And this time it was his brave strong Lizzie back in Edinburgh who came into his thoughts. A well-educated rich gentleman had raped her when she was fifteen years old, a maid in a big house. Her son Vince was the result, Vince who hated him.
He sighed. Poppy had a lot to learn about the world and as he put an arm about her, he realised he had learnt a lot as well. A few days ago, his main concern had been Erland’s wedding to Lena. He had also been attracted to this lovely girl, had even entertained thoughts that he might be falling in love with her.
Now Erland wad dead and buried, the world had moved on and his world had taken a dramatic turn for the worse.
‘I love you, Jeremy, and I always will – I’ll wait for you, whatever happens,’ she added loyally.
Faro was touched but he realised there was no place for Poppy in his future and perhaps there never had been except for the brief hour of a romantic picnic.
But how to tell her? How did you tell a girl who has just declared her undying affection that it could never be returned? What to say, only that if he were a free man declared innocent of Bess’s murder, then he had also closed the door on any return to Red House with all its memories of Erland Flett? Nor did he feel that like Madeleine Smith he would be welcomed because of his fleeting notoriety or his potential as a model; he thought with wry amusement at the memory of that brief experience.
His future lay in Edinburgh, and he yearned wistfully for his return to an undemanding relationship with Lizzie, the kind of woman needed by a policeman faced with day-to-day frustrations and dangers, a faithful wife waiting by the fireside with good food on the table and loving arms to hold him through the night.
Painfully he began to tell her of Lizzie’s existence, his explanation and her distress cut short by the sound of voices outside his door. At that moment, a blessing indeed.
A final tearful kiss and she left him hating himself for having hurt this gentle girl whom he guessed would have soon become disillusioned by the poverty and daily hardships of an Edinburgh policeman’s wife.
Muir was accompanied by two gentlemen and, as Faro appeared to be in the best of health, the constable was taken aback to learn that Dr Grant, who prided himself on his expertise in disorders of the brain, wished to put on record, for future reference and doubtless for Faro’s forthcoming trial, the patient’s mental state at the time of the murder.
Dr Innes, the local doctor, had been eager to assist him in this consultation and Muir was closely questioned by the doctors before they presented themselves to his prisoner, assuring them that Faro had shown no signs of madness or of any extraordinary or erratic behaviour while in his custody. He had in fact been a model prisoner and had made no attempt to escape.
Muir thought any confession of guilt was unlikely and, bewildered by the doctor’s theories, considered privately that it was perhaps Dr Grant himself who was a little mad, although doubtless the questions he asked regarding Faro’s background and scribbled down industriously seemed to bear little relation to proving that he had murdered Bess Tracy.
‘He is not an emotional sort,’ Muir said. ‘Very well balanced and I might add that he is quite certain that he can prove his innocence, that he has been the victim of a set-up by this criminal chap he was sent down here to take back to Scotland.’
‘Ah,’ said Innes, exchanging a nod of satisfaction with Grant. ‘They all claim to be innocent, easy-going decent chaps on the surface.’
Grant shook his head sadly. ‘Let us not forget that beneath these calm exteriors, there are frequently lurking violent erotic tendencies which they try so hard to conceal.’
Muir whistled, recalling the dreadful sight of the half-naked girl in the summerhouse, which he was certain he would never forget. ‘Incredible! So you think it might be possible, that he had some sort of a brainstorm?’
‘It happens to the best of young men who have not the benefits of a conjugal marriage. To a married man like yourself—’
Grant paused for affirmation and when Muir nodded, he went on, ‘Then I can speak freely, for I am sure you understand that regular intercourse is essential to the male’s well-being in body and mind.’
Muir had never had it explained to him thus. He coughed and, looking very embarrassed, murmured, ‘Well, I never,’ then hastily, ‘Shall I take you to Constable Faro?’
Following Muir to the prison cell, Innes whispered, ‘I suggest you wait in earshot, Constable. If Dr Grant is successful with this interview you may hear something that could be of particular interest. I believe he is hopeful for a confession of the vile deed.’
