To Kill a Queen (16 page)

Faro outlined the events of the day, his visits from Lachlan and from Mr Gladstone, ending with the visit to the Castle. Considering the list, Vince said:

'I wonder about the footman drowned in the Dee. By the way, I wandered down to the kirkyard, saw his grave and Morag Brodie's. Thought it might inspire me with some splendid deduction and enlightenment. It didn't. Only to consider how ironic that the girl who was with him had survived only a few days, to be murdered. And that John Brown would not take kindly to his lad being under suspicion of murder.'

Indeed, no. How would he be able to face the Queen again? Betrayal from within—'

'What are you hinting at? You surely don't think John Brown—'

Faro laughed. 'Heavens no. Brown in a plot to kill the Queen? That is beyond belief. Especially as Bertie has no love for his mother's favourite servant. Can you see the Prince's Party approaching him with such a proposition?'

'Not by any stretch of the imagination.'

Then Faro remembered wryly that it was usually those who were beyond his stepson's stretch of imagination who had proved to be guilty in past cases.

'Do I detect you have a certain reluctance to consider Lachlan's guilt, Stepfather? Two hundred and fifty pounds per year to go through a form of marriage valid only in Scotland smells fishy to me. And that five hundred pounds could have been the pay-off from the Prince's Party for getting rid of the girl and Lessing. Surely Lachlan's presence at the drowning episode is highly significant? I am suggesting that he might well have engineered the whole incident. Stepfather.'

He paused, then with a disappointed shrug, said, 'You don't look very convinced.'

'I'm not. Not certain sure as I would wish to be. As I have to be on my own cases when I am in at the beginning and have viewed the bodies myself and studied their relation to the scene of the crime. There are raw edges here that nag. My instincts tell me that there is some vital factor missing.'

'At least we can rely on Inspector Purdie,' said Vince.

'True. But he was not here when it happened either. I have the strongest feeling that the motives are all too obvious and that far from apprehending the murderer, the Inspector is merely at the entrance to the labyrinth. At present I am convinced of only one thing.'

'And that is?'

'Morag Brodie's murder is linked, somehow, with an attempt to be made on the Queen's life. And we have only two days left, lad. Two days to avert a national catastrophe.'

As they parted, Vince announced that Dr Elgin, knowing that Faro's short stay in Easter Balmoral was drawing to an end, had freed him from duties until midday, after the early morning ward round.

'I was thinking we might take a drive up to Bush Farm,' said Faro collecting him at eight. Steady trotted along happily through roads dappled with sunlight. The hint of autumn touching the treetops with gold was dazzling in its perfection and difficult to reconcile with thoughts of sudden violent death.

As they reached Bush Farm, John Brown was emerging from the gate. Flustered and bleary-eyed, he was in that condition the Queen was pleased to call 'bashful'. More accurately, he was still suffering from the effects of a heavy night's drinking.

Rumour had it that the Queen quite often participated in such an activity and could match him dram for dram. But no one really believed that.

'Lachlan?' he said in answer to Faro's question. 'He's awa'.'

Vince's look of alarm indicated that Lachlan, guilty, might have taken flight.

'Away where?' asked Faro politely.

'Away courtin'—mebbe. I dinna ken,' Brown grumbled.

'Courting?'

'Aye, that's what I said. I dinna ken where. That's a man's business and I dinna question him. If he wants me to know, then he'll tell me.'

'Mr Brown,' said Faro. 'This information might be vital.'

At Brown's suspicious stare, he hesitated only a moment and then plunged on. 'The Queen's safety may be at risk.'

Brown looked astonished. 'Ye're no implying—'

'What I'm implying is that the Queen, and your lad Lachlan, may be in danger.'

Vince's admiring glance in his stepfather's direction said plain as words: Well, that's one way of convincing Brown to tell all.

John Brown shook his head vigorously in a valiant effort to gather together his thoughts. 'I dinna believe ye. No one would touch the Queen here. It's havers, man, havers.'

His laugh though scornful was not quite convincing. 'As for the laddie, he's awa' into Ballater. There's a lady he's acquainted with.'

'You've met her?'

'Once. She stayed a night at the farm here. Two-three years ago.'

'She isn't from this area?'

'She is not. A foreigner.' Brown sniffed disdainfully.

A coarser-grained fellow would have spat, thought Faro as he asked, 'You mean French or something?'

'Not at all. She's from up north somewhere. Doesna' speak the Gaelic at all.'

That covered a wide range of Scottish folk from the Borders to John O'Groats.

'She wouldna' be my choice for the laddie,' Brown admitted reluctantly. 'She's a wee bit older than himself. But then, an older lady is often verra attractive, even irresistible.' His expression softened as he looked across the river in the direction of the Castle and Faro remembered that the Queen also fitted the category of the older, 'irresistible' lady.

'May we take you down the road?'

'No. The carter passes this way in an hour or two. I'll no' delay you any longer.'

As Steady gained the main road with his two passengers, Faro urged him into a trot: 'I hope we're in time.'

'Time for what?'

'For Lachlan Brown.' Faro looked grim. 'I've been putting together a few observations and deductions. Remember the veiled lady we met when we arrived in Ballater.'

Vince's face looked blank.

'Of course, you were too busy with the scenery. But now I am having some second thoughts and indeed, I would not be surprised to find that she, and not Lachlan, is our quarry.'

'The source of the five hundred pounds he lied about.'

'Exactly. On the same theme, I am surmising that it was she he met the other night.'

'Wait a minute, Stepfather. Are you hinting that she might be working for the Prince's Party? And the hired assassin?'

