Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery

by Alanna Knight

  'Help me, help me, please.' But the first passer by, a respectably dressed middle-aged woman walking with a small child, gave him a look of horror and speedily averted her eyes as if from some improper sight. Propelling the child along, ignoring shrill questions and backward glances, she hurried on, deaf and blind to his distress.

  Next came three young girls, whispering and giggling as they walked arm-in-arm down the Wynd.

  'Ladies, ladies. Please help me.' They slowed down momentarily. 'I'm a police officer,' he added desperately, trying to sound stern and convincing.

  Hands on hips the trio regarded him. 'Don't look much like a policeman, does he?'

  'Come away, Meg. He'll be one of those dafties, always tormenting decent folk.'

  'Please listen,' Faro shouted as they moved away. 'If you won't help me, then tell the next constable you meet...'

  But the three hurried on with occasional nervous backward glances and furious giggling, leaving Faro clinging miserably to the railings, staring after them. What a ridiculous predicament. Here he was, unable to climb the railings or walk in search of some exit. His hopes of getting anyone to help him steadily diminished - where, in heaven's name, were all Edinburgh's great God-fearing citizens who poured forth from churches each Sunday, eager with their good works?

  'Help me please, I'm a police officer,' raised only looks of mocking merriment from a band of workmen.

  'Serve you right,' they shouted across at him.

  'Aye, hope you rot there.'

  Could this nightmare be really happening to him, or would he awake in his bed in Sheridan Place? Now for the first time, he was experiencing a new dimension of crime. How easily attacks, even murders, could be accomplished in broad daylight without exciting more than a flicker of curiosity in passers by. Curiosity that might extend to perverse amusement at the victim's plight without arousing the slightest inclination to rush forward and offer assistance.

  At last, the most welcome sight in the world, a police carriage trotting briskly up Johnston Terrace from the direction of the old King's Stables Road. At his frantic waving through the railings, the uniformed passenger jumped down; it was his assistant, and constant thorn in his side, Constable, lately promoted to Sergeant, Danny McQuinn.

  The sight of his superior officer seemed to fill him with ill-suppressed merriment. 'Fancy finding you here, sir. Some young ladies said you'd been in the wars and needed help? Well, well - what did you do?'

  'I had a slight argument with a falling rock,' Faro snapped and thought bitterly that the girls must have enjoyed relating their story to the handsome young policeman. He could just imagine them with their giggling, their flirtatious glances. Aye, McQuinn doubtless got considerably more of their anxious attention than he had done.

  'Falling rock, eh, sir?' McQuinn gazed amused at the scene above them. 'There's a lot of it about, sir. Dangerous place for climbing.'

  'I wasn't climbing, dammit. What do you think I was doing - amusing myself? I was looking for a possible murder weapon.'

  McQuinn shook his head sadly. 'You should leave that sort of thing to the young constables, sir.' His accompanying smirk and sidelong glance seemed to indicate that his superior officer had one injured foot in the grave already and the good one sliding dangerously.

  'Dammit, man, someone has just tried to kill me.'

  Danny McQuinn's eyes widened. 'Is that a fact? I hope you're making a charge, sir.'

  'Get me out of here.'

  'Can you walk, sir?'

  'No, I can't walk. Otherwise I wouldn't be asking for help, would I?'

  'I see. Just a moment.' And McQuinn produced from the closed interior of the carriage an extending ladder, part of the routine equipment for rescuing children who locked themselves in upstairs rooms, and for reaching old ladies' cats who got themselves stranded in trees. It was also useful for saving folks who fell into the water - by accident, not intent.

  With the help of the driver of the carriage and a considerable amount of painful effort on Faro's part, the two men managed to get him over the railings and hoisted inside the cab.

  'Quite comfortable now, are you, sir?'

  Faro forbore to reply. His gratitude for the rescue was now exceeded by feelings of humiliation and resentment of his dependence upon the hated McQuinn. At that moment he would have enjoyed nothing more than soundly boxing his ears. Fortunately for McQuinn, he needed that spare hand to support himself in the swaying carriage.

  'Anything I can do for you, sir?'