Muir unlocked the door, whereupon the prisoner Faro stood up and acknowledged the doctors with a polite bow, Dr Grant, the friend of George Wardle and his colleague Dr Innes, who had also attended him during the influenza outbreak. Although they had failed to completely convince him that Erland had in fact died of heart failure, he could go no further with his pleas for a post-mortem without revealing his suspicions regarding Madeleine Smith and the poisoned cocoa.
Surprised by this unexpected visit from the doctors, Faro soon saw through Dr Grant’s questions, eager to prove beyond reasonable doubt that he might have committed the deed while of unsound mind and would therefore spend the rest of his life in an asylum for the insane. To Faro such an existence was scarcely less preferable than the end of a rope.
For Grant’s benefit, Innes had already detailed Faro’s presence in Upton from the very beginning. Now he put heavy emphasis on the fact that Faro had concealed his real identity from his hosts at Red House by not telling them that he was a policeman.
This seemed of considerable significance to his colleague, without revealing why the presence of a policeman might cause some embarrassment regarding the irregular living conditions of the inhabitants of Red House.
Faro’s somewhat vague explanations failed to satisfy the doctors that he was not trying to deceive anyone and the doctor’s more searching questions were directed toward Bess Tracy, having heard from the gardener Dave of Faro’s continual questions regarding a meeting with the girl and his interest in her reputation as a girl of easy virtue.
Dr Grant, of course, was not to know that his supposed questions to Dave had been instigated by Macheath and were part of the trap set for Faro.
The doctor was also interested in his reasons for being in Kent in the first place and his lip curled a mite scornfully when Faro told him he had been obeying the instructions from his superior officer in Edinburgh, and the business of the daily telegraphs sounded very improbable indeed, even to Faro’s own ears, as a piece of incredible fabrication.
As for the doctors, they sighed and exchanged significant glances. Who on earth would behave in such an extraordinary fashion, sending a lone young policeman to track down single-handed a wanted murderer? Detective Sergeant Noble was obviously a close candidate for one of Dr Grant’s mental observations.
There was that other abnormal behaviour too, regarding his deceased friend and the post-mortem, hints that Mr Flett had in fact been poisoned.
Hallucinations regarding the food-poisoning outbreak at Red House, no doubt perhaps brought about by an abnormal temperature during his attack of influenza, were nevertheless an admirable subject for investigation regarding diseases of the brain.
Dr Grant left, however, feeling sadly let down that he had not proved any of his theories in the slightest. He was either dealing with an innocent man or a very clever criminal indeed.
As for Muir’s prisoner, unlike a condemned man but convinced that he could prove his innocence, Faro slept well and awoke to his final morning in Upton.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
That evening there was a beautiful sunset, a flight of chattering birds heading homewards across a glowing sky, and an appropriate setting for his farewell to Red House. As Faro had little luggage Muir was wondering if a walk to the railway station might be safely considered.
Faro laughed. ‘Are you also bearing in mind that I might make a last-minute bre
ak for freedom?’
‘I have your word,’ said Muir sternly.
‘No handcuffs?’
Muir shook his head. ‘I trust you, Faro, and besides it would create terror in the descending passengers who would form their own conclusions about a uniformed constable escorting a dangerous prisoner.’
They walked briskly, with little exchange of conversation, Muir preoccupied with his own perplexities and Faro mentally going over the material for his defence and the letter to Noble whom he was sure would send immediate assurances of support at his trial.
At the station, they had a short wait on the platform. Steam and vibrations heralded the London train. A few passengers descended and Muir, holding Faro’s arm, hurried forward, gazing anxiously in all directions. The party he expected was not visible but a man was looking towards them leaning out from the step of the first class compartment.
