Akin to Murder

by Alanna Knight

  He found the tiny cottage that owed little charm to antiquity sandwiched awkwardly between two modern and rather ugly houses that managed to display by their closeness a feeling of hostility to their diminutive neighbour.

  Already he had misgivings as he knocked on the door. A very old man, leaning on a stick, peered up at him. At his introduction in his official role, the man brightened visibly. His back straightened and his eyes gleamed. ‘Aye, aye, we saw him right enough. Or at least, my lad did, my eyes aren’t what they once were. But the lad recognised him immediately from the poster. Aye, it was him all right, no doubt about it, sleeping under the arches of the bridge.’

  ‘Where is your son now?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘He’s at work, on a farm, two, three miles up the hill yonder.’ He pointed and Faro was less than enthusiastic about that prospect.

  ‘It’s a guid, long walk, ye ken, but the lad said if anyone came they were to give the money to me.’ So saying, he held out his hand expecting fifty pounds to be poured into it. ‘I’ll see he gets it.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that. We need some sort of proof. That has to be provided and an arrest before the reward can be claimed,’ he added, knowing that there could be none, that this man asleep by the river whose presence had been seized upon was likely some passing vagrant. And there would be more similar claims, lots more, of that he was certain.

  The old man was not only disappointed, he was very, very angry and Faro left him shouting abuses about the police who cheated everybody, making promises they weren’t prepared to keep.

  Wearily now, but with some compassion for these folk who had been so misguided by Gosse’s reward poster, since one could hardly blame them for believing that this was a unique opportunity to get possession of a pot of gold, an enormous sum of money in their impoverished lives, he headed in the direction of his next call, aware that a similar reception awaited him.

  At Fisherrow the boats were just unloading, with good herring catches if the shrill screams of the clouds of seagulls were any indication. He approached one of the men and was told, aye, the house is up the hill yonder.

  This looked a mite more prosperous than the old man’s cottage. The door was opened by a servant girl who, when he introduced himself, said:

  ‘Oh, you’re too late. The master has gone into Edinburgh himself to claim the reward. You’ve just missed him,’ she said, with a giggle. ‘He’ll be sorry. You could have saved him the journey,’ she added, giving him the admiring look she saved for young and handsome men. ‘But he’ll reckon fifty pounds was worth the journey.’

  Faro didn’t feel that he was called upon to explain the intricacies of the reward money offered, the proof that was needed, and with a polite bow bid her good day.

  She watched him go, wishing she had offered him a cup of tea. A lost opportunity to ease her present dull life with a good-looking policeman in her kitchen.

  A mile away lay Belmuir village. He thought gratefully of the inn with a pie and a pint of ale before going across to the poorhouse.

  It was not to be. Just as he emerged after taking some refreshment, he saw a carriage heading down through the village. A moment later it stopped just yards away. The door opened and Lady Belmuir poked her head out and beckoned him. He could hardly ignore that.

  He walked across, and smiling, she opened the door wider, pointed to the seat opposite.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mr Faro?’

  ‘A business matter.’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Is that so? Having seen you emerging from our local inn, I presume it is done.’ He frowned and she added briskly, ‘You can forget whatever business it is that brings you here. I have something very important for you.’

  Here was a quandary. He could hardly tell her that he was heading to the poorhouse to look for a missing servant or give her that story about accommodation for a frail mother. Even as he was thinking up some more valid reason, she said, ‘I will take you back to Edinburgh. In fact, you are the very one I am looking for.’

  So saying she patted the seat. ‘I am in desperate need of your assistance, Mr Faro.’ Weakly he stepped in and sat down opposite, almost overwhelmed in a cloud of exotic perfume.

  The laird of Belmuir was elegantly dressed as ever in a dark-green velvet outdoor dress, just short enough to display a neat silk-clad ankle as she moved the full skirt to let him sit down. The ensemble was completed by a matching feathered, large-brimmed velvet hat, which she removed, throwing back the mane of dark hair that had struck such a chord of Orkney and Inga at their first meeting. Would he never cease to be haunted by it, that painful reminder of a love lost?

