To Kill a Queen (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.6)

by Alanna Knight

  'What about the murder of Morag Brodie? Did that not raise a stir in the neighbourhood?' The question seemed superfluous. In a rural community, if his Aunt Bella was a typical resident, no one would be speaking of anything else for months to come.

  Lachlan was very still and when Brown replied, he did so reluctantly. 'Aye, the lass who got herself killed.'

  And Faro, thinking that was a curious way to express it, as if Morag Brodie had deserved death, asked, 'Where was her body found?'

  'In a ditch over yonder. Crathie way.' Brown's eyes slid across Lachlan. 'That case is closed.'

  'A murder without a murderer, whatever the verdict, is never closed as far as I'm concerned, Mr Brown.'

  Brown looked him straight in the eyes. 'But then ye're nor concerned, are ye, Inspector?' he fairly crowed. 'And Detective Inspector Purdie—from Scotland Yard,' he added significantly, 'is satisfied with the verdict.'

  'I understood that the lass was a servant at the Castle?'

  'How did ye guess that?' Brown's glance was suspicious, and although his question was chilly, it was asked with elaborate carelessness.

  'I didn't. My aunt was full of it, of course.'

  Brown's sigh of relief was audible as he once more glanced at the silent sullen Lachlan. 'I must awa'. If you want any more information about—about Morag Brodie, why d'ye no' ask the Inspector. Or Sergeant Whyte, our local lad.'

  The moment of danger was past; he was prepared to be affable, even expansive. 'Detective Inspector Purdie is acquainted with these parts. Like yeself he used to bide here for holidays when he was a wee lad.'

  Turning to leave, he came back. Facing Faro squarely, hands on hips, he said, 'Ye should know, Inspector, that we're trying to keep all this business from the Queen. As much as possible. We dinna want to distress her.'

  His voice defiant, he added, 'It must be obvious to ye that we do our best to give her a restful holiday and spare her as much as possible from anything sordid or unhappy.'

  Or anything concerned with the real world, Faro added silently. A brutal murder would obviously tarnish her vision of Balmoral as the 'dear Paradise' she and her beloved Prince Consort had built.

  'We are proud to have Her Majesty at Balmoral and we like to keep her happy and content with us. This is her only place now where she feels at home. It's her refuge. We dinna want to spoil that for her.' It was quite a speech. 'The puir woman has had that much grief,' he added desperately.

  But Faro was unmoved. Considerably less grief than most of her subjects, he thought bitterly. And surely the Queen should be more concerned about the possibility of a murderer living in the midst of her rustic tenantry than the unfortunate death of two pet dogs, however beloved.

  Neither man spoke. Observing Faro's guarded expression. Brown moved unhappily from one foot to the other. Then consulting his watch, he looked over his shoulder towards the Castle. Touching his bonnet briefly, he took Lachlan by the arm and walked rapidly in the direction of the Royal apartments.

  Faro watched them go, his mind on Morag Brodie.

  'Stepfather. Over here.' Vince waved to him excitedly from one of the upstairs windows of the ruined mill.

  Faro picked his way through thorn and briar that would have done justice to the Sleeping Beauty's Palace and did nothing for his trousers and coat, or his temper. Opening the creaking door into shuttered semi-darkness, he shivered.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw that this had once been the kitchen. The heart of family life, it had known laughter and prosperity. Now the sense of desolation rushed out, clawing at him. Cheerless and forbidding, it was not a place in which he would care to linger. And although it was still sturdily roofed, he would have no wish to seek its sanctuary on a stormy night.

  Vince gazed down at him.

  'Up here, Stepfather.'

  'Found something, lad?' said Faro climbing the pen staircase.

  'Yes, look around you. What do you make of this?'

  Signs of domesticity, blankets and sheets, even a tablecloth, two mugs and plates, and a vase of wilted flowers indicated that this room had been recently occupied.

  'And over here,' said Vince. 'Bloodstains.'

  Faro studied the marks on the floorboards. He could see a dark area at the top of the stairs, which continued downwards, streaks on steps and stone walls. Bending down, he picked up a small clump of brown hair.

  'From the dogs?'

