Deadly Beloved (17 page)

Slamming his fists together, he turned to Faro. "Experiments, Stepfather. You know what that means, cutting to pieces, coldly dissecting his own unborn daughter."

"A daughter? It was so far advanced."

"Yes. Mabel told me so. A female child. A female child who would have been about the same age as Eveline Shaw."

Eveline Shaw.

Both men were silent and then Faro asked, "Are there any other young women with babies in the Kellar circle?"

"They didn't have a social circle, Stepfather. I think I knew most of their acquaintances — yes, I'd call them that."

"Considering that Mrs Kellar was so forthright about her husband's brutish treatment, I should have thought his infidelity would have been worth a mention. I'm surprised she gave no hint of it."

"You're going too fast, Stepfather. You have the answer there before you. Read her letter again. She had suffered the last fatal blow to that cherished illusion she had kept alive through their marriage. That Kellar still loved her in his fashion. Don't you see, a woman like Mabel had her pride. She could uncomplainingly endure and suffer physical ill-usage far more readily than her husband's adultery."

Chapter 12

The revelations about Mabel Kellar's life with her husband were appalling, and although his stepson prided himself on being Mabel's confidant, Faro was in little doubt as to the identity of Kellar's mistress. He decided that an informal call on Mrs Shaw might prove worthwhile, especially as the bait he had to offer as excuse for the visit, was calculated to gain her confidence and promote further agreeable and sympathetic acquaintance.

When Vince asked if he had found a companion for the Neruda concert, Faro said, "I've decided to ask Mrs Shaw to accompany me."

"Mrs Shaw? Good heavens. Well, well."

"As you're so fond of quoting, lad, music sounds ten times better when it is being shared by someone of a harmonious disposition. In this case who better than Mrs Shaw?" Watching his stepson's mocking expression. Faro's icy glare forbade the usual teasing.

"And I'll have none of your innuendos, if you please. The concert serves a double purpose since it provides an admirable opportunity of continuing my investigations. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course, Stepfather."

Vince's unchanging smile mocked him and he added angrily, "Dammit, you know my feelings about her."

"Ah yes, that is all very well, but do we know her feelings about you?"

"Listen to me," said Faro heatedly, "Even without the business about Mabel Kellar, I would still feel sorry for a young widow. Especially a talented pianist with possibly few chances to attend concerts or to hear the divine Neruda play. So it's a bit early in the day for you to start hearing wedding bells, I must say," he added huffily.

"All right, Stepfather, I stand corrected and I apologise." Vince's impudent grin was anything but apologetic, "You're very sure of yourself where the ladies are concerned, so let's hope it stays that way and that one day I don't have to remind you with 'I told you so'." He stretched out his hand, "May I see that letter again?" And examining it carefully, "You have observed that it is un-dated."

Faro nodded. "Irritating, isn't it?"

"But hardly surprising, considering poor Mabel's state of mind when it was written. Did Tiz leave you the envelope?"

"Here it is,"

"No postmark?"

"The answer is that the contents were too important to entrust to the mail or to any other person and Mrs Kellar most likely handed in to the solicitor's office personally."

"When? Hardly on the way to the station without attracting Kellar's curiosity. Do you see what I'm getting at, Stepfather? The dinner party was on Sunday, so if Eveline Shaw was Kellar's mistress, Mabel already knew." Vince jabbed a finger at him. "Which makes absolute nonsense of your theory, doesn't it? You just have to remember her behaviour that evening," he laughed. "Mabel would need to be a far better actress than I credit her for to have sustained that elaborate exhibition of devotion to her dearest friend and companion. It has to be someone else, Stepfather. It can't be Eveline Shaw."

The afternoon was bright and cheerful, with a cloudless frosty sky stretching to infinity. An azure glow hung over the Castle, a great sleeping stone monster dwarfing the ant-like creatures who scuttled back and forth along Princes Street enjoying the brief respite of springtime promise. Crouched among its own dark secrets, so the Castle had stood through centuries of winter snow and summer sunshine, a silent witness impervious to man's follies, his despairs and fleeting triumphs.

