Akin to Murder

by Alanna Knight

  As Faro leant back against the wall, pushing away the dog, a man shouted. ‘Down, Rex. Down.’ And moving closer, a cold voice said, ‘Are you aware that you are trespassing? Give me your name and I’ll have the law on you.’

  Then, as the candles Faro had placed in the sconces to give extra illumination revealed the intruder, the voice exclaimed, ‘Mr Faro! What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  The man was Sir Hector. There had to be an explanation and no time to think of any that would be convincing. ‘I was told at the poorhouse that there might be cottages to let on the estate and I was interested in perhaps renting one.’

  ‘Then you should have gone there first and got someone to accompany you. You could get lost, and as we have very strict laws about trespassing,’ he indicated the rifle, ‘you could have got yourself shot, mistaken for one of our deer.’

  ‘My apologies, just an impulse, I find this a very attractive area, a good escape from the city.’

  ‘Indeed, but I assure you this cottage is quite unsuitable,’ Sir Hector eyed him coldly, a slight twitch of his eyebrows indicated that this was a poor story and he wasn’t believing any of it. Ushering him from the croft and closing the door he said:

  ‘I will put in your request to the proper authority and they will no doubt get in touch when some place suitable for renting comes up. Meanwhile, you should be able to get the train back to Edinburgh. If you head in that direction,’ he pointed towards the workhouse, ‘they will halt for you.’

  And that was the end of the conversation. An inclination of the head and a less friendly Sir Hector than on their previous encounter walked away, the dog at his side. Faro went across to the railway halt and waited for the train. He had made a sorry mess of that, and did no favours by involving himself with the Belmuirs, who would not take kindly to this inquisitive policeman roaming around the poorhouse, especially if he suspected there might be more in those boxes of market produce than vegetables from the gardens of the estate making their way into Edinburgh – or more appropriately to the medical students at Surgeons’ Hall.

  He sneezed and searching in his pocket took out a handkerchief and a piece of cloth fell to the ground. He picked up what he had idly pocketed caught by a piece of gorse; it indicated someone in a great hurry to escape from the McLaws’ croft. That someone could be the killer. He looked at it again, a piece of evidence perhaps, but useless. His mission had failed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was late when he returned, the cottage in darkness. Everyone had gone to bed. He was thankful for that, although movement above his head hinted that Vince was still awake. He saw little of Vince these days, busy at school he spent most of the evenings after supper up in his attic room doing his homework and reading, only emerging to take the faithful Coll for his evening walk. He didn’t seem to have need of their company any more and Faro felt that he was losing the bond they had once shared. He had been sorely tried by Gosse’s persistent questioning and Faro realised that he felt alienated from these adults, and the complications of the dangerous situation into which he had been unwittingly dragged were too much for his understanding.

  For a moment, he was tempted to climb the ladder and talk to his stepson, but what was the use? To be honest, Vince was not the most important issue and he was very tired, weary, wanting only to lay down his head, sleep and end the long day.

  In the morning on the way to the office he would look in and find out from Mrs Brook when Macfie was arriving. After some hours troubled by a nightmare, he awoke knowing he would not sleep again. He got out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Lizzie and the slight snoring from the box bed indicated that Charlie still slept. A scratching above his head, there was a whimper from Coll; opening the attic trapdoor, the dog leapt down into his arms.

  It was a brisk, cloudless dawn promising a sunny day, and they would have a fine walk together. That would clear his head and prepare him for whatever the day had in store. As Coll raced ahead he remembered so many days just like this, when life seemed so good before the terrors of the past weeks had changed all their lives. He would have given much to even imagine that their lives could ever be the same again.

  The cottage was stirring when he returned. Breakfast was always a silent meal and as Lizzie bustled about preparing porridge and cutting bread, Vince and Charlie appeared, both yawning and with little inclination for conversation.

  ‘Yes, a fine walk,’ Faro said, kissing Lizzie, ‘clears the head.’ She smiled at him and made no mention of the events of yesterday or the mysterious lady laird of Belmuir.