  'Perhaps, Stepfather. And on the bed. Spaniels shed a lot of hair. I would hazard a guess that they were both shot in here and their bodies carried out to the river path.'

  Pausing Vince looked around the room. 'Are you thinking the same as I am, Stepfather?'

  'Precisely. That this place has been lived in recently. And by someone who was no passing stranger seeking shelter. And no tinker. Tinkers care little for sheets and fine blankets. They don't put flowers in vases, either.'

  'But girls do. Especially girls who are entertaining a lover.'

  'Ah, now we're getting somewhere, lad,' said Faro as he examined the fireplace. 'Let us reconstruct the scene. This was a clandestine meeting. No fire was lit, for that would bring attention to the fact that the ruined mill had an occupant. The bedlinen and tablecloth indicated a lass of refined taste.'

  Considering for a moment, he said, 'I think if we gathered these together and took them to the Castle, we would find they originated from the same source in the linen room. Purloined by Morag Brodie for the special occasion which, alas, was to cost her her life.'

  'So you think she stayed here.'

  'Undoubtedly. She spent the night she was killed here and perhaps one night before. But no more than that.'

  'How can you tell?'

  'Fine linen sheets like these crease badly and have to be changed frequently. Consider their almost pristine condition. And the two pillowcases, lad. Only one has been used. I would say that only Morag slept here and that she waited in vain for her lover. And when he finally arrived, it was not to sleep with her, but to put a knife in her.'

  Faro wandered back to the stairhead. 'But not in the bed,' he said. And eying the scene narrowly, 'Probably here. Where the blood has soaked into the floorboards. But for some reason it was inconvenient to dispose of her body, and while he was awaiting his chance the Queen's inquisitive dogs came on the scene. He realises his danger, shoots them and carries their bodies on to the river path. Does this suggest anything to you?'

  'Only that the murderer might have been someone employed at the Castle. A fellow-servant?'

  'Or a ghillie,' was the reply.

  'And if your theory is correct, Stepfather, he is still lurking about, his crime undetected. Another good reason for not spreading alarm and despondency in the Royal apartments.'

  'And for apprehending him before he strikes again. In the light of our discovery, I think it might be prudent to look in at the local police station. See what new material, if any, Inspector Purdie has come upon.'

  There was a moment's silence before Vince said gently, 'Stepfather, I thought I heard you say that Superintendent McIntosh had warned you off.'

  'Indeed yes, but perhaps the good Inspector will have something to offer on the subject of murdered dogs,' said Faro innocently. 'But first of all we must return you to the hospital and pay our respects to Aunt Bella.'

  'It is as well you have Dr Elgin's blessing. I was given to understand most firmly that visiting times are strictly adhered to, despite the current lack of patients.'

  As they drove briskly in the direction of the cottage hospital, Faro was silent, his mind still exploring the scene they had left behind at the ruined mill.

  'More theories?' Vince asked, finally breaking the silence. 'About the dogs, I mean?'

  'One is at a considerable disadvantage not to have had a sight of the bodies. The murdered girl and the dogs all neatly buried. Having to take it all on hearsay is very inconvenient. And irritating.'

  'Taken that all we were told of the discovery of the dogs was correct,'
said Vince. He had concluded that Brown would be a reliable witness and, in common with his stepfather, a man who could be guaranteed to miss little. 'It has just occurred to me-might not slaying the Queen's pet dogs rate as a treasonable crime?'

  'Indeed, yes. Damage to her personal property, lèse-majesté and so forth would undoubtedly merit a heavy jail sentence.'

  'And one she would see to personally, I don't doubt, and the Royal displeasure is enough to strike terror into the heart of any prospective dog-slayer,' said Vince.

  'That makes sense, lad, but let's consider what doesn't. Why go to all that trouble, leaving the bodies around? Why not just bury them, throw them into the river, or carry them across the river in that excellent and convenient cradle? Dispose of them well away from the scene of the crime as no doubt was the case with the murdered girl?'

  'That thought had occurred to me, Stepfather. Perhaps their killer was interrupted in the act—'

  Faro made an impatient gesture. 'Do not let us miss the real point. We have built up a picture of what we think might have happened. But why? For if the dogs' deaths are coincidental and unconnected with the girl's murder, although the timing would seem to indicate the contrary, what else could they have done to merit death?'

