Murder in Paradise

by Alanna Knight

  CHAPTER SIX

  Next morning, there was a breakfast as huge as the evening meal consisting mostly of cooked ham, kidneys, tea, jam and what the assembled company referred to as Topsy’s ‘horrid eggs’, a huge platter which he consumed in vast quantities. Faro ate little as, seeing Erland, all his anxieties were renewed. The two lovers were engrossed in themselves, seemingly so happy and carefree that his conscience smote him anew. If only he knew what was right, what to do.

  Aware of his inexperience he would have given much for the advice McFie had to offer in plenty. He had never approved of this assignment and Faro, visiting him before he left Edinburgh, had found the retired inspector taken aback at Noble’s order to send the young policeman down to Kent in pursuit of a desperate criminal and murderer and alone to bring Macheath back to Scotland to stand trial. Shaking his head sadly he said: ‘They certainly do things differently since my day.’

  In retrospect, Faro felt there was something ominous in the old detective’s words. He had sent him the promised letter that he had arrived safely at Upton and was staying at Red House. Now in despair, he thought if only he could explain his predicament to McFie who would probably be in Sussex at this moment on his annual visit to his married sister. Alas, he did not know her address and by the time a letter marked urgent was forwarded from Edinburgh and a reply reached him, Erland and Lena would be married.

  Faro realised how much he had come to value McFie’s support. Newly arrived in Edinburgh, his fellow constables tormented him with their unceasing teasing. ‘This foreigner from Orkney – where on God’s earth was that and did they still live in caves?’ Their attitude was not much improved when rumour reached them that on the recommendation of Chief Inspector McFie the lowly beat policeman would shortly be promoted to Detective Constable.

  McFie had become his ally after Faro saved his life – so McFie claimed – by racing after his runaway carriage, leaping on to the horse’s back and bringing it to a standstill as it toppled on the icy slope of the Mound.

  His bravery earned him a grudging, though scornful, respect from his colleagues although Faro had not then known the occupant’s identity until he was called into the inner office.

  McFie was grateful, wanted to know all about him, his background and his father, Constable Magnus Faro’s fatal accident. They had never met as McFie had been serving with the Aberdeen police at that time.

  McFie learnt that young Faro was alone; his mother, blaming the Edinburgh police for her husband’s death, had returned to Orkney and had never quite forgiven their only son Jeremy for not staying in Kirkwall and making a decent Orcadian living from the fishing and the land as his ancestors had done. Instead he had rushed off to that dangerous, wicked mainland and the city that had killed her man.

  Faro found the old inspector, a long-time widower and about to retire, very sympathetic. His only son, who had been killed in a riding accident, would have been Faro’s age. Had he been less than a practical, no-nonsense policeman and more of a God-fearing citizen, he might have allowed thoughts that Faro had been sent by divine providence to replace his lost son.

  Whatever his secret thoughts, when McFie retired he kept in touch with Jeremy Faro through a weekly meeting at a local inn, then, realising that Faro was in the rather basic lodgings provided for unmarried constables, their meeting was transformed into an evening meal at McFie’s home in Nicholson Square prepared by his housekeeper, a young highly efficient woman called Mrs Brook.

  So began a friendship between the lonely old man who sadly missed the Edinburgh police and felt that he had been put out to graze far too soon with many years of criminal investigation still in him. Faro became his link with those past days and the present, keeping him in touch with the comings and goings, especially DS Noble, newly arrived from Glasgow and keen on throwing his weight about, especially in young Faro’s direction for whom he seemed to have taken an instant and quite irrational antipathy.

  McFie knew the type well: older, more experienced officers who felt threatened by clever young constables and enjoyed cutting them down to size. Well, he had certainly achieved this in sending young Faro down to Kent, to single-handedly bring back a wanted man. He would be very lucky indeed to survive. The waste of a good policeman, thought McFie, shaking his head sadly at the news.

