Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10

by Knight, Alanna

  'But—'

  'Come along, sir. We have to talk and it's best we're not seen together.'

  With a quick look round McQuinn bundled him into one of the waiting carriages where Faro got a good look at him for the first time. The beard was probably false dyed hair adding to a ruffianly appearance.

  Certainly at first glance he was hardly recognizable and Faro would have walked past him in the street.

  'What's all this about, McQuinn? I thought you were planning to go to America.'

  'Rose told you that, I suppose.' McQuinn laughed 'I changed my mind. Or had it changed for me.'

  'So you're not going after all?' Faro was aware of the disappointment in his voice.

  'Not immediately. I have an assignment. I'm back being a loyal Irishman, again. A Fenian in fact—'

  'A Fenian?' Faro stared at him in horror.

  McQuinn smiled affably. 'That's right, sir, with instructions to infiltrate the movement, find out what's going on over here.'

  'You're telling me you're an informer.'

  Ignoring Faro's interruption McQuinn continued, 'There's a plot to overthrow the Queen and the government and seeing that I've taken the woman's money, I'm expected to be a decent policeman, loyal, and obedient.'

  Pausing he shrugged. 'It's a hard life, sir. I love Ireland and God knows I want to see her freed of English tyranny, but these terrorists are wrong. Bombs and murderers.' He shook his head. 'There has to be some other way.'

  But Faro wasn't listening and he tried to digest this astonishing information. 'You a police spy, McQuinn. You of all people. It's quite incredible.'

  McQuinn ignored that. 'The woman Crowe and her cousin are both in it.'

  'Are you sure?' Faro asked, although he knew the answer.

  'Certain sure, sir.' As the carriage reached the railway station Faro knew the folly of trying to see Imogen again in the light of this information.

  'I presume you're going back to Edinburgh, sir,' said McQuinn consulting his watch. 'We should talk before your train.'

  He paid off the coachman and led the way into a dingy, ill-lit public bar across the square. Seated at a squalid beer-soaked table with two pints of ale in front of them, McQuinn asked, 'How much do you know about this latest Fenian activity? I presume that's what has brought you here. You are on to something?' he added eagerly.

  'You know as much as me, McQuinn. You were with me when we foiled attempts on the Queen's life,' he added bitterly.

  'It's the throne this time. These papers that are missing contain vital information.'

  'Exactly what information?' Faro asked.

  'Damned if I know. Except that they are of a highly personal and damaging nature.'

  'They have to be if the throne is in danger. I presume the Fenians know a bit more than us.'

  'Which is what I'm supposed to find out.'

  'Who are you looking for?'

  'A woman.'

  'A woman, McQuinn?' Faro laughed.

  'Not in the social sense this time,' said McQuinn. 'I only know that the chief member of their spy system over here is a woman who is clever, highly educated, patriotic. Handy with bombs and guns—'

  As he spoke Faro had a sinking feeling of disaster and familiarity.

  'This is the woman I have to find and eliminate,' McQuinn ended grimly. 'And all I know is that she is in Scotland— somewhere.'

  Faro fought back the words and the image that McQuinn had conjured up for him. 'You'll be lucky if you don't end up very dead. How do you know they'll trust you?'

  'Because I'm kin to them.'

  'A loyal Irish policeman? That's hardly a worthy qualification.'

  ‘I’m a lot more than that. I'm related by blood. You've heard of John O'Mahony?'

  Faro nodded. Anyone who had dealings with Ireland had heard of the great patriot and scholar, the historian who had translated a history of Ireland from the Irish.

  'It was O'Mahony who chose the name "Fenian'' for the new embodiment of Irish national feeling and the word stood for nationhood embodied in the ancient ideal of the fianna.' McQuinn paused. 'And O'Mahony was first cousin to my mother.'

  'You never told me that,' said Faro accusingly.

  'You never asked. I'm using the name O'Mahony by the way, and it's because of my family connection they thought I'd be welcomed with open arms. Fenian is a word for the Irish that is both military and lyrical—'

  Faro didn't want another lecture from McQuinn on Irish history. 'I know that. It's been used to describe Irish soldiers for sixty years. I first heard it applied to Irish rebels against the British Empire about ten years ago.

