To Kill a Queen (9 page)

'In fact,' he added in a treasonable whisper, 'I doubt sometimes whether she would even be missed. The country as you well know if you read your newspapers is very anti-monarchy just now. They take badly to her preoccupation with Balmoral. And, dare I say it, with John Brown.'

Faro had met the Prince of Wales and was relieved to hear that he was not personally involved in this treasonable plot. Apart from a high-spirited reputation for being both susceptible and unreliable where a pretty face was involved, Faro found him witty, roguish and intelligent. He didn't doubt that Bertie would make an admirable and responsible king some day.

'The plan, if plan there is, is being presented to the Prince by a body of his admirers, earnest well-wishers and loyal Englishmen.'

'And Englishwomen perhaps?' Faro added. He could see it was just possible that the Prince might be manipulated by the ambitions of one of his current aristocratic mistresses.

'You have a point there, Faro. The theme is that the country is being mismanaged under the present Government by a monarch who has so little interest in her subjects, she hardly ever deigns to appear in public. She prefers to hide away most of the year with her wild clansmen in the Highlands of Scotland.

'And to many Englishmen anything north of the Tweed means that the people still live in caves. The only interest most of the wealthy have is in buying land, estate and titles. They don't see the real country.'

It was true. In ever increasing numbers they came up twice or sometimes only once per year to shoot over their vast estates, have a continuous house party for several weeks and then disappear back to the Home Counties. These were, in fact, the notorious absentee landlords whose advent spelt ruin and desolation to the Highlands of Scotland.

McIntosh drained his glass. 'And, of course, you must see the drift of this plan. If they succeed and the Queen is got rid of then the Prince will inevitably be full of terrible remorse. Worse than that, he will only ever be a puppet king. They will make sure of that. They will make the laws, he will sign the State documents but one step out of line and they will need only to whisper one word in his ear.'

'What do you want me to do, sir?'

'Word is that the Queen must be in London for the State Opening of Parliament next Monday.'

'But that's less than a week away.'

'Exactly.' McIntosh counted up on his fingers. 'We can expect her to leave here on Friday or Saturday at the latest. So you have four days to find the killer before he strikes.'

'But that's impossible—'

'Nothing's impossible, Faro,' said McIntosh sternly. 'Use your much vaunted powers of observation and deduction on this. We're putting you on extended leave. You stay here until the Queen is safely back at Buckingham Palace. Understand?'

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he added, 'The fewer people who know you're here the better.'

Realising Bella's talent for gossip, not to mention Tibbie and the eagle eyes of all the locals. Faro said vaguely, 'I expect it may have got around that my visit is purely social. For my aunt's ninetieth birthday.'

'Keep it at that, if you can. I understand Purdie's a top man at Scotland Yard. Normally this would have been a case for the Aberdeen police. Fact is with the murdered girl having been a servant at Balmoral, etc., etc. It's all in the letter I had from the Chief Constable. Take Purdie into your confidence, Faro. In the unlikely event that he doesn't know all about this already.

'Get his help,' he added desperately. 'Don't be too proud to ask. Between the two of you, you should be able to thwart this attempt. Get John Brown on to it too. He's loyal and devoted, by all accounts. You've met him, of course.'

'The day I arrived—'

Reluctantly Faro told the Superintendent about the Queen's dogs, but the reaction he had dreaded wasn't forthcoming. McIntosh merely dismissed it as somewhat eccentric behaviour to be expected of a Royal personage.

'Whatever next, Faro?' he said brusquely.

'But do not be side-tracked. This other matter is vital. Prevent the murder, Faro, without trampling on too many Royal toes, or outraging too many duchesses.'

'That won't be easy, sir.'

'Use your influence with Brown, indulge him about the dogs. Enveigle yourself into the Castle as much as you can. Look around. You're sharp-eyed. Good heavens, man, I don't have to spell it out to you.'

He paused. 'Incidentally, it's well known that the Prince hates Brown.'