  Now in Red House, walking the floor of his room, with Erland and Lena’s voices reaching him from the garden far below, Faro remembered how it was McFie’s influence that got him to the trial of Madeleine Smith, a trial that took not only Edinburgh and Glasgow but the whole of Britain by storm, with daily reports in the national newspapers.

  The young woman accused of poisoning her lover with arsenic was from a wealthy, highly respected family of Glasgow architects. Emile L’Angelier, something of a womaniser, was what was commonly known as a waster. Emile had failed to fulfil the early promise of his respectable Jersey family and, on the lookout for a wealthy marriage, had spotted Madeleine and engineered an introduction to her through a common acquaintance.

  There was an immediate rapport between the attractive girl and the rather flashy Frenchman some thirteen years her senior, a warehouse clerk with a firm of Glasgow merchants.

  Perhaps initially it was the element of danger which appealed to Madeleine, a romantic novelettish relationship that must be kept secret at all cost, breathing an element of excitement and danger into the monotonous upper class-existence of her Glasgow life with its daily ritual of morning prayers and visiting cards for balls and parties.

  After their first secret meeting in April 1855, both declared themselves in love and a series of passionate letters – some 400 – were exchanged during their relationship and marriage was discussed between them for the following September.

  When Madeleine brought up the subject her parents were furious. They refused consent and as she would not be 21 until 1857 there was talk of elopement. However, her parents had other plans and a young man of their own class, William Minnoch, was introduced to the household and became a regular visitor.

  Meanwhile the illicit love affair between Emile and Madeleine had reached a climax. They had become lovers but lovers without a hope of marriage. The letters, the secret meetings at night when the family slept or were absent on visits when Madeleine admitted Emile, with the maid’s assistance, to the house or if this was impossible to the laundry room, had to stop. It was a situation that could not continue and by January 1857 she had accepted William Minnoch’s proposal of marriage, beamed upon and blessed by her parents. But somehow she had to get rid of Emile.

  The dream was over, the fun and excitement at an end. Much as she had thought she loved Emile, she knew that marriage was impossible, and exchanging her comfortable upper-class life for a world she did not know, as the wife of a clerk earning £50 per year, was unthinkable.

  She proceeded to write a harsh letter at the beginning of February that ‘owing to coolness and indifference, we had better for the future consider ourselves as strangers,’ adding, ‘I trust your honour as a gentleman that you will not reveal anything that may have passed between us,’ and asking him to return her letters and likeness that Thursday evening. A dramatic change from the note written only a week before: ‘Oh sweet darling, at this moment my heart and soul burn with love for thee, my husband, what would I not give at this moment to be your fond wife.’

  There were more hysterical letters as Madeleine begged Emile not to give her away and to destroy the letters. He refused and, as appeals to his chivalry and his sense of fair play were of no avail, Madeleine sent out the Smith family houseboy to purchase a small vial of prussic acid which she said was to clean her hands. The apothecary refused – a few drops could kill a healthy adult.

  Meanwhile rumour had reached Emile of her engagement to William Minnoch and he now threatened to reveal all. Those wild indiscreet letters in which she signed herself ‘Mimi L’Angelier’, as well as bringing down her father’s wrath upon her head, would also be an end to any hope of marriage
with Minnoch.

  Madeleine now knew she had only one way out. To get rid of Emile by any other means available. Arsenic was the next resort.

  She said at her trial later that she had read in a magazine, and learnt from a teacher at her boarding school in England, that arsenic was good for the complexion. She did not like to put this as the reason for signing the local apothecary’s Poison Book for sixpenny worth of arsenic, so she said that it was to rid the house of rats, a claim vigorously denied by the maid, Christina, who had given Emile, at Madeleine’s instruction, late-night access to the house in Blythswood Square. As by law arsenic was coloured blue in case of accidents, the maid had never seen evidence of colour in the blue washbasin she emptied each day after Madeleine’s use.

  During that February to March, at three secret meetings at Blythswood Square, Madeleine had given Emile a cup of cocoa – it was shown later that this thick liquid would conceal the bitter taste – cocoa, which Christina said Madeleine kept in a packet on the mantelshelf in her room and to which no one else in the family had access.