  'Yes, you can take me home,' snapped Faro and decided to keep the clues he had discovered to himself. He was furious, in no condition now to search the royal apartments, and if his ankle was broken, as he feared from its throbbing agony, then Vince, in his new role of qualified doctor, would doubtless immobilise him for some time.

  Meanwhile a verdict of 'death by misadventure' would be recorded on the dead man whose body, if unclaimed, would go to the medical students. As for his murderer, the law would be cheated again as the trail grew dim and finally disappeared before Faro was fit to resume his investigations.

  Sitting back in the carriage, with McQuinn's shrill whistling of an Irish jig adding insult to his injury, Faro realised his accident had made abundantly evident that it was an assassin he was up against. And a desperate one at that, who would attack in broad daylight - he remembered that glimpse of upraised arms against the sky, and the projectile, too well aimed to be an accident.

  His search had been observed and noted by his adversary, to whom an encounter with 'falling' rock must have suggested a convenient way of disposing of this inquisitive policeman. Only the presence of what some might call a guardian angel, which was to Jeremy Faro a tangible awareness of lurking danger, had saved his life. He shuddered. But for this uncanny sixth sense, which had paid off many times in his long career, he would now be lying alongside the dead man in the city mortuary.

  At last McQuinn delivered him like a large and unwieldy piece of furniture to his own front door. If Faro had thought that his injury was the worst that could happen to him, then he had not bargained for the hysterical behaviour of the four females occupying his home. At that moment he was grateful that three of them were there on a purely temporary basis.

  Fuss was a part of Mrs Brook's nature that Faro was teaching her sternly to keep in check. The housekeeper was, however, totally outclassed by his mother, with whom he could do nothing at all.

  He only thanked God that he had made light of the incident. He had slipped and fallen, that was all. If Mary Faro had an inkling that the 'accident' had been deliberate then he would have to endure once again the story of 'your poor dear father's' unfortunate death. The long and tortuous account of the events which had widowed his young wife and left their one child fatherless would be retold, complete with tears still remarkably fresh and ready flowing after thirty years.

  Rose and Emily were speedily infected by the panic and confusion. Taking their cue from Grandmama, they rushed up and downstairs, 'helping' with basins of hot water which they contrived to spill.

  The atmosphere was one of utter chaos when Vince put his key in the front door. Dealing with this chorus of lamentations at amazing speed, he removed Faro into the surgery and closed the door very sweetly but firmly on the hand-wringing female members of his family.

  To Vince's enquiry, 'How did this happen?' Faro replied, 'On Castle Rock. Stepped back too smartly. Didn't realise I was so far off the ground.' So disgusted was he by the morning's farcical events, and in general with the whole business, that he grumpily resolved to keep his suspicions of an assassin to himself.

  Truth to tell, he couldn't bear one more mocking, disbelieving glance. Especially from Vince, who merely nodded, removing the boot from his stepfather's bruised and rapidly swelling ankle as gently as possible. 'Well, was it worth it? Did you find any clues?'

  Mollified, from his pocket Faro brought forth the clay pipe and the handkerchief with its coins.

  'That doesn't tell us ver
y much, Stepfather. Hardly worth an injured ankle.'

  'But I also found this.' And savouring his triumph, Faro handed him the Queen Mary cameo.

  Vince turned it over. 'Looks very old. Are those real rubies and diamonds, do you think?'

  'I do. Realise what this means, lad?'

  'You think the dead man dropped it. And that he'd stolen it from the royal apartments?'

  'I was about to check that with Sir Eric when this damned thing happened.' And watching Vince minutely examine the jewel, he continued, 'Tell me, do you recognise it?'

  Vince shook his head. 'No. Should I?'

  'Think hard, lad. You're sure you've never seen one like this before?'

  'Quite sure, Stepfather. Why do you ask?'

  'Because when I found it I thought that I had. That sometime I'd held a jewel exactly like this in my hands.'

  Vince shook his head. 'Then it must have been long before we met.' Producing bandages from the cupboard, he said. 'By the way, I went to Kennington & Jenner's. At the crack of nine, I presented myself to Mr Banks. He was very disappointed when he learned that I wasn't wanting a tropical outfit...'