  From her reticule she took out not the usual feminine fripperies but a small, exquisite silver flask. She held it out and said, ‘May I offer you a dram?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I am on duty.’ Perhaps she recognised his slightly shocked look and she smiled indulgently. ‘I always carry my little flask. One never knows in carriages when something unfortunate may require the aid of a little refreshment.’

  Tapping the roof for the coachman to proceed, she leant back against the well-padded upholstery and sighed. ‘You are the very one I am looking for, Mr Faro,’ she repeated. ‘That fool of an inspector is really quite impossible. I want you to look into this important matter concerning the theft of our Leonardo from Moray Place.’

  Faro interrupted. ‘Inspector Gosse is giving this his full attention, ma’am.’

  ‘Full attention, indeed!’ she said scornfully. ‘The wretched man hardly listened to me. Full of his own importance. Said it would be taken care of.’ She shook her head and added scornfully. ‘I have to tell you, I don’t trust him.’

  Faro was aware that he could not overstep Gosse in this enquiry, nor did he have any wish to add yet another mystery to his growing list while he still had to effect the urgent removal of McLaw from the scene, but he realised he had better humour this beautiful but formidable lady.

  ‘I shall take you directly to Moray Place and you shall have the opportunity to look over the scene and consider how the thief got away with the painting. I will be indebted to you, Mr Faro,’ she added with humility that surprised him. ‘The Leonardo means a great deal to me personally.’ So saying she began to describe it, the head of a young boy, the beautiful setting, the wonderful colours. ‘Various people who viewed it were taken aback.’ She leant forward, smiling into his face. ‘They said it bore a truly astonishing family resemblance.’ Pausing for this to be taken in, but observing no change in his expression, she sighed. ‘Do you know anything of painting, Mr Faro?’ It so happened that Faro knew a great deal and spent much time in art galleries. In no time at all they were discussing the merits of Raphael and Rembrandt and some of the more obscure early Italian artists. As this conversation between two knowledgeable people carried them towards Edinburgh, Lady Belmuir, or Honor as she wished to be called, considered the man sitting opposite.

  Here she was sharing her carriage with a nobody, was it just because he struck a chord, reminding her of the love she had lost so long ago? And this man, as well as handsome, was also of humble stock, worth a hundred brother Hectors and his wasteful, dissolute life.

  As he talked so animatedly, his deep voice stirred something in her soul. She liked looking at him, tall, strong, and her stomach gave a tiny lurch that had nothing to do with the carriage going over a bump in the road.

  She wasn’t used anymore to emotions like this, not for a long time had any man stirred her senses beyond the flirtations of undesirable, often old and ugly men at social gatherings. The young who admired her were too young and mostly without money. She thought of Moray Place waiting for them and again considered this man, a mere detective without any sort of background or breeding. Maybe an hour or two together – again that tiny lurch of desire. Now regarding him narrowly as he talked of additions to Edinburgh’s art gallery, she smiled. Surely he would be flattered. Common men always liked the gentry women,
or so someone had told her. Nothing serious, or lasting, of course, just an hour or two. His wife, if he had one, need never know.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As the carriage swung into Moray Place, Honor Belmuir felt the thrill of sexual excitement. Men had wanted her, but most men she found dull and boring. It was years since she had met anyone like Faro. That dreadful Inspector Gosse, she knew, would have been more than willing, trailing after her, devouring her with his eyes as he walked through the house. But he repelled her.

  The carriage stopped. ‘Here we are.’ Stepping out, he helped her to alight. For a moment, deliberately, she leant against him and he felt the power of that exotic perfume, even as they walked up the steps, the door opened by the footman to whom she handed hat and gloves.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said and they walked together up the grand staircase winding up to the third floor. Turning, he looked away from the marble floor far beneath them and gave his attention to the few pictures adorning the walls and that blank faded space on the wallpaper once occupied by the Leonardo.

