The approach suggested an early development of suburban villas, the march of bricks and mortar over the fields of Bexley as London’s population sprawled ever outwards.
Later he read in his guidebook that by the Thirties Bexley’s new town was growing in popularity with more than 2000 inhabitants and ten years later the vicar instigated the building of a new chapel close to Watling Street for his parishioners. Soon afterwards the railways arrived: one line running through Bexley via Lewisham and another further north through Woolwich.
As they entered the village street, Faro begged to be excused, saying that he must first call at the local police station, which Erland pointed out was conveniently, or inconveniently for the criminally minded, almost directly opposite the alehouse.
He thanked the groom, saying that he would walk the rest of the way, but Erland would have none of it.
‘We will wait for you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There is no hurry.’
That this was a peaceful community was indicated by the fact that there was no constable in evidence in response to the bell on the counter.
Returning to the wagonette, Erland laughed at his stern expression.
‘No one there, eh? My dear old chap, the explanation is perfectly obvious. Not at all unusual. This is a haven of peace and as so little crime is anticipated, Constable Muir is either out after the local poacher or at home having his supper. And having come all this way, surely your business can wait until tomorrow morning.’
As they approached their destination, Erland pointed out Brettle Manor, on the east side of Red House.
Faro was immediately interested, and as the wagonette lacked windows, he slid along the leather curtain and stuck his head out for a closer look, to see a thin thread of smoke drifting skywards from a decrepit thatched cottage. Almost hidden by an overgrown garden of hedgerows and trees, it was very much at odds with this area of neat suburbia encountered thus far.
Bewildered, he turned to Erland: ‘Brettle Manor?’
Erland laughed. ‘No! You can’t see it from this angle. That is Hope Cottage on the edge of the Brettle estate – belongs to a wily old devil who refused to sell out to Sir Philip. The manor is in fact a new villa built just before Red House, carved out from the original orchards.’
A short distance and a long wall followed. ‘There’s the manor now. Near neighbours. Not long now.’
Craning his neck, Faro glimpsed a projecting porch flanked by square window bays as, with a gesture to take in the countryside, Erland continued, ‘Once this heath was pitted by sand and gravel diggings traversed by Watling Street, the old Roman road linking London, Canterbury and Dover and in the last century it was the wild haunt of footpads.
‘Red House stands on what was the pilgrims’ road to Canterbury, a fact dear to Topsy’s heart, a devoted Chaucerian. Such a romantic, he fell in love with the medieval ruins of Lesnes Abbey and Hall Place, the old Tudor mansion over yonder.’ And a confidential whisper, ‘Built a couple of years ago and cost a small fortune, don’t you know, £4000—’
A fortune indeed and an almost unimaginable amount of money to an Edinburgh policeman, thought Faro, as Erland went on:
‘Morris is rich, of course, but he couldn’t afford a country estate and Red House was over five times his annual income from his father’s legacy. But newly married, you know, he wanted a new house. Ah, we are nearly there.’ He laughed. ‘And his great friend, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was delighted to hear that his friend Topsy had chosen to build on a place known as Hog’s Hole.’
Suddenly the wagonette swung and swayed through the gate of a high wall.
‘Home at last!’ said Erland. ‘Welcome to Morris’s “Earthly Paradise”!’
CHAPTER TWO
The first sight of Red House gave Faro a feeling of astonished pleasure to see a building so vividly picturesque and uniquely original, startling in red brick, an unusual colour for one used to the grey stones of Scotland. An immense, red-tiled, steep roof, a gable shaped like a giant pepper pot and high, small-paned medieval windows suggested the house of a religious community rather than an artist’s domestic residence.
As they approached the low, wide porch with its massive oak door, Erland chuckled. ‘This is called the Pilgrim’s Rest. Appropriate, don’t you think?’
Stepping out of the wagonette Faro paused, breathing in the thin fresh air, welcomed by sweet garden smells of apples from the gnarled old fruit trees glimpsed over the orchard walls.
