Blood Line (14 page)

'Mace? Not here. On duty.' And without offering another word, Mr Forster retreated into his small office and closing the door firmly indicated that all further communication was superfluous.

Faro shrugged. No doubt Sir Eric would be able to contact Mace. As he walked across the corridor he thought about Forster's clipped English. His appearance and carefully enunciated words, few as they were, suggested that this was not his native language. The other explanation was more feasible, that Mr Forster was a Highland gentleman and that his native tongue was the Gaelic.

Entering Sir Eric's apartments, he found himself in the midst of a party which, by the evidence of the table set with the remnants of a considerable feast, had been enjoyed by an entire turnout of his family.

Rose and Emily were fully absorbed by a set of toy soldiers and a fort. This activity, he guessed by their rapt attentions, held more interest than playing with dolls long neglected in their nursery. Rose was bookish and Emily good with her hands.

By one window, Sir Eric and his mother sat in deep conversation. The closeness of their heads and the faint flush on his mother's cheek, her downcast eyes and shy smile, her hair untouched by grey, created an illusion of youth regained and suggested to her son that Sir Eric might indeed be renewing his past overtures.

Faro was happy to remain in silent observation to enjoy this delicious spectacle. How extraordinary that he had never until this moment seen his mother as other men might, as a still desirable woman. And he was also aware, for the first time, that Sir Eric's exceptional good looks and distinguished presence might commend him to ladies of all ages.

He had certainly failed to use his much-vaunted sharp eyes, his powers of logic and deduction where his own family were concerned. Wouldn't it be extraordinary if Sir Eric, that faithful family friend of forty years, whom Faro had long regarded in the affectionate guise of a foster-uncle, should become his stepfather? What would young Vince think about that?

From the other window embrasure, not clearly visible from where he stood, a woman's soft but sensual laugh reached his ears. The guffaw that followed was one he recognised and, taking a step forward still unobserved, there was Vince with Lucille, she looking down into the quadrangle and he watching her, narrowly, intensely, with his heart in his eyes.

Romance was most decidedly in the air; the two couples, a vignette out of a light operetta, were much too involved with each other to notice his arrival. To come suddenly upon the scene would be to everyone's embarrassment.

There was only one thing to do. He stepped back outside, knocked loudly and threw open the door.

His daughters noticed him first and, laughing, greeted his arrival with shrieks of welcome. He had given the two couples time to compose themselves and noted with some amusement that they greeted this interruption with perceptibly less enthusiasm than did Rose and Emily. He fancied that upon the faces of both men he detected fleeting shadows of annoyance.

His mother, however, managed to resume her mantle of caring motherhood with commendable speed. Had her boy eaten? Was he hungry? He was looking tired. Was his ankle painful?

Such concern made him feel irritable and quite a bit older than Sir Eric, whose overtures had obviously been receiving some encouragement. The magic of romantic dalliance had brought a youthful sparkle to his eyes and a new lightness to his step as he walked across to welcome the newcomer.

Lucille had meanwhile made a rapid transformation into the role of her uncle's hostess. In a very short time she had Faro seated in the most comfortable armchair with a stool on which to rest his ankle. Her personal ministrations further included a cup of China tea and a scone, heavily buttered and overflowing with raspberry jam, which she proudly presented to him.

Made suddenly at home by such thoughtful gestures and enjoying this charming young woman's undivided attention, out of the corner of his eye Faro was amused to observe his stepson's reactions. Vince was watching them with the same mutinous expression that in boyhood had followed the forcible removal from his grasp of some desirable but forbidden object.

Regardless of the potential hazards of raspberry jam, Rose and Emily both attempted to sit close by and hug him, at the same time regaling him with stories of their day.

'Dear Miss Haston has been so kind -'

'And dear Vince.'

'We have been everywhere in the Castle.'

'And met some real soldiers, Papa.'

Listening to his two daughters, Faro saw across the room Sir Eric relating some amusing anecdote to Vince, who appeared to have regained his good humour. Near the window the two ladies had their heads close together consulting a magazine devoted to the latest Paris fashions.

Faro smiled to himself. In a short space of time, the two couples had reverted to being four very practical people, all suggestions of romance carefully swept away as if he had imagined that golden glow when he first entered the room.

Putting down his cup and plate as soon as possible without offending Lucille, who seemed infected with his mother's determination to fill him full of scones and cups of tea, he left his chair with some difficulty and approached Sir Eric, wondering how he could politely extract Vince to tell him of the visit to Lady Penfold and the surprising developments.

'So glad you came, lad,' said Sir Eric.

'I'm here to see Mace, sir. He sent a note to the Central Office, saying it was urgent.'

Sir Eric nodded absently. 'I was just saying to Vince how I bless you for being so good to my niece while I was away. An old man like me isn't much joy for her. Needs taking out of herself. Had a rough old time of it at home . . . '

As he spoke Faro tried to direct Vince's attention to Mace's note, but his facial contortions were ignored and Vince, with a murmured 'Excuse me', seized the opportunity to withdraw once more to Lucille's side. Faro watched him helplessly before turning again to Sir Eric, only to find he had lost the gist of the conversation. Sir Eric frowned in his niece's direction in the manner of one who would like to say more and then, with a shake of his head, lapsed into silence.

'How was Balmoral, sir?' asked Faro tactfully.

'Oh, excellent. Some quite excellent fishing,' and then with a rapid change of subject, 'Mace, was it, you were wanting? Excellent fellow, Mace. Damned efficient too, not like some of these young officers. Splendid background in history. More use to you than Forster. Did he have any useful information on Queen Mary?'

'He did indeed. He was looking for a missing part of an inventory and I gather he found something...'

'Capital, capital. Then that's all settled.'