  Madeleine was cautious with the first two attempts, which only made Emile vomit and feel very ill. The third however had the satisfactory conclusion. Emile died.

  No longer a threat, only those damning letters remained and Madeleine fled to the family home at Rowaleyn to be brought back by William Minnoch, who must have been utterly bewildered by this turn of events, preparing for his marriage to Madeleine and never having met or heard of his rival.

  Two post-mortems on Emile revealed a massive amount of arsenic. He had indeed been poisoned and Madeleine was arrested and charged with his murder.

  The result after a trial of nine and a half days, and thirty-five minutes for the jury’s verdict, was a Not Proven verdict, which so often was interpreted somewhat cynically as, ‘We know you did it but we can’t prove you did it, so go away, and don’t do it again.’

  Faro had kept a log of the trial and the jury’s decision in no way curbed the heated debate about the case with possible solutions, both plausible and bizarre, which were to continue to be discussed long afterwards, not least by Faro and McFie.

  Both agreed that there were several possible explanations.

  The first and most obvious was that if Madeleine had not killed Emile, then he had, in fact, poisoned himself.

  ‘You’re implying that he took poison by mistake,’ said McFie.

  Faro shook his head. ‘The problem is that we know from his co-workers and colleagues that he had an aversion to taking medicines of any kind. None at all and certainly no arsenic was found among his possessions after his death.’

  ‘What about suicide then?’

  Faro frowned. ‘True. But why – the post-mortem revealed a massive dose of arsenic, how then had he obtained it without leaving any record?’

  McFie nodded. ‘How indeed! There are very strict rules about poisons and his name was not found in the Poison Books in places where he had stayed in Edinburgh, Glasgow or Bridge of Allan—’

  ‘While Madeleine’s signature was found in three different apothecaries’ books in Glasgow.’

  McFie thought for a moment. ‘For suicide, in my experience, there had to be a valid reason. In Emile’s case, a broken heart at her betrayal would be feasible and a possible desire for revenge.’ He shook his head. ‘But most suicides leave a note and if he wished to frame Madeleine for his death, then Emile would have to know about those arsenic purchases she made. And there is certainly no evidence of any such knowledge.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Faro. ‘Then there was that curious matter of his deciding to keep a diary with one line entries, and the initial M or Mimi, for the last two months of his life. Why he did this has never been satisfactorily explained.’

  ‘Nor has that last journey from Bridge of Allan where he had gone to recuperate from what he believed was a fever but was the effects of arsenic poisoning,’ said McFie. ‘If he intended to kill himself, why did he make that return journey to Glasgow when he was feeling so ill?’

  ‘Let’s not forget the significance of those first two bouts of illness. If these were in fact failed attempts at self-destruction, why would he attempt a third time – with arsenic – when the method was so painful and had failed twice? Why not try some other method?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said McFie. ‘Such as jumping off a railway bridge in the path of an oncoming train, that was always the most popular, or slitting his wrists?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then McFie said, ‘Is there a possibility that someone other than Madeleine murdered Emile purposely or inadvertently implicating Madeleine in his death.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘Madeleine’s defence team never produced any other person who might have wanted him dead, or had a motive for doing so. And while co-workers and colleagues’ opinions of Emile varied, even those who did not care for him particularly, calling him shallow, or flashy and vain, that is hardly sufficient reason to want to kill him.’

  McFie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You have a point there, Faro – Emile killed by someone and framing Madeleine – well, he or she would have to be in possession of two pieces of vital information, such as being aware that the pair were involved in a romantic and illicit relationship and that Madeleine, wishing to end it, had made recent purchases of arsenic.’

  ‘I’ve thought a lot about that too,’ said Faro. ‘Emile’s co-workers and Madeleine’s maid Christina certainly knew of the love affair. The various Glasgow apothecaries, as well as Madeleine’s intended bridesmaid for her wedding to Minnoch – told it was for cosmetic purposes – knew of the arsenic purchases. But the only person who knew of both love affair and the arsenic was Madeleine herself.’

