Murder in Paradise (9 page)

To make matters worse, the morning mist turned into rain, a steady downpour with low skies, heavy and grey; it looked set in for the day. It fitted the mood within the house, echoing emptily as the occupants kept to their rooms to recover in their various ways from the effects of the banquet and the dubious shellfish.

Faro was not convinced about the mussels, however, but decided to opt out of any chance meeting with Poppy. He was not a good liar. Could she or anyone else for that matter be credited with accepting the truth – that he had been tricked into making love to her best friend Lena, who was also his best friend’s bride-to-be, on the eve of their wedding.

He did not think so. Even if, as he suspected and had been told, Poppy was falling in love with him, then she would certainly feel hurt and rejected, especially after the promise of the afternoon’s romantic interlude.

Anxious not to encounter Poppy or anyone else, he remained in his room leaving merely for a quick glance at Erland to see how he was progressing. Lena had remained true to her promise and was seated in an armchair at his bedside reading a book.

When Faro entered she looked up and although she assured him that there was an improvement since morning, Faro was very doubtful. If appearances were anything to go by, he decided that it was either his anxiety or Erland’s condition had definitely deteriorated.

‘He is asleep,’ said Lena as Faro bent over the bed for a closer look at the pale face on the pillow. ‘He sleeps most of the time.’

When Faro shook his head doubtfully, she said, ‘No need for you to worry about him, Jeremy. Sleep is the best possible cure, you’ll see,’ she added with a tender smile in Erland’s direction.

Faro looked at her, so calm in his presence. The devoted nurse at her lover’s bedside. It was as if last night had never happened.

Avoiding her eyes, he said stiffly, ‘If you have things to do, I will stay with him.’

She shook her head, turned to look at Erland. ‘Thank you, but no. It is best that I remain. He is used to having me around and he’ll want to see me here when he wakes up.’

Faro followed her gaze. If he ever wakes up, he thought, fighting back the gnawing anxiety induced by that heavy, somehow unnatural slumber. As if he was drugged. Yes, that’s what he looked like.

‘Haven’t you matters to deal with for tomorrow – for the wedding?’ he reminded her bitterly.

She shrugged as if remembering it for the first time, an event of no importance. ‘Tomorrow? Oh yes. All is arranged. Poppy will take care of everything – of anything that I’ve overlooked. But all will be well by tomorrow,’ she added with a dreamy smile.

‘I hope you still have a congregation.’ And a bridegroom, he thought silently.

‘We are only expecting a few friends.’

‘And most of them are laid low with food poisoning, rotten mussels, according to our host.’

‘Oh they will all be fine, I’m sure.’ She smiled up at him and Faro shook his head, saying coldly, ‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Oh, I always am.’

He could take no more of Lena and made his way back to his room. How was he to fill in the rest of the day, which promised to be unending with rain lashing down the windows?

Closing the door, he thought of his old ally Inspector McFie and on an impulse he wrote him a letter that would be awaiting his return home after his holiday in Sussex.

Telling him briefly of his frustration over Macheath and the daily reports to Noble, adding that he longed to return to Edinburgh, he ended briefly that he had encountered ‘MS’.

‘She is now living a life of luxury here in Red House using a different name and in curious circumstances, about to marry an old school friend from Orkney.’

He would have liked to say more, but he never found writing letters an easy task. His letters tended to be terse and brief and, on this occasion, he felt unable to find the right words to explain his emotions regarding Lena Hamilton’s deception.

Sealing the letter he turned next to his logbook, now containing a record of his daily visits to the police office, which in due course must be presented to Noble to justify any additional expenses although the money he had been given was still more or less untouched thanks to the hospitality at Red House.

He threw down the pen with an exclamation of annoyance and frustration. What he had written concerning his daily routine sounded even worse than his letter to McFie, the account of a hopeless quest and a complete waste of time.

There was a lot he wished to add to his logbook, in particular the unexpected meeting with Madeleine Smith, but as that had nothing to do with his pursuit and recapture of Macheath, he decided to write it up separately.