'Not quite, sir. I haven't seen him yet.' And Faro explained that the enigmatic Forster had told him Mace was on duty.

'But he should be off by six o'clock,' said Sir Eric. 'It isn't long to wait and you must make yourself at home with us meantime. In fact, why not join Lucille and me for dinner in the Mess this evening?'

Hearing her name, Lucille drifted over with Vince at her heels. 'Please come. We would love to have you, wouldn't we, Uncle?'

'I have already invited him, niece.' Sir Eric's sharp rejoinder sounded to Faro's ears unnecessarily irritable. Was this charming, high-spirited visitor beginning to pall on the elderly bachelor with his set way of life? 'We're taking your dear mother, and Vince, of course.'

Again addressing Faro, he smiled. 'No ceremony, just the regular chaps and I expect young Mace will be there. Chance for you to find out what this message was all about.'

Mary Faro, that normally shy and retiring widow, was all excitement as she turned to her son. 'Miss Haston's maid is taking the girls back home to Mrs Brook and - and Sir Eric assures me that I don't need to dress for this occasion.'

'You look quite lovely as you are, my dear, doesn't she?' Sir Eric beamed on the company in general to give their assurance.

'Your costume is quite perfect, so elegant,' said Lucille. Her wholehearted agreement and smiling glance in her uncle's direction suggested that this was a romance that would meet with her approval.

As Rose and Emily were put into their cloaks for the exciting drive back to Sheridan Place in Sir Eric's handsome carriage, Lucille whispered, 'Don't look so anxious, Inspector,' completely misinterpreting Faro's brooding glance. 'Bet is most reliable. And she dotes on children.'

Faro smiled. Fondness of children was the last thing he would have suspected of the dour-faced, enigmatic maid.

The room seemed strangely empty after the girls had left. Faro sighed. He missed them and found himself wishing that they had either stayed at the Castle or that he had accompanied them home. He felt suddenly that a fifth person was an unnecessary and not altogether welcome addition to the foursome he had come upon. Absorbed in each other's company, they were now forced politely to include him in more general and less personal topics of conversation, while he tried in vain to angle his bemused stepson aside to discuss more urgent matters.

As they took their places at the table in the Mess, Faro was unable to see Mace from where he was sitting. If the information implied by the note had been urgent enough to require his immediate presence, he felt a little put out that Mace had not made any effort to contact him before dinner.

Again he was conscious of urgency, of passing time. In a few days Rose and Emily and his mother would have returned to Orkney. Did that account for this feeling of unease, of living on a stage set with something monstrous lurking in the wings, and waiting for a cue that never came?

Lucille sat next to Vince, but it was to himself that she gave her undivided attention and catching his stepson's eye he received many a sad, cold and reproachful glance.

His mother was in deep conversation with one of their table companions. The subject was her favourite: politics. He listened to her candid observations on what was wrong with the French, as characterised by Napoleon III and the Prussians and, in particular, the shocking behaviour of French Canadians, unwilling to accept the benefits offered by British imperialism.

Looking up he saw Sir Eric watching her with a curious expression, a mixture of pride and apprehension. Conscious of Faro's gaze, he turned, smiled and proffered his cigar case.

'Your mother is a most remarkable lady. Shall we adjourn for a smoke?' he whispered. 'I doubt whether we'll be missed, this discussion could go on all evening,' he added with a groan. 'I know old Boyd once he gets an interested audience, particularly a pretty woman.'

And as they took a dram together, Faro studied his companion with new interest. Could it be that his mother's 'remarkable' qualities were the secret of her attraction for Sir Eric? And for the first time he realised that such a marriage would have made good sense, since his host was much too intelligent to wish for a merely decorative adornment to his drawing room.

Misinterpreting his thoughtful look, Sir Eric asked, 'I've noticed you looking rather ill at ease, lad. Anything troubling you?'

Faro shook his head. 'Not really. Except that I was hoping to see Mace.'

'Mace? Of course. I'd forgotten. The reason for this very welcome visit.' He frowned. 'Come to think of it, I didn't notice him at dinner, did you?'

'No.'

'To tell the truth, it completely slipped my mind.' Sir Eric thought for a moment. 'His fellow officers are usually seated at the far end of the Mess and in such a crowd it's difficult to pick anyone out. But he should be back in the main barracks now if you care to go and search for him.'

'If you'll excuse me, sir.'

'Of course. You know the way.'

Faro walked across the now dark quadrangle, where a rather lopsided moon seemed to mock at mortals. Its jaunty angle annoyed him, like a picture hanging askew on a high wall that he longed to set straight. When it suddenly vanished behind a cloud he shook his fist at it. 'All right, old moon. You're safe enough now but don't let it happen again.'

Suddenly he laughed out loud at his own absurdity, chiding an untidy moon. How many glasses of claret had he drunk? After the first two his glass had been constantly replenished by attentive servants, and he must have consumed at least the better part of a bottle. At the barracks he was told that Lieutenant Mace had come off duty before dinner.

'You've just missed him,' said the young officer, giving directions. 'Room 223. Down the corridor, turn right. No, he wasn't at dinner. Bit under the weather, I imagine,' he added with a grin. 'We had a birthday celebration for one of the lads last night.'

Following directions, Faro tapped on the door, waited and receiving no reply looked inside. The room had an air of general untidiness with a dress uniform spread out on the bed, as if waiting for its owner who was going to need it in a hurry when he came off duty.

His way back to the Mess led him past the royal apartments. He stopped outside. Perhaps that was where Mace expected to meet him. But the doors were locked, the corridor empty.

'Where on earth can Mace have got to?' he said, returning to Sir Eric.

Sir Eric shook his head. 'The most likely thing is that having missed you and not knowing that you were dining here he has gone down to Sheridan Place.'

'You are probably right.'