Faro's thoughts turned to the interview that lay ahead. Vince's argument failed to convince him, despite Mrs Kellar's display of affection to Mrs Shaw at the dinner party. Regardless of when that damning letter had been delivered to the solicitor's office, he had not the slightest doubt that Mrs Shaw was Kellar's mistress and that Barnaby was his son.

He saw that public façade of indifference and even dislike for what it was: a ruse, imperative if their association was to remain a closely-guarded secret. The whole evening must have been torture for them both, especially for Mrs Shaw. This theory interpreted her vaguely distressed manner, not as carrying a still inconsolable burden of grief for her dead husband but as constant terror that by word or glance her intimate relationship with Melville Kellar might be made apparent to Mabel.

Was it possible that Mrs Kellar had been naive enough to imagine that her sweet and caring behaviour would stir some pangs of conscience in the guilty pair and that Eveline Shaw, in particular, might decide to end the affair? If Mabel Kellar thought along such lines, Faro decided grimly, then she had a pitiful grasp of human nature or the fact that love, once dead, was seldom resurrected by self-sacrifice.

Faro was pleased with his astute observation that from Mrs Shaw's viewpoint the devoted friendship was somewhat one-sided. It did not take much imagination to realise that the young woman must be desperate to give Barnaby a father. And since Kellar was eager to bestow the benefits of parenthood on his bastard son, the presence of a legal wife was very inconvenient.

It was also the perfect motive for murder.

The day's pale warmth was deceptive and Faro reached Mrs Shaw's house half-frozen. Head down against the chill wind blowing straight off the Firth of Forth, he almost cannoned into the young man who was dashing down her front steps, having banged the door with shattering force behind him. A lightly built young man of middle height, with the darkly handsome looks of the Celtic Highlander, he was in a high old temper. Face flushed and distorted with rage, he swept past Faro, unseeing and without apology.

Behind him, the door that had been so forcefully closed opened to reveal Mrs Shaw, breathless and distraught. Faro realised that she must have rushed downstairs in the wake of the departed visitor. Tear-stained, her expression of anticipation changed into deepest melancholy when she beheld Detective Inspector Faro standing on her doorstep, instead of the young man beseeching her forgiveness with abject apologies.

Faro raised his hat, bowed. "Good day to you, ma'am."

Mrs Shaw summoned a smile, looking bleakly beyond him down the now empty street.

I couldn't have chosen a less inauspicious moment to call and invite her to a concert, thought Faro, expecting an abrupt refusal.

But Mrs Shaw had regained her equilibrium and saw his visit in quite another light. "Is it about Mabel?" she asked anxiously.

Faro had to confess, no, it wasn't.

Mrs Shaw frowned. "I was hoping you had news of her at last. Such a long time. I wonder where on earth she can be?"

"I'm sure we'll find her," said Faro smoothly, listening to his own false tone offering consolation where he was certain there was none. "It was quite another matter brought me to your door this time."

Her eyes, deeply violet, opened wide.

Surprise became her exceedingly well, he thought, a very pretty sight indeed. "I wondered if you would like to go to the concert this evening. Neruda is playing the Beethoven Violin Concerto."

Mrs Shaw didn't seem to hear him. "I beg your pardon?"

He repeated the request and this time she stood very still. Her attitude of careful concentration and growing amazement suggested that a Detective Inspector was the last person from whom she expected such an invitation.

"My stepson usually accompanies me but he is engaged elsewhere," Faro said, feeling that explanation was necessary. "And knowing your interest in Beethoven . . . " How lame it all sounded! He had wasted his time. He shouldn't have come, made a fool of himself.

But she was smiling. "Oh, thank you. I would be delighted." She clasped her hands together like an eager child given a particular treat. "I would love that. Oh, I do thank you, Inspector."