'So does his brother Prince Alfred. The Queen was furious when he once refused to shake hands with a commoner, a mere ghillie,' said Faro.

McIntosh shrugged. 'Possibly that would go for most of the Royal children. In their eyes Brown is a peasant with an overblown idea of his own importance. Moorcock turned peacock is the Royal whisper. Have you heard the latest?' Without waiting for Faro's reply, he went on, 'He's now extended his power over the Queen by introducing her to seances. Seances and spiritualists, if you please. Putting her in touch with Prince Albert.'

'I wonder who was behind that piece of inspired skulduggery.'

'Indeed. And who do you think goes into a trance and speaks in the Prince's voice, calling her "Liebchen" and giving her tips on how to rule the country?'

'Not Brown surely.'

McIntosh nodded. 'The same.' He looked at Faro curiously. 'What's the chap like? I mean, to exert all this influence over Her Majesty?'

'Sound as a bell, I'd say, loyal to the soles of his brogues. I hope you're not going to imply that he's involved.'

McIntosh smiled into his beard. 'Not at all, Faro. That never crossed my mind. It was something quite different I had in mind. Er—do you think, I mean...' His eyes roved the room, searching for the right words to phrase that burning question, 'Is there any truth in the rumour?'

'What rumour?' said Faro innocently, deciding not to spare the Superintendent.

'Dammit, man, you know perfectly well. That he and Her Majesty are, er, well—to put it delicately—infatuated?'

Faro laughed. 'Don't tell me you are being influenced by the popular press, sir. She needs a strong man, another Prince Consort, a father figure, but that's all. Someone with all the trappings of pomp and self-interest stripped away. Someone who would die for her if necessary but is much happier to live for her.'

'I thought her Prime Minister performed that function,' said McIntosh, clearly disappointed. 'How does Mr Gladstone take all this adulation of Brown, I wonder?'

'You must realise from your perusal of the newspapers, sir, that she cannot stand the man. He treats her with awe and reverence. She was overheard and quoted as saying, "He treats me like a public meeting."' Faro shook his head. 'No, she needs a friend, not a lover. Someone she can be a woman with, let her hair down, take a dram, for heaven's sake.'

With a sigh, McIntosh picked up his gloves, smoothed them with his large hands and looked wistfully in the direction of his empty glass. 'And that is damned fine stuff.'

'It is indeed. Made at our local distillery up the road. A little more, perhaps?'

'Mm. Thank you. You were saying—'

'John Brown makes her feel like a woman, not a Queen Empress.'

'Rumour has it that he even chooses her wardrobe. Isn't that going a little far, don't you think?'

Faro smiled. 'Not at all. After all, this isn't the first time a Queen has been mesmerised by a commoner. Take Mary Queen of Scots and Bothwell—'

'Bothwell was an earl,' McIntosh exploded. 'Brown is a mere ignorant peasant. A ghillie, dammit.'

'A ghillie he may be but ignorant, no. He's a dominie's son, well read—'

'I suppose you're going to tell me this is a situation not unknown. Seems to arouse, er, um, passion in a woman of breeding, being wooed and won by a common soldier or servant...'

Faro glanced at the Superintendent and wondered what kind of literature he read in his spare time. 'On the subject of clothes,' he said hastily, 'Her Majesty has no interest in gowns. Hasn't had much since Prince Albert died. Tends to wear the same black satin in Edinburgh every year.'

'It has been noticed,' said McIntosh drily.

'I'm not a man fond of dressing up myself,' said Faro uncomfortably, 'but I insist upon being clean and tidy and I feel shabby black is hardly in keeping with the Royal image.'

McIntosh nodded. 'There's a story circulating that this Brown fellow was overheard saying to her, "Now what's this you've got on today, woman?" He didn't approve of what she was wearing.'

He guffawed. 'Apparently she listened to his criticism and meek as a lamb went back and changed into something more suitable. Can you credit that?' And slapping his thigh delightedly, he added, 'Man, it would be more than my life was worth to criticise Mrs McIntosh's gowns.'

