When the door refused to move, McQuinn put his shoulder against it. Smoke billowed out and Faro limped after him.
'Don't come in here, sir. You stay clear, I'll bring the woman.'
Jess lay just behind the door and before McQuinn picked her up and carried her outside, Faro heard the crack of breaking wood.
'Keep away, sir,' yelled McQuinn.
Ominous sounds from above indicated that the roof was about to cave in. Through the smoke, Faro saw on the floor, near where Jess had fallen, a tin box. He seized it, winced with pain and threw the jacket over it. The roof collapsed with a thunderous roar as McQuinn laid Jess on the ground, her body hidden by the curious watchers. Faro pushed them aside.
'She's dead, sir,' said McQuinn, 'hit by a falling beam, by the look of it.'
Faro gazed helplessly down at her, the tin box in the jacket under his arm. Before them the cottage was already subsiding in a volley of small explosions and smoke, while Jess Porter's eyes were wide open, staring in disbelief as death had overtaken her.
One of the men pushed forward. 'We've warned her, haven't we?'
A woman took up the chant. 'Those ovens - far too hot, such heat she had for her baking.'
'With a thatched roof, we thought something like this would happen.'
'Mark my words, haven't I always said it ... '
'Aye, a spark, that's all it would take.'
But was a spark all that had caused the inferno and why had it happened in such a short time? Turning his back on the curious watchers, Faro unwrapped the tin box. The lid was open and the papers in it, those letters dating from 1830 that he was hoping would shed so much light on Queen Mary's jewels, were charred, blackened.
Summoned by McQuinn's whistle, alerted by the smoke, the police who were waiting in their discreetly concealed carriage on the drive now raced across the clearing. Someone, smelling smoke and anticipating trouble, had had the foresight to bring a canvas stretcher and a blanket.
'Accident, would you say, sir?' said McQuinn.
Faro shook his head. 'It was no accident. The fire was deliberate.'
'The door was locked, sir.'
'Did she usually lock her door?' Faro asked a woman nearby.
'Never.'
'No, never.' The chorus was taken up. 'You could come by at any time of the night or day and Jess Porter's bakehouse door was always open.'
Faro walked carefully round the tiny garden. The glint of metal, in the sun beside a rose bush, was a key. The cottage had been set on fire, and Jess locked inside. When she died clutching her precious box she had been struggling to escape.
'I can't understand it at all, ye ken,' said one old man. 'Heavy thunder shower we had last night, thatch was wet through.'
'I ken that fine, Archie, I have a cottage just like this at east lodge.'
'I can't understand it. That thatch should never have gone on fire today.'
But it had and it had burned like a tinderbox, thought Faro, following the sad cortège across the clearing.
But the murderer wasn't to know that.
Faro cursed silently. This tragedy need never have happened. It was his own fault, he should have stayed, read the contents of the tin box while he waited for her.
He had no doubt that the mysterious visitor she had been expecting, who had wanted to see Harry Femister so urgently, had murdered them both. And the clue to the mystery would never now be solved for it lay in the contents of the tin box, the letters Henry and John Femister had written to each other, the charred and useless evidence that he now clutched beneath his arm.
Chapter Fourteen
Faro reached Sheridan Place anxious to accompany Vince on a visit to Peter Dowie, who, he was certain, was the last link in the chain of that day's extraordinary and tragic events. The authorities at East House Lunatic Asylum might react uneasily to Inspector Faro, but Doctor Laurie could produce impeccable reasons, not to mention powers of persuasion, for seeing a patient outside visiting hours.
Instead of finding his stepson alone, as he had hoped, he found the whole family assembled for yet another interminable mealtime. His own arrival had been eagerly awaited as the central figure in the ritual of suppertime.
'Do sit down, Jeremy. Didn't I tell you, girls, that Papa would be here in time?' said his mother.
As he hesitated, the door opened and Mrs Brook came in with the soup. He sat down reluctantly and around him, heads were obediently downcast, hands placed together in prayerful attitudes.
