With a gesture of impatience, Faro thrust it into his pocket, aware that for him the day was almost over. He was conscious that little had been achieved. Painfully aware that the vivid unhappiness of the dreams that had haunted him were on the way to realization, he looked sadly across at Imogen.
Ignoring him, she trailed a hand in the water and watched the island all the way back to the shore while Faro searched her face for regret. The regret he was feeling was that somehow they had left part of their lives, lived briefly in less than an hour, on that strangely magical island. He would hold in memory for ever Imogen clasping her knees as she sat on the velvet turf by the ruined wall, the breeze ruffling her dark hair, the vision of Inchmahome with its tombs of warriors, and the voice of Imogen Crowe reciting the story of the fianna.
In the pony chaise that awaited their return all such magic evaporated. Faro's mood changed to deepest melancholy, as a thin driving rain cut sharply across Flanders Moss and struggling to hold up an umbrella against the elements left little chance for conversation.
Outside the hotel, Imogen once more held out her hand.
'Goodbye—and thank you again.'
'Is it to be goodbye? Can we not make it au revoir?'
Stubbornly she shook her head. 'No. Goodbye it is.'
'Why, Imogen, why?'
'Sure, haven't you taken in a word of all I tried to tell you out there?' she demanded, shaking her head. 'There's the Irish Sea and two hundred years of bitterness between us, remember.'
'Seas can be sailed on; bitterness can be laid aside. Others than ourselves have overcome it in the past—'
'But not us, Inspector. Not us.'
Stirred by his bleak expression, she put a gentle hand on his arm. 'You are a dangerous man, Jeremy Faro.'
He laughed, pleased she had used his name. 'How dangerous?' he said putting a hand over hers. 'I am very gentle with those I love. With my friends.'
'I can never be your friend. I could only ever be your lover.'
His heart leapt at the word. 'That too, then, if you want it that way.'
She shrugged. 'There is no way for us. As well you know.'
'Why not?'
'Because it would destroy us both. I have my own path, my own destiny to follow, and it can never run parallel with yours.' She sighed impatiently. 'Sure, and I told you all this once before when we were at Elrigg.'
Astounded at his own audacity, his recklessness, he seized her arms, held her close. 'You could marry me,' he whispered.
She started back, looked at him, gave him the dear crooked smile he had learned in this short time to love and dread. 'Is it proposing you are, Jeremy Faro?' she asked softly.
'If you wish.'
She shrugged. 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,' she said gently and, coming towards him, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. 'Goodbye it is, my dear.'
And turning, tears suddenly threatening, she ran up the steps.
'Wait! Imogen—wait!'
He called in vain. He watched the door close, carrying her out of his life once more.
Her departure left him with several empty painful hours to be endured before his train to Edinburgh. For a while he lingered in the hotel in the hope that she might change her mind and bring him the happy ending all his senses craved.
Then, unable to wait patiently any longer but reluctant to relinquish the dream, he paid his bill and said that he would return for his luggage in an hour or so.
At the door, he returned to the desk. 'If anyone asks for me I am taking a walk across to the Beheading Stone.'
He was curious about the ancient landmark, scene of many gruesome executions in Stirling's history, and the sun was already falling from an azure sky towards a dark horizon as he trudged across the fields.
He sat down by the stone and took out the booklet Imogen had given him. As he expected, it concerned Ireland's great leaders and sad heroes and this setting provided a suitable atmosphere of melancholy.
The political roots of Fenianism, he read, are to be found not in the legends of Finn and Oisin but in the rising of the United Irishmen in 1798 by Theobald Wolfe Tone who wrote 'To break the connection with England, the never-failing source of all our political evils; and to assess the independence of my country—these are my objects. To unite the whole people of Ireland, to abolish the memory of past dissensions, and to substitute the common name of Irishmen in place of the denominations of Protestant, Catholic and Dissenter—these are my means ...'
