Blood Line (2 page)

'Excellent, Vince lad, and you'll observe that it's of much better quality than his moleskin trousers or his boots. Nor, I suspect, considering our difficulties in taking it off him, was he its original owner.'

The body before them was now almost naked. 'His body linen too. Note that, Vince. Shabby but correct, no doubt influenced by his betters. So many of the poorer classes neglect to wear underdrawers.' Faro indicated the jacket again. 'Have you any ideas why our corpse should be wearing such an unsuitable garment as this?'

'Certainly not to work in. And I'd swear that he never set out with the least intention of climbing -', Vince emphasised the word, '- climbing Castle Rock or doing any violent activity in a jacket with sleeves three inches too short and so tight across chest and upper arms as to restrict all strenuous movement. He would have had extreme difficulty in lifting his arms above his head, let alone climbing...'

'Without undoing the buttons. See, a central one was torn off, probably in the fall. Well?'

'I know that look, Stepfather. You've already concluded that the poor unfortunate man was pushed off the Rock - or out of a window.' Resuming his examination of the body Vince continued, 'And that bruise to the back of his head was made by some blunt instrument, I suspect, before he fell.'

'Strange that his pockets yielded no information, that he carried not so much as a clay pipe with him. Consider the moustache and the unavoidable tobacco stains.'

Straightening up, Vince said, 'His body is amazingly unmarked. No scars, no evidence of bones broken in the past or operations. Hello, this is interesting. What do you make of this, Stepfather?' And he pointed to a tiny tattoo mark on the inside of the man's wrist. 'I almost missed that. What do you think it is?'

'A shamrock or a clover leaf, but rather imperfectly done. By the look of it, the work of an amateur. Poor devil. It didn't bring him much luck,' said Faro, and picking up the jacket he examined it closely. 'Observe that some of the buttons don't match and have been sewn on rather hastily with different-coloured thread. I rather suspect, lad, that this same jacket of excellent material has all the marks of being handed down - by some prosperous employer or deceased relative.'

'If that is the case, Stepfather, then I know from my boarding school and Medical College days that most Edinburgh tailors leave an identifying mark inside the lining. To assist with ordering of future garments by their rich customers, particularly clients who go to serve overseas, in the Colonial Service and so forth. They often prefer to order their tropical clothes and dress uniforms from a reliable home tailor. Let's see if I'm right.'

At the back of the neck, under the lining, were the marks he was searching for, 'K & J. 154/9'.

'K & J. Kennington and Jenner's,' said Vince. 'I'm a good customer in their gentlemen's outfitting department. A visit to Mr Banks tomorrow should produce the name of the original owner.'

'Good lad. Meanwhile, we'll see what the constables bring back from Castle Rock. I may even go back anyway, and see what I can find.'

'Too dark for that kind of work now.'

'True.' Faro frowned. 'I'm for a walk up to the royal apartments while the trail is still warm. No, you go home, lad. Give them the usual excuses. Nothing scaring, detained at work and not to expect me in for supper. Be so good as to inform Mrs Brook to leave one of her cold collations. That will do me admirably. Well, what is it, lad?'

'Rose and Emily, Stepfather. This is their first night with us. I doubt whether they'll be willing to go to bed before Papa comes home. They'll certainly never go to sleep . . . '

'Then you must deputise for me.'

'Me? How?'

'You're the head of the house when I'm not around. What you do is read them stories, tuck them up in bed. Get in some practice for fatherhood. Might come in very useful some day.'

Vince groaned. 'God grant that "some day" is a million years away.' And consulting his pocket watch, 'As a matter of fact, Stepfather, I'm engaged to meet friends at Rutherford's within the hour. And I don't see how...'

Faro sighed impatiently. Domesticity was going to be damnably inconvenient with something in the offing that his every instinct told him was a case of murder.

Chapter Two

Sir Eric Haston-Lennard was an Orcadian who had been a good friend to Jeremy Faro's mother when her policeman husband was killed in Edinburgh. On retiral, with a knighthood, from the diplomatic service in India and Canada, appointed Keeper of Her Majesty's Historical Records in Scotland, he had been delighted to discover that young Jeremy was now Senior Detective Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police.