'Come along, Jeremy,' whispered his mother. They were waiting for him to say grace. Never had he felt less thankful, although he was hungry enough with only Jess's lemonade to sustain him. He seemed to have missed several meals that day.
'Amen. Amen.'
As soup spoons were wielded, Vince, seated opposite, obligingly passed the condiments.
'I hope you haven't an engagement this evening, lad,' Faro whispered.
'I was planning to take Lucille to a concert.'
'Can it not wait?'
'Indeed it cannot,' said Vince, outraged at such a suggestion. 'Why?' Then, glancing at his stepfather's solemn face, 'Trouble?'
Faro nodded. 'I'll tell you when we've finished.'
Catching his mother's reproachful glance, he gave his full attention to the soup.
'And what are you two whispering about?' she demanded.
Faro pretended deafness, while his more diplomatic stepson smiled and said winningly, 'Just passing the time of day, Grandmother.'
'Oh, is that the way of it?' demanded Mary Faro suspiciously. 'Well, whatever the pair of you are concocting, there's no need to eat your supper as if you haven't a minute left to live. You set a fine example to the children, I must say.'
Jeremy smiled wryly. His mother had the happy gift of arousing in a widower and a father approaching forty, the exact sense of wrong-doing he had suffered as a small boy. It was quite remarkable.
'Girls - Rose - Emily. There's no need to imitate your Papa, you don't want to have heartburn for the rest of your lives. Your complexions will be ruined and no nice young man will give you a second look.'
At this awful warning, the two girls ate with exaggerated slowness, gazing at dear Papa for approval. He gave them instead an embarrassed smile. Supper finally ended, they were loth to let him go. It seemed they didn't want to go back to Orkney next week.
'We want to stay here - with you - in lovely Edinburgh...'
'For ever and ever.'
If only their holiday had not coincided with his involvement in a new case. He was guiltily aware that he had spent precious little time with them, and that grudgingly and impatiently, his mind on more pressing matters. By next week he and Vince would be on their own again, the house's emptiness echoing to his remorse.
'Ready, Stepfather?'
'Yes, of course.'
Vince was already making their apologies, kissing and hugging the girls and their grandmother and promising that Papa would be back in time to tell them a story, with an impish glance in his stepfather's direction.
Faro gave him a cynical look. Oh, the stories that could be, and never would be, told.
Leaving the house, he asked, 'Can you get us into East House Lunatic Asylum?'
Vince chortled. 'Do you really think we're quite worthy of admission yet - we'll have to prove insanity . . . '
'We're going to visit Peter Dowie,' Faro interrupted sternly.
'Peter Dowie - the man who was so seriously injured in 1837? He's still alive?'
'He is - just, I fancy.'
'That's incredible, Stepfather. How did you come by this information?'
As they turned in the direction of Morningside, Faro told him of his discovery at Piperlees that the dead man's name was Harry Femister. Cutting short Vince's jubilant congratulations, he ended with Jess Porter's tragic death in the bakery fire.
'Dreadful - dreadful,' said Vince. 'Can you prove it was deliberate?'
'No. But I'm certain that it was.'
The
y walked in silence through the leafy suburbs. They were very near to the asylum when Vince said, 'When you consider our main list of characters, the discovery of that child's coffin has an alarming number of sudden deaths to its credit.' And enumerating on his fingers, 'Two deaths by drowning in 1830, two by falling scaffoldings in 1837...'
'Let's not forget my father, lad.'
'My apologies. Plus one street accident and one suicide.'
'I'm not at all sure that Lazenby committed suicide.' And Faro gave a rapid account of his visit to the mad widow at Aberdale.
Vince whistled. 'How very odd - and she really believes that her husband was murdered?'
'Aye, and so does her maid. And what is more, I'm inclined to agree with them.'
'Which means that Lazenby's suicide might well have been a very useful method of dealing with an awkward situation?'
'Exactly. And the same goes for Mace.'
'Ah, so you think his death was murder?'
'Let's say I'm not happy with the label of firearms accident,' said Faro. 'It's all a mite too convenient, the body tidied away, the room cleaned up and no police investigation, if you please. This is a matter for the regiment.'
