Admirable sentiments, thought Faro, and a splendid opportunity for a paid companion. In the circumstances it seemed inevitable that Anton should also be returned to his own country, although Faro decided he could have been forgiven for wishing to remain in Scotland and continue the expensive education that being companion to the heir of Luxoria had given him.
Anton gave little away. There was a watchful, guarded air about the lad which discouraged Faro's attempts at conversation. Was he homesick and anxious, devoted to George? Both, or neither? Whatever Anton's reasons, there was a distance, perhaps an instinctive resentment as his sullen glance often rested on his cousin. The elder by a couple of years, it was understandable that Anton should be a little envious of the younger boy's privileged position.
Regarding Dieter, Faro could only speculate. He did not enjoy the prospect of his company all the way to Germany. He felt no rapport, no common ground, and knew only that he had met many such bodyguards in his long career. He regarded them guardedly as shady individuals who gave nothing away, and Dieter fitted the pattern, his emotions locked behind an expressionless face.
Yet there was something, Faro suspected, something ruthless behind that cool mask. A mask for the man of instant action, and that should be a source of comfort for here was a man who would kill without hesitation.
Having presumed that the two bodyguards were comrades, once while the two boys were out of earshot in the corridor, he asked Dieter what would happen to Tomas. Would his body be returned to his family in Luxoria after the accident inquest?
Dieter looked at him in surprise, as if such an idea had never entered his head. Without any emotion, he shrugged. 'He will be buried in Perth.'
'Has he no family?' Faro asked.
'None. Arrangements have been made. We have no details of his next of kin.'
Faro knew there were reasons for such omissions by men who led secret and highly dangerous lives. He looked at Dieter's cold face. 'Do you believe it was an accident?'
Dieter shrugged. 'Of course. What else?'
Faro ignored that. 'Even considering George's kidnapping? Did that not seem significant?'
'Not at all. What makes you think they were connected? A mere unfortunate coincidence.'
Faro had long since learned to distrust such coincidences. Would Dieter be of the same mind if he knew about Tomas's visit to Faro's room just a few hours before his death?
'A matter of life and death.' He was about to tell Dieter but suddenly he decided against it. He would keep that piece of information to himself.
'People have accidents and get themselves killed every day,' said Dieter, which was hardly consolation.
But killing seemed far from that little group as the countryside and towns flashed by and Dieter opened the connecting door to allow waiters to bring their meals from the restaurant car attached to the first-class carriages.
Helga, a large, solid woman of uncertain age, withdrawn and keeping her own counsel, was another enigma. Faro continued to be puzzled over Dieter's insistence that she should accompany them. She seemed content to stare out of the window, her fingers busy, knitting needles clicking over some garment in bright red wool. Had her presence been suggested by Dieter as a mere kindness, to allow her to return safely to her widowed mother? Such a thoughtful gesture did not quite fit Faro's summing-up of the man's personality. Had she been young and pretty, he might have considered there was a motive, even a relationship between them. But although he was watchful, they remained distant from each other, two people locked in secret compartments of their own thoughts.
As for Helga's recommendation as a servant, Faro regarded this with the indifference of a lifetime spent fighting off danger with scant time and total disregard for personal comfort. Did it really matter whether the boys had clean shirts and underwear for such a short journey? Helga spoke only to Dieter. Faro did not exist, while the activities of George and Anton were studiously ignored.
Apart from the two boys chattering together, there was little conversation in the group. And that was in German, of which Faro recognised only occasional words. As Dieter and the boys always addressed him in English, it was then he made, a sudden decision - that it might be a wise move, considerably to his advantage, to appear, as far as they were concerned, to be completely ignorant of the German language.
The hours slipped past, the boys played cards or read the books they had brought with them to the tune of Helga's clicking needles, while Dieter spent much of his time in the corridor smoking very strong cigars.