  'Not everyone is fond of dogs. Perhaps they made a nuisance of themselves. Took nips out of the servants,' Vince suggested.

  'Vince, these are the Queen's pets. For the servants, having nips taken out of their ankles would be an occupational hazard.' Faro sucked in his lip. 'There was only one reason. A threat to the murderer's safety. That is the only logical reason why anyone would go to the extent of incurring Her Majesty's extreme displeasure—and we can all guess the consequences of that. Remember. You cannot blackmail a dog,' he continued. 'Perhaps they knew their killer and he panicked.'

  Vince thought for a moment. 'Let's suppose that a farmer had shot them for sheep worrying, for instance. Then he wouldn't have carried them back here, Royal collars and all, as a mark of defiance, would he?'

  'Any farmer who had marauding dogs on his land, Royal or no, would have a legitimate cause for indignation and the assurance that right—and the law—was on his side. But we have Brown's word that these King Charles spaniels were the most docile of animals.'

  'Of course, one dog shot could have been an accident.'

  'Got in the way of an indifferent gun? True, there are many around at this time of year.'

  'That would be a possibility, Stepfather. Especially if he was afraid of the Queen's wrath.'

  'But not two dogs, lad. Not shot through the head at point blank range. We are dealing with a much more complex situation here than an irate but scared farmer who didn't see the Royal collars until too late. Or an unlucky sportsman.'

  The hospital gates were in sight. As he stepped down, Vince said suddenly, 'Isn't this all a bit far-fetched, Stepfather? After all there could be another simpler, quite coincidental explanation.'

  'Then I'd like to hear it. Go on.'

  'Well, they could have been sniffing about that mill regularly after rats and scared a poacher who panicked. Nothing to do with Morag Brodie's murder.'

  'Let us hope you are right, lad,' said Faro fervently. But he was unable to stifle the growing fear that the murder of Morag Brodie was but a prelude to something much more important their killer had in his sights. And that the dogs had somehow been in danger of revealing all.

  As they entered the hospital, approaching them from the direction of the wards were two uniformed policemen and one in plain clothes.

  Faro stopped. 'Detective Inspector Purdie, I presume.'

  'Indeed, yes.'

  'Faro, from Edinburgh City Police.'

  'This is a pleasant surprise. Your exploits are well known to us.'

  Faro shook hands with the tall, burly detective. His face was luxuriously bearded, and keen eyes regarded him from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His appearance implied that this would be a good man to have around in a fight.

  'Sergeant Whyte of the local constabulary,' said Purdie, indicating the elder of the two who saluted smartly.

  'And Sergeant Craig.'

  'Extra staff for the duration of Her Majesty's visit,' Whyte put in, indicating that his own seniority was not in dispute.

  'Sergeant Craig is here to assist me. I particularly requested someone who has experience of murder investigations and also knows this area.' Purdie's apologetic look in Whyte's direction suggested an awareness of discord between the two officers. The elder and more experienced had obviously been made to feel insecure by this appointment.

  Eager to impress, Craig's smile was supercilious. Here was a young man very pleased with himself. Something familiar in his bearing hinted at the ex-soldier, while a new uniform and boots indicated recent promotion. Faro decided Craig was not in any danger of allowing anyone to forget it.

  'There isn't much crime in the area, as Sergeant Whyte here will tell you,' said Purdie. 'Normally this case would have been dealt with by Aberdeen.'

  'I understood that the case was closed now.'

  Purdie eyed him pityingly. 'From my experience, a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown is never satisfactory. Especially with the Queen in residence, every precaution must be taken to ensure her safety. That's why they called in Scotland Yard.'

  His shrug was eloquent. It indicated that this was a complete waste of time. 'Dr Laurie tells me your aunt has made a good recovery and she will probably be ready to go home tomorrow. She was looking very fit and cheerful. A great age, but Whyte tells me ninety is not all that unusual for country people. And your aunt still has all her faculties.'

  Pausing he smiled. 'She was delighted by the chance of a few words with passing strangers. It was she who told us that Mistress Brodie's important visitors were relatives from Aboyne.'

