Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 (23 page)

'Why Leith?' he asked knowing the answer perfectly well.

'It's too dangerous to remain in Scotland. Besides, they have other plans and some of the group have been already rounded up. They might still need Rose as a safe conduct.'

And Rose would never reach Ireland, Faro thought in grim
despair. There would be a convenient accident. A woman lost
overboard.

'And you are to be held responsible for their villainous plans—for my daughter's murder.'

In reply she looked at him. 'Believe what you will. I'm here
to try to save her, if I can. It all depends on you, Inspector. All
they want is the Queen's journal.'

'How are you so sure I have it?'

Imogen smiled. 'Maeve—May you called her—heard that constable who was courting her tell Mrs Brook to put it on your desk. You hid it pretty well.' Pausing, she glanced around the room.

'Maeve searched everywhere, your desk and cupboards, but
she couldn't find it. I suppose you have a secret safe somewhere. I hope for Rose's sake that you have it with you this night—'

And as Faro touched his pocket in an involuntary gesture,
she smiled. 'Ah, I see I was right. Now shall we go?'

As he followed her out towards the waiting carriage, reason
told him to hate her, to destroy her. But as they sat together in the darkness her perfume, her beloved presence, reached out to him and mocked him again with the madness of desire never now to be fulfilled.

'You are to come unarmed. You are to tell no one of your
destination. If you disobey and alert your colleagues then our
people will kill Rose.'

Faro did not doubt for a moment that Imogen's deadly
warning was in earnest as he struggled to make excuses for her.
She had every reason to hate the English and he recognized
over and over again the declaration of her unswerving loyalty
to the Fenians. Just two words proudly said: 'Our people.'

Emotions were too deep to allow conversation that would not fast deteriorate—on Faro's side—to reproach and recrimination and, as the carriage reached the quayside at Leith, he saw that the
Erin Star
, a ship with whose movements he was well acquainted, was preparing to leave for Rosslare on the evening tide. He guessed this was to be their escape route back to Ireland. They had taken few chances of
their careful plan failing by sending Imogen for him as late as
possible.

Then he noticed ahead of the
Erin Star
the yacht the
Royal Solent
bound for the Isle of Wight. And more significantly that the Queen was resident at Osborne House.

At Faro's side Imogen regarded the yacht anxiously from the carriage window. Her expression and the fact that there were few signs of departure evident on deck aroused Faro's
suspicions that the Fenians had already overpowered the crew and that Osborne House with its unprotected shoreline would be the scene of the next assassination attempt.

He sat back. Time was running out. He had now less than half an hour, his wits and the precious package he carried, to save his daughter.

As they left the carriage, two men moved out of the shadows and took a firm grip on his arms. Unable to twist round and see their faces, for a moment he thought he was back in the hands of his attackers in the Mound, the killers of the McNairs who had also skilfully evaded him in Stirling Railway Station.

They had also tried to murder Imogen and automatically his fists bunched and he struggled violently to escape from their hold.

Then Imogen spoke to them in Gaelic, obviously telling them to release him.

'You are to be blindfolded,' she said. 'Don't be alarmed.'

'It is a safety measure only,' said one of the men and turning, Faro saw that the pair were little more than youths, slightly built, with the look of brothers. He could have felled the two of them with little trouble.

'Our work here is not finished,' said the taller of the two. 'And we may wish to return.'

Their heavily accented voices were cultured and as they led
him across what was undoubtedly a cobbled yard, he should have felt heartened until he realized that educated fanatics can be equally deadly as ignorant villains.

A door creaked and opened, footsteps, another door and then a sound like a panel being slid along and he was guided into a room where the voices ceased as he entered.

'Rose? Where are you?'

‘Pa, oh Pa.' The dearest words in the world were followed by, 'What have they done to you?'

'We haven't harmed him,' said Imogen.

But he couldn't reach Rose, his captors held his arms. There
were several people in the room speaking Gaelic. Again he recognized Imogen's voice. He remembered McQuinn saying he knew only that their leader was a woman, clever, intelligent.

That could only be Imogen Crowe. Fool that he was to love—to have loved—such a one.

Suddenly there was a buzz of activity around him, the
scraping of heavy boxes across the floor. He was in some sort of
a warehouse. He sniffed the air, the acrid smell he associated
with ammunition. So this was the secret place where bombs were being made.

Bombs he did not doubt, that were destined for the Isle of wight and Osborne House. Guns too, for he heard the rattle of steel, the sound of nails being driven home.

A sudden stillness, then another woman's voice, speaking rapidly in Gaelic, then in English giving instructions: 'Get going. It will take you all your time to load these. They are ready to weigh anchor.'

He sniffed the air again, the smell of burning paper.

