's death and the attack on Lachlan Brown were related and that the beggarman's visit and his parting warning was no coincidence. Merely the curtain raiser to a deadly game.
Chapter 8
Before Faro could question the woman further about the jacket, the door opened and a well-grown youth of about thirteen came in.
Despite his mother's attempts at gentility, her careful accent as she explained quickly that the gentlemen were enquiring about poor Mr Glen, Andy Carling had the wily look and attitude Faro was well used to encountering, that of the Edinburgh street urchin, born and bred.
'Andy often went messages for Mr Glen,' said Mrs Carling, obviously glad of this diversion.
'Aye, that's right. He wasna' too keen on using his own feet and legs. Didna' go out much during the day.'
'What kind of messages?' asked Faro.
'Food and once a letter.'
'Who was this letter addressed to?'
'A Miss McNair.'
That was interesting, thought Faro, as Mrs Carling interposed, 'I said to Andy that was probably the woman who visited him.'
'Can you remember the address by any chance?'
Andy exchanged a glance with his mother.
'These gentlemen are policemen and this is Detective Inspector Faro,' she said. They want us to help them.'
This revelation was followed by a look of guilt and anguish towards his parent, a glance that plainly asked: Was there money involved? Shall I oblige or not? Then deciding there was no doubt profit to be gained, he smirked at Faro and with a self-important air that marked him as Mrs Carling's son, he said, 'I canna' mind the exact address, but I can take ye there, sir. It's nae far: Duddingston way.'
Faro recognized that he had had an unexpected stroke of luck, although there was only one person who could identify the jacket as once the property of Lachlan Brown and confirm 'Mr Glen' as his mystery visitor Davy, friend—or so he claimed—of John Brown.
Faro folded the jacket and put it beneath his arm, cutting short Mrs Carling's protests. 'This is required to help establish the dead gentleman's identity. It will be returned to you.' And, tearing a page out of his notebook, he wrote rapidly. 'Here is a receipt.'
Andy regarded this procedure with dismay, especially when Faro, laying a hand on his arm, suggested that he accompany them to Duddingston.
Clearly afraid that he was being placed under arrest, Andy began to tremble, and yelled, 'Ma!'
Muttering reassuringly, Faro did not relinquish his grip on the lad's arm. Andy was bundled inside the police carriage beside Constable Thomas, his nervousness increased at being thus anchored between guardians of the law.
'What was this lady like?' Faro asked, as the carriage trundled through the streets.
'Oh, just an old lady, ye ken.'
'How old would you say?' asked Faro patiently.
'Older than you. Grey hair. No' frae Edinburgh, either.'
And gazing steadily out of the window, he pointed. 'Over there. That's it.'
The tiny cottage of recent vintage was deserted, its windows blackened ominously.
There had been a fire and the smell of smoke hung unpleasantly upon the air.
As they stepped down from the carriage, Andy was not disposed to linger. With one panic-stricken glance at the scene he took to his heels and raced along the road back towards the city.
And what was strangest of all about his precipitous departure was his neglect to wait for any reward for his services.
The fire had been recent enough for their presence to attract an immediate investigation by next-door neighbours and two small elderly ladies of almost identical appearance hurried towards them. Obviously sisters, white-haired, with spectacles over noses twitching with curiosity, hands fluttering in dismay and eyes wide and eager. Their emergence struck Faro with a striking resemblance to a couple of squirrels from the nearby woodland.
'It happened two nights ago—' said the first.
'No one was hurt, Mary,' said sister number two. 'That's right, sir. The lady who lived there—'
'Who lives there, Annie,' sister Mary corrected her.
'A Miss McNair—'
'They'll need to trace her, to give her the news.'
'What a shock for the poor soul.'
A shock for the searchers too, thought Faro, when they discovered she was dead, and in all probability murdered.
'How did the fire start?' he asked.
Two heads shook in unison.
'Miss McNair was a very careful lady.'
'Oh, she was, indeed. Not the kind Annie and I would associate with neglecting fires.'
'But sparks do come out, Mary. These chimneys are bad on downdraughts. Remember we had our fireside rug burnt.'
'And if we hadn't been in the room, goodness knows. Our cottage might have gone up in smoke many a time.'
'That's why we are always particularly careful with the fireguard, isn't it Mary—'
'We are from the police, madam. And this is Detective Inspector Faro,' said Constable Thomas, interrupting what showed signs of becoming an interminable flood of reminiscences.
'We are looking for Miss McNair in connection with one of her relatives recently deceased,' said Faro.
Relief flooded the two upturned faces. Police obviously suggested criminal activities in this gentle neighbourhood.
If only he and Thomas could investigate without attracting undue speculation, but the two sisters watched them relentlessly as Faro tried the front door.
It was locked. As he was wondering how to broach the subject of a spare key, sister Mary approached and said, 'The back door is open. The lock was broken when Miss McNair moved in and she's never had it repaired.'
'Besides no one here ever locks their back doors, Mary.' And turning to Faro, Annie continued, 'She's only been here a short while and keeps herself to herself. Doesn't she?' she added to her sister.