Faro had brought ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ which had a special appeal to his own instincts for detection. Unfinished when Charles Dickens died in 1870, it lacked the author's brilliant drawing together of all those seemingly unimportant threads and minor characters in one of his famous endings. Now, as Faro read, he made special notes of any possible clues, deciding that a pleasant retirement task would be to complete Mr Dickens' unfinished task by inventing possible and logical endings of his own.
The last part of their journey was in complete darkness with only the lights of stations and of isolated cottages, under a canopy of bright stars. Tall trees flew backwards out of their path and, illuminated here and there by lighted windows, ghostly telegraph poles threw out metal arms that gleamed moonbright.
This mysterious landscape of the night gave way to the sprawl of the great city of London, a vast spread of eerily gaslit streets of tall houses, overhung by palls of smoke. Lines of houses with tiny squares of windows in their walls, bright as eyes staring out into the darkness, gave tantalising glimpses into rooms warm and welcoming in lamplight. Eagerly, Faro rolled down the window, and the thick smoke of a thousand chimneys drifted into the compartment, the smell of city life and human habitation.
Then London, too, had vanished into the night and at last, yawning and weary, they were in Dover, with the train settling by the pier where the Club Train's ferry was about to depart.
Tomorrow they would be in Paris. By evening the Orient Express would have set them down at Stuttgart. There another royal train would be waiting and Faro's role in the life of George, heir to Luxoria, would be over forever.
It was such a short time, he thought sadly.
Chapter 11
Following the porter wheeling their luggage towards the Club Train, Faro was impressed by the new stratum of society in which he had been deposited. He was very conscious of his best tweed suit, tweed cap and boots, good enough for Balmoral Castle but very suburban when surrounded by men dressed in the elegance of fur-collared greatcoats and top hats. On their arms were ladies swathed in furs with ‘haute couture’ outfits, and flower-gardened or outrageously feathered bonnets which, he decided, he must try to remember in some detail for Olivia's benefit.
Even the air around the platform, as these passengers waved farewell to friends, was redolent of luxury and wealth, expensive cigars mingling with heady French perfumes.
As for Faro, he consoled himself on the grounds of anonymity, that their little group would not be worthy of a second glance in such company. If any had observed them with curiosity, it would be to dismiss their group as a family with two sons.
Perhaps Helga had her uses after all, he thought, and there had been method in including her in the party. Her unassuming attire consisted of a navy blue jacket and matching skirt, with an equally unassuming bonnet. Well-tailored but shabby, her garb had the look of being handed down by some rich employer, giving her the unmistakable brand of a poor female relation or governess, while Dieter's reefer jacket suit and bowler hat provided a nondescript disguise for his profession. Tutor, upper servant...
With the confidence of one who had dealt with such situations every day of his life, Dieter had elected himself leader.
'Leave everything to me, sir. I will make all the arrangements,' he said and gathering Faro's passport and papers, he went off to confirm their booking.
Dieter returned and said: ‘I have booked a single cabin. It is best that we remain
together. In the interests of safety, you understand. A wise move, I think.'
Wise maybe, but alarming in its implications.
And, at this reminder, looks were exchanged by the two boys, their laughter and excitement giving way to uneasy glances which Faro understood, even while deploring the necessity of that single cabin. If, indeed, they were being followed, it would be very easy to isolate the two boys from the group and staying together offered extra security, with Dieter and himself both armed and ready to deal with any emergency. But the thought of being closeted in a room of ten feet by eight with the constant smell of engine oil and the threat of seasickness remained distinctly unpleasant.
Faro looked at George. The boy was as much a stranger to him as the others and he longed for time to discover more about him. For once, Fate was on his side and the Channel ferry crossing provided that opportunity.
From the outset it promised to be a bad crossing with a heavy swell. Almost immediately after the ferry took to the open sea of the English Channel the faces of Dieter, Helga and Anton took on a pale shade of green. Islander Faro, an excellent sailor in all weathers, advised them to retire to the cabin and 'get their heads down'. They could hardly argue but Dieter, with a handkerchief stuffed to his mouth, looked anxiously at George.