Vince thought for a moment. 'So today we have one death by climbing the inaccessible Castle Rock, one by a mysterious fire, one by exploding pistol. And if we add 'em all up including Lazenby's violent end . . . '
'Then we have nine potential murders.'
'You could well be right, Stepfather,' said Vince in awed tones. 'But why in God's name did these unfortunate people all have to die?'
'Because they were on to something so important that they couldn't be allowed to survive. Do you remember my father's last note?'
'The Egyptian-style curse, you mean?'
'No, lad, I don't. I'm as sceptical as he was about such things. "These devils will show no mercy" - human devils, Vince lad, definitely human.'
'About that fire, Stepfather, pity that the evidence was lost. You realise we have just about run out of clues.'
'Aye, a boxful of charred letters . . .'
'You brought them.'
'I did indeed. We have a man in the Central Office who's an expert in the particularly painstaking matter of deciphering charred letters.'
'What about this chap Dowie? You surely don't think a poor old mindless chap...'
'There might be some vital fact that he remembers.
And I'm rather relying on the cameos jolting his poor disordered mind with the clue we need.'
'You may well be right. It's exceedingly strange that the senile can be remarkably lucid about the past and decidedly vague about what happened yesterday. All their yesterdays become as one.' A moment later, Vince asked, 'One poser is - why didn't the mysterious "they" get rid of him too? They must have had ample opportunity.'
Faro sighed. 'Perhaps because he was hopelessly crippled, virtually a prisoner who could be cut off from the outside world. I imagine his visitors were very carefully scrutinised. Like Harry Femister, another harmless lunatic'
'You're right, of course. Who would give credence to the fantasies of two daft old men about a buried treasure in Edinburgh Castle?'
'Aye, they were safe enough - until Harry Femister tried to prove it with his last desperate bid to storm Castle Rock.'
Vince shook his head. 'But why? That still doesn't make sense, Stepfather.'
Faro didn't answer. He was conscious that his pace had quickened as he remembered all the hours that had elapsed since his return from Piperlees. He had an overpowering sense of foreboding, that their visit to East House Asylum was already too late.
'I see that ankle is healing remarkably well,' said Vince as the gates came in sight.
Faro slowed down, suddenly aware that Vince's observation and the extra spurt of activity had not brought its usual painful reminder. He stared up at the grey stone building, which exuded a certain grim-faced respectability. There was an air of withdrawal and enforced seclusion about its narrow close-curtained windows with their iron bars.
As the bell pealed, Faro said, 'Say any prayers you might find appropriate, Vince, for mark my words, herein lies our last chance of success.'
The maid who opened the door had visage, colouring and a stem but remote expression in perfect keeping with her background, as if she had been specially chosen to blend with the institutional surroundings.
'Visiting's over for today, hours since. You're too late.'
Faro was wondering how any person could speak with so little facial movement when Vince stepped forward.
'I am Dr Beaumarcher Laurie, here to see a patient,' he handed her a card. As she read it somewhat reluctantly, he added, 'I am personal assistant to Dr Kellar who is no doubt known to you and I am to interview the patient . . .' He flipped open a pocketbook, frowned over a name, 'ah yes, Peter Dowie - in connection with Dr Kellar's research on mental problems. Dowie, we are given to understand, has been here for many years and has an interesting - a very interesting - case history.'
Faro listened to this pack of lies with extreme admiration as the maid, still doubtful, stared over her shoulder helplessly. Seeing none of the nursing staff, whom Faro hoped were off duty, and in mortal terror of offending someone in medical authority, she admitted them to the bleak and sterile hall.
Pausing only to consult a list and take a key from the appropriate numbered hook, she said, 'Night staff won't be here for an hour yet, but I expect it will be all right, you being a doctor.'
Vince nodded importantly and as they followed her along the deserted corridor the air of sterility was now overlaid with carbolic, in a losing battle to keep at bay less agreeable odours.
'Where are all the patients?' asked Vince.
'Locked up in their rooms, of course. Where else would they be? That's the rule, doors locked from eight at night till six in the morning.'