With a gesture of impatience Faro cast it aside. Damn them all. Damn the Fenians. If only Imogen Crowe had not been Irish they might have had a future together. Trust him to fall in love with a passionate patriotic Irishwoman—and a writer too.
Had anyone told him three years ago that this was what fate held in store he would have laughed them to scorn. And now here he was trapped by his own emotions with yet another love that could never be.
He shivered. It was cold and dismal by the stone with its grim history and sad ghosts. He wished he had stayed in the warm and welcoming parlour of the tavern with a dram at his side.
With a sigh, he consulted his watch. Time to go for the train and shake the dust of Stirling off his feet with its waste of the Edinburgh City Police's time and the bittersweet memory of his second encounter with Imogen Crowe.
Wearily he began to walk down the hill and, as he did so, he was aware of a closed carriage on the road below. It had stopped momentarily as if the coachman was unsure of his direction.
A moment later, the shrill whine of a rifle bullet had him face down in the heather. It was an instinctive movement that saved his life for a second shot ricocheted off a boulder close by. This was followed by the sound of a swiftly departing carriage and at last he felt safe to raise his head.
He looked around. There was no sign of game or animals in the vicinity and as he ran down the hill he knew that the target had been himself and he had narrowly escaped death.
Someone had tried to kill him.
And in much the same circumstances as Lachlan Brown on the night someone shot at him leaving the Assembly Rooms. There had to be a connection.
The road was deserted but he walked warily, fearfully keeping close to the hedgerows and fences, ready for instant action each time the sound of wheels approached from the direction of Stirling.
Carriages were few and none concerned with him but he was considerably shaken by the time he reached the safety of the main streets again.
As he collected his baggage from the tavern, one of the maids ceased her polishing to ask, 'Did the lady catch up with you, sir?'
He shook his head, having had put into words what his mind refused to recognize. There was only one person who had known his destination.
Imogen Crowe.
Chapter 16
Faro remembered little of the journey back to Edinburgh, except that the sun was shining as the train steamed into Waverley Station. As he walked along the platform it was as if the sudden warmth turned all that had happened in Stirling into the interlude from an unpleasant dream.
If only it were so, he thought, as he opened his front door to the welcoming smell of cooking drifting upwards from Mrs Brook's domain. And as he climbed the stairs to his study, cooking was intermingled with beeswax polish.
Mrs Brook had been busy, taking advantage of his absence. The furniture glistened, the windows gleamed. And then he regarded the huge table that also served as his desk.
The chaos that only he understood had been transformed into unrecognizable neat piles of documents. With a gasp of dismay he shrank from this scene of outrage.
Mrs Brook had tidied his papers and books, ignored his stern instructions that they were never to be moved. Angrily, he ran down to the kitchen to confront the housekeeper who was rolling pastry while the maid May peeled apples into a bowl.
Mrs Brook looked up. 'Were you wanting Constable Thomas, sir? He left just a moment ago.' Her smile of welcome faded before his expression.
&
nbsp; 'My—my study, Mrs Brook. What the devil do you mean by—disturbing—my desk? You know perfectly well that I'll never be able to find a thing now.'
‘I’m sorry, sir, we—' She darted a look at May. 'We were cleaning the upstairs and, while May was polishing, she knocked down some books and papers. It's very easy to do that, sir,' she said quickly in the maid's defence. 'She thought she had better tidy the desk—take the opportunity—'
Faro turned to the maid. 'What the devil do you mean, "take the opportunity", indeed.'
She regarded him fearfully, her mouth slack. As she paused in peeling the apples, he regarded her furiously. Her lips trembled as she shrank back in her chair, cowering away from him.
Even as Mrs Brook stepped forward, murmuring apologies and taking the blame, Faro's anger evaporated into shame that he should rage at a poor servant unable to speak in her own defence.
