Murder in Paradise

by Alanna Knight

  The woman, pale, thin with wispy brown hair tied back in an untidy bun, looked ready to burst into tears. Faro noticed the bruise on her cheek which indicated more than any words that Bess was not the only victim and that both wife and daughter had reason to be afraid of the brutal miller.

  ‘They’ve never got along, those two. My Bess is a sweet lass, so gentle and kind, sir. I’m scared that she’s run away, but she’d never do that and not tell me.’

  ‘Have you any relatives or friends she might be staying with?’

  ‘We have no family. None of her friends can tell me anything. She usually meets with some lasses on a Saturday night but when I asked, they’d never seen her.’ Another startled look beyond Faro, listening intently to the sounds outside. ‘She had no money with her either, only two pence for the loaf of bread.’ She put a hand on Faro’s arm. ‘I don’t know who you are, sir, or what you want with my Bess, but you look kind.’ She paused. ‘Not in any trouble, is she, sir?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Should he say that he was a policeman. No, he decided against that. ‘Mrs Lunn at Brettle Manor sent me – Bess works for her occasionally,’ he added hoping this vague statement would be enough.

  A look of relief passed over Mrs Tracy’s face. It vanished rapidly when he asked, ‘Does Bess have a young man?’

  ‘Do you mean, is she courting? I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir, but she said she’d met a nice respectable sort of chap, a gardener at Red House up the road. When she didn’t meet the lasses, they thought she must have gone out with him instead and they weren’t worried until I told them she hadn’t been home. Three days is a long time, sir, without any word of her.’

  If this was only a domestic incident, an angry tyrant of a father who assaulted his womenfolk, then it was not for him to investigate.

  ‘Have you mentioned this to Constable Muir, by any chance?’

  She shook her head. ‘He—’ nodding towards the sawing sound, she whispered, ‘he would kill me if I did that.’

  ‘Then I shall do it for you, Mrs Tracy. Constable Muir is very reliable and he will keep a lookout and make some discreet enquiries.’

  Tearfully she thanked him and he left, deciding to make some discreet enquiries of his own. The discrepancies between the two statements of Mrs Lunn and Bess regarding the break-in bothered him. Some instinct also told him that there was more to Brettle Manor and Mrs Lunn than had been immediately obvious. Her nervous manner while he looked round the kitchen for instance. What was she so anxious about? And why hadn’t she told him that it was Bess Tracy who informed Constable Muir and she was one person that he should talk to. A small detail perhaps but it made him uneasy. Was there was something amiss, some sinister connection that had been overlooked regarding the immediate disappearance of the girl who had notified Constable Muir of the break-in at Brettle Manor? And unless the long arm of coincidence had nothing to do with that incident, he had a feeling in his bones that Macheath was at large again.

  As for tracking him down, it was of little consolation telling his conscience that he had begun his investigation with scrupulous care strictly according to his superior officer’s orders, obeyed so unwillingly on what he felt and now knew with certainty was a fool’s errand.

  Walking the short distance back, he was not at all satisfied with his morning’s work. However, this was an errand which had a surprising outcome in turning out to be an unexpected holiday, with the pleasant prospect of attending Erland’s wedding as well as the privilege of staying in the magnificent surroundings of Red House. With a sigh, he decided he had in fact good reason to be secretly grateful to DS Noble in far away Edinburgh Police Office.

  The rain began as he made his way back and he rushed indoors to escape the heavy downpour. Obviously there would be no gardeners roaming the grounds in such weather and he had yet to work out a plan of approaching them on the subject of the missing girl without revealing his role as a policeman to the entire staff and occupants of Red House.

  In the course of his daily visits to the police station, Faro was soon to discover that Constable Muir was far less concerned than he had presumed would be the case regarding the missing girl. In Muir’s opinion, based on the few words with her mother, she had found herself a fancy man somewhere and taken off with him.