  'The jacket - what did he say?' Faro interrupted impatiently, biting his lip at the pain as Vince gently manipulated his ankle.

  'Some little success, Stepfather. The admirable Mr Banks checked the reference number in his little book and found that it was made specially for a very good customer, Sir James Piperlee - his place is near Glencorse.'

  'Well done, lad. When do we go? Ouch!'

  'Sorry, Stepfather, I'm being as gentle as I can.'

  'Broken, is it?'

  Vince laughed. 'Of course not. Bad sprain, that's all. You'll be right as rain in a couple of weeks. But you're to keep off it until then. Rest's the only cure.'

  'Rest? And what about Sir James Piperlee?'

  'Oh, I dare say he'll still be around.'

  'We're wasting valuable time, lad.'

  Vince went on with his bandaging. 'Nature has laid down through the ages her own rules regarding healing flesh - and that includes broken bones and sprained ankles. She has her own timetable for everything. There are no exceptions and she can't be hurried. So, like other mortals, Stepfather, you must learn to bear it all patiently as possible...'

  'Look, you've said it was just a sprain,' Faro interrupted irritably. 'A sprain's nothing serious, but this is bloody painful. Are you sure you've got it right?'

  Vince sat back on his heels and regarded his stepfather candidly. A moment later he went again to the cupboard and returned with the brandy bottle.

  'Just exactly what I need,' said Faro with a sigh.

  'Yes, and in this instance purely medicinal, so don't enjoy it too much. You're fairly shaken, aren't you?' And as Faro handed him back the empty glass, 'I suspect that you're not telling me everything. You're not usually careless, or prone to step off rocks without first looking right and left very cautiously. So how about telling me exactly what happened, and how you came by this? The truth now - did you fall - or were you pushed?'

  'A rock was hurled down at me. I stepped aside - and fell. Someone tried to kill me, lad.'

  While Faro filled in the details, Vince completed his bandaging in silence.

  'That's it, then. As far as I can go, Stepfather. The rest is up to you.'

  Thanking him, Faro tried to stand up. When he swore, Vince grinned.

  'Don't take it out on me, Stepfather.'

  'It's damnably sore.'

  'Give it time.'

  'Time! And don't you go round blabbing what I've told you to them,' said Faro with a fierce nod towards the closed door.

  'You must think I'm a fool. Two ladies with the vapours and two hysterical little girls. Life, for us mere men, would hardly be worth living. Anyway, you should be jolly thankful that it wasn't your neck. I expect that was the intention - a more fatal area, I assure you, that doesn't respond to

  healing with time.'

  'Hold on, this bandage - it is too bloody tight.' 'Tight is what it has to be, if it's to get better, so do stop complaining, there's a good fellow.' Faro seized his boot, and watched by Vince finally gave up the unequal struggle to get it fastened.

  'How am I expected to do anything if I can't get a boot on and I can't walk?'

  Vince grinned. 'The answer is simple. You don't even try.'

  'God dammit.'

  'Precisely - and all criminals too. You'll have to let them rest for a while.'

  'Damnation - are you certain about this ankle?'

  'Oh indeed I am, Stepfather. Allow me to know a badly sprained limb when I see one. And if you want a second opinion I can get Dr Kellar to look at it. As Police Surgeon, he's more used to handling the dead than the living, of course, so don't expect him to be as gentle as I am.'

  Seeing Vince's offended expression, Faro patted his arm. 'Sorry, lad, but it is a cursed nuisance, you must admit.'

  'I dare say you'll get quite adept at hopping up and downstairs,' said Vince with a cheerful grin. 'A sprightly man like you.'

  Faro gave him a sharp glance. 'Thank you for not reminding me I'll soon be forty - at the moment, McQuinn's favourite taunt.'

  'Really, Stepfather. You're getting as sensitive as a dowager about your age. Forget it. Probably McQuinn envies you that abundant head of hair - as I do. I reckon I'll get half an inch more face to wash with every passing year,' said Vince with a rueful glance in the mirror. 'Besides, you've got good bones, a fine strong Viking face, a splendid figure and an excellent constitution - barring regrettable accidents like typhoid and sprained ankles, which can happen to anyone. You're really wearing very well,' he added sternly. 'And you don't need my assurances that you don't look your age.'