He waved. ‘That must be the inspector,’ said Muir and, as they hurried the length of the train, Faro wondered how they had been so easily recognised by Inspector Holt. On closer acquaintance, the inspector was a rather nondescript fellow of medium height and build, in plain clothes and wearing a tall hat which seemed too large for him. Its brim came well down over his eyebrows and almost seemed to be in danger of meeting the large walrus moustache.
Ignoring Constable Muir’s salute he introduced himself, briefly flashed a card and pocketed it again. ‘So this is your prisoner – Constable Faro.’ A quick glance and again he looked at Muir, demanding sharply, ‘No handcuffs?’
Muir looked confused. ‘I have Constable Faro’s word, sir—’
A grim laugh met this response. ‘You have a lot to learn about human nature, Constable, in your patch. Obviously you do not meet many murderers in Upton.’
Muir drew himself up to his full height. ‘You have my assurances, sir, that Constable Faro has been a very well-behaved prisoner.’
‘That’s as may be,’ was the doubting reply.
The train’s whistle indicated a slow movement.
‘Get aboard, Faro.’
Muir shook hands with Faro, looked as if he wanted to say something important, perhaps words of reassurance. Another glance at Holt, who said, ‘Leave me your handcuffs, Constable. I am escorting a dangerous criminal and, from bitter experience, not as trusting as you seem to be.’
Muir watched as the train pulled away from the platform. Nearby were the two girls he remembered having visited Faro in his prison cell. The one he had called Poppy was very tearful and was being comforted by her companion. Muir saluted them gravely and, leaving the station a very troubled man, he hurried back to the police office.
Faro and the inspector had the first-class compartment to themselves. The passenger accommodation resembled the interiors of the stagecoaches on which they had been modelled, with railway wheels substituted for horses and one door for access and exit.
Placing his travelling case on the rack, Holt eyed the handcuffs Muir had given him as if unsure of how they worked. Indicating them, Faro said, ‘Those will not be necessary, sir. I have no intention of trying to escape. It would do my case no good and I have every intention of proving that I am innocent of the girl’s murder when we get to London.’
Under the moustache, the lips curled in a sneer as Faro went on, ‘By then my senior officer Detective Sergeant Noble of the Edinburgh City Police will be able to add his commendations regarding my good character.’
‘I wouldn’t rely too much on that,’ Holt murmured as, seizing Faro’s wrists, he clamped the handcuffs shut and from his greatcoat pocket withdrew a revolver. Gazing down the barrel, he added grimly, ‘Cannot be too careful with a dangerous killer, can we? Any move and you will be dead – hardly in a position to prove your innocence then.’
The train gathered steam, moved slowly along the platform and halted. Voices outside indicated the reason was for a late passenger. A foot on the step, a hand on the door as a man’s face peered up at them wearing dark eyeglasses, shouting breathlessly, ‘Any room in there, sir?’
Holt stood up. ‘This is a first-class compartment – reserved! Can’t you read, you fool? Go away.’
‘My apologies, sir, you must excuse me, I am blind.’ The face disappeared and Faro heard the tip-tapping of a stick along the platform as the train began to move again. Holt, swearing at these absurd delays, resumed his seat close to the door.
Beyond the window, the sunset had faded and it was growing dark outside. The countryside, visible through the train’s smoke, flashed by and Faro sensed that Holt was increasingly nervous, with the gun turned on him, his attitude tense as if awaiting a signal, a sign.
Faro, observing him closely, noticed something familiar about those clenched hands, ungloved for easier handling of the revolver – as for the pulled-down hat concealing most of the inspector’s face and the heavy moustache—
His senses became alert to danger. Too late now, he knew the face of his enemy and with recognition came a sickening realisation. He was trapped, handcuffed in a railway compartment, with the bogus Holt pointing a revolver.
Leaning across Holt said, ‘We are about to approach the viaduct over the river and you are to make a bid to escape.’
Faro said, ‘I am grateful for your generous gesture but I must decline.’
‘On the contrary, you are to attempt to escape – and I shall kill you.’
‘And if I don’t?’
The revolver was flourished again. A sigh. ‘Then I shall have to kill you anyway.’