As did Mr Glen, thought Faro grimly, with no longer any doubts that Lachlan Brown's 'Davy Mac-something' would also prove to be a McNair.
Picking their way through the two rooms, they saw that although the interior of the kitchen had been seriously damaged, its contents had survived the conflagration as a depressing array of blistered furniture and scorched rags of curtains.
'Look over here, sir,' said Thomas.
The fireplace showed evidence of papers having been burnt in the grate. Faro regarded it thoughtfully. One spark would have been sufficient to ignite the worn rug and spread fire through the house.
That the two dead people were brother and sister was confirmed by Miss McNair's few possessions. In the bedroom press, darned underwear indicated an original owner with expensive tastes in body linen.
He examined the stitches. Sewing styles were highly individual and he had a feeling that the same hand had also mended the beggarman's darned clothes.
The lack of any documents or letters suggested that further evidence had been carefully destroyed, but returning to the kitchen he found Constable Thomas still meticulously raking through the ashes in the fireplace.
'Looks as if an intruder might have been searching for something. When he couldn't find it he deliberately started the fire to cover his tracks, sir.'
The two sisters were at the door, awaiting the policemen's emergence from the cottage.
'Did Miss McNair have many visitors?' Faro asked.
Mary shook he
r head. 'We only saw two callers, didn't we, Annie, all the time she was here.'
'That's right. And both came when she was out.'
'And what were these visitors like?' asked Faro, expecting either a description of Mr Glen or of the two men who had abducted Miss McNair and undoubtedly murdered her.
'They came at different times—'
'Yes, that's right. One was a young man, the other a young woman.'
'Young, you say?'
'Yes indeed. And they were from Ireland.'
'Ireland—are you sure?' he asked.
'Well, they spoke with Irish accents,' said Annie.
'We know because our mother came from Kerry,' said Mary triumphantly.
So much for his theory, thought Faro as he asked, ‘What did this young man look like?'
The sisters regarded this question as odd. They studied Faro carefully as they replied, 'Oh, well-spoken. Twenty-five or so—'
'About your height, sir. Spectacles and red hair—'
'And the young woman?' asked Faro.
'She was tall and slim, good-looking too, wasn't she, Annie?'
‘Well, yes. That is, what we could glimpse of her face through her veil.'
'We thought she might be a charity worker or a nurse.'
'Definitely not a servant, that's for sure.'
'A real lady.' Annie repeated. 'Educated, well-spoken—like the young man.'
Faro decided the conversation was getting nowhere, so much of it built on speculation. He was disappointed too since the two callers would most likely prove to have nothing to do with the McNairs' deaths.
Summoning Constable Thomas, he headed towards the police carriage. The two sisters followed, anxious to prolong this drama which had invaded their usually uneventful lives.
'There was one other person, Inspector,' said Mary.
'Who was that?' demanded her sister sharply.
'You've forgotten, Annie. There was the other young woman wanting to know if the cottage was for sale. She was looking in the windows,' she explained to Faro. 'We saw her and, well, we were curious.'
Annie gave a sigh of exasperation. 'It was a mistake,' she said to Faro. 'It was the cottage further down the road she was interested in. She was just wanting directions, nothing to do with Miss McNair, Mary,' she added crossly.
'I know that, but she did ask who lived there,' said Mary. 'And when we told her it was Miss McNair, a single lady and as far as we knew she hadn't any plans to move, she said even if it had been available it was too small for her with a husband and four bairns. I just thought the Inspector should know, Annie. He did ask about all visitors.'
'But the last woman wasn't a proper visitor, she was just a passer-by,' her sister protested.
'Well, you were the one who thought it was odd having three Irish people all practically on each other's heels—'
Thankfully Faro and Thomas left them still arguing. As the carriage headed back along the lochside, the constable said, 'That Carling lad took off very sharpish, sir. I was just thinking, did he know something? Or was it a natural fear of being associated with arson?'
'You could be well right,' said Faro grimly, pleased that Thomas also had sharp powers of observation and had recognized a villain in the making.
Thomas gazed out of the window. 'There's something else, sir. If those two in the mortuary are related—and I agree with you, there was a strong resemblance. Assuming they were brother and sister, why were they not sharing the cottage? There were two rooms after all, if you count the box-bed in the kitchen.'
Faro gave Thomas an admiring glance, for the same idea had occurred to him.
'Perhaps they had something to conceal, some criminal activity that linked them.'
'That's right, sir. And by living together they each put the other in danger.'
Faro nodded and Thomas continued, 'One reason for using Andy Carling as a messenger could have been a letter or something too important to be trusted to the mail.'
But Faro's mind was elsewhere. To him perhaps not the most important, but certainly the most worrying of all, was the question: Where did Lachlan Brown fit into these mysterious deaths?
Was the visit of the beggarman (alias Mr Glen alias Davy McNair) to the Assembly Rooms to warn the young pianist? And was the misjudged rifle shot coincidence or part of a sinister plot?
Requesting to be put off at his home in Sheridan Place, he gave Thomas certain instructions. As they sat outside the door the constable showed no inclination to leave and proceeded to go over the events of the last hour
At last the front door of number 9 opened and Thomas leaned forward. His homely face lit up as the maid May walked down the steps with a shopping basket over her arm.