  'As a matter of fact, you're the second person to tell me so in the past twenty-four hours,' said Faro smugly. 'Good.'

  To continue was irresistible. 'Yes, indeed. The first was a very pretty young lady - not much more than "sweet and twenty".'

  His stepson's weakness for any female young and pretty was immediately kindled and at the end of Faro's story of his meeting with Lucille Haston, Vince stressed how anxious he was to help. His fervent offer of assistance, by taking his injured stepfather's place on a personally conducted tour of the royal apartments, was too eager not to be also quite transparent.

  'Sounds like a splendid idea, lad, if you can manage my mother, Rose and Emily too,' said Faro carelessly. Seeing Vince's doubtful look, he added, 'I'd really be grateful. As you know, they're longing to visit the Castle and I honestly haven't the least idea about entertaining little lasses.'

  This admission put Vince on his mettle. 'Really, Stepfather, where the family is concerned, you certainly don't appear to exercise that famous logic of yours.'

  'And what do you mean by that?' asked Faro indignantly.

  'Why, they leave clues everywhere about what they like. All very easy to follow. Even I, who am no detective, can interpret the desires of little girls to perfection. Mind you,' he added with a rueful grin, 'I'm not always quite so astute where their older sisters are concerned.'

  In the days that followed, Faro discovered the advantages of being a temporary invalid. With injured ankle resting on a stool, he was the centre of attention. The entire household pivoted around him, making him once again conscious of all that he had lost of the joys of parenthood. He also recognised that this unexpected and enforced inactivity was a small blessing in disguise. Miraculously, it had drawn him closer to his little daughters than he had been since their mother died.

  And even when Lizzie was alive, how uncomplaining she had been of his constant neglect, his shortcomings as husband and father. How humbly she accepted his dedication to the Edinburgh City Police and all that being a detective entailed. His duty was never to be questioned, and must come always ahead of wife and family.

  It was not until he heard his mother in his study upstairs, a shrill note of protest in her voice as she talked to Mrs Brook, that the spell of domestic harmony was broken at last.<
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  Chapter Four

  Stirred into action and spurred on by indignation, Faro found that he was now able to hop upstairs quite rapidly.

  His study, that holy of holies, was in mortal danger. Hadn't Mrs Brook warned his mother that it was sacrosanct? That no woman was ever permitted, without his consent and supervision, to cross its threshold armed with broom, duster and intention to make clean and tidy the desk with its heaps of papers and documents, the piled up volumes on the floor. To the casual eye the sight was chaotic, but Faro knew the precise location of everything, and exactly where to lay hands on that vital information he was seeking.

  Breathlessly reaching the landing, he was met by the indignant and reproachful face of his diminutive mother. With her rosy cheeks, her sharp black eyes and hair untouched by grey, she looked for all the world like an angry robin prepared to defend her territory.

  Before he could open his voice to protest, she shook her fist at him defiantly.

  'Jeremy Faro, you should be ashamed of yourself.' And pointing to the open study door, 'To think that a son of mine should live like this. Such a rat's nest in there as I never saw in my whole life.' And turning to Mrs Brook, who looked extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed at having to witness her illustrious employer's chastisement, Mrs Faro added sternly, 'It wasn't the way he was brought up by me. Oh dear no. I just don't know where to begin . . .' 'I don't expect you to begin - anywhere, Mother,' Faro interrupted coldly. When she looked as if the ready tears were about to overflow, he added hastily, 'You're here on holiday, remember.'

  'Holiday or not, rooms have to be kept clean and tidy. Do you think I can rest easily downstairs now that I've actually seen spiders cavorting - over there - in the corners? And I shouldn't be surprised if there's worse than spiders,' she said with a shudder.

  'And what's wrong with spiders, I should like to know? Remember Robert the Bruce.'

  'Now don't you give me your clever talk, son. Mrs Brook will bring up her feather duster and we will set to work immediately.'