'Perhaps you can understand why the Fenians want it. They feel that with this as blackmail they might get what they want. Home Rule for Ireland.'
'It's preposterous,' said Faro. 'I've never heard anything so evil—so wicked.'
'On our side—or hers?' said Imogen wryly.
'The ravings of a lovesick, romantic, silly woman have cost three people their lives. Three we know about, the McNairs—' She winced as he continued, 'And your cousin. God only knows how many more have perished, or are in danger.'
'There was another Queen in your Scottish history, I recall, who was foolish and lovesick and her letters destroyed her and cost her love Lord Bothwell his life and sanity,' said Imogen.
History was indeed repeating itself. Faro did not need to be reminded of the 'Casket Letters' which Lord Bothwell, who was not famed for his sentimentality, had rashly kept with him when he was captured in his flight after the Battle of Carberry Hill. Love letters undoubtedly forged but with enough truth in them for Mary Queen of Scots to lose her throne and her head, he thought as Imogen continued.
'Only a few people close to your Queen know about this journal, which she carries on her person at all times. Her gowns have a secret placket made for it. A small leather book with love sonnets of her own composition which she delighted in reading to John in their private moments.
'While they were at Glen Muick the Queen fell getting out of her carriage. Her voluminous riding dress was torn and muddied and the lady-in-waiting, knowing that Bessie was visiting one of the servants there, took it to her for mending.
'Bessie found the journal. She and Davy weren't great readers, but they realized this was something that might be of considerable value. In fact, it was like manna from heaven for Davy. He'd been under a cloud with the stablemen and the locals, gambling, and losing heavily. He was under notice to leave the Castle. Bessie was distraught. Apparently, she had been trying to help him pay off his debts by carrying off the odd piece of china, a silver spoon or two from the Castle— nothing that would be missed or recognized—and selling them in Ballater.
'Now, with the journal in their possession, they felt their troubles were over. They left straightaway, while the going was good, especially as the Queen was still a little confused, having hit her head when she fell. It wasn't until she got back to Balmoral that she discovered the journal had gone and all hell broke loose. She thought she had lost it on the fatal ride; it wasn't until much later she learned the truth. John Brown guessed that Bessie McNair had stolen it.'
'But how did it get into Fenian hands?'
Imogen bit her lip. 'It hasn't—yet. Oh, the McNairs hadn't any preference for Fenians in particular. All they wanted was someone who would pay them good money. I don't imagine they guessed the power they had in their hands at that moment, the contents of a journal that could be used to bring down the monarchy. You see, all they recognized was the Queen's signature or Brown's, and the occasional name and words of endearment, but the ambiguities, the love language and double entendres were quite beyond them.
'They needed someone to tell them what it was worth. And Bessie remembered that I was a writer and I had given her a forwarding address, because some of the people I had met might have notes to send on for my book. When I heard from her that she had a journal that belonged to the Queen, I wasn't particularly interested but guessed that it was Seamus's territory. I gave her his address.'
She paused. 'You know the rest. Almost. Seamus got in touch with her in Edinburgh by this time. She was fly enough not to let him see the whole journal but gave him a couple of pages, just to let him see it was authentic. It was enough for him to guess that this was explosive material, far more effective for his Fenian comrades than a dozen bombs or ineffectual assassination attempts.
'But however fast he moved the Queen was faster. It hadn't taken long for them to guess that the journal was with the McNairs. Time was of the essence and by the time we visited the cottage, at Bessie's request, she had gone.'
She stopped and sighed. 'We couldn't understand it. Now I do. The poor woman was already dead, murdered as you say. Seamus went in search of Davy and when he didn't find him, his fellow comrades were very upset. They still are. They desperately want to lay their hands on this journal.'
'Who is their contact over here?' When she didn't reply, he added sharply, 'It is you?'
She laughed. 'Sure now, you can't expect me to answer that honestly. A loyal Irishwoman like myself giving away such vital information to a policeman.' She paused and added bitterly, 'A woman with good reason to hate the English who murdered her uncle and her cousin and who has served time at Her Majesty's pleasure in one of her hellish prisons. Surely you can understand that.'
