Blood Line: An Inspector Faro Mystery

by Alanna Knight

  The name obviously meant nothing to Dowie. He remained stubbornly silent. What pictures from the past were filtering through that poor demented mind, Faro wondered. He made a helpless gesture to Vince, who mouthed, 'Be patient.' At last Dowie seemed to come to a decision, nodded a few times and then said, 'We were working at Edinburgh Castle. Or at least that's what we had them believe. We were looking for King James, trying to find where they had hidden him away.'

  'King James?'

  'Aye, him that was Queen Mary's son and died - or was smothered - and holed up in the wall. An impostor it was took his place on the throne of Scotland - and England. An impostor who this new Queen is descended from, an impostor Queen who reigns over us now.'

  'You have proof?'

  'Aye, we could produce all the proof that was needed, if we found the body, it was all there.'

  'All - you mean - a treasure trove,' said Vince.

  The old man looked at him blankly. 'I don't get your meaning, sir.'

  'The hidden jewels - where the cameo came from.'

  'Oh, that.' Suddenly Dowie laughed and shook his head. 'There were two, a lad and a lass. John and I found them in the wee Prince's coffin. I gave mine to the constable who befriended me, for safe keeping. John's went to his young brother, as he would have wished.'

  'What happened to the other jewels?' Vince persisted.

  'There were no others, just those two cameos, lying on the Prince's crossed hands, one of his mammy, Queen Mary, the other of his daddy, Lord Darnley, proof positive that he was their bairn.'

  'And that was all?' said Faro.

  'It was enough, enough to bring the truth to light, the truth that has been hidden away all these hundreds of years. The body of Queen Mary's rightful successor, not only to Scotland but to England too, was all the treasure there was. If we made it public, got the people to believe us, we'd have them on our side, get the English out of our native land -usurpers, liars and cheats - they'd be the laughing stock of the whole world.' Abruptly he stopped, looking past them again, staring anxiously round the room.

  'Your native land,' said Faro gently. 'Ireland?'

  'Oh aye, Ireland too. But it's Canada is my home. I was taken there when I was ten, before all the troubles started.'

  'Canada?' Vince and Faro exchanged glances. This was not what they expected to find. The predomination of Irish workmen who had met their deaths and what they now learned suggested a Fenian plot to discredit the monarchy. Dowie was whistling under his breath now, looking round frantically, a man who is conscious suddenly that he has said too much already.

  'You were telling us about the accident.'

  'The accident. Aye, they got two of the lads the first time. Before the Victorian Guelp as we called her, the bloody Queen of England came to the throne, there was a chance of revolution, of a republic. But in 1837 we knew it was now or never. The time was ripe. Prove that she and her whole line were impostors. Produce the corpse of the ancestor from whom she claimed her descent.' He chuckled. 'The succession was so shaky that the people would have seized any excuse with open arms. The scandal would have toppled the throne with a bang loud enough to be heard all over the world.'

  'You almost succeeded,' said Faro. 'What went wrong?'

  'Someone was on to us. They rigged up the scaffolding, made us walk on to it. John Femister and another Irishman, O'Hara, were killed. Both my legs were broken, my spine damaged. I've never walked again, but I'm strong, strong enough to survive. They thought I was useless and I suffered so much they expected me to die, otherwise they would have put paid to me on the spot. There was a policeman who knew what they were up to and he used some threat to expose them. Saved my life he did.'

  He paused and looked across at Faro. 'He looked a lot like you, young man.'

  Faro smiled. 'He was my father.'

  Dowie nodded sadly. 'And a lot of good it did him trying to help us. They got him too, poor lad. Made it look like an accident...'

  The door behind them flew open and a furious, red-faced matron filled the doorway. 'What is going on here. Visitors? Patients having their rest disturbed by intruders . . . '

  Vince stood up and began to explain.

  'I know Dr Kellar,' she said, 'but you will have to produce written proof from him before you disrupt my patients again. Now go - both of you - leave these premises at once.'

  Vince's face was furious. He began to protest. 'This patient. . .'

