To Kill a Queen (13 page)

'What sort of business would that be?' Brown demanded suspiciously.

'When can we expect to find him at home?'

Brown shrugged. 'He's awa' visiting. Ballater way. That's all I can tell you.'

Purdie's usually bland face registered the dismay of a hunter thwarted of his prey. 'When do you expect his return?'

'Late tonight. Mebbe not. I canna tell ye.' He grinned. 'The lad is mebbe courtin', ye ken. But I'll let him know ye called. Ye can depend on that.'

And touching his bonnet, he opened the gate, his eyes sliding anxiously towards the sackcloth bundle. Then to Faro he said, 'Have ye any information yet for Her Majesty?'

'I'm afraid not. These things take time.'

Brown's shrug was disbelieving. 'Her Majesty is getting gey anxious. She's wishful to have the criminal apprehended afore she leaves.'

Watching Brown's retreating figure, Craig said, 'Shall we go into Ballater, sir?'

'For what reason?'

'To apprehend Lachlan Brown, of course. I'm sure the proximity of a railway station has not escaped you, sir.'

'Come, come, Craig. You can do better than that. He would hardly disappear without taking his belongings. Or more important, his five hundred pounds.'

'But we have the knife.'

Purdie shook his head. 'We have, but he doesn't know that yet, does he?' And at Craig's anxious expression he went on, 'I don't think we need worry about him eluding us. He will be back. You can bank on it.'

On the way back to Crathie, Faro recounted to Purdie his quest for the Queen's dog-slayer and his suspicions that Morag Brodie had been murdered in the ruined mill and her body then transported over to Crathie.

Purdie looked very thoughtful and as Bella's cottage came in sight Faro rapidly added his account of his meeting with the dog-walking footmen and of his subsequent encounter with Peter Noble.

'Very interesting, very interesting indeed,' said Purdie. 'Especially that connection with Lessing. I think you might have stumbled on to something very significant indeed. And I must confess it does alarm me. I am more than ever certain there is not a moment to be lost.'

With a promise to meet later that day, they parted.

Inside the cottage, the tiny parlour was already crowded with well-wishers and neighbours.

Bella greeted him excitedly and gave the answer he had expected.

'Jeremy, that wasna' Inspector Purdie.'

'I assure you it was.'

'Then that wasna' the man who came in to see Nessie.' And shaking his head, she added firmly, 'He didna' look a bit like that.'

Chapter Eight

Faro was finishing his third cup of tea and resisting a profusion of pies, scones, bannocks and Dundee cake, made by Tibbie and the neighbours to mark the grand occasion of Bella's birthday and welcome home.

Loosening the two lower buttons of his waistcoat he realised that he was out of practice in the marathon eating stakes. A week of this particular good life and he would be unable to get into his clothes, and as the latch was raised heralding a fresh influx of well-wishers into the already overflowing parlour, he decided on retreat.

Looking down over the stairhead, he saw the new arrival was Lachlan Brown. Greeting Bella he handed her a delicate china figurine which also looked as if it might have had its origins in Balmoral Castle.

'It has a tiny hair crack—here,' he said apologetically at Bella's pleasurable exclamations. 'I'm afraid the Queen threw it out—'

'Oh, laddie, laddie. It's lovely. Ye're that kind.' She hugged him delightedly.

'It is no better than you deserve. We're all glad to have you back with us, Mistress MacVae.'

'Ye'll have some tea. Or a dram.'

Faro hovered indecisively, watched him carry cup and plate towards the door. A moment later Tibbie climbed the stairs.

'So that's where ye are, Jeremy. Lachlan wants a wee chat wi' ye. He's in the garden,' she added concealing her curiosity with utmost difficulty.

He found Lachlan on the wooden seat, staring out across the hill, looking if possible even more sullen and remote than he had at their first meeting.