'Yes, I understand even if I think you're wrong. But I'm not involved in the Fenian part of it unless they also happen to be the McNairs' killers.'
Imogen shook her head. 'They weren't Fenians, I can assure you of that,' she said. 'They were murdered by your own people, the same that murdered Seamus.'
'Not my people, Imogen, not the police. We're here to establish law and order, not to murder people. Our law is justice for the guilty and freedom for the innocent.'
'You tell me that?' she laughed. 'I've tasted your justice. And I'm as keen as anyone to see justice for Bessie and Davy McNair. And to see their murderers hanged. But there isn't a snowflake in hell's chance of that. Your assassins are in the direct employ of your government, sanctioned by the Queen herself.'
Faro realized that Imogen was right. There was nothing he could say.
'Seeing that you're not involved, Inspector, I'll tell you something that might surprise you. Your own ranks are not without Fenian supporters. There are even Irish policemen who are on our side.'
Faro pretended surprise. ‘You can't make me believe that,' he lied, thinking about McQuinn.
Imogen stood up. 'I had better go now.'
'Where are you going?'
'Back to my room, of course.'
Faro shook his head. 'No you're not. You're going to stay here tonight—'
'But—'
'You are going to sleep in that bed and I'll sleep on the sofa where I can keep watch.'
He could see she was glad to have him there. 'Not a very amicable arrangement,' she said softly.
He pretended not to hear her. He was already in so deep that it could destroy him. What she had told him had confirmed his growing suspicion that McQuinn was right and Imogen Crowe was more than she pretended to be.
Somehow he had to get the information to McQuinn regarding the contents of those so-called state documents, information that everyone who encountered them was so eager to keep secret. And for very good reason. Never before had the throne been in such danger. If they were made public, the monarchy, unsteady as it was, would topple.
At least it kept his mind away from the slight figure who was sleeping so peacefully in the bed just yards away And from thoughts of how this night might have ended.
He had been in love before, wanted a woman as much as he wanted Imogen Crowe, but to start a relationship with a woman who was also the Fenians' agent in Scotland was a sufficient dampener on his ardour.
He did not sleep much that night.
Chapter 19
Soon after daybreak, Faro fell into a fitful dream-laden sleep broken by the sounds of a busy hotel's awakening.
Turning his head, his neck stiff and sore, every bone aching with the discomfort of the hard sofa, he saw that Imogen's bed was empty.
Perhaps she had returned to her own room. Putting on his jacket, he hurried down the hall. But Room 16 was empty, a maid already changing sheets on the bed.
Downstairs the desk clerk yawned sleepily, told him Miss Crowe had left very early.
'Paid her bill'—and pausing to consult the ledger—'left no forwarding address, sir,' he added, with an impudent look as if he had already put his own interpretation on the nocturnal activities between Rooms 8 and 16 that night.
In no mood for
breakfast, Faro left the hotel and wandered around the almost empty streets hoping that he might meet her. At last he gave up.
He should contact Danny McQuinn with his new information. Not wishing to draw attention to his interest in Wallace Close by asking directions, he found it at last with considerable difficulty and an inadequate map.
Twice he wandered past the window marked 'Jewellery Repairs' in faded paint. McQuinn could hardly have chosen a less prepossessing contact. The door was locked, the window barred and padlocked. The Close had a look of long desertion, foul-smelling, a resting place for stray cats and the debris abandoned by undesirable worthies of the human variety furthered its seedy appearance
It didn't look as if Mr Jacob did much business and Faro put a note in the door with little hope that McQuinn would ever see it.
'Goods ready. Please collect. F.'
Eager to breathe fresh air again, he hurried towards the station and waited for half an hour on the chilly platform, a very frustrated man. There were many questions he should have asked McQuinn when he had the chance. In particular his intentions regarding Rose.