  'No,' whispered Faro, seizing his arm and nodding towards Dowie, 'don't make it worse for him.' And bending over Dowie, he inspected his wrists as he shook him by the hand. 'Good to meet you, sir.'

  Dowie smiled sadly. 'And you, lad, remember me to your father.' And suddenly afraid at the approach of authority, he nodded towards the formidable matron breathing heavily at the door, outraged and impatient to have his visitors gone, and he grasped Faro's arm, 'Remember the Red River Valley men,' he said. 'Remember the Red River Valley.'

  'At once, gentlemen.'

  As the matron locked the door behind them, they heard Dowie whistling. Faro hesitated, for it was a tune he remembered, the one that mad Mrs Lazenby had played on the piano.

  And he knew that he had solved two of the mysteries.

  'Saw you looking at the shamrock on his wrist, same as Femister's,' said Vince as they walked down the drive. 'The good luck charm. So there was a connection.'

  'There was indeed. But it isn't a shamrock.'

  'No?'

  'No, lad, and it's much more than a good luck charm, lad. I should have recognised that it wasn't an inexpertly tattooed shamrock at all. It was a maple leaf.'

  'The symbol of Canada.'

  'And I think that we'll find that this particular tattoo is also the badge of a dedicated band of French and Irish Canadians, dedicated to throwing off the yoke of British imperialism.'

  'Of course, Lucille was telling me about troubles with the Metis, the half-breed Indians - the reason why she came to Scotland.' Vince whistled. 'So that's the reason for the murders, but who were the executioners?'

  'Not were, lad, who are they? This is larger than individuals bearing grudges, we must set our sights on a relentless, well-disciplined political organisation.'

  They had reached the main road where a horse-drawn omnibus bore the welcome sign, 'Newington'. As they took their seats and waited for other passengers, Vince said, 'I must confess that I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping for treasure trove and a reward for finding it.' When Faro laughed, he continued, 'We can only presume that the placing of the two cameos was a mark of respect for the Prince's unroyal burial. I wonder what became of those shadowy figures who placed the coffin in the hollow wall so long ago.'

  'I imagine that everyone who knew was speedily eliminated, especially if they survived until King James was old enough to know and fear the truth. His years in Scotland were full of monstrous happenings, like the quite brutal murder of the Gowries . . . '

  'You mean the Gowrie Conspiracy, when the Master of Gowrie and his young brother were assassinated by James's order, while he was a guest in their house?'

  'That's just one incident- there are plenty more.'

  'I wonder what kind of people they were, how they thought, Stepfather.'

  'We can only judge their seeming barbarity by our own standards and I think we've had ample proof in this case that it hasn't gone out of fashion and we aren't any more civilised than our remote ancestors.'

  Sheridan Place was a hive of activity, or so it seemed to one tired man who came home, envying his stepson's boundless energy. Too late decently to call upon Lucille that evening, Vince immediately rushed off to Rutherford's bar in earnest hopes of meeting up with his young friends Rob and Walter.

  In the drawing room, Rose and Emily were seated at the writing desk, penning 'thank you' letters to Sir Eric and Lucille.

  Mary Faro was reading the Scotsman. 'Have you heard what has happened to dear Colonel Wolseley?' she asked dramatically.

  Bewildered for a moment, and
preoccupied with his own forebodings, Faro stared at her, wondering for a moment whether this was yet another disaster at Edinburgh Castle for him to investigate.

  'You really must read this, Jeremy dear, it's all about how Colonel Wolseley and his Iroquois Indians quelled a quite nasty rebellion.' Adjusting her spectacles, she observed her son's blank expression and laughed. 'To think that I was afraid to come to the mainland because of that silly man Napoleon. And there on the other side of the globe, these gallant soldiers were making that fearful journey into the wilderness, travelling by canoe, packed with ammunition and food, in unknown territory, down the rapids.'

  With a sigh, she added, 'News takes such a long time to get here. I have been following his Red River campaign most anxiously.'

  'Remember the Red River people.'

  Now Peter Dowie's parting words took on new significance.