The tall figure of a girl standing in the porch disappeared inside.
‘That’s Janey, Topsy’s wife,’ Erland whispered. ‘I’ll introduce you and she’ll soon find a room for you.’
Already somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of encountering professional and famous artists, a strata of society of which his life in Edinburgh and Orkney had offered no experience, Jeremy, following Erland into the now empty hall, put a hand on his arm and whispered:
‘I have only one request. No word that I’m a policeman. Keep that to yourself, if you please.’
Erland laughed. ‘Your secret is safe with me. I have no intention of giving the game away, old chap. A policeman in their midst would cast a definite blight on their behaviour – that is, of course, until they get to know you,’ he added hastily. And with an apologetic cough, ‘You will have to get used to it, ignoring things, I mean. Some of them behave a little odd. A law unto themselves, as we say. Use laudanum and chloral, as well as opium, not just for health reasons, to keep minor aches and pains at bay, but just to keep their spirits up.’
‘Do you?’ Faro demanded.
In answer, Erland shrugged and then, looking anxiously at Faro’s expression, he said: ‘You know what I mean, I’m sure. After all, artists often need this sort of stimulant, Rossetti in particular. And of course the wine flows continually. I’m sure you won’t judge them. They mean no harm, they’re decent, good souls.’
Harm or no, and with hopes of a dram of whisky after his travels fast disappearing, Faro decided it was none of his business. He must temporarily forget his Calvinist upbringing and the law’s rulings on illegal drugs, and assuring Erland he understood perfectly, he cut short his own misgivings.
As well as being a splendid location and certainly more comfortable than the brief glimpse suggested the local alehouse might have on offer, whatever went on in Red House, he was prepared to ignore. This impromptu visit was only for a few days. An interesting experience for the beginning of his investigation, an investigation which he was under orders to conscientiously follow, although he guessed that Macheath would be far from Kent by now, with London fairly accessible.
Erland went in search of Janey Morris and he had a chance to take in his surroundings, the wide entrance hall through the porch with its red flagged floor and unpainted woodwork, plain, well lit, but quite ordinary, not at all what he had expected from the exterior, with high windows excluding any views of the gardens.
Gazing up the handsome oak staircase with its extended newel posts, used to the overblown clutter of present-day domestic architecture, he recognised that this more closely resembled the earlier Georgian age, for there were no cornices, no mouldings, no ornamentation, just plain skirting boards.
The exterior had suggested a religious community but the interior, with its sturdy simplicity, would have done credit to a village school or a country parsonage. There was more to it. This tall turreted house, plain and functional, was also playful with an amalgam of surprises: in the absence of conventional decoration inside there were small arches showing sills and sash windows of all shapes, little casements of a size to shoot an arrow through, the kind of imaginative home a child would love.
Awaiting Erland’s return he strolled back to the open door and realised that this was also a place for knights of old. That inner courtyard with its well house like a giant candle-snuffer suggested a departure point for long-forgotten battles and crusades.
Gazing upwards at the great tiled barn-like roof with weathervane an
d turret to the fountain splashing up just yards away, again he felt that he had set foot in a foreign land, a time of legend and fairy tale. Although Edinburgh had more than its share of Gothic architecture, mostly devoted to church buildings, there were few models for architects to use for the smaller detached domestic dwellings which the new affluent society demanded.
Back in that inner porch of welcome he looked up at the exposed roof beams and trusses, as well as some brick arches, forming external features brought indoors and asymmetrically positioned.
He was to discover that Philip Webb’s creation had been designed not as a vertical London townhouse nor a stuccoed suburban villa but a house commodious but not grand, handsome but not flashy, medieval in spirit but modern in function with family rooms for a clutch of children, as befitted the newly married William and Jane. There were also guest rooms, servants quarters and a studio. An artist’s house and a gentleman’s residence.
He wandered into an open room with a huge fireplace and a wide shallow grate, its scaled-down medieval shape including a hood but lacking a mantelpiece.