Turning round he made no attempt to shake hands. 'I'll not beat about the bush, Inspector. I am here only because Johnnie insisted that I should see you. It's about Morag Brodie,' he said abruptly. 'I didn't kill her, whatever they are trying to prove. Yes, sit down, if you please.'

Faro regarded him narrowly. Black-haired, white-skinned, the lad was handsome enough on a good day to turn any lass's head; rebellious, with an arrogance that stemmed, Faro suspected, from being kin to the Queen's favourite.

'The point is, can you prove your innocence?'

Lachlan shrugged. 'She said she loved me. Then she met this other fellow. I don't see why they think that gave me good reason for murdering her.'

Suddenly the rain that had been threatening since morning began. Lachlan gave an exasperated gesture towards the drops that fell around them, heavy as coins. 'Is there somewhere we can talk?'

'Of course.' Faro led the way indoors to his room.

Lachlan sat down on the edge of the bed, considered his clasped hands. 'I did not kill Morag,' he repeated dully. 'I happened to be passing by when the accident happened. I jumped in and saved her—or haven't they told you that?' Without waiting for Faro's reply, he said, 'As soon as I got her on to the bank, I dived in again and tried to get Lessing. But I was too late.'

Lachlan sighed. 'Even if I had hated Lessing—and I didn't—I wouldn't stand by and watch any man drown.'

Faro was almost inclined to believe him, bearing in mind the surprising character of the bothy. From his vast experience of violent men, Lachlan Brown seemed too finely drawn and sensitive to have stabbed Morag Brodie in a blind and brutal fit of jealousy. Especially as the lad might have had the pick of a much wider range of elegant young ladies than the servants' hall at Balmoral could offer.

Suddenly he was curious to hear more of his background.

As if interpreting his thoughts Lachlan said, 'All right, Inspector. You had better have the truth. I expect it will come out sooner or later. I was only marrying Morag because she was having a child.'

So Bella had surmised, thought Faro, as Lachlan continued, 'Oh, it wasn't mine. But I was being paid handsomely for my trouble, a pension of two hundred and fifty pounds per year to give her child a name.'

Two hundred and fifty pounds a year was five pounds a week. The salary of an upper servant at Balmoral was the same, which might also mean that if Lachlan lived carefully he could exist in comfort for the rest of his life.

'And who was this generous benefactor?' Faro interrupted.

'Ah, that is a question I cannot answer.'

'Cannot or will not?' asked Faro softly.

Lachlan smiled. 'No, not from any delicacy or discretion. Just because I don't know either. The offer came from "A Well-Wisher" on Balmoral notepaper.'

'You have the letter in your possession?' asked Faro eagerly.

'Not even that. I was told to destroy it and that the bank in Ballater had been given instructions.'

'You were not in any doubt? You did not think that, for instance, it might be a hoax?'

'Not after I checked with the bank and found it correct in every detail.'

'Every detail. Such as?'

'There were no terms. Merely the payment. The first deposit of two hundred and fifty pounds had been made in good faith.'

It all sounded a little cold-blooded and hinted that whoever was responsible for Morag's pregnancy was a man of wealth and importance. As for Lachlan, he was taking this somewhat murky business remarkably well. He was either innocent or he was a very glib liar.

'All that was required of me was that I declared Morag Brodie as my wife "by habit and repute" before two witnesses in the Scots fashion.'

'A marriage that would never stand up in a court of law outside Scotland.'

'Exactly, Inspector, but it would preserve her respectability. So what had I to fear?' said Lachlan cheerfully. 'Besides Morag left immediately to return to her duties at the Castle. There was no consummation, the marriage was to be kept secret until the Queen left for London.' He shook his head. 'I never saw her again and I did not feel inclined to bring up the matter when I was questioned by the police. Johnnie advised me to keep quiet.'

Faro could understand why, since this dubious undertaking gave Lachlan an even more valid purpose for getting rid of Morag Brodie while retaining her mysterious dowry. Murders were regularly committed for far less monetary gain.

