Murder in Paradise (12 page)

Sir Philip closed the door behind Muir and listened for a moment until he heard the constable’s retreating footsteps before turning to Faro.

‘I will be frank with you since I wish this matter to be disposed of as quickly and as efficiently as possible.’ With a sigh he said heavily, ‘My reasons are that if the Metropolitan Police are involved, unfortunately they will have to know that I did not return alone, leaving Lady Brettle shopping in London – as I informed Constable Muir.’

Staring towards the window, he frowned. ‘I brought with me a young lady – a very close friend,’ he added hastily but not before Faro had substituted ‘latest mistress’ for ‘young lady’ as he continued, ‘For obvious reasons it would be wise to keep Lady Brettle in ignorance of this, er, house guest, in her absence. She might not understand—’

Faro decided that she might understand the situation all too well as Sir Philip concluded, ‘At all costs she must not become involved.’

A not unreasonable request in such circumstances and Faro asked, ‘May I enquire as to where I become involved in this matter, sir?’

Sir Philip winced and said, ‘As you are a police constable from Edinburgh – a big city with which I have some acquaintance, you have doubtless considerably more experience than the worthy Constable Muir in such matters requiring utmost discretion.’

He hesitated a moment to see how Faro was taking this, before continuing, ‘I mean, of course, in catching real criminals. So far as I know, having lived in this peaceful law-abiding community for the last few years, all Constable Muir has ever dealt with are a few poachers and those irritating gypsies, whose activities are mostly confined to selling clothes pegs and stealing clothes off washing lines.’

He paused, regarding Faro’s still face, and went on with a despairing sigh. ‘I am sure you can help him with his inquiries, especially as it occurs to me – as it has no doubt also to yourself – that our thief is the very same man you are down here to apprehend.’

Faro nodded. ‘It seems so, sir.’

Sir Philip looked gratified, his smile indicating relief. ‘Regarding the young lady. Most unfortunate, but I am making arrangements for her immediate return to London – before Lady Brettle returns.’

Faro decided that Sir Philip’s anxiety and sense of urgency were justifiable as he went on, ‘And you will keep this information – about the young lady, I mean – to yourself? As far as Constable Muir is concerned, I returned alone.’

‘You can rely on my discretion, sir. One final question, regarding the character of your housekeeper Mrs Lunn – for it is not beyond possibility that the thief may have had an accomplice.’

Sir Philip’s expression said that he was taken aback by such a statement. ‘Why, Mrs Lunn is absolutely reliable, utterly trustworthy. Been with us for nearly thirty years, since our marriage. Came with the package, so to speak. My wife, I mean, of course.’

He shook his head, a look of panic as if the full realisation of the delicate situation in which he had found himself had now dawned completely. ‘This is a dreadful business, dreadful.’

‘Had Mrs Lunn any relatives?’

Sir Philip shook his head. ‘None that I have ever heard of.’

Remembering the seasonal gardener from Red House who Mrs Lunn claimed was her nephew, Faro kept silent, as he doubted that relationship and suspected that she made a little private profit from taking this occasional lodger while the owners were abroad. Sir Philip continued, ‘Lady Brettle might know of some, but Mrs Lunn never discussed any personal matters with me.’

‘What about friends in the village?’

Again Sir Philip shook his head and Faro realised that he was no longer troubled about what might have happened to his missing housekeeper. All his thoughts were engaged on his young mistress and the return of his lady wife as he coughed and added apologetically, ‘There is a further complication. The, er, young lady has a husband, a Member of Parliament, and any scandal would be a disaster, not only for the young lady herself but for her husband’s career.’

Faro regarded him steadily and said, ‘Lady Brettle will certainly want an explanation for her missing jewels, and the emerald, if they have not been recovered and replaced before her return in a few days. And that I fear is unlikely with the facts we have at hand,’ he added.

‘I have already thought of that,’ Sir Philip replied sadly. ‘Would you be willing to help in this matter, Faro? I have friends in Edinburgh, I am not without influence, and I shall ask for your stay to be extended in order that you may take charge of this inquiry. I feel there will be few difficulties since there is a clear indication that this is the work of the villain you were sent here to apprehend. What do you say to that?’

Faro agreed to this proposal, which fitted his own reasons for wishing to remain at Red House: waiting for Erland to recover and hopefully finding some answer to the mysterious disappearance of Mrs Lunn as well as Bess Tracy, which no one but her mother seemed to take seriously.

He wondered how Noble would react to this request as he went in search of Muir. Faro waited for him in the garden, and easily spotted him by the clouds of smoke arising beyond the ornamental hedge.