A bachelor, fast becoming a recluse, Sir Eric had an apartment within the Castle, where Faro was always most cordially welcomed for a gossip, a dram and a hand at cards or chess. As befitted his illustrious role, where historical records existed of the long and turbulent history of Scotland and of Edinburgh in particular, Sir Eric's ability to track down ancient documents was of great assistance to the law.

Faro followed the uniformed guard along the cold stone corridor past the old royal lodging where unhappy, disillusioned Mary Queen of Scots sought refuge for her lying in. There, in a room not much larger than Mrs Brook's pantry, she had given birth to the future King James VI.

There was, however, nothing in the least melancholy about the large room into which Faro was ushered. The high walls were covered from wainscot to ceiling by an imposing gallery of paintings of Scottish monarchs. Neither historic nor contemporary, alas, they were the work of one imaginative artist, commissioned to impress the visiting monarch King George IV in 1822 with an imposing turnout of royal Stuart ancestors.

Announced, Faro thought the drawing room to be empty at first glance. No doubt Sir Eric would shortly appear from the direction of his study. Meanwhile he would enjoy the photographs of modern royalty, splendid examples of that new and magical art now taking Britain by storm. There was Sir Eric with Her Majesty and members of the royal family at Balmoral Castle. Again, Sir Eric in the uniform of the Queen's Royal Company of Archers being graciously received at Holyrood Palace. A silver-framed likeness held the place of honour. It showed Her Majesty in state robes and was signed, 'To Sir Eric, a devoted servant, Victoria R.'

'Inspector Faro?'

He put down the photograph guiltily and swung round to find the occupant of Sir Eric's high-backed chair had stepped into the candlelight. Faro was a little taken aback to find himself face to face not with his grizzled old friend, but with a very pretty girl in her early twenties. Now laying aside the book she held, she came forward, hand outstretched to greet him.

'How do you do? Sir Eric has been detained at Holyrood, I'm afraid, some boring royal business.'

Her handshake was strong and more to the point, it was surprising. Did she not know that etiquette demanded that well-bred young ladies should not touch a man's hand until they were formally introduced? Who the devil was she?

Bowing, he said, 'I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you. I will return later. Perhaps you will tell Sir Eric when he arrives.'

'Wait. You're surely not going?'

'Well - yes.'

As Faro hesitated, she said eagerly, 'If you arc not in a desperate hurry - please be my guest.' The invitation was accompanied by a winning smile.

'He should be here directly. And now, Inspector Faro, tell me all about yourself.' At Faro's startled expression, she said, 'We are not complete strangers you know. I have heard so much about you - you are his clever policeman friend and I've been dying to meet you.'

Faro was surprised to find her on his own eye level. An inch over six foot, he was used to looking down on most of female kind but this girl, studying him so candidly, was almost as tall as himself.

Head on side, she continued, 'You don't look much like a detective, I must say. You look far too young - and jolly.'

Faro's feelings were far from jollity, if truth were to be told, however he was sufficiently vain to be flattered by the definition 'young' from a girl half his age.

'I've never met a detective, of course,' she said apologetically, 'and one gets very fixed ideas about people who are in authority. I've always imagined anyone to do with the Police Force as being quite stern and elderly.' She smiled, head on side. 'Not a bit like you. Sir Eric is always singing your praises and I'm so glad we've met at last.' And leaning forward confidentially, 'I'm terribly interested in crime.'

Faro's eyebrows raised a little at this frank and decidedly unfeminine admission. In respectable drawing rooms such matters were restricted to behind-hand whispers since any interest in improper behaviour was considered not only unwomanly, but wanton.

Here was a very forthright and unusual young female. And although he did not normally like tall women, finding that a certain aggressive manner went with the extra inches, this slender girl before him was most appealing. What Vince and his generation would undoubtedly call 'an absolute stunner'.