  'It's also used for members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. It received strong support from our people who suffered in the Famine—and from the harsh treatment of English landlords. As you know, sir, a million and a half people starved to death and another million emigrated. Those who came over here brought death with them, in the form of deadly fevers.'

  McQuinn paused. 'My own parents died,' he said sadly. 'And I was brought up in Edinburgh by the Sisters at St Anthony's Orphanage. Others of the family like the O'Mahonys, who survived the coffin ships and reached America, brought a more deadly fever—the passion for revenge.

  'The Brotherhood was founded in Dublin on St Patrick's Day in '58 and soon afterwards the Fenians were founded in America, their object to destroy British rule in Ireland. Their sympathies lay with the forced emigrations which gave the Irish Americans a detestation of English rule.

  'I know from my folks over there—Rose will have told you—' He paused and Faro smiled vaguely, amazed that he had known so little about this young man who had shared for several years his daily life with all its danger. 'Rallies of patriotic Fenians ten years ago attracted scores of thousands. Funds were raised by subscriptions, collections and the sale of bonds redeemable when the Irish Republic was established. There was even an issue of postage stamps. I have a few of them, very precious. Armed Fenians paraded in American towns, Fenian newspapers and song books flourished. .

  'Experienced soldiers from the American Civil War were sent to Ireland to act as instructors and leaders training men for combat. Fenians joined armies as mercenaries, particularly the French Foreign Legion, to gain battle experience. Their activities varied from daring rescues of political prisoners in Ireland, England and Australia to meetings with foreign governments to discuss possible alliances with the offer of Fenian brigades to help any countries fighting Britain. The dearest hope of the Irish Americans was for an Anglo-American war—'

  And Faro recalled reading in the Pall Mall Gazette in '67 that the Brotherhood was the first case of such a political organization being established in England: 'It will probably annoy us for years and at intervals produce catastrophes ...'

  There was always the fear that a struggle in Ireland might result in American intervention on behalf of Ireland and war with England would develop a sense of national unity between the states.

  Faro remembered that the late Charles Dickens had been conscious of the danger and had written: 'If the Americans don't embroil us in a war before long it will not be their fault... with their claims for indemnification, what with Ireland and Fenianism and what with Canada, I have strong apprehensions.'

  Faro looked through the window at the station clock. 'I must go or I'll miss my train.'

  McQuinn nodded. 'Forgive me if I make myself scarce, sir. I can't afford to be seen with a detective in a place as public as a railway station.'

  'How do I contact you?'

  McQuinn frowned. 'You don't. I can't come to Edinburgh for obvious reasons.'

  'What if I have information for you?'

  'That's different. There's a jewellery repair shop near the docks in Leith, in Hailes Wynd. There's another just like it, tiny and unobtrusive, here in Wallace Close. If there is no one at home, put a note in the door: "Goods ready. Urgent collection.'' I'll know it's from you. If the shop is open, which it is on rare occasions, ask for Mr Jacob—that isn't hi
s real name—show him your watch and say. "This was a gift from Mr Lyon, it's gaining time." He'll pass on the message and I'll meet you back there in the public bar.'

  'Has Mr Lyon any significance?'

  McQuinn laughed. 'Only if you know your Bible, sir. Daniel—my name—in the lion's den, remember?'

  As they shook hands, Faro said, 'Take care, McQuinn—I mean O'Mahony.'

  McQuinn smiled. 'I will that, sir. You can rely on it. If I'm alive you'll be hearing from me.'

  The Edinburgh train had been signalled and as Faro waited on the platform he was aware of being watched.

  On the other side of the railway line, he recognized the two men awaiting the train going north as the pair he had pursued in the graveyard.

  Without another thought for what the action might cost him, Faro leaped up the stairs and across the line as the Inverness train drew alongside the platform. When the steam subsided a little he realized that the two men had disappeared.