  ‘Country matters, lad. You’re not in the big city now. These things happen all the time. Lasses tired of living at home and working their fingers to the bone meet flashy chaps who promise them the earth. Bess has always spread herself about a bit. Ask any of the local lads, they’ll soon tell you chapter and verse – if you really want to know.’ And with a shake of his head, ‘Don’t you worry – she’ll be back, right as rain – and no doubt in the family way – when her new man gets tired of her.’

  Muir was curious about Red House. At last he had someone who had first-hand knowledge of its eccentric but famous inhabitants. Faro received many hints and nods and had questions to field concerning rumour and speculation drifting from the local alehouse and floating across the counters of local shops regarding exciting and perhaps slightly improper events that took place within its walls.

  Most decidedly, Muir envied Constable Faro, who was exceptionally fortunate to have found such a lodging while officially on police duty. As for Faro, he was happy to be enveloped daily in a bewildering atmosphere that suggested everyone had just arrived or was on the point of departure. He was forever clambering over boxes and baskets with materials spilling out everywhere, books, paintbrushes, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine among canvases that fought for room over embroideries.

  Erland’s tiny room at the back of the house, which he called his studio, wasn’t much better and Faro realised sadly that, although his friend was a good landscape painter, his expertise was merely that of a good copyist. Erland Flett had none of the stardust that fate had sprinkled on the Pre-Raphaelites and sadly could never hope to reach the dizzy heights of popularity attained by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, or touch the splendours of Holman Hunt, Ford Madox Brown and Burne-Jones, the remaining members of the quintet who occasionally roared through William Morris’s Red House.

  No one talked to Faro apart from during meals in the dining room where all were genially assembled fortified by good food and plentiful wine. During other hours, however, all he received for his polite greeting was a vague nod, a perplexed stare if he bumped into any of them in room or staircase or corridor. Sometimes he felt as though he was invisible.

  ‘You’ve been accepted,’ was Erland’s gleeful response to this state of affairs. ‘Wait until you see Lena. I expect her back tomorrow. I’ve missed her – can’t bear to be away from her. Hate sleeping alone – after the wedding we will be together for ever! Oh, how I long for next week,’ he sighed. ‘And before that – we’re to have a pre-wedding celebration, a masked ball, arranged by Topsy.’

  * * *

  On the following day, Faro returned from yet another futile daily visit to Constable Muir who had been making, it seemed, a ‘few enquiries among the customers’ at the local alehouse about the missing Bess. He shook his head over Faro’s persistence.

  What on earth could he do? The girl would turn up, just wait and see. A lot of trouble over an everyday event.

  Faro couldn’t convince Muir that some instinct warned him that there was a link between Bess’s disappearance and the mysterious atmosphere at Brettle Manor.

  Another excuse must be found for a return visit. He left Muir’s office once more, relieved to breathe in fresh air. Although he enjoyed a pipe himself, he was prepared to spend money on good tobacco and considered that whatever the Constable was using had extremely doubtful origins.

  But what happened a few minutes later banished all thoughts of the fate of the miller’s missing daughter right out of his mind.

  As he reached the gate of Red House, Faro stood aside to allow the approaching wagonette access. Following it in, he saw Erland waiting. He was standing on the porch and rushed forward to greet the slender
girl who alighted.

  So this was his beloved Lena. Erland, wreathed in smiles, turned, saw him and waited, leading Lena forward to be introduced.

  Faro stepped back in astonishment.

  She was no stranger.

  He had seen her before.

  At the Edinburgh High Court three years ago in July 1857 where she had emerged from a murder trial, accused of poisoning her lover, walking free, set at liberty by a Not Proven verdict.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lena Hamilton she called herself now. Her name was Madeleine Smith, Hamilton the name of her maternal grandfather, the famous architect and mastermind of Glasgow’s Royal Exchange and the Western Bank.

  Faro had been given the special privilege of attending the trial by Chief Inspector McFie. Already impressed and assured of this remarkable young policeman’s future, he was keen to have his protégé’s assessment of what promised to be the trial of the century.