Inspector Purdie, he was sure, would be very interested in this new piece of information.

'Johnnie disapproved strongly, but he agreed to be a witness. And Dave Grant. Their discretion can be relied on implicitly,' Lachlan added, 'although they both did their utmost to talk me out of it.'

'I am not surprised.'

'I did give it some thought, truly. But the marriage was to be in name only. There was no further obligation. The money was the main temptation. I have been supported by the Brown family all my life until now. Gives me the chance I have always wanted to study the pianoforte.' He smiled sadly. 'A dream was suddenly a possibility.'

'Did you never wonder why you were chosen for this role in Morag Brodie's life?'

Lachlan shrugged. 'I have no idea. She was pretty, intelligent and I hope they get whoever killed her. I liked her well enough and I'm sorry she's dead. And not only because of the lost annuity.'

He laughed bitterly. 'Save your disapproval, Inspector. As a love child myself, abandoned by an unknown father, I realise that the state of idiocy known as being in love requires a measure of blindness. I prefer to keep my eyes wide open.'

His words brought to Faro echoes of his stepson's railings against his own illegitimacy—except that Vince's mother had been more fortunate in meeting Jeremy Faro.

'How old are you, Lachlan?'

'Twenty-two.'

Almost the same age as Vince, thought Faro, another parallel in two lives that were otherwise poles apart.

'Have you any family?'

Lachlan looked at him sharply, was about to speak and then looked out of the window. 'Uncle Johnnie is my family. All I have here. He isn't really my uncle, of course, although I should call him so. He is a kind of fourth cousin twice removed.'

His smile transformed his face with a shaft of familiarity. Where had he seen this lad before?

'How long have you lived here?'

'I was fostered by the Browns when I was still a small child. Orphaned, you know,' he added casually.

'Do you know anything about your parents?' Faro asked gently.

Lachlan's eyes shifted to the fireplace, his expression as bleak and implacable as its adornment of solemn china dogs.

'No.' And with a determined effort to change the subject, he added harshly, 'I had another reason for coming to see you, Inspector. I presume you were part of the police search of my home.'

'Reluctantly, yes. I don't approve—'

'Please don't apologise,' Lachlan cut short his excuses. 'I might have expected something of the sort. I have been told Inspector Purdie is very thorough and quite ruthless in his acquisition of evidence. I have nothing to conceal and I might have let it go at that but Johnnie insisted that I tell you. I had five hundred pounds in banknotes in a drawer in the escritoire.'

Faro remembered it being counted.

'There is forty pounds missing. Perhap you can throw some small light on that mystery.'

'No. I can only say that I was present when Inspector Purdie and Sergeant Craig counted the notes and the sum of five hundred pounds was intact.'

Lachlan nodded. 'Nevertheless four banknotes are missing. In case you are curious, this has nothing whatever to do with my, er—marriage settlement. It represents money I was given, a gift, recently.'

'How recently?'

'Very recently,' said Lachlan firmly. 'A legacy. From a source I am not at liberty to disclose.'

'Has Mr Brown any theories on the money's disappearance?'

Lachlan hesitated a moment. 'He is as puzzled as I am.'

'Some passer-by—'

'No.' Again the voice was emphatic.

'But your door is left unlocked. Tinkers, for instance?'

Lachlan laughed. 'Inspector, our doors are never locked and while tinkers might remove—and frequently do remove—objects outside, which they regard as under the sky and therefore any man's fair game, they have scruples—no, fears or superstitions would be more appropriate—about house-breaking. A term of imprisonment locked behind bars is worse than death to them.

'Besides, there have been no tinkers in the neighbourhood since my last visit to Ballater—' Biting his lip, he cut off too late the betraying words.

Faro's mind was racing ahead. 'I would like to help you,' he said, 'but unless you are frank with me...'

'I can tell you no more. I have already told you more than I should.' Lachlan stood up. 'I see my visit has wasted your time. I am sorry—'