There was an awkward pause while she gazed at him, wondering what to say next while Faro considered whether he should take his leave before she changed her mind.

Smiling, as if she had come to a sudden decision, she opened the door a little wider. "It's very cold standing on the doorstep. Barnaby is out with the girl, but they'll be back shortly. Would you care to come inside, take some refreshment?"

"Only if I could prevail upon you to play the Appassionata again," said Faro wistfully.

Her answering smile was shy but happy. "If that would give you pleasure, of course I will."

He followed her up to the bare drawing-room and she sat down immediately at the piano. As she struck the first chords, again Faro had the feeling that he was listening to the true artist, the musician who was no longer conscious of him, of the room or, beyond the room, of time itself.

As he listened, rapt by her playing, he was no longer concerned that Eveline Shaw might be an accessory to murder. With her he too escaped into that boundless enchanted world of the senses.

As the last liquid tones faded into silence, she sat with her fingers still on the keys, head downbent, unwilling to make that transition back into painful everyday existence with all its attendant cares.

Faro's applause, his whispered "Bravo, bravo" seemed almost an intrusion and it coincided with jarring reality in the form of screams of rage. Growing ever nearer and more ear-piercing, they took form as a scarlet-faced, square-mouthed monster, hardly recognisable as the once genial baby Barnaby, was carried across the threshold by a frantic maid.

"Sorry, ma'am, I canna' be dealing wi' him today. Real naughty he is. Just had to bring him home."

Mrs Shaw rushed to the rescue, seized those waving, clenched fists. "Oh bad, bad Barnaby. Is it your teeth again, my precious?"

Faro found himself now examining the baby for likeness to Melville Kellar. Certainly the passion of rage before him struck a chord of familiarity. But the baby's continued screams put firmly at an end any immediate possibility of further conversation, or of putting into effect his own subtle methods of trapping suspects into betraying incriminating evidence.

His eardrums were sorely afflicted by the din, which threatened to be prolonged and immediate withdrawal seemed prudent. Indicating his intention, he called, "Tonight at seven," to which a harassed Mrs Shaw looked over her shoulder and shouted above the tumult, "I will be ready. Thank you." And to the maid, "Please see the Inspector out."

Faro gladly made his escape, the divine music of Beethoven and the baby's angry yells jostling each other in his head. Annoyed that the visit had been cut short without the least advantage to his enquiries, he was not the man to accept the frustrations of questions unanswered where such information could be readily obtained.

His way back to the Central Office took him past the rooms of Mrs Kellar's solicitors. Shown the envelope, the clerk at the desk looked through his register and shook his head. "As this was marked private and personal, it would be taken directly to Mr Franklin and would not be entered. I cannot give you any further details," he added severely. "You will need to approach Mr Franklin himself on the subject and he is in Court at Dundee today."

Making a note to send McQuinn to interview Mr Franklin next day. Faro walked a little further along to Hanover Street and entered the office of Mr Alex Troup. He found that gentleman seated at his desk behind a mountain of documents. Always glad for a chat about hectic events the two had shared in Faro's earlier days with the City Police, he greeted his old friend warmly.

After a few solicitous enquiries on the well-being of Faro's mother and his two small daughters in Orkney, Alex Troup regarded him quizzically. "I gather this isn't a social call, Jeremy. Is there something I can do for you?"

"There is indeed."

When Faro explained that he wanted the name of the buyer of Mrs Shaw's house, Alex Troup regarded him sternly. "You know, of course, that request is highly irregular. Such information is confidential but your visit implies that this is police business?"

"Yes. A murder investigation."

Alex Troup went immediately to his files. A moment later he emerged, document in hand. "Mrs Eveline Shaw. The house was purchased in the name of Dr Melville Kellar."

Faro felt the glow of triumph. He had been right. "And the date?"

"July of last year."