‘Well, what was all that about?’ the constable demanded suspiciously.

While Faro was framing a suitable reply, Muir grinned. ‘You don’t need to tell me, I can guess the reason. Our gentleman certainly did not return alone. I had a very embarrassing encounter with a veiled lady, young, elegant and I suspect very pretty, certainly not the horsey Lady Brettle glimpsed only from afar. She was taking a walk out here. I was smoking my pipe, and at the sight of my uniform, she took off at high speed. Obviously not the behaviour of an innocent guest. Most anxious not to be recognised. Guilty as hell.’

Faro gave a sigh of relief. ‘Then you have guessed rightly what all that secrecy was about. Sir Philip has asked me to help you with your enquiries, which we are to keep to ourselves.’

‘No Metropolitan Police to be involved?’

‘Definitely not. And no mention of said young lady. As far as Lady Brettle is concerned, he returned alone and discovered the house had been broken into.’

‘What about Mrs Lunn?’ asked Muir.

‘What indeed? I’d like to know the present whereabouts of that lady and exactly what role she played in the burglary.’

Muir rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘An accomplice, eh?’

‘The evidence certainly points in that direction. We must try and locate her first of all. What do you know of her background?’

‘Only what I’ve told you already and that’s precisely nothing.’

‘Sir Philip did not know of any relatives either and we can hardly check references to her character thirty years after her arrival with Lady Brettle.’

Muir thought for a moment. ‘What about this nephew she mentioned who worked at Red House sometimes? I know some of the lads – we meet in the alehouse for a pint and a hand of cards. I’ve never heard any of them claim to be related to Mrs Lunn.’

With a wry grin, he added, ‘Not that such a relationship would make him popular since that highly respectable lady has a reputation for being a bit of a dragon. You could always ask the lads yourself,’ Muir added.

‘I will do so. Meanwhile, we might try the village.’

‘I think we’ll find it’s a waste of time. She kept herself very much to herself. We might try the vicar as she took part in some of the church activities, I gather.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.

The local church was first on their return route, the vicar walking slowly through the graveyard, staring at the tombstones thoughtfully, accompanied by a notebook and a heavy frown, indicating that he was seeking inspiration from the departed for his Sunday sermon.

Lost in a biblical world, he was startled at their sudden appearance. ‘Mrs Lunn? Ah yes, the housekeeper from Brettle Manor, member of our guild. Regular churchgoer.’ He sighed. ‘And that is all I know about her. Family? None that I know of. Friends?’ He shook his head, coughed gently. ‘A very private person, I understand, with little interest beyond the confines of her employment at Brettle Manor.’

Faro guessed that in this close-knit, small community, Mrs Lunn considered herself, by long association with one of the gentry, as a cut above the local residents.

They fared no better at the local shops where Muir was cordially greeted. ‘Mrs Lunn? Can’t help you there, Constable. Not a chatty lady, “Good day” and prompt payment was all we ever got out of her.’

As they left, they were rewarded by the sight of the village hiring cab heading fast in the direction of the railway station. A glimpse of a veiled face at the window and Muir whistled.

‘Sir Philip hasn’t taken long to get rid of his house guest. That’s the young lady I saw in the garden. Must be the shortest visit on record.’

As they headed towards Red House, Faro said, ‘We could always try the alehouse.’

Again he got the reply Faro had come to expect. A shocked laugh from Muir. ‘Not a chance. Things might be different in Edinburgh, but down here those that considered themselves ladies, like Mrs Lunn, would never enter an alehouse for the sake of their reputations, even if they were dying of thirst.’

Back at the office there was a telegraph from Noble. ‘Keep searching. Find him.’

When Faro sent his telegraph in return, he decided that Noble must have second sight to have so shrewdly guessed that Macheath was involved. Later, when he had had time to sort out his thoughts and make some notes, he decided that Muir must have informed Noble in advance in order that Faro would be allowed to help with the investigation.

His main concern at the moment, however, was still Erland and his recovery, as well as seeing himself free of his suspicions regarding Lena alias Madeleine Smith.

In such circumstances he was almost grateful to whoever had broken into Brettle Manor and provided an investigation which would give him a chance to remain at Red House.

Hurrying towards the gates, his thoughts on questioning Dave’s fellow gardeners regarding the identity of Mrs Lunn’s nephew, he stepped aside smartly to let a carriage pass.

He was quite unprepared for the scene that met him as he entered the front door.

Morris, Rossetti and Poppy were motionless in the hall, their shocked faces, their sombre expressions told him what he least wanted to hear. It also told him the identity of the carriage he had met just leaving Red House.