Removing a page, he headed it with the possible poisoning attempt on Erland Flett and the scenes he had witnessed at the dining table regarding his own missing goblet of wine.

Was this a coincidence, Erland’s severe sickness due to the mussels he had eaten which had also given several of the other diners minor symptoms of food poisoning? Or was he deliberately poisoned in the course of the banquet, the obvious way, the still tried and true method used by murderers throughout the ages?

In the wine. Who then could have put poison in Erland’s goblet?

He had been seated next to Lena and George Wardle. George Wardle seemed an unlikely suspect. Although his infatuation for Lena was quite evident, Faro could hardly believe that he was the kind of man who would risk all by poisoning his rival at William Morris’s table.

And that left Lena. The business he had witnessed with the goblet still troubled him. Seeing Lena hand Erland her own, watching him drink it.

Remembering the altercation between the two gardeners in their roles of squires, one stationed behind Erland’s chair and the other, masked, behind his own, created another picture, another mystery. Did it concern the goblet Erland had passed over to him which had vanished?

Again there had to be a motive. Too obscure to be credible was that the gardener was in league with Wardle or with Lena. And he was suddenly alert to another highly improbable interpretation. What if – what if it was he who had been the intended victim, and the missing goblet with its poison, had been passed to Erland by mistake.

This idea raised the vital question. Who in Red House would want him dead? His identity as a policeman was unknown except by Erland – and perhaps by Lena. Was there a possibility that she recognised him from her trial as Madeleine Smith and feared for her reputation with the revelation of the fabrications she had invented when she became the artist’s protégée. She had no other reason to wish him dead, considering her amorous behaviour later that evening.

But in spite of this speculation, he must not forget that there was one other person who desired his death. And that was Macheath. However, the idea of him stalking Red House awaiting an opportunity instead of remaining safely hidden in the depths of London was too ludicrous for serious consideration.

Returning to Lena, she was still the strongest suspect. If she had intended to poison Erland then luck and opportunity were certainly with her, the perfect alibi provided by the bad batch of mussels that had wreaked havoc among some of the other diners.

If this was so, then one vital question remained unanswered. Where had she got the poison from? It was unlikely that she kept a ready supply of arsenic in her packet of cocoa and if she had purchased it locally, then she must have signed a pharmacy book. The other possibility was the existence of an accomplice, a gardener who had unquestioned access to arsenic for killing rats.

Again he came to motives. If Lena had poisoned Erland, she had one undeniable and very strong reason. The advent of George Wardle. On the very eve of her wedding, a wealthy man of property with high social connections had, according to Poppy, asked Lena to marry him when they met a few days earlier in London during their shopping expedition.

Was this good enough reason to repeat the Madeleine Smith procedure and get rid of her husband-to-be who could never hope to keep her in such fashion or in any kind of luxury once removed from the shelter and hospitality of their generous host in Red House.

Emile L’Angelier could no longer be held against her. She had been tried for his murder and the jury had returned Scotland’s ‘Not Proven’; a third verdict, returned when insufficient evidence exists for conviction and the defendant is unconditionally discharged, had saved her from the gallows.

She could not be re-tried for the same crime.

But should anything happen to Erland, should he die, Faro resolved grimly, then he would make quite sure that her second try would not be so fortunate under English law.

This time she would hang.

As he left his room, walking across the landing, Rossetti poked his head around his studio door. ‘Recovered from last night? No ill effects? Good, good.’

Obviously no replies were expected. Rossetti had a sketchbook under his arm. He smiled. ‘The very man I was hoping to find. If you have a few minutes to spare – not intending to go anywhere in this shocking weather, were you?’

And before Faro could respond, he went on rapidly, ‘Good, good,’ and flourishing a piece of charcoal, ‘Time for a few preliminary sketches before I embark on the rape painting. Come in, come in.’

As Faro followed him into the studio, he realised the moment of truth could no longer be delayed. He was to pay for his hospitality.