  ‘And if this was a typical love triangle,’ McFie put in, ‘then Minnoch would be the most likely suspect. But he didn’t know of Emile’s existence until after his death when Madeleine was arrested which must have been a considerable shock to him.’

  Faro was silent for a moment. ‘There is one other possibility. What if Emile was killed by a stranger who knew nothing of his relationship with Madeleine Smith? How about that?’

  McFie smiled. ‘You’re in the land of fantasy with this one, lad. For Emile to have come across a murderous stranger or acquaintance on that fatal night and for that person, of all possible murder weapons such as knife, pistol or strangulation, to choose the specific poison that Emile’s lover had been purchasing. Well, that theory relies on too many stark coincidences, does it not?’

  Faro agreed. ‘So we are left with only one conclusion. That Madeleine did in fact kill Emile. But although her purchases of arsenic made a strong case, her lack of an immediate attempt to retrieve those damning letters was on her side. Unless he had been telling her lies about keeping them, which would put an end to any possibility of her marrying Minnoch, then she must have been fully aware of the terrible danger she was in, that they would be found among his possessions.’

  ‘Did she perhaps still have a forlorn hope that her pleas had been successful and that he had destroyed them?’

  ‘Then she had killed him for nothing, you mean. A terrible thought. I can’t believe that she was so naive, knowing that her maid could testify about Emile’s visits and those cups of cocoa.’

  ‘There is still one mystery unsolved,’ Faro said. ‘Those five missing hours on March 22 from when he was last seen heading in the direction of Blythswood Square and his death in his lodgings in the early hours of the following morning. He was unable to tell anyone about that “dark liquid” he had recently consumed but colleagues and his old friend Mary Perry remembered that in the weeks before his death he had mentioned the possibility of his being poisoned.

  ‘Whatever the reason for his silence as he lay dying in agony, he must have suspected the cocoa he had recently consumed was responsible. But he died without naming the obvious person, his lover Madeleine, and that remains the greatest puzzle.’

  Pausing for a moment, he added: ‘Or did he still love her righ
t to the end and, remembering the once close relationship, did he refuse to believe that she was capable of doing him harm? So without any accusation, it was circumstantial evidence only that saved her from the gallows and got that “Not Proven” verdict.’

  The older man had smiled wryly. ‘Aye, lad, had that jury been women, then the outcome might have been different.’ And laying aside Faro’s comprehensive notes, he said, ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Faro.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Now, three years later, in the impersonal surroundings of Red House, Faro groaned anew. How would his old friend have dealt with this new crisis, this diabolical situation in which he found himself? He heard his name called; something hit his window. There were shouts of laughter as he looked towards the orchards. Erland had emerged with Lena from the summerhouse, a romantic setting secluded from the rest of the garden.

  Erland, ready to throw another apple, grinned up at him. ‘Don’t be shy, Jeremy, come and join us. Lena is dying to talk to you.’

  Faro went slowly down the stairs. He couldn’t avoid Lena for ever. Meeting her in Red House was inevitable. As for that approaching wedding – he had to think of something but his wits had temporarily deserted him.

  Stepping out into the sunshine, he braced himself for this second encounter. In normal circumstances he would have been overcome with joy. For this was indeed a new Erland he beheld, transformed by the presence of the girl he knew and loved as Lena. No longer weak and indecisive, the pale crippled schoolboy who had suffered from fainting fits had become a strong handsome and virile young man, radiant in countenance and confident in the future.

  How could Jeremy Faro, the friend whom he believed was more than that – kin who could be trusted – now with his terrible knowledge, use the power in his hands to ruin for ever that image of hope and happiness.

  As he reached them in the little courtyard, he saw the two lovers were absorbed in each other, Lena snuggling into Erland’s side, smiling up into his face. She looked so young, so pretty and wistful and – dear God, so innocent – Faro found himself remembering that was exactly how she had appeared during her trial.