What on earth was he coming to? He could see the same thought was in Mrs Brook's mind as she regarded him. Her dear gentleman who had never been known to say an unkind word to a servant, or a beggar at the gate. She was shocked, bewildered by his outburst.
Faro sighed, shook his head. 'I shouldn't have shouted at you. Do forgive me. But, please, don't let it happen again, Mrs Brook.'
And to May, with an awkward smile. 'I'm sure you meant well, lass.' Hoping his tone was conciliatory enough, he returned to his study where two unopened letters awaited his attention.
He recognized Rose's handwriting. Her note contained only a hasty request that Mrs Brook forward her best pair of gloves she had left behind. The second letter, with a London postmark, was from Lachlan. A polite note of thanks with apologies for the delay as his mother had been ill but was recovering. There was no mention of Rose.
Faro sighed with relief. Time was still on his side and he began sorting out his papers, a task that proved less difficult than he had imagined.
It gave him something to concentrate on other than those scenes in Stirling and his homecoming. As he ate a solitary supper, never had he been so conscious of being alone.
He wished Vince were there, like in the old days, when they could sit down together and talk over the day's events.
But Vince had Olivia and they both enjoyed the hectic social life of popular young marrieds.
Sometimes they did little more than exchange greetings at the front door and lately Vince had taken to leaving notes on the hall table to remind him of their plans.
Tonight he was more fortunate. Mrs Brook had just removed his supper tray when Vince put his head round the door.
'You've eaten already, Stepfather. Never mind, you can tell me all about Stirling,' he said, pouring out a glass of wine.
And so Faro related to Vince a somewhat abbreviated version of his meeting with Imogen Crowe and the events that took place in the Stirling Court, omitting the visit to Inchmahome and the near disaster of his walk on the hillside.
'Did you ask her if she ever visited Miss McNair's cottage?' was Vince's first question.
Faro avoided a direct answer, although the description of the young man undoubtedly fitted Seamus Crowe, with flaming red hair and spectacles.
'Of course, what the two ladies saw could have covered a multitude of visitors, all quite coincidental, like the third visitor, a passer-by looking in at the windows mistaking it for a house down the road that was for sale.'
'I doubt that Imogen and her cousin's visit was coincidental considering that we now know there is a Fenian connection,' said Vince.
Faro was silent as he remembered his meeting with John Brown in Lachlan's dressing room at the concert hall. Vince continued, 'The fact that Brown knew the McNairs convinces me that if there is a plot, then he is fully aware of what is at stake.'
Faro sighed. 'I don't doubt you're right, seeing that the Queen is very much under his influence these days.'
'The newspapers and the cartoonists would have us believe she consults him about everything.'
'At least we know the reason why he was so eager to give the McNairs a decent funeral, burying their secret with them as speedily as possible,' said Faro. 'If only it could be proved—'
'Stepfather,' said Vince severely. 'You can't say you haven't been warned to stay out of it—'
And as Faro made to interrupt, Vince said, 'You haven't the least idea what you're getting into or what these papers contain. You've said so yourself. You're walking in the dark. I know I can't stop you, nor can Mcintosh or Brewer—'
'Brewer—' said Faro indignantly.
'They've tried to warn you off, for your own good. As I do now.' And leaning forward he said earnestly, 'I know what you're like, impervious to danger, but do take care, for God's sake, take care.'
'Who is taking care, and what of, pray?' asked Olivia as she bustled into the room, throwing down her bonnet.
'Nothing that you need worry your pretty head about, my dear,’ said Vince as she bent down to kiss him. 'How was your meeting this evening?'
'Rather boring. Charitable institutions do attract some not very charitable people into their ranks, I'm afraid.' And to Faro, 'Are you coming to the wedding with us?'
He had forgotten that they were going to Dunblane shortly to Aunt Gilchrist's great-nephew's wedding. Afterwards they planned to go on to Glasgow and visit Rose.
'I haven't received an invitation,' Faro said.
