Making his escape at last, he took out his pocket watch. Time for his dismal routine visit to the police office. How long would this continue, the daily telegraph to Noble that no progress had been made? The same wording: ‘No sighting to report. Await your further instructions.’ And an hour later the inevitable response. ‘Continue your search. Remain vigilant.’
The whole situation was ludicrous. For one thing, although he had seen Macheath’s face at close quarters as they fought on that lonely stretch of beach at Portobello, his quarry – who was of medium height, strong and athletically built in his late thirties or early forties – had a dark beard which concealed any distinctive features. And a beard was an excellent disguise. Facial hair was the current fashion and all that was required was for him to shave it off and dye his hair for a new, relatively unrecognisable personality to emerge.
But Faro failed in all his attempts to tactfully convince DS Noble of this rather obvious fact, and that his continued inquiries here were a waste of police time and their expenses.
Noble had merely laughed, and smiled – a rare thing indeed, leaving Faro to ignore the sarcasm in his smooth response: ‘Ah yes, indeed, Constable, so it seems. But if anyone can find Macheath, you are the man for the job. The Edinburgh folk obviously have great faith in you.’
Constable Muir certainly did not share Noble’s sentiments. He made no secret of his opinion that the man must be mad. However, he was consoled by saying it could be worse and that Faro had at least found himself a cushy billet for his futile investigation.
‘Any further news about the missing girl?’
Muir shook his head. ‘Not a whisper.’
Faro regarded him sternly. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time for an investigation?’
Muir laughed. ‘Investigation, Faro. Never! Only if her family asked us and they aren’t apparently worried.’
‘Her mother seemed to be.’
‘Aye, poor soul. But with a man like she’s got, she’s prone to fear the worst.’ Leaning back in his chair, he puffed away at the fierce-smelling pipe. ‘Besides, when you talk of investigation, you’re forgetting something. This isn’t a big city like Edinburgh with a whole police force to call on. There’s just me on my lonesome and how would I begin to look for a missing girl, who probably just left home in a huff after another row with her father?’ He shrugged. ‘Happens all the time. Lord above, I’d be doing it every day of the week, Sundays included—’
‘I am most willing to give you a hand,’ Faro interrupted. Such a task would be infinitely preferable to sitting in Red House and trying to decide whether or not to tell Erland that his Lena had possibly poisoned her last lover.
Muir was eyeing him mockingly. ‘Experienced in this sort of thing, are you then? Bit off your patch, ain’t it?’ He laughed. ‘But looking for missing girls is a nice change for a beat policeman. Right up your street.’
And that in all truth was exactly PC Faro’s role. Despite McFie’s faith in him, he had yet to prove himself – by finding that needle in a haystack, Macheath.
CHAPTER NINE
Before returning to the house, Faro decided to call upon Mrs Lunn at Brettle Manor, regarding the expected return date of the owners in order to legally tie up any loose ends. An excuse, of course, for a further inspection of the kitchen where he suspected Macheath, rather than a passing vagrant, had broken a window and stolen food from the pantry.
As he entered the grounds, distant chimney smoke from the ruinous cottage indicated habitation and skirting some trees he observed the ancient Jim Boone sitting by his front door, clay pipe in hand, an old felt hat pulled down well over his eyes, giving the impression that the passing of time was no longer one of his immediate concerns.
Remembering his friendly greeting in the village street, Faro decided that further conversation with a long-time resident might be well worthwhile. Advancing briskly towards the cottage he called, ‘Good day’. Unable to see the expression on the man’s bewhiskered face, his threatening gesture however could not be mistaken for a welcome:
‘Keep yer distance. This is private property. Come any nearer and I’ll set me dog on ye.’ With those words he retreated indoors and banged the door shut.
Faro was a little taken aback by this reception. Charitably he decided that Boone’s eyesight was poor with age or, according to his reputation as an eccentric, he was in one of his famous bad moods. With a shrug, he proceeded to the house but Mrs Lunn was either not at home or not receiving callers. Fortunately she did not have a dog. He fancied she might well resort to the same lengths as the old fellow in the cottage.