Faro leant back and said, ‘An inspector from the Metropolitan Police – well, well, that’s a new and very respectable role – pity about the hat and the moustache.’
Macheath snarled, ‘Clever, aren’t you? Too damned clever this time for your own good.’
‘Yes, Macheath.’ Faro smiled. ‘So we meet again after all. Last time it was in your other role, Paul Jacks the gardener – who killed Bess Tracy, knocked me unconscious – from behind of course – and put the murder weapon in my hand – for your arranged witnesses to discover,’ he added grimly. ‘We had other encounters; fortunately for you Jim Boone had an abundance of facial hair.’
And playing for time, with an indifference he was far from feeling at that moment, he added, ‘Disguises are well and good but hands are very hard to change.’
Macheath gave a quick glance at his hands as Faro went on, ‘The advantage is all yours, in appearance so undistinguished that no one ever remembers you. Not exactly a face that gets a second glance in a crowd. And that has always been your trump card.’
He paused. ‘Add to this a certain acting ability – I would guess that you tread the boards at one time in your career. As I am not to be alive much longer, I imagine you won’t be returning to Upton now that you have the Emerald Star.’
‘Quite correct, Faro. By the time they find your body, I will have disappeared, on a ship far out to sea heading for a new life in the Americas.’
‘Unaccompanied, I take it. What about your accomplice?’ It was a wild guess.
‘What do you—?’ He gave a mocking laugh that contained a note of uncertainty, then Macheath added hastily, ‘I have no accomplice. I work alone, always have.’
But he had given the game away. Faro knew that this time it was a lie. ‘Come now, you needed one of the gardeners for your plan to work, for me to be found with the girl’s body and a knife in my hand. Aren’t you worried that he might not stand up to questioning if he is called as a witness at my trial?’
‘Your trial, indeed. You’ll never get that far.’
Faro shook his head. ‘Possibly. But it would have been safer to have disposed of Dave – a contrived accident.’
Macheath gave him an angry look. ‘Oh, I thought of that. But there was so little time and dead bodies are tedious to get rid of.’
‘Bodies like Jim Boone – and his dog. You needed the house to keep that poor girl with your plan to rob the Brettles and until you could use her to bait the trap for me. Just as a matter of in
terest, where have you buried them?’
‘None of your bloody business, Faro.’ To his satisfaction, Faro realised that Macheath was getting rattled.
A moment later he recovered. ‘I underestimated you, Faro. Might as well let you into a secret, seeing that it will never go any further. I was helped – this time – in my ultimate goal by a very worthy gentleman – a policeman.’
A sound in the corridor. He stopped, listened. ‘No more, this is your destination.’ Leaping up, he pulled the communication cord and threw open the compartment door.
A strong wind rushed in at them, the spans of a bridge and the glimmer of dark waters far below.
As the train jerked noisily to a halt, Macheath grabbed Faro’s arm. ‘This is goodbye, this time finally and for ever.’ And pushing him towards the open door, ‘Go on, get out.’
The revolver pressed into his side, Faro had no alternative but to obey.
‘Go on, jump, damn you.’
Aware that to make it convincing that he had tried to escape, Macheath had to shoot him in the back, Faro pretended to stumble at the door.
As Macheath yelled, ‘On your feet – get out,’ there were distant sounds from the end of the train, the banging of doors as the guards ran along the bridge searching the compartments.
Faro had to take a gamble, win or lose, in the hope that he was stronger in physique than Macheath and that the revolver wouldn’t go off and kill him anyway. As Macheath tried desperately to turn him round and push him out of the open door, in what might prove a last desperate attempt he twisted round and brought his handcuffed wrists down hard in a fierce blow on Macheath’s knees.
Macheath staggered, recovered, then, as they struggled together at the open door, Faro heard the shot, felt the agony of the bullet. As he slipped into darkness, he tasted blood and his last sight was of the compartment door opening and the blind man bending over him.
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