Their footsteps alerted the hearts of the imprisoned with new hopes of release, and their progress was followed by a tirade of screams and curses, sobs and pleas, animal howls, and furious banging on the locked doors as if a pack of wild animals was trying to escape.
As they climbed the stairs, the large window gave glimpses of an Edinburgh suburb: its villas far below, with back gardens facing the asylum, were peaceful and domestic on this gentle summer evening. Children played on swings, a dog chased a cat up a tree barking fiercely, a couple sat at a table with glasses in their hands. Such scenes, such glimpses of normality played out against the screaming madness all around them, were an affront to the senses.
As the maid paused to unbolt yet another door, Vince pointed down to the scene below. 'Incredible, isn't it, that two such variations of humankind should inhabit so small an area.'
'I was thinking the very same thing.' It was appalling, the thought of those wild, tormented, mindless creatures, hopeless, locked away, unlikely ever to walk in a summer garden, feel the warmth of the sun or enjoy family life again.
'Is it quite necessary that they all have to be locked away?' Vince asked the maid.
'You know the rules. If we opened those doors, some of them would tear your throats out. They all believe that we are their enemies. Here it is. Room 49.' Pausing with the key in the lock, she turned to Vince. 'I presume you gentlemen are armed.' His non-committal nod was taken as agreement and she opened the door.
'You're lucky with this one. He's a cripple, out of his mind of course, but non-violent. He's had a fever recently, too. Weakened him considerably. You needn't expect much trouble.' She pointed to the candle. 'Light it, if you need. But be sure to blow it out before you leave. We don't want him setting fire to the room.'
Dowie's eyes were closed and he leaned back against the pillows. An old man with a mop head of tangled grey hair, a face pale and worn as the walls around him. At their entrance his eyes flickered open.
Vince leaned over him. 'I am Doctor Laurie.'
Dowie stared for a moment, trying to recognise them and then made the effort to sit up. 'Ah, a new doctor, eh?
A new face and glory be to God a young one just for a change. Have you come like the good angels to set the prisoner free?'
'I've come to help you, if I can. And this gentleman too wants to help you. He is my stepfather.'
'Honoured to make your acquaintance, sirs.'
'We are friends of Harry Femister.'
Dowie smiled. 'My old mate, Harry - to be sure. And how is he - well, I trust? He has not been to see me for - for . . . ' He frowned. 'I cannot remember exactly. Time, hours, days, they are all the same to me - all the same - in this place.'
'You have known Harry for a long time.'
'Harry?'
'Yes, Harry Femister.'
Dowie shook his head. 'Long, long time. I forget when. But we were young lads. And I had two good strong legs on me then.'
Vince mouthed the words, 'John Femister, he's confused.'
Seizing the opportunity, Faro asked, 'The accident, what caused it?'
Dowie's mouth clamped shut and he shook his head violently, looking imploringly at Vince.
'What's the matter?'
'I'm not supposed to talk about it,' Dowie's voice sank to a whisper. 'I suppose you being a doctor . . . ' He leaned forward. 'If I don't forget, they told me, then they'll shut my mouth for good. They'll be after me again.' His eyes, bright now and suspicious, roamed past them searching the dusk-filled corners of the room. Suddenly he clutched Faro's arm, 'Don't let them get at me - for God's sake, keep them away from me.' Then aware of the strange faces, he cried out, 'Holy Mother of God, you're not the doctor. You're one of them - one of them.'
Vince came forward. 'Calm yourself, Mr Dowie. We mean only to help you. And you can trust my stepfather here, tell him all about it. He's a policeman, he'll see that no harm comes to you.'
'A policeman.' The old eyes regarded him with new respect. 'I've never had a visit from the polis before. Can you get me out of here - into the sunshine, for God's love - for pity's sake?'
'I'll do my best, if you can tell me everything you remember about the accident. Maybe then I can help.'
Dowie looked doubtful, turning his head from side to side, gnawing at his lower lip. 'I'm on your side, Mr Dowie, I've been fighting injustice all my life. As did my father, Constable Faro.'
Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery Page 16