The Evil That Men Do.(Inspector Faro Mystery No.11)

by Knight, Alanna

  At Faro’s expression, he smiled. ‘Adrian has just announced it. The family are delighted. And as I suspect this baby, if God wills it, to be the first of several, these are hardly the odds any sane man would take on, especially one with my modest expectations. One who believes in accordance with his mission, that poor as we are, if we have faith, then God will provide for our needs.’

  Leaning across the table he said earnestly, ‘I, for one, cannot believe the Langweils are capable of murder. The whole suggestion is too absurd even for outrage.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Of one thing I am absolutely sure, Inspector. Your investigations will prove only that they are innocent of Cedric’s death.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’

  Aynsley shrugged. ‘You are much too clever a policeman not to have thought all that out for yourself. You have by now, I am sure, laid all the evidence in the case very neatly upon the table and examined it bit by bit and come to certain conclusions. Am I right?’

  Faro regarded him thoughtfully. Surely a man of God should be more upset at the mortal sin of murder? Was his attitude not just a little too flippant for these serious allegations? Perhaps he would be wise to investigate the Reverend Stephen Aynsley a little more closely.

  Aware of the other’s smiling scrutiny, he shrugged. ‘You are certainly very well informed for—’

  ‘For a clergyman? Perhaps it seems a strange confession but I am particularly addicted to that form of literature. I am a great admirer of Poe, and Wilkie Collins and of course, even the late Mr Charles Dickens quite captivated me with his portrait of a detective, not unlike yourself, in Bleak House!’

  ‘Inspector Bucket?’

  ‘Ah, I see we share a similar taste in books, too.’

  As they discussed the merits of Charles Dickens and Sir Walter Scott, Aynsley said: ‘And there are the new scientific methods of detecting criminals. It must be extremely fortunate having a doctor at hand, especially one who I am given to understand served his apprenticeship with the police surgeon.’

  As Faro prepared to leave, he asked: ‘Have you any theories as to how your cousin died?’

  Aynsley shrugged. ‘Everything so far points to the possibility that Cedric took his own life. If so then there is one thing that does not make sense. Why did he leave no suicide note?’

  ‘That has occurred to me.’

  ‘I thought it would. Let me put to you, Inspector, that a man so devoted to his family would certainly have left some such evidence of his intention.’ And shaking his head, ‘Self-destruction is the most distressing exit from the world if one is a believer. In Cedric’s case, the circumstances were understandable, but I find it difficult to believe or accept, knowing his deep family feeling, that he would not have left the simple explanation that would have saved any police investigation.’

  When Faro walked down the steps of the Langweil house, he found himself the recipient of a handful of religious tracts and the distinct impression that Stephen Aynsley was labouring under the mistaken idea that Detective Inspector Faro had seen the light, bright as St Paul on the road to Damascus.

  Not quite sure how he had found himself in such a situation or how the roles had been reversed, so that the detective-story reader Stephen Aynsley had asked the questions while he provided the answers, Faro had weakly left a handsome contribution to the Mission Fund with the certainty that if Aynsley could convert a man who hardly ever entered the doors of a church, then the heathens waiting in all their blissful ignorance in Africa were a walk-over.

  As he staggered down the steps and pocketed his fistful of tracts, he shook his head sadly.

  ‘I’m losing my grip, dammit,’ he later told Vince, whose laughter at his stepfather’s discomfiture was both long and hearty.

  Next day, Faro walked down Albany Street to call on Piers Strong. He was received in an office where the architect was barely visible among the many and varied rolled-up plans which threatened every available inch of floor and desk space.

  As the circumstances of Cedric’s demise were still being kept secret, Faro had to choose his words carefully.

  ‘I won’t keep you, sir. There are some complications regarding Mr Langweil’s sudden death.’ At Piers’ anxious expression he added hastily: ‘Family business matters and so forth. It isn’t all as straightforward as one might imagine.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that it might be murder?’

  ‘What makes you say that, sir?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘Why else would I be getting a visit from a detective inspector? Well, well. Pray continue.’ And the architect sat back in his chair regarding him eagerly. Obviously he wasn’t used to such drama among his clients.