  Whatever the jury, seduced by her youth and charm, might decide, Faro was sure that there had been a serious miscarriage of justice. As he listened to the evidence, he was certain that she was guilty of poisoning her lover Emile L’Angelier by putting arsenic in his cocoa and that only her youth – she was twenty-one years old – her beauty and her place in the echelons of Glasgow society had saved her from the gallows.

  A young girl from a prosperous background, daughter of an eminent and respected architect, about to marry William Minnoch, a bachelor in his early thirties and a senior member of a firm of merchant importers, a man approved of by her parents, Madeleine Smith had apparently been seduced by a heartless womaniser.

  Such were the implications of the evidence in her favour.

  Who would credit that she could ever have been willingly the lover of a lowborn Frenchman? Everyone knew what Frenchmen were like, especially women. The men too had bad memories of the Napoleonic wars. No doubt about it, France was still regarded by most people as Britain’s natural enemy.

  L’Angelier, however, was only French by descent. His anti-monarchist family had fled from persecution in 1813 and settled in Jersey where ten years later Emile was born, son of a respectable shopkeeper. Popular rumour, however, was ready to claim that he had taken advantage of her innocence with his Gallic charm, had used those indiscreet letters she had written believing him to be in love with her, vile seducer that he was, and when she was to marry William Minnoch, was using them to threaten to tell her father.

  But Faro was not convinced and never would be.

  He had a moment of sheer panic. But this girl turning to greet him, Lena/Madeleine, clinging to Erland’s arm, did not know him. There was no flicker of recognition in that smile.

  Faro shocked beyond speech or thought could think of nothing to say; it was his turn to stammer, following them indoors with the nightmare about to unfold, the peace of Red House to be bitterly ended.

  What was he to do? Did Erland know her real identity? That was impossible. He suspected that the inhabitants of Red House, if they were aware of it, would disregard such a scandal, perhaps even relish having such a stunner as a suspected murderess in their midst.

  As for himself, Lena could not be expected to remember the uniformed and helmeted constable who had been allotted to assist her exit via the back door of the Edinburgh High Court. A young woman from the courtroom’s audience who had attended most of the trial was persuaded by Madeleine’s defence lawyer to exchange clothes with her and, thus veiled, was hustled out to the waiting carriage to lure the crowds away.

  Not that those crowds were hostile. By no means. Far from it. Most were cheering. Madeleine had smiled shyly at them, and their hearts went out to her, so serene and composed in court, so brave. How could this gently brought up, lovely young girl have poisoned her seducer, that Frenchman chap, a common, flash, shallow womaniser.

  But Emile L’Angelier was more than a lover. He and Madeleine referred to themselves in their letters as husband and wife. And that in Scots common law, according to Faro, was regarded as ‘marriage by habit and repute’.

  He remembered as he had emerged with Madeleine Smith from the court’s back entrance, she had raised her eyes to him gratefully, eyes the dark blue of innocent summer flowers and Faro knew in that one glance that, even aware that she was guilty, he had sympathy for the jury. With already enough of the detective inborn to recognise, to sift through evidence and come to his own conclusions, whatever his heart might declare as a man, the evidence – remembering her declaration and the letters read in court – said she was guilty.

  But as a man he understood the emotions of that male jury, many of them middle-class Edinburgh citizens, some with young unmarried daughters just like her. He had sympathy for them. How would they live with their consciences afterwards – would they lie sleepless at night wondering if they had given the wrong verdict? Only two had called for the guilty verdict and he could imagine how they were shouted down. They could not hang her. Such a verdict would have met with public outrage.

  Now walking a few steps behind Erland, who had his arm about his bride-to-be, Faro was faced with a dilemma indeed.

  Erland obviously had no idea of her true identity. She had lied to him, presented an ingenuous story about being orphaned, an aunt who had died. She would consider herself safe in the bohemian circle of Red House.