Frustrated by this waste of time, he would have liked to know the reason why she had pretended to discover the broken window when it was Bess Tracy who had done so and notified Constable Muir. This question raised several possibilities, the most interesting being that Mrs Lunn had her own reasons for perhaps wishing to conceal the break-in.
Standing back from the house, he noticed it had a deserted air. As he walked around the outside, whatever he was hoping to find, there was no evidence in the garden. He did notice a succession of neatly trimmed, tall hedges which would in time totally conceal Boone’s offending cottage.
His thoughts turned again to those gardeners at Red House. Did all large houses employ their own outdoor staff or did any of those he had seen at Red House also work at Brettle Manor? If so, he would have liked a word with the one Mrs Tracy had told him was keeping company with Bess.
It was now late afternoon, the mellow sunshine casting a deep golden glow over the landscape and, again hearing the distant vibration of a railway engine and a plume of smoke heading northwards, he wished he was a passenger on that train destined for Edinburgh. The fine adventure, the enforced holiday, had lost all taste for him since the revelations concerning Erland and his bride-to-be.
If only Erland had not spotted him on his arrival in Upton. A few moments later and there would have been no accidental meeting and Faro would never have known what became of Madeleine Smith after she left Scotland, or the nightmare situation his knowledge of her identity – and the lies she had told Erland – placed him in.
His spirit shrank from destroying Erland but was all really lost? Could he take a chance on a reformed Madeleine who had reinvented herself and was prepared for a happy future, forgetting all that was past, as Erland Flett’s wife, ‘until death do us part’?
He hoped so but the shadow of Emile L’Angelier refused to be banished. She had killed one lover and, given the right circumstances, the hand of fate in dealing a new card, he suspected she might just as readily destroy another.
Erland caught up with him as he reached the house, an excited, exhilarated Erland who had been to the local parish church about ‘matters regarding the wedding. Lena and the ladies, Georgie and Janey, will be decorating the church with flower garlands’.
He gave Faro an impish sideways glance. ‘How did you enjoy being among the roses with Miss Poppy?’
‘A charming girl,’ said Faro.
Erland rubbed his hands delightedly. ‘That is good – very good indeed. A man in love can easily recognise the symptoms in his best friends. And I gather Miss Poppy is very taken with a certain gentleman from Scotland.’
‘Who told you that?’ Faro demanded sharply.
Erland laughed. ‘As if you didn’t know. Girls who are best friends also exchange confidences. It appears that one of her grandparents, Lena tells me, is from Edinburgh and she has always wanted to return, to track down her roots.’
She had omitted this information from their conversation, but it would probably come out at their next meeting as Erland paused, obviously expecting a response. ‘How about you, Jeremy?’
‘What do you mean – how about me?’
Erland shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Don’t be difficult – you know what I’m getting at.’ And taking a deep breath, ‘I mean, do you fancy her? She is an absolute stunner. Nearly as lovely as my Lena.’
Another pause
and Faro, determined not to be helpful, murmured, ‘So?’
‘Listen to me, Jeremy, I’m saying this in all sincerity and for your own good. You don’t have to marry this young woman in Edinburgh, do you? What I mean is, things haven’t progressed to the stage where you feel obliged – well, to do the honourable thing by her?’
Faro stopped in his tracks and stared at Erland, who went on hastily, ‘What I’m trying to say is she is only someone you are keeping company with and there is nothing binding in that, should you meet someone else, that is.’
Faro seized his arm. ‘Erland – hold on! I’ve just met Poppy. She seems a nice enough girl, but I’m not the type to fall in love at first sight—’
‘Like me,’ whispered Erland.
‘Like you then. I need to get to know someone, spend some time with them, find out what we have in common, what we both like and so forth before I commit myself.’
In truth he felt guilty now for he had thought little about Lizzie since his arrival in Upton. They did not have any arrangement for regular meetings, in the way of courting couples. He had not even written to her, telling himself that he would be back in Edinburgh in a day or two.