  Before Faro could say another word, Piers interposed: ‘Mind you, I have to say, I find the idea a bit hard to believe. They all seemed happy and so at ease. A devoted family even if tempers were raised over the proposed alterations - the new bathroom business - that is perfectly natural. I can vouch for it among many of my clients. Hardly enough to commit murder for, surely.’

  When Faro made no comment Piers laughed. ‘Mind you, I have men who would murder their wives rather than suffer all the inconvenience of a disrupted household. But that’s only in small houses. Alterations in a place the size of Priorsfield would hardly be noticed. That’s what I can’t understand about Theodore’s attitude. You’d think he’d want to please that young wife of his by letting her have everything up to date. In fact, you’d think he’d give her anything she asked for. And a bathroom wouldn’t cost nearly as much as any of those lovely jewels she was wearing that night, I can tell you.’

  Again he laughed. ‘Now if it had been Theodore, there might have been a motive. Barbara is an absolute stunner, I’m sure there’s men who’d commit murder to possess a wife as lovely as his missus.’

  Faro looked at him thoughtfully. There seemed no reason for Cedric to have been murdered unless it was a desperate measure to prevent him changing his will.

  Theodore’s death made a lot more sense. And again he wondered, was he seriously on the wrong track? Had Cedric’s death been a mistake? Had the poison been intended for his brother?

  And if so, was the hand long and white, with exquisitely tapering fingers?

  Chapter Ten

  Faro’s next call was on Mr Moulton, the Langweil lawyer. He felt that the old man received this visit with considerable caution and realised that getting him to part with any information concerning the family was not going to be easy.

  The much-vaunted devotion and loyalty also extended to those they employed. A small, tight, impenetrable group.

  Moulton’s face remained expressionless as Faro repeated the reasons he had given Piers Strong for this enquiry.

  ‘If it is about Mr Cedric’s will, then I am afraid I cannot help you, Inspector,’ he cut in sharply. ‘We had only discussed the terms of the new will, it was in the process of being drawn up.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘The terms of the original will leaving his wife and daughter as benefactors now apply.’

  ‘What were the terms of the new will?’

  With a thin wintry smile, Moulton said: ‘You have to realise, sir, that the lawyer is in much the same position as the priest in the confessional. And for your information I happen to be of the Roman Catholic persuasion.’

  Realising that Moulton probably knew more about the internal politics of the Langweil regime than anyone else, Faro decided to take him into his confidence.

  ‘I quite understand, sir, your reasons are most commendable, but surely you would reconsider if you thought that Mr Cedric had been poisoned. And you would wish for the family’s sake to help us find out who had murdered him.’

  The old man shuddered. ‘Murder,’ he whispered. ‘Such an idea is incredible. You cannot be serious, Inspector. Who on earth suggested such a thing to you?’ he asked indignantly. And without waiting for Faro’s reply, ‘You must take my word for it, Inspector, I would be prepared to swear on one thing. That Mr Cedric died by his own han
d.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘His reasons appear patently obvious - to everyone but yourself, it appears. He believed that he was incurably ill, a dying man. Such conditions often make men’s behaviour irascible, wondering when the fatal hour is to strike.’

  ‘And what if I told you that he had never consulted any doctor, any reliable authority, to our certain knowledge, who confirmed his fears that he was incurably ill?’

  Moulton looked worried. ‘The important thing is that he believed it. Perhaps he lied to his family because he was afraid to face the truth. We all know, and I am sure your stepson can confirm this, that many people are afraid of doctors confirming their own suspicions and, alas, die needlessly. We all have our Achilles’ heel.’

  ‘You say that Cedric was a caring man, sir. Then, in your own experience, do not most suicides leave a note of intent for their loved ones? Is it not curious that he omitted to do so?’

  When the lawyer did not reply, Faro continued: ‘You have known the family for many years.’

  ‘I have indeed. I had the honour to serve Mr Theodore Langweil Senior.’