'You should come with us, Highness.'
'No,' said George bracing his thin shoulders. 'I am perfectly well. And I want to stay on deck. I love storms. I don't want to miss the chance of experiencing a rough sea.' Exhilarated by the wind and the sharp movement of the ship, he laughed delightedly at the consternation on the others' faces.
'Are you sure you do not feel just a little unwell?' asked Helga, at last showing some signs of concern for their charges.
'I feel wonderful,' said George, throwing his arms wide to take in the sky as the ship gave a particularly vicious lurch. 'Please go below and take care of yourselves. Mr Faro will look after me.'
The three needed no further bidding and lurched towards the companionway in great haste, leaving Faro and George to face the elements alone - and whatever dangers were threatened by the unseen enemies Dieter had predicted were following the heir to Luxoria.
'May I stay out on deck, sir?' George asked.
‘Of course.’
'It is the best place, isn't it?'
'Yes, indeed. And here's a corner,' Faro pointed to a pile of ropes, 'where we can sit down and be sheltered from the strong winds. Are you used to these crossings?' he asked curiously.
'Just coming back and forward to school. In the long vacation, when I can see Mother,' the boy added sadly.
'Are you ever sick?' Faro asked.
'Never. Perhaps I have been lucky in the past.' And turning to Faro he asked, 'Why are you not ill like the other grownups?'
'I expect that is because the sea is in my blood. My ancestors were Vikings and I was born on an island. All my ancestors went to sea.'
'Where is this island, Mr Faro?'
'Orkney.'
George laughed. 'I have heard of Orkney.' And Faro's heart gave a sudden lurch when the boy added, 'My mother knew someone who came from there, long ago before I was born.'
And studying Faro again he continued, 'She will be so pleased to know I have met a gentleman from Orkney. A Viking too. Yes, you do look like one. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,' he added, completely mistaking the reason for Faro's confusion.
Faro laughed. 'Not at all. I am used to it. People think Orcadians are Scots, but we are actually from a different race. From the Norsemen, not the Picts.'
'Do you have your own kings and queens, then?'
'Not for a very long time, George. We govern ourselves.'
The boy nodded. 'I would like to go to your island some day,' he said wistfully. 'The idea appeals to me. We never see the sea in Luxoria, we are what you would call land-locked. We have only rivers.'
The sea was settling down, the wind had dropped and the sky above them swayed, a huge black velvet canopy studded with bright stars. From below deck drifted music, a small orchestra for the passengers' entertainment, the sound of laughter, of happy voices. Far away, faint lights bobbed on the horizon, glowworms in the darkness marking the shores of France.
George yawned, ‘I am quite tired, sir, but I do not want to go below. I don't want to miss any of this adventure - being at sea, and I would rather stay and talk to you, if I may, sir,' he added shyly.
Looking at the boy's pale face, which showed more than his brave words the recent ordeals he had been through, Faro said, 'Indeed you may. You may rest your head here, against my shoulder, if you wish.'
'Thank you, sir.' And the boy leaned against him gratefully.
Faro closed his eyes, content to have this precious hour, precious moments that some fathers enjoy for a lifetime.
After a while George stirred, yawned and said, 'Do you think I will ever go back to Glenatholl again? I expect Mother will want me to finish my education once she is well again.'
Listening, Faro wondered how long they would be able to keep the truth about Amelie's 'accident' from her son. Surely he would see a newspaper or overhear the dread word assassination.
'Do you like Glenatholl?'
'Very much. At least I did. Now I think I am a little scared.' He shivered. 'Mr Faro, why should anyone want to harm me? I have no enemies. I have never harmed anyone and I had - have lots of friends at school. None of the boys care a jot about - who I am - you know, about Luxoria and that sort of thing.'
And with a sigh he added apologetically, 'A fellow cannot help what he is born and princes and earls are not all that rare at Glenatholl, so why should I be in any danger?'
Faro realised he was thinking about the kidnapping.
'I was really scared. I expect I shall have nightmares.'