When the train arrived, he looked out of the window on a landscape cold and grey as his own heart, with the colours drained away as they had from his own life.
Where was Imogen now? He loved her, wanted her desperately. He longed to wake up every morning for the rest of his life and find her dear head on the pillow beside him. He wanted her for his wife but, even as he recognized the depths and longing of his desire, he knew it could never come true.
Imogen had known it too. When they met in Elrigg, both had become beguiled by the chemistry of physical and mental attraction. But that was no guarantee of a lifetime's devotion. Beyond passion lurked the just causes and impediments, a policeman and a writer who belonged to that new race of independent womanhood, free from the bondage of husband and family, free to move where and when she chose.
Faro had little to offer in return. Only the uncertainties of his own life, a vast chasm ever deepening between them. He knew that one day he would not be quite quick enough, his deductions not quite sharp enough and he would meet death at the hands of a quicker, younger opponent.
These uncertainties had always existed, even in his marriage to Vince's mother, Lizzie. Now they had intensified with the passing years and he had even less security to offer as a husband.
What was he thinking about? A Chief Inspector of Police bound in marriage to a known Irish Fenian?
He sat up with a jerk.
'This is the terminus, sir.' The guard tapped on the compartment window and grinned. 'As far as we go.'
Through the steam he saw the platform of Waverley Station, the Castle grim against the skyline, the gardens shrouded, unwelcoming as he walked home towards Newington, sharing his unhappy thoughts with the bleak greyness around him.
Mrs Brook met him at the door. You've just missed Charlie—I mean, Constable Thomas, sir. He had a message for you.
'What was it, Mrs Brook?'
She shook her head. 'He said it was important and he would leave it at the Central Office.'
There was no message from Thomas, but the constable at the desk said, 'He rushed out in a great hurry. Said he was going to Leith.'
The word Leith conjured up McQuinn's contact. Constable Thomas was sharp and efficient. Had he stumbled on something vital concerning the secret organization?
In the hope that he might meet the constable en route, Faro headed towards Hailes Wynd, a dingy-looking close adjacent to Weighman's Close on the opposite side of the road to Mrs Carling's establishment.
There was no sign of Thomas and Faro walked with caution into the dim and solitary depths of the narrow alleyway where he had some difficulty locating the jewellery repair shop. If that were possible, it looked even more decrepit than its counterpart in Stirling.
Faro stared through the barred window at a few tired-looking dust-covered watches, clocks and trinkets long since forsaken by their owners.
The jeweller was clearly not at home and Faro slipped under the door the message for McQuinn with even less hope that it would ever reach him.
Back at his desk, with a refreshing lack of homicides and sudden death, he faced the sordid and tedious routine of robberies with violence and lesser crimes. He was sorting through the documents left for him, trying to find what was most interesting, when Superintendent Mcintosh looked around the door.
'Wondered what happened to you, Faro. Heard you'd gone back to Stirling in connection with this Irish terrorist who committed suicide.'
'That is so, sir. Anything to do with Fenians is something we must keep to the forefront of our minds,' said Faro, looking appropriately stern.
'And what did you find?'
'Nothing vital, sir, that need concern us.'
Mcintosh stared at him suspiciously, aware somehow that he was not being told the whole truth. Then with a shrug he murmured, 'Fenians, eh? Good fellow. Keep at it,' and withdrew.
Faro wondered how his superior would have reacted to the information that Detective Sergeant McQuinn, late of the Edinburgh City Police, was now part of a counterspy service. Edinburgh and Stirling were no doubt only two of the links in the chain, but the fact that such an organization existed outwith the knowledge of Superintendent Mcintosh, who imagined that he knew everything and was in everyone's confidence, would fill that gentleman with a sense of outrage.
Returning to his documents with a weary sigh, Faro was interrupted by a knock on the door. This time it was Constable Lamont, Thomas's partner on the Newington beat.
'I'm looking for Charlie—Constable Thomas that is, sir.'
'Why should you expect to see him here?'