Stepping out of the carriage, he greeted her and for the first time ever Faro saw her smile and realized that he was witnessing a romance in the making.
He realized now why the constable was so eager to be on the beat in the Newington area..
'There's no hurry to get back, Thomas. Take a couple of hours off, you've worked for them!'
Thomas beamed gratefully upon him. Even May smiled shyly and Faro felt inordinately proud of his new role as Cupid.
Leaving the police carriage later, Faro was in time to catch Lachlan as he was running down the front steps of the Caledonian Hotel into a waiting carriage.
He stopped and pointed in amazement to the jacket which Faro carried over his arm. 'Where did you get that?'
And inspecting the label, he confirmed that this was the garment he had given to the old man from Glen Gairn.
'I doubt if there is another like it in the whole of Edinburgh. But how did you come by it?' he added again and indicated the carriage. 'Look, I'm late already. I'm going to George Street. Jump in and we'll talk on the way.'
Taking a seat alongside, Faro told him that the man who had come to his dressing room was dead. Lachlan gave a shocked exclamation when Faro added that his name was probably McNair.
'That's it! Now I remember. Davy McNair. Poor man, poor man. How dreadful. I realize he looked half starved. If only he had come to me earlier.'
Faro decided not to tell him that McNair had probably been murdered as he continued; 'Look, can I do anything to help?' He paused awkwardly. 'I mean about the funeral expenses and so forth.'
'That's very good of you, sir.'
'Lachlan—please, Mr Faro.'
'Very well. I would be greatly obliged if you could find out anything about him as soon as possible—from Mr Brown— your uncle—'
Lachlan laughed. 'Well, that's easy. It so happens that Uncle John is going down to Osborne to join Her Majesty there. Knowing I was still in Edinburgh he decided to come to my recital tonight, to hear my new composition—incognito, of course. You understand!'
He paused. 'Look, why don't you have a word with him yourself? I'm sure he'll be glad to see you again after all these years.'
Chapter 9
John Brown and Faro met that evening in Lachlan's dressing room at the end of his recital. Faro had not been present but was aware that Brown's appearance had created a mighty stir in the streets of Edinburgh, a sensation worthy of confirmation by the newspapers next morning: 'Famous young concert pianist meets his illustrious relative.'
Obviously John Brown had not the least idea what the word 'incognito' meant since he arrived by open carriage in full Highland dress. His red hair, beard and the 'Balmoral' bonnet identified him immediately to all of Edinburgh familiar with the Illustrated News, as well as those who had seen scurrilous cartoons and drawings of John Brown with Her Majesty circulated privately.
Faro and Brown were of equal height and, Lachlan decided, both somewhat intimidating personalities. Two men, he thought, suppressing a smile, who were more than a match for one another.
Faro, sensitive to atmosphere, was immediately aware that Brown, an indifferent actor, was not pleased by this unexpected encounter despite Lachlan's enthusiastic introduction. After a polite exchange of greetings and an acknowledgem
ent of their last meeting, Brown surveyed the Chief Inspector from under lowered brows. His expression was one of extreme caution, his tone evasive, his words slow and chosen with care.
It was, thought Faro, as if he expected each one might be taken down and used in evidence. Not until much later did he realize the excellent reason for Brown's behaviour.
Unaware of any tensions between the two men, Lachlan said, 'I have told Uncle John about McNair's visit and that you would like to know more about his background.'
'I understand the puir man is dead,' said Brown.
'That is what we are investigating.'
The word 'investigating' startled Brown. He sat upright, listening carefully as Faro explained the circumstances of McNair's death.
'Do you suspect foul play?' he demanded sharply.
'That may be difficult to prove.'
Brown looked relieved and ceased chewing the end of his moustache as Faro added, 'However, unless his body can be formally identified and claimed within a few days, it must be disposed of by the city's medical officers.'
Brown nodded 'I ken Davy McNair well. An awfae' like thing to happen to him. He was groom at Balmoral, been in Royal service as long as I can remember.'
'Had he any family?'
'He wasna' married, if that's what you mean. There was a sister, Bessie—twin to him. She was a housemaid at the Castle too and they had a cottage on the estate. They were near neighbours to your auntie.'
Listening, Faro felt triumphant. So his memory had not failed him entirely. He had doubtless seen Bessie McNair on his last visit to Deeside several years ago, for his aunt's birthday party begun in such high spirits and culminating in the mists of Glen Muick where only seconds separated the Queen from death at the hands of an assassin.
'When did they leave Her Majesty's service?'
Brown frowned. 'A while since. There was a wee bit of trouble.' He wriggled uncomfortably. 'I dinna ken exactly what was involved. Some sort of pilfering.'
'Pilfering? After many years of loyal service, that does seem a little strange.'
'Temptation, man. It's a great thing is temptation.' The deep sigh that accompanied his words indicated more clearly than any speech that this was a subject on which John Brown could say a great deal, indeed that he might prove to be something of an authority on temptations.
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