‘But, Jeremy, dear fellow,’ Erland was saying. ‘Time isn’t on your side with Poppy. This is a perfect opportunity. You might have to go back to Scotland any day now and then you’ll never meet her or anyone like her ever again. But if you think you could fall in love, given time, that she might be the right one for you, then you could get married with us – a double wedding—’
Pausing, he beamed at Faro and continued excitedly, ‘I’m sure that could be arranged; the vicar is a nice man, so understanding. And it would make us both so happy, Lena and me. She would be your cousin-in-law and we would be friends for always. Think of that.’
The idea of being related to Madeleine Smith, murderess, made Faro shudder but he managed a laugh. ‘Not a chance, Erland. How you do race along. I need more than a pretty face and an hour’s acquaintance—’
‘You refuse to be convinced that I’m right.’ Erland frowned.
‘I do.’
‘Let’s hope you never regret it—’
Mercifully their conversation was cut short as the door behind them opened and Lena appeared.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, dearest.’ And as if noticing Faro for the first time, ‘Will you excuse us, Jeremy?’ And with a smile, ‘Could you do me the greatest favour?’ A shiver and she added, ‘I left my shawl in Gabriel’s studio. Do you think you could get it for me? I need to talk urgently to Erland.’
Faro could hardly refuse. His wanderings on the upper floor, looked down upon by murals of King Arthur and his Knights and their ladies, made him decide he must find out more, read Tennyson’s Morte d’Artur since his only acquaintance with Britain’s legendary ruler was from Edinburgh’s Arthur’s Seat. The Gaelic ‘Ard na said’ claimed to be one of his many resting places. According to the local story, the King and his Knights slept within a secret cave deep inside the mountain, seated at a round table, horns at the ready, deerhounds at their feet, all awaiting the call, ready to ride out and fight Britain’s foes, as yet unspecified.
A pretty romantic legend, but not one in which the practical Jeremy Faro could place any belief.
Unsure of where to find Rossetti’s studio, he found his way by accident into that occupied by Morris, whose curly head was down low over the drawing board, deep in concentration, the floor strewn with crumpled papers, obviously rejections. As Faro entered, another landed at his feet, followed by an angry expletive.
Faro coughed apologetically. Without looking up, Morris gestured with his paintbrush towards a chair.
‘Hand me that, will you.’
‘That’ was a lump of stale bread that occupied the seat. Faro did as he was bid. Snatching it from him, Morris said, ‘Best possible thing for erasing. Try it, you’ll see.’
Faro apologised for interrupting, explained that he was looking for Gabriel’s studio and was told it was down the corridor, on the left.
He found the door slightly open. On a raised dais, a girl lay on a couch, her naked back towards the artist. A beautiful body indeed, with long slender legs. As he entered, she lifted her head and winked at him.
The nude was Poppy, and Faro found his heart pounding.
Rossetti seemed unaware of his presence, frowning, concentrating on his painting.
Faro stammered an excuse. Lena’s shawl.
Rossetti barely glanced around. ‘Well, did you see her leave it, Poppy? Don’t move, for heaven’s sake, keep that pose,’ he added anxiously.
Poppy squinted up at Faro. ‘She didn’t leave it here, but she can have mine. It’s over there. I have a jacket—’
Gabriel looked round wildly, paintbrush in hand and pointed.
Faro had to go behind the easel and the artist smiled at him. ‘I’m making this pretty lady into one of Rome’s tragic heroines. A new departure from Morte d’Artur.’
Faro looked at the canvas. There wasn’t much to see yet in those preliminary splashes of paint, which would in due course hang in a London gallery, immortalised as one of Rossetti’s great masterpieces.
‘Lucrece was raped by wicked Sextus Tarquinius. I’ll be summoning up the rest of the cast, once I get her finished.’ Pausing, he regarded Faro thoughtfully. ‘How do you fancy the role of the wicked rapist,’ and narrowing his eyes, ‘I can see you – perfectly splendid in a suit of gleaming armour I’m sure Topsy will provide. What do you say? Just a few sittings, that’s all.’