'He had an urgent message for you.'
'So I understand.'
Lamont nodded. 'Wouldn't trust it to anyone, not even myself, sir, and that's unusual for Charlie. Tells me everything generally. All he'd say was in strictest confidence that this is something the chief should know about. Quite excited, he was. Never seen him so pleased and he insisted that he had something to tell you. I gathered it was a message or suchlike he wanted to deliver personally. "I just want to see his face." Those were his very words, sir.'
Lamont looked anxious and Faro said, 'He came to the house today while I was absent. I didn't attach a great deal of importance to his visit.' He smiled and added, 'I gather he did that quite a lot.'
Lamont grinned. 'He's very seriously courting, sir, as you probably know. Looks like Mrs Brook will be losing her little maid.' The constable shook his head. 'But this was really urgent, sir. As I said, he was in quite a state. "This is what the chiefs looking for. And I think I've cracked the case for him. You'll hear about it in due course. But I have to know for sure first." And without another word, he was off again.'
Lamont shook his head. 'I haven't seen him since. That was two days ago. I don't want to report it, sir, as you know I'm supposed to, when the constable I share the heat with fails to turn up for duty.'
He looked at Faro. rWhat shall I do, sir? I don't want to get him into trouble.'
Faro frowned. Thomas was ambitious, clever. The last constable not to turn up for duty without a very good reason. He came to a sudden decision.
'Report it. Lamont. Say that P.C. Thomas is on special duty concerning an inquiry for Chief Inspector Faro. Get them to give you a temporary replacement. I'll take full responsibility.'
But the constable's absence disturbed him. The only case Thomas and he had been involved in that 'could be cracked' remained the McNair murders.
When he returned home that evening, he found Mrs Brook alone in the kitchen. Asked if Constable Thomas had called, she shook her head.
'No, indeed, sir. Haven't seen hair nor hide of him since he left the message for you.' Suddenly she stood up straight and said, 'I might as well tell you, sir, that I'm not at all pleased the way things are going. That young man is never out of my kitchen, not that I object to him personally, he's nice enough in his way, but he k
eeps distracting May who isn't the most efficient of maids, you will gather. I don't feel that my kitchen is my own, any more, with the two of them cuddling and kissing whenever my back is turned. Frankly, sir, I'll be glad when they get married.'
Faro's eyes widened. This was the longest speech he had ever heard Mrs Brook make and obviously one she had been considering for some time.
He smiled. 'You've always had a great ordeal putting up with us and we are most grateful, especially with our uncertain hours, and your excellent cooking so often ruined.'
But Mrs Brook wasn't yet finished.
'I know that, sir, but I never minded. You were my two very special gentlemen—and I could rely on you in so many ways.' She shook her head. 'This isn't like what it was in the old days, the household running smooth as silk, upstairs and downstairs too. I've always managed fine on my own.'
She sighed. 'Young maids are nothing but trouble sir, if you ask me. I was always told they were the bane of a housekeeper's life and now I know that for the truth.'
And, having completed her speech, Mrs Brook turned towards the oven, looked inside and said, 'You'll be wanting your supper, sir. I'll bring it up to your study directly, Dr Vince and Mrs Laurie had theirs before leaving for the theatre.'
Faro went upstairs. His fears were being realized that two separate households were needed and that it had been a mistake to let Olivia and Vince persuade him to stay in Sheridan Place after their marriage.
Life would be further complicated for poor Mrs Brook when the new baby arrived. There would have to be a nanny and a housemaid to do the extra washing. He could not see the housekeeper coping with that kind of disorganization in her domain.
But the problems of domesticity were temporarily dismissed as he opened the daily Scotsman where his attention was immediately drawn to a paragraph headed: 'Success for Famous Scottish Pianist'. Lachlan Brown's First Piano Concerto had been given its debut in London... Royalty had been present... It ended, 'Anyone fortunate enough to hear this tremendous work could be left in no doubt of Mr Brown's future as a composer.'
Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Page 12