Footsteps! Erland had returned. ‘So this is where you are. Isn’t it magnificent? Gabriel describes it as more a poem than a house. Nothing like it in dear old Orkney – or in Scotland,’ he added proudly.
Faro nodded in agreement as Erland went on, ‘Janey is rather busy at the moment. She told me to show you to your room.’
Faro hesitated. ‘Are you sure this is all right?’
‘Of course it is all right, old chap. You are most welcome. You’ll meet Janey and Topsy and the others at dinner.’ Turning as Faro followed him upstairs, he said, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I’m most impressed.’
As they reached the landing Erland indicated a small arch. ‘This way. Mind your head, it wasn’t intended for anyone as tall as you. Topsy is quite short, you know – like me.’
As he threw open a door across a wide floor, Faro glimpsed a postered bed, almost the sole furnishing in a room with high, narrow, arched windows.
‘You’ll be happy here, Jeremy, mark my words. This place is magic. Pure magic. Make yourself at home, I will see you shortly.’
Glancing around, Faro considered his good fortune. He could believe Erland; this place was magic.
But magic had another darker side. However there was no indication of what the future held as he took in his surroundings, the prospect of a pleasant and completely unique adventure, Red House near enough to the local police office to keep in constant touch for news. Though what he was expected to do he was not quite sure until someone sighted Macheath. Of that, Faro had little hope and unless matters moved at an alarming speed, which a brief experience of the local police at Abbey Wood did not suggest was at all likely, he would be here for Erland’s wedding.
Unpacking his valise, he sat down at the small table and brought up to date his logbook, which would be required as evidence of his investigation. The task completed, laying it aside, he decided this might be a great adventure after all. He was unlikely to ever be in Kent again or to have the opportunity to meet a group of famous artists once he returned to the everyday duties of an Edinburgh policeman.
An experience indeed. As for Orkney – by comparison with Edinburgh, how dull the simple life his family had enjoyed for generations must have seemed before his father made the momentous break from tradition, joining the Edinburgh City Police, only to be killed by a runaway cab while on duty. An accident that his mother flatly refused to accept, certain that he had been deliberately run down, a fact that, in a life still far in the future, was to be one of Chief Inspector Jeremy Faro’s greatest cases.
A tap on the door announced Erland’s return. ‘Supper will be ready soon. What do you think of your room?’ Bouncing on the bed he smiled. ‘It is so good to see you again. I still can’t believe my luck. Amazing, isn’t it – that we are both to be married soon. You did mention a young lady, tell me about her.’
So Faro told him all about Lizzie and Vince, watching his friend’s face anxiously as he spoke. Not that he was ashamed of Lizzie, despite the fact that she was regarded as a social outcast because of her illegitimate child. Faro was intensely proud of the way she had overcome adversity and had borne and lovingly reared this child, the result of rape by a visiting guest one summer while she was employed as a maid in a big house.
From Edinburgh she could expect no sympathy or help, only contempt and condemnation. In many cases, girls less fortunate than Lizzie had their babies torn from their arms and thrust into workhouses until they were old enough for slave labour, while their unfortunate young mothers often spent the rest of their days in asylums for the insane.
Such appalling treatment Faro found difficult to forgive in a society that he was dedicated to protect, seeing so much of the lowlife of the higher echelons, the guardians of Edinburgh society emerging from brothels on his beat in Leith Walk. These were the very men who had disgraced and ruined his poor Lizzie.
At the end of his story, Erland nodded vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry, old chap, don’t give it another thought. The fellows here will be entirely on your side. They consider it a noble duty to rescue unfortunate women and give them status and education.’
Enthusiastically he went on to quote examples of the Pre-Raphaelites who had taken girls from humble backgrounds as models and elevated them to higher ranks, even marrying them. Models such as Rossetti’s new bride, Elizabeth Siddal, another Lizzie, who had been seen working in a milliner’s shop, and Janey Morris, daughter of a stableman and a laundress, living in a backyard hovel in Oxford, kept out of society for two years while Morris educated her before they married, much to his upper-class mother’s disapproval.