  Preparing to leave, he said, ‘I’ll call in at Sheridan Place and find out from Mrs Brook when Macfie is arriving.’

  The Pleasance was astir with activity, steam rising from the train about to leave for Fisherrow and market stalls abounding, the smells of cooking, the laughter of children, dogs barking, it was living up to its name, despite the crumbling properties, the tall tenements sadly in need of upgrading. He wondered how the new road with its long terrace would affect the district as he walked into Sheridan Place.

  Mrs Brook opened the door and whispered excitedly: ‘He’s back, Mr Faro. And there’s a lady with him. She collected him in her carriage from the railway station—’

  As she ushered him into the dining room, he was taken aback, to say the least, to find that Macfie was indeed home, eating a hearty breakfast with a lady at his side, a lady Faro recognised but was not at all pleased to meet again.

  With no opportunity to tell Mrs Brook what was happening regarding Tibbie, they could say no more as Macfie jumped up and took Faro in a hearty embrace.

  ‘Good to see you again, lad. Come away in. And you’re just in time for a bite with us. Food is splendid abroad, but not much of it is as good as Mrs Brook’s. How have you been? You’re looking well.’ All this as Faro took a seat at the big dining table.

  Mary Faro was already seated there, looking very pleased with herself. She beamed. ‘Good morning, Jeremy.’

  ‘Your mother and I have already become acquainted,’ Macfie smiled with a bow in her direction.

  The other woman seated had her back towards Jeremy. A dark-green velvet hat, a now familiar fragrance. The last woman in the world he wanted to meet at that moment.

  Macfie beamed. ‘This is Honor Belmuir, Faro.’

  If Macfie had had Lucifer himself seated at the table, Faro could not have been more taken aback. He bowed. ‘Your Ladyship.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ said Macfie, also taken by surprise at this encounter.

  ‘We have met already,’ said the laird of Belmuir coldly. ‘I was unaware that you knew the superintendent.’

  ‘We are old friends,’ said Macfie delightedly. ‘I have known Honor since she was a wee lass.’ He looked at her; there was great affection in that glance and something else, a touch of sadness. ‘Sit down, Jeremy. You’ll eat with us.’

  ‘I have breakfasted already, sir, but a cup of tea would be most welcome.’

  Faro took the seat next to his mother, facing Belmuir, while Mrs Brook set another place and hovered in the background.

  ‘Mr Macfie has made me very welcome, what a very nice man,’ whispered Mary. ‘Are you sure you don’t want some more breakfast, dear, it’s delicious.’ The smell of cooked bacon was almost irresistible and Faro weakly allowed Mrs Brook to serve him from the silver dish on the sideboard.

  Looking across at Belmuir and Macfie, who were talking quietly, Mary said: ‘And such a nice lady – for one of Them, I mean. No edge, so charming.’ He could have told her about the other less agreeable side of the laird of Belmuir as she said: ‘And she sent her carriage to the station to meet his train.’

  Faro wondered about that, all the way from Belmuir to meet a train. How did she know? Then Macfie said: ‘It will be good to have you at Moray Place, Honor. We will see more of you.’

  And for the first time she looked at Faro as if some explanation was necessary and repeated what he knew already. �
�We spend the season in our town house. Much more accessible for concerts and social occasions. And,’ turning to Macfie, ‘I am also hoping that Brandon can help you discover who stole our painting and if possible get it back.’

  ‘If it has not been sold already, my dear,’ said Macfie, patting her hand. ‘That is often the way with such robberies, stolen to order.’

  Having now been included in the laird’s conversation, Faro’s thoughts were less on the problem of the stolen portrait than how he could get Macfie alone, as soon as possible, and confide the details of the horrendous situation in which he found himself. He had no doubts that Macfie’s affection for him would provide sympathy, but as to approving of his deliberately breaking the law, that was another matter. However, he had no alternative, if he could not track down Annie’s killer in a few days, McLaw was going to give himself up and take the consequences. Without revealing his relationship to Lizzie, which must for ever remain a secret, Charlie intended to claim that in a chase across the hill Faro had recaptured him. Gosse would be furious at Faro having whipped the prize from under his nose. His only consolation.