This was the chance Faro had been waiting for. 'Perhaps it would help if we talked about it. Would you like to tell me exactly what happened that day?'
George thought for a moment. 'Anton could tell you better than me. He saw it all. I never saw anything,' he added ruefully.
‘How was that?' Faro was puzzled.
'It all happened so quickly. One moment I was waiting to meet this mysterious person who had a message from my mother - I know her personal stationery very well. She writes to me often, every week, you see.'
‘Do you still have this message?' Faro put in eagerly.
George shook his head sadly. 'No, it disappeared. I must
have lost it somewhere. Perhaps it fell out of my pocket while they were carrying me. I struggled quite a bit, you know,' he added bravely.
The note was more likely to have been stolen and destroyed than dropped during the struggle, Faro thought. And destroyed so that it could not be used in evidence. Especially as it was most likely to have been a clever forgery.
'I knew she was going on a visit to Cousin Willy's hunting-lodge in Germany. He's the Kaiser, you know,' he added casually. 'Mother is your Queen's favourite godchild and the Kaiser is a favourite grandson. They have been best friends for a long time.'
Faro had heard all this from Sir Julian Arles and gently reminded the boy, 'You were telling me about the kidnapping.'
George frowned. 'I was waiting for this person who wanted to meet me and the next thing I knew, something - a cloak I suppose - was thrown over my head, and my arms were fastened behind me with a rope. They lifted me off my feet and a man threw me over his shoulder.'
He thought for a moment, as if puzzled by something.
'I'm sure it was a man. At first I thought it was one of the boys playing a game - a practical joke. I laughed and told them to put me down and pretended I knew who it was.'
'And did you?' Faro asked eagerly. This was a new piece of evidence.
'No.' Turning in the dark, George looked at him. 'I knew it was in deadly earnest when I struggled and fought but it was no use.'
'You said "they"?'
'There was someone with him, running alongside.' George clenched his fists. 'Mr Faro, I was ve
ry scared. This was the first time in my life anything dangerous or even unpleasant had ever happened. When I realised it wasn't a game - '
Faro interrupted again. 'A game seems an odd sort of thing.'
George laughed. 'Oh, the boys get up to all sorts of pranks. They love playing tricks on each other. But not this time.' He shook his head. 'I really thought they meant to kill me.'
'What happened next, as much as you can remember, exactly?'
'Oh, I shall never forget. Never. Although each minute seemed like an hour because I was so frightened, I knew I hadn't been carried very far. I heard a door open, I was in a building and they threw me on to the ground. There was straw - I could smell it. I knew it wasn't a game now and I kept asking, "Who are you? Let me go. Please let me go. If it is money you want, my mother will pay you - anything -anything you ask for." But no one took any notice. I heard the door bang.' Faro felt him shudder. 'I -I tried not to cry, Mr Faro, really I did, remembering the boys and how they would jeer.'
Faro wondered if any would, had they experienced such real-life terror, as George went on.
'But I was very cold and hungry. Then suddenly I knew I must not waste time being sorry for myself. That wouldn't help. I had to be practical and use my energy thinking of ways to escape. It was very difficult with my hands and feet firmly tied, lying there helpless like a trussed chicken.'
He thought for a moment. 'The worst thing of all was their silence. That they had never spoken to me, never answered my questions or told me why I had been kidnapped or what they were going to do with me. That was worse than anything, not knowing. That and the silence.'
'You never heard them speak?' Faro asked curiously.
'No. Not once. Not a word. Not even whispers among themselves.'
Remembering Anton's description of seeing the kidnapper talking to George, Faro found this extremely interesting, for it suggested that Anton had been mistaken about what happened.
George's account was more likely. The obvious and sinister reason for not talking to him was that the kidnappers where known to him, people whose voices he would recognise. And that, in fact, was the very reason he had first suspected that they were boys from his class playing another of their practical jokes.
The Final Enemy. An Inspector Faro Mystery No.12. Page 7