  ‘We always kept it up here,’ she said, ‘away from the bright light.’

  Faro nodded. He was well aware of her intentions, which had little to do with a stolen picture. Suddenly it was all very clear to him and he guessed why Gosse hadn’t made much of this robbery. Carefully examining the space, he could have written the story relating to that theft and the insurance company’s inevitable reluctance to pay to settle her claim. He was polite enough, however, to fulfil his duties and ask the relevant questions.

  How had the thief entered?

  ‘Alas, through a window. Come and I will show you.’

  He followed her down the great staircase, across the marble floor and through a door, along dimly lit stone corridors and into a kitchen similar to that in Belmuir House but empty of activity, seeing that this mansion only became a hive of activity once the Belmuirs were in residence, holding court in their townhouse for the relatively short period of Edinburgh’s recognised social season.

  At his side, she sighed and pointed to a side window. ‘Very carelessly left open by one of the kitchen maids. She has since been dismissed.’

  ‘Do you have her address?’

  She looked startled by the question and shrugged. ‘It may be somewhere. I’m not quite sure, she was only one of several maids. We hardly keep a record of their addresses, or of their personal details of their lives. I believe she lives out country somewhere. I can’t remember the exact place, if I ever knew it.’ She paused and gave him a winning smile. ‘Is this quite necessary?’

  ‘It helps with enquiries.’

  Another smile, rather arch this time. ‘Are you not prepared to take my word, Mr Faro?’

  Frankly no, would have been his reply but her answer was all he needed. That dismissal was what he had expected. No one must remain to be questioned about an open window. The maid would have been given money to keep her mouth firmly shut, a good reference and sent back home to a vague place in the countryside.

  He had already heard enough, and having received well-planned and thought-out answers, he realised this was one theory he would share with Gosse, if the inspector ever got to know that Faro had been called in.

  Lady Belmuir was desperate for money and it wasn’t the first time a robbery had been arranged, an excuse to claim the insurance and a frequent reason for police time being wasted.

  A tap on the door interrupted them. The footman entered, a murmured conversation ensued, voices raised. Lady Belmuir came back and said: ‘Such a nuisance. I have a further engagement and the coachman has just informed me that there is a problem with one of the carriage wheels. He can get it fixed but it will take half an hour.’ Sighing, she gave him a pleading look. ‘Will you stay and take tea with me?’

  Faro felt he could hardly refuse, especially when this rather extraordinary woman intrigued him and he was curious to know more about her. He did not have long to wait.

  There seemed to be no maids in residence and the butler brought tea on a silver tray with a selection of sweetmeats. Lady Belmuir apologised for the poor fare as she poured the tea and the door closed.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Faro, you are not from these parts.’

  He gave her a brief summary of his origins in Orkney and she seemed very interested. Finally, the information she really wanted. She smiled. ‘Have you a first name?’ When he told her, she was refilling the dainty teacups, her head down and she repeated: ‘Jeremy, may I call you that?’

  He inclined his head. ‘If you wish.’

  A pause, before what she most wanted to know. ‘Are you married, Jeremy?’ He said yes, and with her face still averted she handed him the cup and asked where did he live.

  ‘I know it well. The little cottage near Solomon’s Tower.’ Again he nodded and she frowned. ‘It is very small, surely?’

  He felt like saying yes, by comparison to this vast mansion, but merely smiled. ‘Large enough for our family thus far, ma’am.’

  She threw up her hands in mock horror. ‘Not ma’am, please. My name is Honor.’ And coyly, ‘If we are to be friends.’

  Faro could not see himself as her friend or of ever being so informal as she went on, ‘You have a family?’

  ‘A stepson and my wife is expecting our first child.’

  This was something of a blow but doubtless one that could be overcome for her purpose of a brief dalliance with this very attractive man.