  The clock struck the half-hour. ‘I must go,’ Faro said. ‘If you will excuse me.’

  ‘I must also leave you,’ said Honor Belmuir. ‘I have a busy day – so many things to attend to before Moray Place is ready to offer hospitality to our many friends. My brother is already there making arrangements for a welcoming party.’ She paused and smiled and looked at Macfie, ‘You shall come.’ And to Faro, ‘We would be delighted to have your presence too.’ A gesture. ‘And of course, Mrs Faro.’ Did she mean Lizzie? Mary clearly thought the invitation was to her.

  She almost curtseyed and said. ‘I would be delighted.’

  Honor regarded her critically. ‘It will depend, of course, on how long you are staying here.’

  Mary looked anxiously at Macfie who laughed. ‘She can stay as long as she likes, Honor, so I am sure we can persuade her,’ he added, and escorting Faro and Honor to the door, he said to her: ‘Dinner this evening, my dear,’ and to Faro, ‘Drop in on your way home, lad. Bring me up to date.’

  The Belmuir carriage was not waiting outside. Before Faro could comment, Honor said: ‘Perhaps Mr Faro would be good enough to escort me to Moray Place.’

  Faro bowed, cursing silently. It was not on his route to the office and he had little desire to spend a further session in this disturbing lady’s presence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Walking towards Sheridan Place later that day, he was aware that Macfie was his last, his only hope. It was vital that he confided in this experienced crime officer who might recognise something he had overlooked in his own futile attempts to track down Annie McLaw’s killer.

  Mrs Brook opened the door. As always, she looked at him hopefully and he shook his head, feeling guilty that he had to admit to another failure regarding her suspicions regarding Tibbie’s death being officially dismissed as an accident.

  She shook her head sadly. ‘You did your best, sir. No one could have done more.’ It was scant conciliation. ‘The superintendent is expecting you.’

  At that, the door from the room already book-lined and destined to be a study, opened and Macfie came out with a beaming welcome. ‘Glad to see you, lad. Come in, come in.’ Mrs Brook lingered awaiting orders. ‘Tea? Or something stronger, perhaps.’ Thanking her, the sideboard was already set up with an imposing line of decanters and he pointed Faro in the direction of two handsome leather armchairs by either side of a good-going fire. Taking the seat opposite, he leant forward.

  ‘Well, what is all the latest news? What’s been happening in my absence? Has McLaw been recaptured? The place is thick with unsightly posters – and what’s all this nonsense, this rumour about Gosse personally offering a reward? Incredible!’ He paused to pour them both a generous dram, while Faro told him of Gosse rushing to Glasgow to find that the man the police held was not McLaw at all.

  Macfie shook his head. ‘Such folly thinking a reward would help. Was he not aware from long experience of the human race what the result would be? An endless tide of folk alleging sightings from all over the countryside.’

  ‘And it was my duty to track each one down and interview them,’ Faro said grimly.

  Macfie made a face. ‘Surely that task should have been allocated to the constables? Hardly a fitting role for his detective sergeant.’

  Faro shrugged. ‘I obey the inspector’s orders, sir. That’s my duty.’

  Macfie smiled ruefully. ‘Gosse doesn’t do well in hiding his dislike – or is it envy of you, Faro? We all know that.’ Pausing, he placed his hands together in a characteristic gesture. ‘But that is not what is troubling you, is it? I know you well and I’ve sensed from the moment you came through that door while we were at breakfast that there was something seriously wrong.’ He leant forward. ‘Not Lizzie, I hope – this baby? Or Vince?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘No, sir. All is well with them.’

  Macfie nodded. ‘Thank God for that.’

  Faro decided that matters were complicated enough and he’d save the bookshop burglary and the owner’s death for another time as Macfie, refreshing their glasses, gave him a quizzical glance.

  ‘Like to talk about what’s bothering you – all in confidence, to an old friend?’

  Faro doubted if even this old friend, once a chief superintendent of the Edinburgh Police, would find what he had to say acceptable, or be able to offer sympathy on a situation that went against the principles of a lifetime’s service.