Footsteps approached, light ones this time, and the blind
fold was pulled from his eyes. He blinked, searching for Rose,
in the dim illumination from a couple of hanging lanterns.

She sat on an upturned box across the room, the woman bending over her removing the blindfold. Rose sat up, saw him, and with a delighted cry she pushed her captor roughly aside and a moment later she was close in his embrace.

But brave Rose gave way at last. She sobbed quietly, trembling against him.

Over her shoulder, Faro saw that the room had emptied of the gunmen taking their cargo to the ship. The smell of burning, no doubt of incriminating documents, came from
the other side of the room where the two brothers were busily
thrusting papers into a stove.

Imogen talked quietly to the woman who turned to face him. The woman who had called herself May Moray.

Faro was amazed as she approached. Amazed at the transformation from the shy, frightened maid to the confident terrorist. She seemed to have grown in stature as well as authority. She would never have beauty, but she had power. Her lack of distinctive features, which would not be remembered as would Imogen Crowe's, was an adequate disguise, a blessing for any criminal.

The door opened. A man peered round at them. We have to
leave.' It was said in Gaelic but the urgency was unmistakable
in any language.

Maeve held out her hand to Faro. 'You have the journal.'

Faro nodded and touched his pocket. She smiled. 'You are wise, Inspector Faro. Now give it to me, then you and your daughter are free to go. She—' Her head swivelled in Imogen's direction. 'She has guaranteed your safe conduct.'

Faro stared at Imogen's expressionless face.

She shrugged. 'A debt to be paid, that's all, Inspector Faro. Now I owe you nothing.'

'The journal,' said Maeve. 'We've wasted enough time.'

He took it out of his pocket. As she stretched out her hand, he seized her in a stranglehold. Powerless, she screamed.

'I can break her neck in one,' Faro said grimly. 'So let Rose go.'

The two brothers took a step forward, wavered. For a
moment they were frozen in a tableau, a play from which the
cues had been lost, the actors in confusion.

As for Faro, he had to rely on the slender hope that Imogen
meant no harm to Rose and himself. Pushing Maeve before him as a shield while she cursed and struggled against him, powerless in his iron grip, he edged towards the brightly burning stove.

At that moment the panel slid open, the two men who were
his old enemies exploded into the room. He saw the rifles raised pointing at him. He heard Maeve scream once, then she went limp in his arms.

She slid to the ground as he released her, frantically reaching out for Rose, her safety his chief concern. The two men
rushed forward, hands outstretched, and Faro realized that he
still held in one hand the journal that Maeve had died for.

As they approached he threw it, a neatly calculated throw, which he prayed would reach its target. They yelled abuse at him as it disappeared into the open stove. No longer inter
ested in him, they rushed towards the flames, hoping to be in
time to save it before it was consumed and changed into ashes.

Faro managed to trip the first one
en route
. Seizing his rifle
he helped him to the floor by felling him with one blow to the
back of the neck. As the second man rushed towards him
protesting, he brought the rifle down with a resounding crack
against the side of his head.

Savouring for a moment the sense of satisfaction as his two
attackers lay senseless before him, he turned and saw Imogen,
her arms outstretched, protecting Rose, whom she had thrust behind her.

There was no movement from Maeve, who lay motionless where she had fallen, a stream of blood oozing from her breast.

The sound of footsteps and Faro again raised the rifle.

The beggarman—

McQuinn rushed in. Ignoring Faro, he ran to Rose's side. He touched her hair briefly as if to reassure himself that she was unharmed.

Rose screamed, failing to recognize him, and Imogen thumped him with her fists. 'Leave her alone—leave her.'

McQuinn laughed as Rose cowered away from him, suspecting another terrorist. Holding Imogen at bay with one hand, he held out the other to Rose. 'Darlin'—it's me—your Danny.'

'Danny—you idiot!' Half laughing, half crying, she disentangled herself from Imogen and briefly kissed him.

Then with a shake of his head he ran over to where Maeve lay.

'She's dead. They killed her,' said Faro, standing with his
rifle poised over the two men who groaned on the floor. 'And
they'd have had me too.'

'It was her they wanted. Not you,' said McQuinn.

But Faro wasn't listening. Turning, he saw that Rose had disappeared with Imogen and the two brothers.

He rushed towards the open panel. 'Come along, McQuinn.
You know the way. I was blindfolded. Come on—'

McQuinn led the way through the doors out of the old
warehouse until they stood on the now empty quayside where the lights of the
Erin Star
and the
Royal Solent
moved swiftly
towards the harbour bar.

Faro watched them helplessly.

The Fenians had escaped. But they had taken Rose with them.

'They won't get far,' said McQuinn.

'Dear God, man, why didn't you stop them!' he shouted angrily, as a figure emerged from the shadows.