Erland was dead.

‘Just an hour ago. The doctor was too late, he’s just left.’ Poppy rushed forward and took his hand. ‘He had seemed so well, getting better.’ She shook her head as if to fend off the terrible memory. ‘He just closed his eyes and – sighed.’

Faro heard a voice – Morris: ‘It was totally unexpected. Totally – we couldn’t believe it. That food poisoning – we’ve all recovered.’ Bewildered he shook his head. ‘No one dies from that. Feel terrible, but it doesn’t kill you.’

But poisoned cocoa, thought Faro. That was a very different matter. That could – and did – kill.

Poppy was at his side. ‘I’m so sorry. This must be awful for you.’

Not nearly as awful as for Erland, he thought grimly. ‘Were you with him?’ The question was so sharp that Poppy looked at him oddly for a moment.

She shook her head. ‘No, just Lena. She told me – how it was,’ she added awkwardly.

‘And where is she now?’ he demanded, aware that his cold tone showed a certain lack of feeling for the bereaved bride-to-be.

Gabriel and Morris retired into the drawing room and gently closed the door on his grief, interpreting his Calvinist reactions as too emotionally bound up to burst into tears as any of them would have considered quite the normal thing in such sad circumstances.

They were wrong. If they had known Jeremy Faro better, they would have realised it was far from the truth.

‘Where is Lena?’ he repeated.

Poppy regarded him tearfully. ‘She went to her room.’ Touching his arm, she whispered, ‘She is distraught. Absolutely distraught, heartbroken. So unexpected. He seemed to be getting on so well, as you can imagine—’

What Faro was imagining was something quite different.

‘We did all we could. Dr Innes came immediately, of course.’ Poppy looked up into his face, clearly puzzled by his strange reactions. ‘He has just left, minutes before you arrived.’

‘Damn!’ Faro made no apology. That must have been the doctor’s carriage he met on the drive. If only he had known, been in time to stop his departure, confide his suspicions – Poppy looked increasingly bewildered when he asked, ‘Did he sign the death certificate?’

‘Of course.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Heart failure, apparently.’

‘Apparently!’ Faro heard the anger, the suspicion in his voice as he turned abruptly from Poppy and headed towards the stairs. ‘Where’s Lena? Why isn’t she here?’

‘Jeremy!’ she called. ‘Please, I beg you, don’t go to Lena. I realise you are upset, but she is the worst afflicted of us all. She did all she could for him.’

He ignored her and rushed upstairs. What he wanted wasn’t consolation. Erland had been a friend who in truth had thought more of Faro throughout the years, remembering those early days of hero worship, than Faro had ever reciprocated. Guiltily looking down on the waxy face it seemed impossible that a few hours ago that same face had been laughing, teasing him.

Death had wiped out the adult years and returned Erland once more to the Orkney schoolboy he had protected from his tormentors, leaving Faro ashamed that he had not done more to protect him as a grown man, his danger replaced by something much more acute. His unnecessary death at the hands of a woman who, regardless of a Not Proven verdict, he was certain had poisoned her former lover.

If only he had been present, seen Erland’s end approaching. Now what he wanted was not grief and regret, it was justice and that he was determined to have. If he could prove that Lena/Madeleine had murdered this friend who had loved and trusted him, then he would get that justice and see her hang this time.

The tears were there waiting to be shed and, leaning down, he touched Erland’s forehead with his lips, and said a last farewell.

Closing the door he walked across the landing and rapped on the door of Lena’s room. There was no reply.

Cautiously he opened the door. She was sitting by the window, staring out, silent and unmoving. She turned to face him. There were no signs of recent weeping for a lost lover, no red-rimmed eyes as evidence of the distraught, bereaved woman Poppy had told him about, broken-hearted for the bridegroom who would never now lead her to the altar in the local church.

Looking closer, true she was pale, but that as all. At Faro’s entrance, she merely shrugged and turned her attention back to the window.

He could not just stand and say nothing. ‘Poppy told me.’

She nodded almost absently, without turning to face him. ‘Erland will be sorely missed – by all of us,’ she added a moment later, like one already composing a conventional eulogy.

‘Did he have anything to eat – this morning – for breakfast?’

Raising her head she stared at him, frowning, puzzled by such an ordinary everyday question, so out of context.

‘No,’ she said dully.

‘Anything to drink?’

‘Yes. A little drink of – of cocoa – he liked that best of all when he had little appetite.’

‘Cocoa – your cocoa?’ he said heavily.