‘What of your Lena?’ Faro asked.
Erland laughed. ‘Oh, she’s well off, grandfather a rich Glasgow merchant.’
Asked how they met, Erland smiled. ‘So romantic, old chap. Quite by accident – or fate as you wish – on a train journey. An orphan, from Glasgow, lost her parents when she was quite young, she had been living with an aunt who had died recently. I helped her with her luggage. She had missed her train, and was in quite a state.
‘I was meeting Topsy Morris and Rossetti, who took one look at her and insisted she had a meal with us. As we talked, we learnt that she was a seamstress and had considered going to London in search of work perhaps as an embroideress but had no idea of where to begin looking for employment. As well as being a stunner, as they call lovely girls here,’ he paused to sigh and close his eyes, ‘she was quite beautiful and I could see Gabriel watching her, narrow-eyed, surveying her as he does prospective models, already positioning them in some of his Arthurian paintings.
‘Janey – who you’ll be meeting – and Burne-Jones’s wife, Georgie, are great embroiderers. Well, over that meal we shared, I guessed how nervous Lena was about going to London. At a crossroads, she didn’t want to return to Glasgow either and it was as if I could see into Topsy and Gabriel’s minds at that moment. I knew exactly what they were going to say. She was to come back to Red House. There was plenty of employment there for a seamstress or an embroideress.’
Erland laughed. ‘Oh, it was so wonderful, as if Divine Providence had stepped in. At that time I must admit I had little hope; Gabriel Rossetti so handsome – all his models fall in love with him, although he was officially engaged to his Lizzie for several years before they got married. That was a bit of a heartbreak for her, knowing he’s not the faithful type and she’s past thirty.
‘Anyway, I was wrong about Lena, I soon found out that although she loved modelling for him – he said she was one of his best, so serene, she could sit quite immobile for hours on end, so very still – I thought her face always lit up when she saw me. At first I told myself it was only because she was grateful to me for introducing her to the artistic community here – I didn’t dare hope for more than that.’
Pausing, he frowned. ‘I couldn’t believe that she was in love with me – how could any wom
an find me attractive by comparison with these men of genius – yet she wanted to marry me – be my wife.’
He looked astonished and shook his head. ‘I have to confess to you, old chap, since we are old friends and cousins, that although we are to be married in a few days, we have – well, er, my lovely Lena is already my wife in everything but the marriage ceremony,’ he added proudly. ‘Not that such matters are regarded as important here. Jeremy, I am the luckiest man in the whole world for soon we will be together for ever, till death us do part. Wait till you meet her, see if you don’t agree with me. Everyone loves her.’
A bell sounded. ‘That’s dinner now.’
Faro set aside his frustration at failing to contact the local constable. Evening would be too late to call on Brettle Manor – without his uniform. Besides, he told his conscience, the trail for Macheath in Upton had almost certainly gone cold.
CHAPTER THREE
As they assembled in the dining room Faro decided this was as remote in its setting from any table he had ever supped at and, looking at the painted walls and ceiling, he doubted if there was one to match it in the rest of Britain.
The centre of the large room was held by a great round table and huge armchairs straight from the Tales of King Arthur and His Knights and the company were in keeping with their setting. The ladies in rich medieval gowns, vividly coloured, looked as if they might have stepped from the murals painted on the walls, for which they had doubtless modelled.
All took their seats and awaited the arrival of their host, William Morris, who to Faro’s astonishment was wearing a suit of mail and a helmet complete with visor.
Erland whispered that Morris had ordered it for one of his paintings and it had just arrived. Trying it on he liked it so much he was giving it an airing. Everyone seemed to like it too, and his choice was applauded. Faro, looking round, felt the scene at the dining table was one of their paintings personified, lacking only a title from some medieval romance. William Morris and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, bearded, both comfortably rounded and neither as tall as himself, suggested that, like their ladies, they might have stepped down from some painting, in their case the background of some early saint’s martyrdom.
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