Faro suppressed a smile, for the Superintendent's wife was known in the Central Office as 'The Tartar', managing to keep her large husband well and truly under her tiny thumb.

As Faro walked down the road to where McIntosh's carriage waited, the Superintendent said, 'Any chance of an invitation to lunch or dine at the Castle?'

'Not so far.'

'Pity. Couldn't you get Brown to arrange a meeting, talk about those dogs—lost, weren't they?' he added vaguely.

'Shot, sir. Dead.'

'Oh yes.' McIntosh was not an animal lover and obviously wondered what all the Royal fuss was about. 'Try to impress on Brown that Her Majesty owes you an audience. And it would be an excellent chance for a little quiet investigation.'

On the step, he turned once more. 'There's one question you haven't asked me, Faro.'

'And what it that, sir?'

'Who is the brains behind the Prince's Party?'

'I haven't the least idea.'

McIntosh laughed. 'You should, Faro. He's an old enemy of yours.'

'Really? I have accumulated a vast number of those through twenty years with the Edinburgh Police.'

'But not many as clever or as wily as this one.' And watching Faro's expression eagerly, he said, 'This time we think it is Lord Nob's handiwork.'

Lord Nob. Noblesse Oblige. A devil with a dozen names and a dozen faces, whose background was noble perhaps, rumour had it, even Royal, but whose true identity no man had ever cracked and lived.

Their last encounter had been in what Faro's notes described as 'The Case of the Killing Cousins'.

On a stormy clifftop in Orkney he thought he had seen the last of his adversary. Faro groaned inwardly.

Closing the carriage door, McIntosh leaned out of the window.

'I see you recognise the gravity of the situation. This is one of national peril. This isn't something you handle alone, Faro. Get Purdie on to it, d'you hear,' he repeated. 'Believe me, you are going to need all the help you can get. We're relying on you. Faro. See to it.'

Chapter Six

Faro found Tibbie in the barn. She had taken under her slender wing the welfare of Steady. Loving animals great and small, she announced proudly that he had been given his dinner.

With the rest of the day to himself until visiting time at the hospital, the idea of sitting with his fishing rod by the banks of the Dee now appalled rather than appealed. Especially as he brooded upon the fact that every boulder might now conceal the hidden presence and watchful eyes of his old adversary.

Considerably more in keeping with his temper was the challenge presented by marching out to confront danger. And by solving the sinister mysteries looming around him perhaps he might finally outwit Noblesse Oblige.

Horseback was an excellent alternative to exploring the countryside on foot in search of clues. A rider could not only move faster, he could also penetrate less accessible areas than one in a pony-cart.

Steady seemed to agree with him and made no resistance to being saddled up. If it wasn't too idiotic, thought Faro, he appeared to be smiling knowingly. The cause, he discovered, was a slight malformation of the upper lip due to a couple of missing teeth.

As they trotted off down the lane, the pleasure of riding through a golden, crisp-aired day with the sun still at its zenith brought a delightful sense of well-being.

Ten years ago, before the advent of horse-drawn omnibuses in Edinburgh, this had been his usual method of travelling into the countryside on the track of criminals.

But in town he never felt safe in the narrow crowded streets and wynds of the High Street and its environs. In that vast criminal underworld where lurked many hazards, a man on horseback was particularly vulnerable.

With a half-formed plan in mind he found himself drawn towards the area across the river where Morag Brodie's body had been found. He did not doubt the efficiency of Purdie and Craig and realised there was little hope of any overlooked clues—especially as he suspected the girl's body had been taken from the ruined mill on the Balmoral Estate, to be discovered on the road which, according to Purdie and his map, led to Bush Farm.

Was his obvious deduction the right answer? That this had been to divert suspicion to the discarded lover, Lachlan Brown?

Climbing the steep brae, with its twists and turns, he had an unexpected stroke of luck. The sound of creaking wheels and a farmhand emerged driving a haycart.