Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 (4 page)

^{Chapter 5}

'Someone is trying to kill me ...'

The words reverberated in Faro's mind, touching echoes of the woman who had recently died.

Lachlan Brown watching his expression laughing uneasily. 'You see, someone took a pot shot at me last night as I was leaving the Assembly Rooms.'

'Were you hurt?'

'No, no. Not at all. He—whoever it was—missed me by inches. I think a rifle was used and fired from a passing carriage.' He paused and sighed. 'My guardian angel must have been hovering. You see, it was windy when I closed the door and I dropped one of my sheets of music—a new piece, one I'm composing. I had stayed on to rehearse it since the
piano in my lodging is pretty deplorable. Anyway, as I bent to
pick it up, I heard the shot—'

Again he stopped, shuddered as if remembering, and diving
into his pocket he threw a bullet down on the table. 'There!'

Faro picked it up. 'Remarkable. But tell me, how did you come by this?'

'If it had hit the stonework, and ricocheted I'd never have
found it. But I noticed the woodwork of the door jamb behind
me was splintered and I dug it out.'

'With great presence of mind, may I say,' said Faro, picking
up the bullet and rolling it between his fingers.

Lachlan beamed on him. ‘Yes, wasn't it?'

Faro decided that the young man was either very brave or exceedingly foolish as he asked, 'Were you not afraid who
ever shot at you might return when they saw they had missed
their target?'

Lachlan shook his head. 'I suppose they thought that they'd
got me. I went straight on to the ground and stayed there— when I heard the shot.'

'Very quick thinking on your part. And highly commendable
in such circumstances.'

The young man smiled wryly. 'I've travelled in some lawless towns in America during the last year. I know something about guns—and gunmen.'

'Well, well. Do you indeed?' Faro considered the bullet in
the palm of his hand. 'And have you any idea then why anyone
should want to kill you?'

Again Lachlan shook his head. 'I have my off moments like
most musicians.' His laugh was without merriment as he continued, 'However, I have never considered that I gave a bad enough performance to merit being murdered for a poor rendering of the Beethoven sonatas.'

'So there are no enemies that you can think of?'

'None that I know of, aforesaid passionate music lovers excepted.'

'No jealous rivals who might pay someone to get rid of you?'

Lachlan laughed. 'Good Lord no, Mr Faro. I'm just an
average good musician—I'm not a genius. There are many as
good even better than I am. But to be frank with you, they don't have the publicity of a somewhat notorious Royal association.'

'Come now, you are underestimating your talents. I have heard you play—'

Lachlan made a dismissive gesture. 'As far as I'm concerned
it's a big world, Mr Faro. There are a lot of concert halls to fill, room for an awful lot of good pianists.'

Faro smiled. He liked this young man. He had a refreshing honesty and no airs and graces. A tribute to John Brown's down-to-earth no-nonsense influence.

'I presume there must be some reason why you did not immediately summon the police. And you should have done so as it might have been possible to track them down—'

‘You know the answer well enough, Mr Faro. Imagine how
it would have sounded in the newspapers. The billboards
would have had a heyday: "Protege of John Brown in mystery
murder attack." And that is putting it very mild indeed. My imagination can stretch much further,' he added shrewdly, 'As I am sure, sir, can yours.'

Faro was silent as Lachlan continued, 'We have all heard the rumours concerning a Royal person. And that is the kind of publicity I do not care to court. I can fill my concert halls adequately without that kind of notoriety, thank you.'

But Faro's mind was racing ahead. He was thinking of that other murder carriage in the Mound. And the dead woman who had begged for his assistance. Was this another, less
successful attempt by the same assassins? And if so what was
the connection between a poor serving woman and Lachlan Brown?

'Tell me, did anything strange—I mean out of the ordinary routine—happen that night before you left the theatre?'

Lachlan thought for a moment. 'Nothing important. As you can imagine, I am exhausted, pretty shattered by the end
of a performance. I give it all I've got, my entire being, all my
concentration as well as tremendous physical effort. I had also
been working on a new piece—my own composition. I was very excited about it as I'd just thought of the last few bars, how exactly it should end, that very morning walking in Princes Street Gardens. With the recital over, I was longing to work on it. That was why I stayed on.'

'Did anyone know of your plan?'

'No. It was quite spontaneous. Spur-of-the-moment decision.'

How then had the assassins known? Had they been lying in
wait for his eventual emergence from the Assembly Rooms? That would not have been difficult as there were always carriages waiting for fares in George Street late at night.

'I frequently get supper invitations,' Lachlan continued 'but I prefer to go back first to my hotel for a wash and a change of linen.' He frowned and then exclaimed! 'Now I remember! There was something different last night.' At Faro's hopeful expression he sighed, 'Not very helpful and not in the least sinister, I assure you.'

'No matter,' said Faro. 'Please go on.' There was always the
possibility of a lead, no matter how improbable the circumstances.