  A new idea occurred to Faro. ‘Perhaps then you know of the existence of something in the family’s history that might have led Cedric to believe he was suffering from a brain tumour.’

  A fleeting shadow touched the lawyer’s face. ‘I know of no such circumstances,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘What of the eldest son?’

  ‘Justin, you mean? Gone long since,’ Moulton replied sharply.

  ‘You knew him then?’

  ‘Of course I did. An unhappy young man. I hope he found his peace in America.’

  His peace seemed a strange expression for the invalidish eldest son and heir of the Langweils.

  Faro looked at Moulton quickly. His impression that the lawyer had not liked Justin Langweil was confirmed when the old man laughed harshly.

  ‘Wilful and violent, perhaps such a nature fitted in better with the somewhat primitive conditions he sought in the wilds of California than with his respectable family background. You seem surprised, Inspector.’

  ‘I am, a little, since such aspects of his character as you describe do not fit the description of the consumptive I have been given so far.’

  ‘Who told you he was consumptive? He was - oh well,’ Moulton shrugged, ‘you had better get Mr Theodore to tell you all about Justin.’

  ‘You make it sound very mysterious. And mysteries intrigue me, Mr Moulton.’

  ‘I say no more, sir, than that he was not at all the sort of man the family would have been proud of. Quite different, thank God, to his brothers.’ And eyeing Faro shrewdly, ‘There’s one in every pack, but young Justin was worse than the black sheep of the family. Much worse,’ he added soberly.

  ‘I can assure you of one thing, he left no broken hearts behind when he set sail for New York. As for not writing to them, that too was typical of the man. Thoughtless, uncaring, he had none of the sensitivity, the finer attributes, of the Langweils. From the day he walked out of Priorsfield, he literally shook its dust from his feet and has never communicated with any of them.’

  A thought came into Faro’s mind quite unbidden, a concept that would make quite a story from the one he sought to untangle.

  ‘Do you think there is a chance of him still being alive?’

  Moulton frowned and then said quickly, ‘Indeed, yes. Accidents and misinformation apart - as well as a hazardous mail service in that violent land - since he was just two years older than Theo I should think there is every chance.’ Giving Faro a curious look, he added: ‘What are you thinking, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing important, sir.’ But he left the lawyer’s office thinking that the Langweil fortune might well be worth re-crossing the Atlantic for.

  ‘And killing for,’ he added later when he retold the day’s interview for Vince’s benefit.

  ‘Justin Langweil. The black sheep of the family,’ Vince whistled. ‘Of course I’ve heard about him, Stepfather. In suitably hushed tones.’

  ‘And what have you heard?’

  ‘Well, you know what it’s like. The family aren’t exactly proud of him, they prefer to draw a veil ever his early life, bit of a hell-raiser, I gather. I didn’t know of his existence for a long time, they like to give the impression publicly that there were only three sons and that the eldest had died in infancy. Then Grace told me that she gathered that he had gone to America long ago. Naturally she was very curious, got this romantic idea of a rakehell uncle who had thrown away his birthright for a life of adventure.’

  Pausing, he grinned. ‘Grace is very addicted to novelettes with heroes who rush off, endure terrible hardships, and return in time to save the family fortune - and marry a rich second cousin.’

  He stopped, frowning at his stepfather’s look of preoccupation. ‘Do I understand rightly that you are toying with some notion that Justin might be very much alive and lurking around Priorsfield waiting for the right moment to make a dramatic entrance? The prodigal son returned. But in this case, judging from what Moulton told you, I think the fatted calf could breathe easily. There wouldn’t be much rejoicing.’

  He was silent for a moment then said: ‘There’s only one flaw in this argument, Stepfather. If your assumption is right then Justin Langweil can walk in any day of the week and claim his inheritance. All he needs is to prove his identity. There is absolutely no reason for him to kill anyone or to poison Cedric -Theodore would make more sense if that was his intention - to repossess what any court will say is rightfully his. So why put his neck in danger?’

  ‘There is one good valid reason for him returning incognito which we must not overlook.’