A stunner indeed, and enchantingly pretty. Raven-black tresses coiled on top of her head sloped to a widow's peak on her brow, emphasising a heart-shaped face and eyes that in candlelight seemed golden brown. Her figure was exquisite and he was wondering where she fitted into Sir Eric's lonely bachelor life, when she suddenly trilled with laughter at his expression.

'Oh, I am rude. Do pardon me. Of course, I should have introduced myself. I'm Lucille Haston - Sir Eric is my uncle. I've been staying in Orkney with his sister, my Aunt Maud, and I guess I bullied the poor dear to let me come to Edinburgh.'

'You are from America?'

The girl clasped her hands and laughed delightedly. 'Bravo, Inspector - a good try. Actually I'm Canadian backwoods and Orkney isn't much better - a peevish, dull place.'

Faro refrained from comment. 'I hope Edinburgh is to your taste.'

'Not so far, alas.' She sighed. 'All we do is play cards or chess or read books. We never go anywhere. Absolutely no social life, no people of my own age - except the officers of the guard and Uncle says I can't associate with them, since I'm unchaperoned - except for my maid. And who wants to go out to dinner or to a ball accompanied by one's maid? Girls in the backwoods have a little more freedom, thank heaven . . . '

This breathless account was interrupted as the door was flung open by a uniformed maid, eyes discreetly lowered and carrying a tray.

Lucille Haston greeted her appearance with that trilling laugh.

'You see what I mean,' she said, and at the maid's sternly disapproving glance in the direction of this gentleman caller's boots, she sighed, 'No need to look like that, Bet. I am quite safe. Inspector Faro is a friend of Sir Eric's and he is also a policeman, so you needn't apply your eye to the keyhole any longer. I am totally in the hands of law and order and the Inspector is the very soul of propriety.'

Bet, embarrassed by her young mistress's declaration, bobbed a curtsy and, avoiding Faro's amused glance, hurried out.

'Refreshments, how nice. Will you take lemonade, or tea - and these biscuits are very good indeed.' At this hour of the day, Faro would have welcomed something stronger.

He eyed the sideboard with its decanters longingly. Sir Eric was very generous with his drams.

'I suppose you're wondering how my maid appeared with such alacrity.' And Lucille pointed to the large chimney-piece. 'Above that there is a small pantry which used to be the laird's lug in the old days,' she whispered. 'You know, the laird used to go up to his bedroom and listen in to what his guests were saying about him. Hardly the done thing, but very useful where chaperones are concerned.'

Taking a sip of lemonade, Faro asked, 'Are your parents abroad, Miss Haston?'

'Please call me Lucille. My parents? Both dead. In Canada - I was born there - when I was three, I can't even remember them. Uncle Eric is my guardian until I'm of age and meantime I live in Stromness with Aunt Maud, his unmarried sister. You know Stromness? Isn't it the dullest place ever?' she added.

'On the contrary; I'm very attached to Orkney. I lived near St Margaret's Hope and I sometimes miss it - and my family there - very much.'

'Surely not after living in divine Edinburgh all these years?' Lucille obviously regarded such an admission as incredible. 'Tell me about your family. I understand from Uncle that you're a widower. How sad - I am sorry.'

A sound of voices in the corridor and Faro was spared an account of his life story when the door opened to admit Sir Eric. Grey-haired, large and distinguished, he bore the unmistakable air of authority, the stamp of a Court official.

'My dear fellow, how good to see you. I trust my niece has been looking after you. What on earth is that she's given you to drink? For Heaven's sake, why didn't you ask her for a dram?'

'I wasn't sure - '

Lucille laughed. 'My dear fellow,' she said to Faro in a tolerable imitation of her uncle's manner, 'I know all about drams. Why, my dear Aunt Maud owns shares in the local distillery. You should have told me, silly man. You don't have to be polite with me.'

'That's quite enough, young lady. Thank you for entertaining the Inspector in my absence, but now you may retire. Now, Lucille,' he added in a threatening tone. 'Now - meaning immediately.'