Muttering that he would think about it, his face now scarlet at Gabriel’s suggestion of his role in the painting, Faro seized Poppy’s shawl and fled.
He was halfway downstairs when embarrassment turned to anger. Opening the front door, he heard sounds of laughter from Erland and Lena seated in the courtyard and it took little imagination to be certain that Lena had never left her shawl in Rossetti’s studio.
She – and doubtless Erland too – had arranged this little episode so that he should see Poppy at her most seductive.
CHAPTER TEN
Lena accepted the shawl without any trace of embarrassment. Why should she, thought Faro, who after all had considerable experience in concealing guilt over a murdered man, express any emotion over a mere lie regarding a shawl.
As she edged closer along the seat to make room for him, Erland said, ‘Lena has had a great idea. George Wardle is here on business to see Topsy and she thought it would be nice on such a lovely day, as an introduction to the area, to take him on a picnic. There’s a lovely spot near the mill stream. Just perfect, pretty as any of Ned Burne-Jones’s pastoral paintings.’
Pausing with an affectionate look at Lena, he leant over, kissed her cheek and said, ‘I have to tell you that this darling girl has been very busy preparing things. I might add that she’s perfect in the kitchen, getting in a little practice to be the perfect wife.’
Lena gave him a shy smile, pointing to the picnic hamper alongside. ‘Hardly – all I have done is to make a stack of sandwiches for three hungry men.’
Faro eyed her doubtfully. Lena and food did not go well together in his estimation. ‘And something to drink, too,’ Erland laughed.
Faro bit back the words, ‘Not cocoa, I trust,’ as Erland added, ‘Wine – lots of Topsy’s wine, perfect for an autumn day.’
They heard voices from inside the house as Poppy appeared, now fully clothed, followed by George Wardle. A discussion about jackets and umbrellas, which would not be needed, and suitable shoes, then they were ready to depart.
The only one who seemed too well dressed and formal for such an excursion was Wardle, Faro thought. All he lacked was a top hat, which he no doubt had left inside the house. Frock-coated, with a bright waistcoat and tapered trousers, elegant highly polished boots, he presented the perfect picture of the affluent London businessman. A strong face, a fine beard and moustache, he was imposing, a little staid and quietly attractive, rather than hands
ome. In his favour, although in his late thirties and still unmarried, he was the perfect catch for any designing woman.
Poppy seemed to think so. Slightly disappointed, Faro saw the two girls link arms with Wardle while he and Erland were left to carry the picnic basket between them.
As they walked the short distance to the mill stream their path led past the Mill Cottage looking oddly deserted. No sounds of sawing, no evidence of the distraught Mrs Tracy. Guiltily, Faro’s thoughts flew to the missing girl and the policeman in him said that he ought to be investigating that case instead of making merry with these four companions, the girls singing happily as they walked.
And yet there was reason for happiness. There is something about a sunny autumn day that is irresistible, as if summer, determined not to be banished for another year, has made one more dramatic farewell performance. The countryside around them gleamed, the fields heavy with corn ripe for harvest, the tall treetops already tinged with the red and gold that would transform this small piece of Kent with its undulating hills into a paint box of glowing colour.
Faro sighed. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to think ahead, to see it as it would be and for a moment he wished he had the ability to shift time forward, glimpse into that glorious autumn. For in a week or so, and certainly before these trees were winter-bare, he would be back on his beat, Edinburgh’s Leith Walk.
By then Erland’s wedding would be over – whether it took place or not. And for good or ill, no longer his responsibility.
He thrust aside melancholy thoughts of the immediate future. Today was one to remember and he would not sully this delightful interlude with fears for a future that lay in destiny’s hands. Today he would relish this small fragment of near paradise, let it take its place stored away with other past memories, the experience of Red House and the acquaintance of three remarkable men, Morris, Rossetti and Burne-Jones.
As the picnic spot was selected and mutually agreed upon, the bank of a stream shaded by willows, a tablecloth laid on the grass, the contents of the hamper spread out, sandwiches opened by the two girls, the wine uncorked, the glasses filled, Faro wondered how Wardle would react to this cheery informality.
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