'Perhaps even that. If our quarry is Lord Nob, then he frequently works with a woman accomplice. And I am quite confident that nothing about our mysterious lady will surprise me in the least.'

But in that, as so often was the case, Detective Inspector Faro was to be proved wrong.

As the pony-trap trotted briskly into the station, the train from Aberdeen had been signalled.

Their destination was the waiting-room, which they found occupied by an old man reading his paper in one corner and by Lachlan sitting close to a woman swathed in veils.

He was holding her hand.

As Faro walked quickly in their direction, Lachlan and the woman stared up at him. She gave a little cry of alarm, poised for instant flight. She tried to dodge past him but Vince blocked her exit, standing firm between her and the station platform.

'No—no,' she cried.

Faro decided on the bold approach. 'Madam, before you board that train and before I take you and this young man into protective custody, I would beg you to reveal yourself.'

Still protesting she retreated behind Lachlan, gathering her veils closely about her face.

'Madam, have the goodness to remove your veils.'

'No, no.' Her voice was a faint whisper. 'I cannot.'

'Then, madam, you give me no alternative.' And stepping forward, Faro moved so quickly that she could not escape.

Lachlan struggled against Vince's restraining arms and the other solitary passenger opened his mouth to protest. Then considering the odds, he thought better of it, buried his face in his newspaper and tried to pretend they did not exist.

Pinioning the woman's wrists, Faro pulled aside the veil.

Words failed him utterly as he found himself staring into the last face in the world he had expected to see. The anguished and bewildered countenance of a woman well known and once well beloved.

It was the face of Inga St Ola from his homeland in Orkney.

Chapter Ten

'Inga! For God's sake. What are you doing here?'

'I can tell you what she is doing here. It's none of your damned business.' And Lachlan took a threatening step towards him.

'No, Lachlan, please. Please, dear. I know this—this man.'

'You do?' Lachlan stared from one to the other.

'We are old friends.' Inga smiled thinly. 'From Orkney days.'

'Then we must tell him.'

'No.'

'We must. This has gone too far. Mama.'

'Mama?' Faro's voice was a whisper.

'Yes, Inspector. Lachlan is my son.'

Faro heard Vince's sharp intake of breath.

'He is my very well kept secret.' Inga continued to gaze at Lachlan fondly, squeezing his hand. 'I left him here more than twenty years ago...'

As Faro listened he was coldly aware of two things, Vince's heavy gaze and a sudden sickness in the pit of his stomach. In a great tide it threatened to overwhelm him, and in so doing, banished all other emotions, including the Queen's mortal danger and the possibility of lurking assassins.

Was it—could it be—that Lachlan was his own son? His and Inga's?

Taking the boy's hand again, she was saying proudly, 'Lachlan is one of my youthful indiscretions.'

'My father died before they could be married. A riding accident,' said Lachlan in defence of his mother's honour. 'Isn't that so... ?'

Again Faro found himself watching their lips move but hearing no sound beyond the tumult of his own heart. Aware of Vince very still at his side, he flinched before his stepson's stare that, his guilty conscience told him, reviled and accused him.

Vince also shared the brand of bastardy. But at least there seemed to be no resemblance between them except in their unfortunate circumstances.

He turned his attention again to Lachlan, regarding him harshly, unable to see even a fleeting likeness to the face that he shaved before the bedroom mirror each morning.

But now he recognised that the black hair, blue eyes and white skin he had thought of as typical of the Celtic Highlander, Lachlan had inherited from Inga St Ola.

Whoever was Lachlan's father, he was no adopted child. He was Inga's flesh and blood. And Faro was astonished that he had been so blind, and that the familiarity taunting him since their first meeting had failed to bring Inga to mind.

Suddenly he longed to get her alone, ask her some vital, searching questions. Vaguely he heard the guard's whistle, the train's engine. How could he stop the pair boarding the Aberdeen train?

But that was not their purpose. Inga walked towards the guard's van where a large package had been unloaded.

She regarded it sadly. 'This was to have been my wedding gift. At least it will still be useful in your kitchen.' And tucking her arm into Lachlan's, she laid her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.

Faro could think of nothing to say, and regarding the boy's stony face, mumbled, 'A tragedy indeed.'

Had Lachlan allowed Inga to believe this was a love match? And the revelation that Inga St Ola was his mother did not declare him innocent of murder. Much as Faro desired it should, it changed nothing.

Faro knew he must not, could not allow any influx of personal feelings to influence his judgement. But the enormity of his discovery was too terrible to contemplate.

He knew now that the prime suspect for Morag Brodie's murder might well be his own son. But what right had he to expect a son's love, should Lachlan learn that his father had not been killed in a riding accident but was Detective Inspector Faro who had deserted his mother and Orkney to serve with Edinburgh City Police?

He shuddered with distaste. The revelation that he might have a son was bitter indeed. The detective's son who was a murderer, involved in a conspiracy to assassinate the Queen of Great Britain. The publicity would not go down well at the Central Office. It would spell the end of his career.

But Lachlan was a stranger to him, his name assumed.

No one need ever know the truth, a small voice whispered.

But Faro would. And he wasn't sure that he could live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. He was bitterly ashamed of his cowardice.

He might see his son tried for murder, found guilty and hanged by the neck until he was dead.

A cold shaft of premonition seized him. Had he always suspected that a child might be the reason for his mother Mary Faro's report that Inga had suddenly disappeared for several months after their brief love affair and his departure to Edinburgh?

It had always been a possibility, resting dangerously in the recesses of his mind. Now, after more than twenty years, had it come home to roost?