  Frantically he ran up and down staring into the windows of the compartments.

  'Are you boarding the train, sir?' asked the guard, observing this odd behaviour.

  'No. I'm looking for someone.'

  'Can't hold the train any longer, I'm afraid.' And so saying he blew his whistle and Faro watched the train slide out of the station.

  He heard another whistle and, frantically rushing back over the bridge, was in time to see the Edinburgh train steam away from the platform.

  Damn and blast. Damn and blast!

  He had lost his quarry and his train. He looked at the noticeboard and discovered there was a three-hour wait until the next, the last of the day.

  He sat on the seat regarding the now empty railway line.

  And suddenly he didn't care. Maybe destiny was assuming a new role despite McQuinn's revelations. For, having missed his train, the possibility of seeing Imogen again suddenly loomed.

  And, at the back of his mind, the teasing thought that she would be in need of some comfort after the day's sadness. The sort of comfort that only a man in love could give a woman.

  As he headed back into the town, he decided there was some compensation in disaster after all.

  Chapter 18

  As he walked out of the railway station Faro realized that he was once again acting on instinct. Taking a chance on Imogen Crowe being alone and spending the night in Stirling, he was drawn back to the same hotel where they had dined the day they went to Inchmahome.

  The booking clerk told him that Miss Crowe had Room 16 but her key was not on the board. The man gave him a wry look as he asked for a room near by.

  'Room 8, sir.'

  As Faro washed his face and regarded his reflection in the mirror, he saw the image of the double bed behind him and reflected upon how this night might end for both of them.

  With his hand on the door, he was about to go downstairs to the dining room when a commotion in the corridor alerted him. Running footsteps, raised voices and a woman's scream.

  He threw open the door. Imogen Crowe was fighting off an attacker. The gaslit corridor gave too little illumination to identify the man, except that his heavy build suggested to Faro that this was one of the two men he had seen boarding the Inverness train.

  At his approach, the man fled and, thrusting Imogen into his room, Faro set off in pursuit, realizing that he had been fooled by an old trick in Stirling railway station. The two men had boarded the train and left it at the signals halt.

  As he reached the stairs, he saw that the man had gone. A noisy wedding reception was in progress in the ballroom and he might well have mingled with the crowd.

  But Faro's main concern was Imogen. He ran upstairs and found her putting her hair up before the mirror in his room.

  'Are you all right?'

  She straightened her dishevelled dress. 'Thanks be to God—and that I have a few tricks of self-defence up my sleeve,' and staring ruefully at a torn cuff, she smiled. 'But I've never been so glad to see anyone when you opened that door. Like an avenging angel, all that was missing was the fiery sword.'

  Seeing how pale she was he asked gently, 'What happened? Why were you being attacked?'

  She sat down on the bed and stared up at him. For the first time he realized that she was afraid, trembling. 'You know the answer to that, Faro. Better than I do.'

  He shook his head. And before he could say a word, she went on, 'Those two men—'

  'Men—I only saw one.'

  Again she smiled. 'There were two of them. I disabled one on the stairs, left him gasping for breath.'

  'Well done, well done,' he whispered.

  His companion recovered quickly enough to follow me. My room is just along the corridor. But how miraculous to find you here.'

  'I missed my train—'

  'That's a miracle too. I saw you at the funeral. I hoped to speak to you, but when I turned round you had disappeared. Of course, I understand the reasons why you might not want to be seen in public with a known Fenian.'

  'That's not the reason at all, Imogen. The fact was I was chasing your same two men, who I have every reason to believe attacked me in Edinburgh and here in Stirling—'

  'You too, Faro? I thought they were on your side.'

  He shrugged, not quite ready to bring up the delicate subject of the McNairs and her association with them. 'They are probably hired bullies.'

  'They were trying to murder me, right enough, throw me bodily over the stairhead.' She shivered. 'There's a marble floor below. I couldn't possibly have survived. But they'd make it look like an accident—or another suicide.' She turned to him, her eyes full of tears.