  He sighed deeply and began the story, without revealing names. ‘A domestic murder, one that is well known to all of us. Husband returns home one night, rather drunk, and finds his wife in bed with another man.’

  He heard Macfie’s sigh. ‘And of course, he killed him.’

  ‘In fact, he did not. He said that the man leapt on him, knocked him out and when he recovered consciousness it was daylight, and his wife was lying on the floor beside him with a knife in her chest. He was covered in her blood and knowing no one would believe his story and that he would be blamed, he went to his stepfather, who instead of helping him, told the local constable and who had him arrested.’

  ‘And this was the story he told them,’ said Macfie doubtfully.

  Faro nodded. ‘Gosse refused to believe a word of it. Arrested him immediately on a charge of murder.’

  ‘Could he put a name to his assailant?’

  Faro shook his head. ‘It was dark, sir. And he was very drunk—’

  Macfie held up his hand. ‘Excuse me interrupting, Faro, but isn’t this the McLaw case?’

  ‘It is, sir. But I have every reason to believe that he was speaking the truth, that it was the other man who killed her and set up the scene so that McLaw would be blamed.’

  ‘From what I recall of reading about it, one realises it was outrageous and criminal to cast the blame on the husband, but according to the evidence, this woman was a known prostitute.’ Macfie looked thoughtful. ‘Obviously this was not a planned murder, perhaps it was even manslaughter rather than homicide. And all you have told me suggests that this was not one of the lady’s casual clients, but rather points to a local man with some very good reasons for concealing his identity.’

  Faro went on to say how he had visited the croft, the scene of the crime, and after a very careful examination with the aid of his magnifying glass had found minute dried bloodstains leading from the kitchen to the bedroom that had confirmed his own theory that Annie had been perhaps knifed in a struggle and the man had dragged her body into the bedroom, putting her beside her unconscious husband to let him take the blame.

  Macfie listened, nodding in occasional agreement. ‘A distinct possibility. Continue.’

  Faro sighed and ended with his visit to the Coach and Horses.

  ‘Do I take it that you have her stepbrother as your prime suspect?’

  ‘I have no other – not one that was immediately feasible, I mean, after my examination of
the croft. The question is, how to proceed, get a confession and so forth.’

  Macfie put down his glass and eyed Faro shrewdly. ‘A stepbrother hardly comes under the list of incestuous relations, although as a form of marriage it would be among the Church of England’s rules of consanguinity.’ He sat back and smiled wryly. ‘This is all very much a theory, you know, and one you cannot hope to prove. We can never know the truth, it is still only McLaw’s word, circumstantial evidence and, I fear, all very thin.’

  Pausing, he gave Faro a shrewd look. ‘You have taken this man’s case very much to heart, that you believe his version of events, however unlikely. Quite remarkable.’ He scratched his ear thoughtfully. ‘May I ask, is there some reason you’ve a personal interest?’

  Faro took a deep breath. ‘McLaw is Lizzie’s brother.’

  A moment’s silence to take it in before Macfie exploded. ‘Dear God! Dear God!’

  The superintendent was shattered at the enormity of Faro’s family being involved. He had suspected something personal, but nothing – nothing like this. He leant across the table, seized Faro’s hand, and asked sternly. ‘And do you know his present whereabouts – where he is hiding?’

  Faro nodded miserably. ‘I do indeed, sir. We have been keeping him concealed in our cottage.’

  ‘This is getting worse and worse.’ Trying desperately to remain calm, Macfie exclaimed, ‘You and your family could be arrested as accessories, concealing a murderer. I suppose you have thought of that?’

  ‘We’ve thought of everything, sir. The idea was that he should stay safe until I tracked down the real killer.’ And he went on to explain how he had found out the details of Lizzie’s early life in the Highlands as a girl. ‘I felt I was living with a stranger, sir, that I had never known her background or even that she had a brother. She avoids accounts of my police activities, never reads murder reports in the newspaper and even if she had done so, that name John McLaw would have meant nothing to her. His Gaelic name is Teàrlach – Charles – and McLaw is just a clan name.’