'Well, I was about to leave when an oldish man popped his head round the dressing-room door. A fan, it seemed, who had got past the attendants.'

He smiled. 'But this one was from long ago. He introduced himself, but I didn't get his name. Davy Mac-something or other. But it seemed he was a great friend of Uncle John's. They had grown up together in Glen Gairn and he had
known me when I was a wee lad. Did I not remember him? he
asked. He had carved a wee boat for me to sail in the burn. I remembered the boat clearly but not the giver, alas. You
know how it is with young children,' he added apologetically.

'I felt particularly ungrateful because he was obviously on
hard times. He said he was living in Edinburgh now and when he saw my name on the board outside, he felt impelled to look
in for auld lang syne. As he was talking I saw how shabby he was, a thin worn jacket two sizes too small for him, obviously
a hand-down, a threadbare muffler round his neck. Frankly, he looked like a frail old beggarman you'd meet any day on the High Street.'

He shrugged. 'He showed no signs of leaving and in one of those rather long and embarrassing silences when neither of us could think what to say next, I asked politely if he was a music lover—presuming, of course, that he had been at the performance. The poor old chap blushed, studied the floor intently and mumbled that a shilling was more than he could
afford and even if he understood music, the fiddle was as far as
it went with him. As for a shilling, well, that would buy him food for a week.

'I knew I had guessed right, and the real reason for his visit was obvious. He was hoping I might give him some money. That was what he was leading around to, but too proud to do more than hint. I was damned sorry for poor old Davy. I had a jacket hanging on the back of the door, one of these horse-blanket things, violent red and yellow checks, I was given in America by a fan. I only brought it with me because I know from bitter experience that hotel bedrooms and empty concert halls, when I'm rehearsing, can be very chilly.

'I saw him eyeing it. It was thick and warm and I knew I'd never have a better reason for disposing of it or to a better
cause. So I gave it to him. He put it on then and there, hugging
it to him. The violent colour didn't seem to bother him. I thrust a sovereign into his hand to go with it. He protested
weakly but I could see he was delighted—and grateful. As he
was leaving, he turned and said, "God be good to you, Mr Lachlan. And you be careful, take care, take good care." When I laughed and said indeed I would, he was suddenly
very serious. He took my hand and said, "I mean it, young sir
you watch your step. Be very, very careful." '

Lachlan sighed. 'In view of what happened a few minutes later, his words might well have been prophetic, don't you think?'

An interesting encounter, or a coincidence? Was Lachlan putting too much meaning into the man's parting words.

Apart from the carriage there was little evidence to connect
Lachlan's attackers with those on the Mound. As Faro was
thinking of a suitable reply, the hall clock melodiously struck
the half-hour. Lachlan shot out of his seat.

'I really must go, Mr Faro. I've taken up enough of your time and I'm late for my rehearsal.' He paused. 'Thank you for listening to me. I shall leave it all to your discretion—I mean, what if anything I should do about it.'

He smiled. 'I thought it was only in the American west that men drove along those streets and took pot shots at passers-by. I've told myself that perhaps it was some drunken revellers here—young blades, I think they call them.'

Faro regarded him sternly. Drunken revellers there were, but armed drunken revellers were something new and unique in Edinburgh. 'You can dismiss that theory from your
mind. I don't think these bad habits have crossed the Atlantic
into Edinburgh—particularly into George Street. There's
plenty of room in our cells for those sort of lads,' he added grimly.

'So you think I should report it,' said Lachlan reluctantly.

'I will look into the matter personally. And I will do my best
to see that it is not made public.'

'I'll be grateful, Mr Faro.'

As Faro rose from his desk, he felt there was still a great deal
unsaid, unsayable, and that the would-be assassin's identity masked a sinister purpose greater than jealousy or revenge. But what?

Preparing to part, the two shook hands. Lachlan hesitated
then said quietly, 'I had another reason for coming to you, sir.
My mother—my mother said that if ever I found myself in danger or in trouble of any kind, you were a friend I could rely on and that I was to come to you.' Again he paused. 'My mother thinks highly of you, Mr Faro. Very highly.'

A now thoroughly confused Faro was spared the embarrass
ment of thinking of a suitable reply as, about to ask politely after Inga St Ola's health, he was interrupted by the front doorbell pealing shrilly through the house.

'I must go,' said Lachlan. 'Goodbye, sir, and thank you again.'

There was a sound of light footsteps, familiar footsteps, on the stairs. The door was thrown open and Rose Faro flung herself into her father's arms.

'Dear Papa. How are you—' And thrusting aside her bonnet to release a cascade of fair curls, she was suddenly aware that they were not alone.

Lachlan Brown moved out of the shadows.

'You!—' Rose stared at him and a moment later laughed delightedly as he rushed forward and seized her hands.

'This is wonderful—I can't believe it—' said Lachlan.

As the two young people stared at each other with aston
ishment and delight, Faro announced, 'This is my daughter
Rose.’