Rossetti pointed to the raised dais. ‘Over there, if you please. Lean against the draped chair.’

Faro looked at the chair and hesitated. ‘I am afraid I have no experience—’ he began, trying to explain, hoping for a loophole of escape.

‘No experience needed.’ The artist laughed. ‘Not a bit of it. You just have to pose like this.’ And standing up he demonstrated what appeared to Faro to be a somewhat threatening attitude. ‘There now. Just be yourself. This won’t hurt!’

Faro did as he was told, feeling foolish and self-conscious as, without another word, Rossetti bent his head over the paper and, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, he studied Faro intently.

A moment later he held up the charcoal and sighed. Faro’s hopes that he was to be released were doomed as the artist shook his head. ‘You are a little overclad for a warrior, my friend. But first things first.’

Faro blenched at the prospect of removing his clothes. This was a new role. Nothing like that had ever happened in the Edinburgh City Police, or so he believed. All his colleagues were either young bachelors or middle-aged married men who seemed quite old. He had never let his mind dwell on what they looked like without their uniforms and it was beyond imagination to visualise any of them standing on the artist’s plinth, naked. Nakedness in public or, he suspected, in private was not rife in the strata of society in which he lived although rumour had it that in some of those private Edinburgh gentlemen’s clubs, clients could for an exorbitant fee get rid of their inhibitions, inhibitions which included their clothes as many a police raid on houses of ill-repute revealed.

He wasn’t listening to Rossetti who talked as he drew. He forced himself to concentrate on what was being said.

‘Really appreciate this, Faro. Most of our chaps have been well used in all our historic depictions of ancient times. Not great figures by any means but well covered up, cloaks and capes, drapery and a bit of imagination.’

He sighed, flourishing the charcoal with satisfaction. ‘Ah yes, you have certain advantages. Being so tall, you have a certain style and elegance.’ And narrowing his eyes, ‘Well made, muscular, d’you know you definitely remind me of those models Leonardo da Vinci drew…’ An appreciative sigh. ‘Those pectoral muscles – quite exceptional. Just wish Topsy could see ’em.’

Faro shuddered at the prospect of being on display. The anonymity of a respectable policeman shattered – what would Edinburgh City Police think of that da Vinci description.

‘Now turn your head – profile! Yes, yes, fine classical features too. Where did you say you were from? Orkney, wasn’t it? Remarkable, remarkable. Thank God you haven’t become a slave of fashion, and the present weakness we men have for facial hair.’ Grinning, he stroked his own beard. ‘Afraid we’re all a bit lazy, beards are so handy and time-saving, but alas, not elegant. Having a model who is clean-shaven will be a great advantage.’ He sighed. ‘Just for a change, I can see the bone structure of the man I’m painting.’

Pausing he stared critically at his easel, frowning, lips pursed. ‘Yes, I can see Tarquinius emerging, and Poppy as Lucrece – perfect together! And by God, even another epic I have always had in mind. Jacob and the Angel. Remember the Bible story?’

A shake of the head. ‘Alas, you’re too young for Jacob with his two wives and umpteen children, not a very worthy or admirable character either; he cheated his brother. You look too honest,’ he said regretfully. ‘Not nearly sly enough.’

Faro had a fleeting shiver as he remembered how last night had almost ended by cheating Erland with Lena as Rossetti went on.

‘One of the girls for the angel. Lena perhaps or Janey Morris,’ and pausing to look at the rain streaming down the windows, ‘Well, there is no time like the present.’

This situation was getting worse but it could not be avoided. This rent for bed and board at Red House was cheap at the price of such a luxury. To try to get out of this request for a model even if he could think of a valid excuse might also suggest that there was some truth in the well-kenned adage that the Scots were mean by nature. And for anyone hazy about the geography of Britain, that would undoubtedly include the far northern race of Orcadians too.

Rossetti continued to sketch rapidly for a few minutes in silence. As he threw down his charcoal with a smile, Faro sighed deeply. The session was at an end, escape at last. But that was not to be.