  'Seamus was murdered, you know. He never hanged himself in his cell. You couldn't get me to believe that. I saw him the night before and he was talking of going back to Ireland to his wife and baby son. Sir Hamish had promised he'd try to get his sentence shortened, perhaps a reprieve if he'd give up what he called terrorist activities, and go home.' She shook her head. 'A good man, Sir Hamish, for a Member of your Parliament.'

  Faro did not bother to contradict her and she regarded him thoughtfully. 'You haven't told me why you were chasing those two men, Inspector. Tell me, I'm curious. I thought you were both on the same side,' she repeated, 'fighting Fenians. Why on earth did they attack you in Edinburgh?'

  'Because I'm trying to save another damsel in distress.'

  'Is that so?' She laughed, as if this were a novel idea.

  'Oh yes, I do it all the time. You'd be surprised.'

  'And are you always successful?'

  'No. Not always,' he replied.

  She waited for him to explain further and then went back to smoothing her hair. 'I'm surprised you haven't managed to get yourself a wife then, out of the proceeds. Was your damsel in distress young and beautiful?'

  'Quite the contrary. She was poor and plain and middle-aged. I think you were possibly acquainted with her. Her name was Bessie McNair.'

  Imogen's brow darkened. There was a moment's confusion. As her eyes slid away from him, declaring her guilt, he knew that she was going to deny all knowledge of the dead woman.

  'What makes you think that, Inspector?' she asked softly.

  'Because you—and Seamus—were described to me by the sisters who lived next door. They'd seen you at the house.'

  She sighed. 'Well, you might as well know the truth, seeing that you know so much already. I was needing background for one of my books and, when I was travelling in Deeside, I stayed at Bessie McNair's cottage. She was a sewing maid to the Queen, you know. So when I was in the Edinburgh area, I decided to look her up again, and take Seamus along.'

  Faro shook his head. 'It won't work, Imogen.'

  'I don't know what you mean, "it won't work". It's the God's honest truth.'

  'According to the two ladies next door, you were there on separate occasions.'

  She laughed bitterly. 'Oh that!' Then, with a sigh of resignation, 'You know everything, don't you?'

  'I just wondered why a y
oung newspaperman should find her so fascinating. They don't usually waste their time visiting elderly ladies, unless there is a story somewhere.'

  'She had been a Royal servant.'

  'Why should that be of such great interest to a Fenian?' Again he paused. 'Unless she had something of great value concerning Royalty to hand over to him.' And when she didn't reply, 'Such as stolen secret state papers pilfered from Balmoral.'

  She laughed. 'State papers. Is that what they are telling you, Inspector? Well, well.'

  'I know they were important enough for your friend Bessie McNair and her brother Davy to be murdered.'

  'She sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with horror. 'They murdered them. I can't believe it.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'Mother of God, how horrible. And all for a journal and a few letters.'

  'What kind of letters?' he demanded sharply.

  'Love letters, Inspector.'

  'Love letters!' Faro exploded.

  'Oh yes, and a few drawings and poems. All very personal, letters exchanged between Royal lovers.'

  'Who—'

  'The Queen, of course. And her trusted servant, John Brown. Mostly from her. She's a great writer of letters, keeps a diary and journal. There's a secret one she carries round with her. If that ever found its way into the wrong hands— There are drawings and poems and she refers to Brown as her husband, moans that she cannot acknowledge him in public. There are some very intimate details—I gather.'

  It was Faro's turn to sit back as he remembered a previous occasion when the Queen in love was wildly indiscreet. Except that the object of her abandoned passion was her husband, Prince Albert. Widowed, she had to be restrained by General Sir Charles Grey, her Secretary, from publishing their correspondence with each other, 'including intimate and personal details relating to Her Majesty's marriage which might seem unusual to include in a work intended for general readership'.

  If these present documents contained the same passionate and explicit references to lovemaking with John Brown, or were confirmation of a secret marriage made public, they would be dynamite enough to bring down the Royal throne. The scandal would rock the country, the moral old lady who set such high standards for the meanest of her subjects, whoring and drinking with her ghillie.