She did not seem to notice and smiled. ‘We seem to be the only ones who have a taste for it – too unsophisticated and unfashionable for the rest of the house.’ And standing up, regarding his expression, she said, ‘How about you – would you like some? So good for you—’

‘No!’ Faro almost shouted. ‘I want nothing, nothing.’ And bowing stiffly. ‘I am sorry for your distress – I have also lost a friend.’

A twisted smile as she said softly, ‘And I have lost a friend as well as a husband.’

He looked at her. There was no mention of love there. And she was such an actress, this one. She sounded genuinely sad.

‘Did you really love him so much?’ As he said the words he had a rush of memory, a return to holding her in his arms at the masque, those passionate kisses he would never forget, believing she was Poppy and he had perhaps found at last the love he had searched for and never found. And the terrible realisation that she had tricked him, ready to betray her friend as well as her lover.

Clearly taken aback by such an odd question, she was regarding him open-mouthed, bewildered. A moment later she recovered. ‘I was going to marry him, Jeremy,’ she said and turned her back on him, returning to her appraisal of the garden in which Erland would walk no more.

Faro went downstairs, hoping to avoid Poppy as well as any of the artists with their condolences. Hurrying down the drive he knew exactly where he was going and exactly what he had in mind.

He would seek out the doctor and demand a post-mortem. It wasn’t difficult to find him, a brass plate on the wall and the carriage Faro had seen leaving Red House.

A maid answered the door. ‘Yes, Doctor is at home but—’

‘This is very urgent, very urgent indeed.’

A look at his face convinced the maid and, a moment later, he was led into what was presumably Dr Innes’s surgery.

‘Do sit down. Now, what can I do for you, Mr—’

Faro introduced himself and said, ‘You attended Mr Erland Flett, who died this morning. I am a resident at Red House – and I believe you signed the death certificate.’

A cautious look replaced the doctor’s expression of polite concern.

‘I want a post-mortem on Mr Flett.’

Dr Innes regarded him wide-eyed, obviously deciding that he was dealing with a lunatic. ‘I assure you, Mr Faro, there is no need for that. I note from your accent that you are foreign to this part of the world. Maybe it is different in Scotland but we do not carry out post-mortems lightly, especially in a case of heart failure.’ Pausing for breath, he added, ‘I am curious. Why on earth should you want such a thing?’

‘I believe that Mr Flett was poisoned.’

Dr Innes regarded him carefully. ‘That is a very serious accusation, young man – have you grounds for such suspicions?’

Faro could hardly tell him that he believed the woman Erland was about to marry him had poisoned her former lover as the doctor, without waiting for his reply, went on, ‘I realise there was a recent outbreak of stomach upsets at Mr Morris’s Red House. A great deal of unnecessary alarm brought about by some seafood that was off at the banquet as well as considerable overindulgence—’ About to add ‘in wine and spirits’, he shook his head adding, ‘But hardly deliberate food poisoning. That is a very grave matter.’

‘Precisely – which has taken Mr Flett to his grave.’

Dr Innes weighed Faro up cautiously before deciding that he was indeed dealing with a madman, his private opinion being that such people often graduated to Red House with its easy-going unconventional living arrangements.

‘I am afraid I cannot – even if I believed what you say to be true – I cannot instigate such a procedure as a post-mortem. The police would need to be called in – and a coroner’s inquest.’

‘I am a policeman – here from Edinburgh in connection with a robbery.’

Dr Innes’s eyes opened wide at that. He shook his head. False delusions, yes, even the law could be so afflicted. He had encountered many in his profession. He must be wary.

‘I fear then that it is your natural training that inclines you towards treating any sudden death as suspicious.’

Before Faro could protest, he continued, ‘I completely understand your feelings, young man. It can be very upsetting when it happens to a personal friend. You have my commiserations, but I am afraid I cannot help you beyond offering some soothing medication to help you through this difficult time—’

‘You can keep your medication, doctor. I don’t want medicine, I want justice,’ Faro said angrily.

Dr Innes stood up, his stern expression a clear indication that the consultation with this weird individual was at an end. ‘I cannot help you,’ he repeated. ‘but I do most earnestly advise you to keep these suspicions to yourself and to try to banish from your memory what you have told me.’

Showing him out, the doctor said, ‘I was not the regular doctor for the residents. It is possible that your friend consulted Dr Grant in Upton if he was in ill health. He might be able to advise you.’

As he closed the door Faro remembered that Dr Grant was the friend of George Wardle. If only he had not been absent on holiday and had received the message Faro left that evening, then perhaps Erland might still be alive.