  'Think of it,' continued Mrs Faro, 'they arrived safely at Fort Garry, not a man lost, thank God, on the very day we landed in Leith and we haven't heard until we are about to leave . . . '

  'You arrived here on 24 August,' interrupted Faro.

  'Yes, son. Two days after your poor dear father's birthday . . . 'And the same day that Harry Femister's body was discovered at the base of Castle Rock. Faro stretched out his hand for the newspaper.

  'May I, please, Mother?' He read rapidly of Wolseley's advance through heavy rain and deep mud on the fort, on the left bank of the Red River:

  When all were in position, our gallant troops stormed the fort. But to no avail. Their attack went unchallenged and a cautious investigation by brave scouts revealed that the place was deserted. The Metis leader, the traitor Louis Riel, had been forewarned and had fled, it is believed, to the United States of America.

  The report ended with a glowing account:

  This was the first independent command of Colonel Wolseley, already being described as the best and ablest of soldiers. His campaign was most successful. It had accomplished its objective and not a life had been lost. The troops had benefited physically by their gruelling journey and had also gained invaluable experience in quelling future uprisings against the Queen's Empire.

  Faro handed the newspaper back. Kissing his mother's cheek, he said, 'What would I do without you, dear?' 'The same as I do without you, my darling,' she said sadly. 'Miss you dreadfully.'

  'Then I promise to come home to Orkney, very, very soon.'

  'For Christmas, Papa,' said Emily.

  'Please, dear Papa,' said Rose.

  'Time you were both in bed.'

  'We haven't finished our letters yet. Granny promised . . . '

  Faro leaned over and regarded his daughters' efforts. Rose already wrote a neat copperplate while Emily battled with shaky capitals.

  'I am ready to write the envelope. Will you do it for me, Papa?' she asked wistfully. 'Names and addresses are so hard to spell properly.'

  'I'll help you with the spelling. No, you must write it yourself, or you'll never learn. Right? "Major General Sir Eric Haston-Lennard, Edinburgh Castle", that should find him.'

  As the girls went upstairs with Mrs Brook, their father promising to read a very short story to them, Mary Faro picked up the envelopes and sighed. 'I shall miss Eric very much. He's such a dear, good friend.'

  'Then invite him for Christmas too.'

  Mrs Faro gave a little shriek. 'What? In my tiny house - what would the neighbours think?'

  'I imagine they would think you were very lucky to have such a beau.'

  Mary Faro blushed very prettily. 'Get along with you, Jeremy Faro, he isn't my beau.'

  'But he would like to be? You know that perfectly well, Mother dear, and you're flattered by his attentions. I can see that.'

  She sighed again. 'What it is to have a detective for a son - one hasn't a bit of privacy for one's emotions.'

  He put his arm round her, hugging her. 'All these wasted years, the two of you. Why on earth didn't you marry him years ago?'

  She looked up at him solemnly. 'I don't know, Jeremy. I think I've always loved him, but something has always said, "No."'

  'It's your silly snobbery - thinking yourself not good enough for him, that's all. It isn't too late to change your mind, you know.'

  She shook her head obstinately. 'No. I had a bad dream just after your dear father died. Sir Eric was so good to us but I never, ever forgot it.'

  'But Mother, dreams are nonsense. You can't throw away happiness for a dream.'

  'I could for this dream. No - I'm not going to tell you any more, so don't ask me. Listen, that's Mrs Brook. Your daughters are ready for their story now, son.'

  Next morning at the Central Office, Faro was in time to sign the papers identifying the dead man but not to halt the process of his being, as Superintendent Mackintosh delicately referred to it, 'tidied away'. And although Faro now knew the reason why Harry Femister had been on the Castle Rock that day, he could not change the clause 'Death by misadventure'. That must stand until such time as a murder charge could be brought, and first he had to catch his murderer.

  'Well, Faro?' said the Superintendent. 'Get on with it. We're in for a busy day. Her Majesty left Balmoral yesterday. One of her whims to stay the night in Perth and proceed on another private visit to Peebles. She has expressly commanded that none of this is to be made public but we'll have to post extra constables as usual.'