‘Face complete, that will do. Now I need neck and shoulders. If you don’t mind removing your upper garments – that would be a tremendous help. It won’t take long,’ he added reassuringly.

Faro did as he was bid and Rossetti produced from a trunk alongside a sword and a scarlet robe. ‘Drape this about your shoulder. Hold the sword. That’s right.’ Frowning he regarded the result. ‘Ah, yes, there’s something missing. Legs!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘Of course, Roman warriors had bare legs.’ A wheedling smile. ‘If you don’t mind, old chap.’

And so it was that Faro found himself standing in his underdrawers, flourishing the sword and feeling far from warrior-like as Rossetti sketched. After a few minutes, he sighed and said apologetically: ‘Do you think you could possibly look a little menacing? Try to imagine there is a beautiful woman lying naked on that couch, you are a conqueror.’ He coughed, muttered, ‘Do think some lustful thoughts, old chap. You are to take a woman against her will and love every minute of it.’

A look at Faro’s startled countenance and he said wearily, ‘Never mind – we’ll get round to that later once we have Poppy or one of the girls here. I’m sure we can then achieve the necessary result.’

Some time later, it seemed like hours rather than minutes, Rossetti looked round from his easel and said, ‘Take a break now, old chap. Finished for the day.’

Curious to view the result, Faro asked, ‘May I see?’

In answer, Rossetti threw up his hands in horror and swiftly turned the easel away. ‘Not allowed, old chap, sorry. Never show a portrait at this stage.’ He smiled. ‘I must compliment you on being a remarkably good model. You have tremendous poise and serenity. An admirable stillness that few beginners ever achieve. They soon get weary, shifting about from foot to foot, complaining of cramps—’

Faro considered that compliment remarkable as he had felt extremely uncomfortable throughout as Rossetti went on, ‘If you ever want a job down here as a model, you have only to ask, you know.’

Getting dressed again in his outer garments, Faro felt suddenly weary. A sudden uneasy thought. What if anyone in Edinburgh ever saw him in Rossetti’s painting?

He shuddered. He would never live that one down. Fame as an artist’s male model would not look well in his references and indeed would be regarded with suspicion in any suggestion of promotion in the ranks of the Edinburgh City Police. He could hear his colleagues chortle, their bawdy remarks. The only fame he longed for lay in achieving his eventual goal as a detective inspector. He firmly believed that success in apprehending Macheath would provide the first step on the ladder and being a male model for the famous Pre-Raphaelites was a notoriety he could do without.

Downstairs in the dining room he was informed by the maids that a set midday meal had been abandoned and, should he wish for a tray in his room, sandwiches and soup would be sent up to him – a welcome alternative to being surrounded by diners strong enough to emerge from their rooms and take a little light nourishment, happy to regale others with their horrible symptoms.

Afterwards he made another visit to Erland and realised that despite Lena’s continued assurances that all would be well by tomorrow, he was amazed that she refused to recognise that Erland’s condition had deteriorated. Unable to rouse him, Faro called upon Morris who again made light of his demands that a doctor be summoned immediately, assuring him that his anxiety was unfounded.

Aware that argument with Lena or with Morris was useless he would wait no longer. He would take the matter into his own hands.

Hoping to keep out of Poppy’s way after last night’s events, they met on the stairs and so there was no avoiding this encounter. A polite and rather stiff exchange of greetings and she asked, ‘You are quite well?’

When he responded in the affirmative, she said, ‘I gather you avoided the shellfish too. Very fortunate. Lena tells me poor Erland has not been so fortunate.’

‘I am very concerned about him. I’m going for a doctor.’

She raised her eyebrows in amazement. ‘Is that really necessary? Lena has been with him all night, she says he is on the mend and will be well enough for the wedding tomorrow.’ Frowning, she added, ‘It will be a tragedy if it has to be cancelled or postponed.’