  Vince thought for a moment. ‘You mean that he might have a criminal record in America? Sounds just that sort of fellow from Moulton’s description too. Could that have been what he meant by “misinformation”?’

  Faro nodded and both men were silent considering this new aspect of the case.

  At last Vince said: ‘On the other hand, Moulton could be right about Cedric having done away with himself. Adrian is still very upset about the whole business, as you can well imagine. Cedric was his older brother, closer to him than Theodore. He’s going to miss him. He shares Moulton’s opinion, mine too, for what it’s worth, despite the absence of any suicide note.’

  ‘Adrian was telling me that Cedric was morbidly interested in poisons, not just in a general way, he used to read books about poisoners and their methods.’

  But it was Sergeant Danny McQuinn who unearthed a completely new motive in his conscientious interviewing of Maud Langweil’s household. Getting his feet under the table, he called it, he was now on first-name terms with the housekeeper, Mrs Molly Bates.

  ‘There I was, sir, sitting cosy by the fire, enjoying a rare cup of tea when the kitchen door opened and an ancient crone sidled in.

  ‘Molly introduced us. This was her cousin Bess and Bess’s proud boast was that she had been wet-nurse to Justin and Theodore. So between the two of them there was quite a bit of family gossip. Not particularly interesting to begin with: “D’ye mind the second cousin of old so-and-so - well, he’s deid.” That sort of thing. But I’m a good listener, Inspector. I believe in keeping my ears open, and I was rewarded. It wasn’t until the old lass said how sorry she’s been about poor Mr Cedric. And shaking her head, how history repeated itself.

  ‘I sat up at that. The whisper had got round the servants that the master had done himself in.

  ‘ “Just like poor Mr Justin’s young wife.”

  ‘ “Say that again,” says I. And she didn’t take much persuasion to tell the whole story. I’ll keep it nice and short for you, Inspector.

  ‘Apparently when Mr Justin was about eighteen, he brought a lassie home, claimed they were wed, even produced the lines. But it was plain as plain, according to old Bess and the rest of the family, that she had trapped him. Wasn’t in their class at all. Well, she didn’t last long.

&nb
sp; ‘The old biddy used to go in and do a bit of ironing for them and the lassie often came into the kitchen in floods of tears. Mr Justin used to use his fists on her. “He always was a bully, even as a wee laddie,” says old Bess.

  ‘Well, one day, she put an end to it all. Topped herself. The family hushed it up, of course, and Justin left for America. Heartbroken and full of remorse, they said.’

  ‘Wait a minute, McQuinn. How could they hush it up? Surely there was an enquiry? When was this, anyway?’

  ‘Hold on, sir, I’m coming to that. According to old Bess, everyone believed she had died of a fever.’

  So they got a doctor more willing than Vince to sign a false death certificate, thought Faro grimly.

  ‘You won’t find anything,’ McQuinn continued quickly. ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘Strange I never heard about it. Never even heard it mentioned.’

  ‘It was before your time. Year before you joined the force. Looked up the record and there’s nothing. No enquiry, nothing. Money can buy such things, as you know, sir, for those in high places. But I thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘I am indeed. Especially since I doubt whether even Vince knows that Justin had a wife who did away with herself. Thanks, McQuinn, this does change the picture.’

  When Faro returned home that evening it was with almost a feeling of guilt that he had been in the house for some time going over his notes without asking where Rose was.

  Matters were not improved when Mrs Brook brought in his supper.

  ‘Miss Rose, sir? Why, she has gone to stay at Charlotte Square with Miss Grace overnight.’

  Faro bit back his anger and disappointment. When Vince arrived he said: ‘Of course I’m not objecting, but surely I should have been consulted first.’

  ‘Not very easy, Stepfather, I took it on myself to give permission. Thought you wouldn’t mind, seeing that you are so seldom at home.’

  It was true. He had hardly seen Rose since the weekend they had spent together, a fact which did nothing to lessen his feelings of guilt. He had longed for his daughter’s visit but realised he had seriously neglected her ever since.