'Dearest Stepfather, you are—family,' Olivia pointed out gently. 'Besides, everyone's heard of you in Dunblane. Aunt Gilchrist was very proud of being related by marriage to such an important man.'
The thought made Faro groan. He cared little for weddings. Almost as much as he disliked being the centre of attraction and asked absurd questions regarding his police activities.
'It would be such a delight to see Rose, you'd love that,' said Olivia.
It would indeed. But in the days between much was to happen to dispel even that tempting thought from Faro's mind.
Next morning when Faro arrived at the Central Office, Superintendent Mcintosh beamed on him. Stirling Constabulary had already been in touch applauding his achievements in the Castle breakin case.
Two days later, returning from the routine of a smuggling crime involving a crew member of the Erin Star at Leith, Faro heard the newsboy in Princes street shouting, 'Irish terrorist commits suicide.'
Chapter 17
Seamus Crowe had hanged himself in his cell in Stirling. The funeral was to be the following day.
And Faro knew he must go. Imogen would be there. She would need someone to turn to who cared about her. Someone who, he hoped, was himself.
At the graveside he saw her, tall, slim, veiled. He was forced to recognize what he already knew, that there was no shadow of doubt that she and her cousin had been the visitors seen by Miss McNair's neighbours And, sick at heart, he knew why Imogen had been trying to warn him off.
They were Fenians, part of some plot to overthrow the monarchy, a plot hinged on papers stolen from Balmoral Castle. And despite Inspector Brewer's smooth reassurances, their contents had been lethal enough to cost the McNairs their lives.
There were few mourners at the graveside. A sprinkling of prison officials and Imogen. And, hovering at a safe distance, as if he did not care to be recognized, a tall man. Faro frowned. Despite the beard, and a bonnet pulled down well over the man's eyes, Faro was certain they had met before.
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—'
As Imogen went forward to throw a handful of earth on her cousin's coffin, Faro was aware of being watched. Turning, he saw two men, big strong burly men whose faces were partly hidden by their tall hats and upturned collars.
He knew in that instant that these were his attackers on the Mound and the abductors of Bessie McNair. Their presence here declared that it was they, not Imogen, who had fired upon him from the Stirling road. A second attempt on his life that had failed.
Imogen was innocent. And with a surge of triumph he was face to face at last with the murderers of the McNairs.
&nb
sp; He sprang into action. They wouldn't get away this time.
Realizing his intention, they turned and went swiftly towards the gate, maintaining dignity until they were out of sight of the group at the graveside. Then they took to their heels.
Faro was lighter, faster on his feet. But they had an escape in readiness; he saw the waiting carriage. The distance between them shortened and he had given no thought to what he would do once he had reached them. Unarmed, it was unlikely that he could overpower them both.
He was unaware of danger. They could hardly turn a rifle on him with so many witnesses. In the forefront of his mind was confrontation, accusation.
It was not to be.
He was within ten yards of his quarry when a shadow leaped out of nowhere, seized him and threw him heavily to the ground.
He struggled, swearing, but the man held him fast, his arms behind his back. Helpless he lay on the ground and, turning his head with difficulty, he looked into the face of the bearded man from the graveside.
'Damn you, let me go. I'm a policeman and those two are escaping.'
The man chuckled and held him fast.
Swearing violently, Faro struggled again. ‘You'll pay for this. I'm Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police.'
It was difficult to be convincing or threatening with his face in the gravel and the man laughed again.
'I know full well who you are, sir. Who else could teach me how to hold a man like a trussed chicken?'
And suddenly released Faro found himself looking into the now unfamiliarly bearded face of Detective Sergeant Danny McQuinn.
Faro sprang to his feet. The two men he was pursuing had disappeared. Dusting down his trousers he glared at McQuinn.
'What do you think you're doing, McQuinn? I'd have caught those two.'
'Precisely, sir. That's what they want. Once inside the carriage—' McQuinn illustrated with a descriptive gesture across his throat.
Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Page 10