  But would she be content to marry Erland and bury the past or was he merely a stepping stone to something greater? She was capable of sexual passion, no one could doubt. This Faro knew from the evidence and those love letters to Emile, so explicit that the court realised they were too indecent to be read out loud.

  Suddenly at his side, behind Lena and Erland, he was aware of a pretty girl, her companion who had emerged from the wagonette. He had been introduced to her, but in his all-consuming anxiety, he had promptly forgotten her name.

  She was laden with parcels and, remembering his manners, he took them from her, this humble act of chivalry rewarded with a sweet smile as she looked up into his face. Now she was talking, telling him all about their shopping expedition to London, what a splendid visit and how they had been lavishly entertained by such a nice man, a special friend of Topsy, his business manager called George Wardle.

  Faro was hardly listening, following Erland into the house, who looked over his shoulder and gave him a knowing wink at the girl on his arm and called, ‘Jeremy will take good care of you, Poppy.’

  The front door closed behind them and at once Faro bowed, put down the parcels, made his excuses and fled to his room with its Gothic windows and wall slits for arrows, as if this was indeed a medieval castle and he was a condemned man.

  Glad to be alone, he groaned.

  What on earth was he to do? He could not stand by his friend’s side at the altar in a few days’ time and ignore the fact that he knew ‘just cause and impediment why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony’.

  Now remembering those past schooldays in Orkney how Erland had relied upon him to fight his battles, could he choose that moment to publicly blight his future, break his heart?

  One thing was certain. He could not remain in Red House any longer. He must make an excuse, tell a lie, say that Macheath had been spotted and that he must go in pursuit.

  But even as he seized his few possessions and thrust them into his valise, he knew he could not do it. Such was the coward’s way out. Even if he left, his action could certainly not stop Erland going to the church and taking Lena Hamilton alias Madeleine Smith, the Glasgow poisoner, as his wedded wife.

  That was bad enough but what of the future? What of Erland’s own safety should some more attractive possibility come her way, another William Minnoch who had a great deal more to offer.

  A way out of this dire situation must be found. Who was this George Wardle that Poppy had been so enthusiastic about, and his warm reception during their London shopping visit? He must find out more about him.

  As the occupants of the house assembled for the evening meal, at the gon
g’s loud summons Morris came up from the cellar, beaming with joy, his hands full of wine bottles with more tucked rather perilously under his arms while Faro’s fears of getting through the evening were relieved by the absence of Erland and Lena, as well as Poppy. The trio, he was told, had been invited to dine with the local minister.

  But seated at that round table, a gastronomic delight was in store: a splendid meal of gargantuan proportions. There was a leg of lamb from the local butcher, a variety of vegetables and fruit home-grown in the gardens, and apples and blackberries for a rich dessert.

  Each course was accompanied by fine wines. Faro had learnt his lesson and he was cautious, keeping a watchful eye on the bottle being passed around the table and being strong enough to refuse the constant refills.

  His companions were less circumspect. Morris was the reincarnation of a medieval host and when he wanted to make a point in his loud conversations, he would spring from his seat at the table into the middle of the room and flourish his fists, ready to fight anyone who disagreed with him. Such actions were greeted by roars of laughter and jeering, teasing comments, while the apples that had not found their way into the dessert but were reclining in a bowl alongside pears and oranges would be pelted at him.

  This behaviour caused a great deal of merriment with music hall songs in abundance and, as the wine took effect, Faro found himself caught up in the general innocent horse-play as befitted the medieval atmosphere.

  As he went up to bed at last, yawning and well-fed, his senses lulled by good living, he put aside his misgivings regarding Erland and told himself that a way must be found out of this tricky situation, but tomorrow would do for that.

  Tonight all he welcomed was sleep and his last thought as he closed his eyes was of Lena’s friend Poppy. She had paid him a lot of attention. Every time he glanced her way, she seemed to be smiling at him, her eyes shining.

  He sighed. Such a pretty girl.