  'Are we expecting trouble?'

  'No, but we'd better be prepared -just in case. There's a lot of isolated country en route where a Fenian could lurk. Don't suppose your services will be needed though,' he added sarcastically and turned his attention again to the papers on his desk in a gesture of dismissal.

  In a room down the hall the charred contents of Harry Femister's tin box had been examined by the expert Sergeant Adams. Warned that they needed very careful handling, since they would readily disintegrate, Faro soon discovered that what had survived were merely personal and not particularly literate or interesting letters exchanged between the two brothers.

  He had almost completed his reading when Adams came in and set before him a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed out carefully.

  'This came from the mortuary, Inspector. The dead woman had it clutched in her hand. I don't suppose it'll make much sense, but we have orders not to destroy anything till you have had a look at it.'

  Faro picked up the paper. It was charred at the edge and it contained only the scrawled letters 'rich as'.

  'Rich as - who?' Was this the last remaining clue to the Queen Mary jewels? Faro sat and looked at it for a long time, then he sharpened a pen and began idly to copy the letters in the hope that they might provide a clue. As he did so a picture sprang to mind. Of the last moments of a woman trying to fight her way out of a locked bakehouse, desperately trying to write a message. Another picture took its place. Of two small children laboriously writing at a table.

  His hand trembled so much he could hardly pen the short note. At last he threw down the pen, engulfed by an icy sense of disaster which even the knowledge that he had solved the Edinburgh Castle mystery could not diminish.

  'Found something interesting, Inspector?'

  'Take this to Superintendent Mackintosh. Tell him where I've gone and that he's to come at once.'

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the Castle, Sir Eric was sitting at his desk, writing. He looked up, smiling. 'Jeremy, come in, lad. I've been expecting you. Do sit down.'

  Faro remained standing. 'You know why I'm here.'

  'Of course I do. From the moment I heard you'd found Dowie, I knew the rest was just a matter of course.' He gave him a shrewd glance. 'You're a clever chap, Jeremy, no doubt about that.Your dear mother must be proud of you.'

  'Let's leave my dear mother out of this conversation, if you please.'

  Sir Eric spread wide his hands. 'As you wish, dear boy. Anything you wish.' His manner was gentle, benign.

  'Then first of all, tell me, who murdered Harry Femister? You know who Harry Femister i
s, I imagine.'

  'I do indeed. A foolish old chap whose sympathies with the French Canadian rebels were well known. He climbed Castle Rock presumably with some idea of breaking into the royal apartments and finding that allegedly hollow wall on the very day Wolseley stormed Fort Garry.' He shook his head sadly. 'Only a madman would have tackled such a hazardous - and impossible - venture.'

  'Who did you get to kill him - Forster?'

  'Good Lord no. There was no need for anyone to kill him. The moment he set foot on the Rock, he was doomed. He had scaled his own death warrant.'

  'Helped by one of your loyal servants, of course.'

  Sir Eric shook his head. 'No, Jeremy, without any external help, you must believe me. His death was an accident, self-induced. He slipped and fell, a misadventure that could easily have happened to a young strong man half his age.' He sighed. 'However, it was just as well it happened that way. His attentions were becoming a bit of a nuisance, too persistent to dismiss as harmless eccentricity.'

  'Was Mace's death also a fortunate accident?'

  'I'd rather not go into that, if you don't mind, Jeremy,' said Sir Eric with a delicately expressive shudder. 'I'd have chosen a cleaner end then relying on his taste for antique pistols. He had come upon some evidence that we were not very keen to share with the world in general. And being a very moral chap, that was the only - rather messy - way to silence him.'

  'You're admitting conniving at his death?'

  'It was necessary. A soldier's duty to his Queen and country is to protect her at all times and Mace's information could have been disastrous to the safety of the realm.'

  'What about all these other murders? All the people who died because they wanted to tell the truth - that the child's body in the wall here was that of Queen Mary's son, James, and that every monarch since has been descended from an impostor?'

  'How romantic,' said Sir Eric mockingly.

  'There's nothing romantic about eight murders.'