  'You didn't talk to Mistress Brodie then?' asked Vince.

  'Alas no, we chose an inconvenient time. When we arrived she already had two persons at her bedside. The nurse implied that this was the limit and a great dispensation outside the official visiting hours.'

  'I'm sure we could have arranged—' Vince began.

  'Thank you, but I would not dream of disrupting the hospital's routine.' And turning to Faro, 'A stroke of luck meeting you here, Inspector. I have just arrived but when Sergeant Craig told me you were in the area, I could scarcely believe my good fortune.'

  Vince, encountering Faro's triumphant look, was saved a reply as a nurse hurried towards him. Bidding them a hasty farewell, he followed her down the corridor.

  Faro hesitated a moment, then decided in the circumstances of Purdie and his colleagues having been turned away, it would be tactless to insist upon seeing his aunt.

  At the entrance a carriage awaited Purdie. A not-too-cleverly disguised police carriage, which the Inspector from Scotland Yard was important enough to have placed at his disposal. It was, Faro thought, a conveyance calculated to hinder a discreet investigation, alerting every citizen guiltily concealing an illicit still or poacher's trap and sending waves of alarm and despondency into the surrounding district. Its repercussions would undoubtedly be felt even in those areas where law was administered both rarely and reluctantly by the portly, easy-going Sergeant Whyte.

  Looking back at the hospital, Purdie said to Craig, 'We will return later.' And to Faro, 'We have delayed it as much as possible until Mistress Brodie was considered fit to respond to our official enquiries about the fire.' He sighed. 'This is the second of our mistimed visits since we linked our endeavours to those of Sergeant Whyte who has failed to make any progress.'

  Both men looked at the unfortunate Whyte who shuffled his feet miserably.

  'We thought she might be able to throw some light upon the murdered girl's last hours,' said Purdie. 'Being kin, and so forth.'

  Considering whether he should, at this point, reveal his discoveries in the ruined mill. Faro decided to await a more opportune moment. 'My aunt tells me Nessie Brodie has been very muddled since the acciden
t.'

  Craig shook his head disapprovingly, and patted his notebook pocket with military precision. 'The first time we found her fast asleep when we looked in. It was Inspector Purdie's decision that we should return later.' His pitying glance conveyed the impression that his superior officer was too soft-hearted by far and that he, Craig, wouldn't have had any hesitation about waking the old woman up.

  'After all, this is an official enquiry,' he added to Whyte, creating an impression that the elder policeman was no longer up to his job.

  Purdie beamed upon Faro. 'Mistress MacVae was most helpful, Faro, a positive mine of useful information. No doubt you inherited your flair for detection from her.'

  It was Faro's turn to smile. He must remember to tell Bella, she would love that.

  'We had been toying with a theory that the fire might have been deliberate, perhaps in the mistaken idea that the girl Morag was visiting. However, your aunt told us that Mistress Brodie was well known for her kind heart, allowing tinkers to sleep in her barn and if the weather was bad leaving food and drink there. Just in case any benighted stranger needed shelter or was caught in a storm.'

  'Was there a storm on that night?' Faro asked Whyte.

  'Not exactly a storm, sir. A fine mist and cold for the time of year—'

  'Very well.' And to Craig, 'I presume you have combed thoroughly through the charred ruins.'

  'Yes, sir. As a matter of fact Inspector Purdie had a piece of luck. He picked up what looked like a clay pipe.' Craig darted an admiring glance in the Inspector's direction.

  Purdie shrugged. 'Doubtless belonged to one of Mistress Brodie's nocturnal visitors. Too many drinks, our tinker fell asleep, pipe in hand, and when he awoke and found he had set the dry hay alight, he panicked and bolted.'

  'That's right, sir,' said Whyte triumphantly. 'There are always plenty tinkers about around this time of year. Ghillies' Ball brings them down like vultures, looking for pickings.'

  'Have you questioned the tinker camps?' Faro asked.

  Whyte looked uncomfortable under the scrutiny of Craig and Purdie.

  'They had all gone next morning. Fly-by-nights. And pursuing them is a waste of time. I've had years of it. The sight of a uniform and they either close up like clams or tell a pack of lies.'