Convinced by Lena’s assurances, this was Poppy’s main concern, and as Faro was unable to confide his suspicions regarding the true cause of Erland’s indisposition, he asked for the local doctor’s address.

She shook her head. ‘Ask Topsy. He probably knows of someone, but we are all pretty healthy here.’

‘So he tells me.’

Quickly changing the subject, Poppy smiled. ‘What are you planning to do this evening?’ she asked hopefully.

‘I rather think I am going to be somewhat busy.’

And without further explanation, he bowed and left her looking sadly after him as he returned to his room. A glance at the streaming windows confirmed the necessity of some protection against the weather.

He was sorry to disappoint Poppy but at that moment he could think of nothing but the urgency of finding a doctor for Erland. The wedding tomorrow was the least of his worries.

He ducked out of sight, hearing voices from Erland’s room. Lena emerged with George Wardle. They exchanged a brief embrace and blowing him a kiss she watched him disappear down the stairs.

This was a new turn to events. Were they both in the plot together? There was no time to lose, he felt certain that Erland’s life now depended on immediate medical treatment.

Seizing a rain cape from the hall he set off into the downpour. First he would go to the local inn and summon the innkeeper who would surely know where the doctor lived.

The alehouse however was firmly closed; doubtless the owner treasured his day off as well. Faro walked round the outside but could find no private entrance so, after a further hammering on the inn door, he gave up and retreated in frustration and anger.

Constable Muir lived next to the police station and making his way to that now familiar territory, Faro decided he should have come here in the first place.

He was out of luck. There was no reply. Staring up at the windows, Faro remembered that the constable had mentioned that he and his wife were going to a family wedding in London this weekend. So that was that. Doubtless they would not be back until late and he could not afford to linger.

Where next? The vicar perhaps? Evensong drifted across the street from the village church, but close at hand was Brettle Manor and as Faro wanted to call on Mrs Lunn again, this was the perfect excuse.

Footsteps from inside the kitchen could be heard in response to his tap on the door.

A voice called cheerfully, ‘Door’s open.’

He stepped inside and Mrs Lunn, who was seated at the table, turned to face him. Her welcoming smile faded quickly to be replaced by confusion as well as fear and anxiety. He was not her expected visitor.

Apologising for the intrusion, Faro explained that one of the people at Red House was ill with food poisoning and needed a doctor urgently. Did she have the doctor’s address?

‘You’d need to go to Upton,’ she said

‘Is there not a local doctor?’ Faro asked, amazed.

She shrugged, giving him a curious look. ‘I’ve no idea. Haven’t the Morrises got someone?’ And without waiting for a reply she went on, ‘Sir and madam have their own physician – from London. He visits when necessary.’

She stood up, the indication that their short meeting was over. ‘I have things to do, if you don’t mind.’

As she moved in the direction of the door, he said, ‘This is an odd state of affairs. What if someone has an accident or takes seriously ill?’

Frowning now, clearly anxious in case that visitor she had been expecting was about to put in an appearance, she said, ‘I have no idea. People just have to stay healthy, that’s all – make their own arrangements, sign up with the Upton one.’

Opening the door for him, he remembered the coat rack with its burden of cloaks and shawls.

There was an addition today. One of the hooded capes worn by the Red House gardeners.

‘Do you take in lodgers, Mrs Lunn?’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’ was the indignant response. ‘Sir and madam—’

‘I mean while they are away—’

‘What a suggestion!’

‘I just wondered. After all, with the house empty for several months, all those empty rooms. No one could blame you,’ he added with a significant glance at the gardener’s cape.

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing – it’s outrageous,’ she stammered and then: ‘Oh – that!’ she gulped, ‘belongs to my nephew. Comes to see me occasionally and sleeps on my sofa. Wouldn’t consider intruding into the house,’ she ended piously. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

Faro went down the drive very thoughtfully. He was certain that the housekeeper was not telling the absolute truth, not that he blamed her for making a few extra shillings for boarding one of the Red House gardeners. However, it was none of his business, which right now was to find a doctor and take him to have a look at Erland.