  ‘You are fortunate to have a family. I have only a brother,’ her lip curled scornfully at the mention of Hector, ‘who is intent on following the family tradition of leaving us penniless. That is why my clever father, when he knew he was dying, appointed me as the next laird. Hector is utterly worthless; he has already, without my knowledge, sold many of our antiques, he loves money to gamble away on wine, women and drunken orgies with his comrades, who are no better than he. His other love is the hunt. He should have lived in medieval times when the Belmuirs rounded up the stags to make it an easy day’s killing for their guests. I believe even the women took part with a crossbow.’

  She shuddered. ‘Never for me. I love animals.’ A shrug as she added, ‘Better than people mostly. But he just wants to kill them.’

  She was silent, frowning, and Faro wondered after this outburst of confidentiality if this would be an opportune time to take his departure. What were her thoughts? They would have surprised him. She had never forgiven Hector for shooting her horse because it declined a jump and threw him an ignominious fall on a Dalkeith hunt where, sure of a win, he had money at stake. If that wasn’t bad enough, his host had mocked him.

  That was when she began to hate him, remembering when they were both children and how he always enjoyed mercilessly teasing her little dog and even hurting him. One day the wee pug had had enough, and bit him. The next day the dog was missing, then found dead – poisoned. Hector just laughed and touching the bandage on his wrist said, ‘Why not, he deserved it, little brute, for biting me.’

  Worse was to come. The man she loved, so like the one sitting opposite and, like him, a nobody, was a beater out shooting with the guests. When he was reloading one of the rifles, it misfired and killed him. A terrible accident it was assumed, but not for his sister who was sure it was murder. There was nothing she could do, only grieve. Hector came to her bed that night, to console her. The rest was a nightmare, which even now she could not bear to think of, only that he had ruined her life and she loathed him with all her heart and she swore somehow, someday, she would get her revenge.

  A tap on the door. ‘The carriage is ready, m’lady.’

  ‘And about time,’ she snapped.

  Jeremy rose to his feet, bowed. She did not want him to leave, she wanted to prolong the interview with this gentle, cultured man who she found it difficult to connect with violence, with surly men like that dreadful inspector who had attempted to flirt with her. What a horror.

  She held out her hand. ‘I hope we will meet again.’

/>   He inclined his head, smiling, and said nothing. What was there to say, even if he had been single – worse perhaps – they would have had nothing in common apart from a knowledge of paintings and their lives could have no meeting place.

  ‘The Leonardo?’ she queried.

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  She insisted that the carriage take him to his next assignment.

  ‘There is no need for that, it is a mere step away in the High Street.

  ‘Then I will save you that step. I might call on your inspector and let him know that you are to take over the case.’

  Faro froze at the suggestion. ‘Please do not trouble, rest assured I will do that.’ And face the fury that would follow, the anger and humiliation.

  There was no escape, the carriage would transport him to the door of the Central Office. She watched him descend, walk lightly across and disappear inside. Sighing, she moved on, determined in that moment, that married or no, she would certainly make sure that they met again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Leaving the grandeur of Moray Place and a life that had scraped the fringes of his own, Faro returned to Central Office.

  Gosse was not in a good mood. Standing at the window, he had seen the Belmuir carriage arrive. He had straightened his cravat, put on a welcoming smile, sure that the lady laird was coming to see him. Perhaps she enjoyed his company and doubtless found him very attractive.

  And at that moment all his hopes were shattered as his hated detective sergeant descended from the carriage. Seething, he listened as Faro reported the results of his two interviews. The Fisherrow claimant had been in already, demanding the reward money.

  Gosse scowled. ‘That makes twenty so far and all with ridiculous stories. Just any man with a beard and unruly mop of hair suits their purpose.’ He shook his head, not surprised but still hopeful that his reward, this last resort, would produce the missing McLaw. Faro knew better than most that it was a waste of time, a waste, however, that fitted his own plans.