Murder in Paradise (11 page)

As he left the dining room, a maid came over.

‘You’re wanted, Mr Faro.’

Following her out, he was taken aback to find Constable Muir waiting for him in the hall.

Realising some urgency concerning Macheath must have brought him there, Faro would have preferred some other place of assignation, especially as Morris and Rossetti, doubtless driven by curiosity at the maid’s abrupt summons, had followed him into the hall.

A glance at their faces confirmed that the sight of a uniformed policeman on the premises was guaranteed to send a shiver of disquiet around the residents concerning their use of laudanum and other so-called pain-alleviating drugs, which in their cases were also used for the heightening of pleasurable feelings.

It might well also indicate what Erland knew and had promised to keep secret: that Jeremy Faro was here as more than just a visitor, not merely the country cousin from Orkney attending his wedding but also a policeman in search of a criminal.

Annoyed that he had not warned Muir more plainly, or the constable had conveniently forgotten, with a slight bow of acknowledgement Faro led him into the garden, hoping his confident smile at the wary expressions of Morris and Rossetti would make it clear that this was a social event and that he was not under arrest for some misdemeanour or other.

‘We got some funny looks back there,’ Muir said once out of earshot. ‘Did they think I’d come to arrest you?’ he added with a delighted chuckle.

‘Probably looked like that,’ said Faro grimly, ‘especially as they don’t know I’m a policeman.’

‘Sorry about that, Faro. But I had to come – urgent like – even if it meant blowing your cover. There’s been a burglary at the Brettles. Sir Philip returned from holiday – and guess what, the house had been broken into, valuable pictures, jewellery stolen. Sir Philip got me out of bed this morning—’

‘Where was Mrs Lunn in all this?’ Faro interrupted.

‘That’s it,’ Muir said with a dramatic gesture. ‘Vanished. Not a sign of her. Sir Philip found the back door wide open. I’ve had a quick look round the kitchen. There were no signs of a struggle. No bloodstains or anything like that,’ he sounded regretful. ‘Just a chair overturned. A bad business.’ Muir shook his head.

‘You think from this evidence that she has been abducted?’

‘Or worse,’ was the grim reply. ‘And this isn’t a local villain, I’m fairly sure of that, Faro.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘How would they get rid of stolen goods? Jewellery maybe, but what about those stolen paintings? Great big ones, they were.’

Faro thought of the railway link to London close at hand. Great big pictures in the goods van would doubtless be remembered by the guards. ‘So what is your theory?’

Muir paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘If you want to know what I think – I think this has Macheath’s signature written all over it. Yes, that’s about it, your Macheath has returned to the scene and for more than a break-in to steal some food from the pantry this time.’

It didn’t strike a note of probability for Faro, except that Macheath was primarily a jewel thief and a safe-breaker. But Muir went on, ‘You’d better come back with me – if you haven’t anything better to do, that is,’ he ended sarcastically.

As Faro returned to the house to collect his jacket, the faces that greeted him were puzzled and apprehensive. He hadn’t had time to think up a plausible explanation as to why he should be visited by the local police constable. And meeting Lena on the stairs, he wondered if the sight of a uniformed policeman brought melancholy thoughts of her own arrest three years ago.

Walking around the exterior of Brettle Manor offered no evidence of the burglary. Not that Faro expected any. Sir Philip had found the back door conveniently open and, following Muir into the kitchen, Faro examined the lock, which showed no sign of a forced entry.

There were two interesting omissions since his last visit.

The coat rack was now empty. Mrs Lunn’s outdoor cape and the hooded cape which she alleged belonged to her lodger, a nephew who was also an occasional gardener at Red House, were both missing. Faro decided to keep this information to himself rather than set Muir off at a tangent concerning theories regarding Mr Morris’s seasonal outdoor employees.

Opening the door leading to the housekeeper’s parlour revealed an immaculately tidy room, as befitted its owner; neat but dull, with its table, chairs and sofa in front of a fireplace. Faro bent down to closely inspect the ashes before following Muir upstairs to her bedroom in the attic, where the contents of both the wardrobe and chest of drawers offered no clues to her disappearance.

‘What do you think?’ Muir asked the question again and, apparently with no theories of his own, eagerly awaited Faro’s answer.

Returning downstairs, Faro said, ‘The ashes in the parlour fire are long since cold, so there is nothing to be learnt there, but the fact that her bed was tidily made up does not suggest that Mrs Lunn was disturbed by the thief and dragged away in the middle of the night. Did you observe that there was no valise or evidence of a small trunk that a lady might carry while travelling?’

‘So?’ asked Muir with a puzzled frown.

Faro shook his head. ‘From the evidence of our eyes, the suggestion I am obtaining so far is that Mrs Lunn left not too hastily or unwillingly.’

‘It’s fairly obvious then, isn’t it,’ asked Muir, ‘that she’s our accomplice who opened the back door and let the thief in?’

Faro nodded his agreement. ‘That also suggests that she knew his identity, and was perhaps prepared to leave but not in such a hurry that she hadn’t time to leave her rooms tidy and make up her bed.’

He sighed. ‘At my meetings with her, everything suggested that she was a conscientious housekeeper, although her honesty is now in doubt.’

‘How do you make that out?’ Muir asked.

‘You have answered that. I also think it extremely unlikely that, although someone with whom she was acquainted might gain admittance to her kitchen on some pretext or other, she would certainly not admit a stranger into what she considered the sacred precincts of the rest of the house.’

He pointed to the green baize door, which had also been unbolted and unlocked from the kitchen. ‘Where’s the key, I wonder, which she wore so proudly on a chatelaine?’

Muir sighed, righted the fallen chair and sat down, his expression of relief proclaiming beyond any words that his feet troubled him sorely. ‘Let’s presume that the thief threatened her, made her hand over the keys, that sort of thing.’

‘If that was the case, what happened to her after she opened the door – why didn’t she raise the alarm? And, most importantly, where is she now?’

‘You’ve got me there.’ Muir frowned, looking longingly at his unlit pipe as if it might know the answer or more probably provide comfort and a constant source of inspiration in such matters. Reluctantly he returned it to his pocket, defeated by the sterile conditions of that almost immaculate kitchen, where only an overturned chair hinted at a struggle.

‘Does her absence suggest anything to you at all?’ Faro asked.

Muir thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps he carried her off – forced her to go with him.’

Faro shook his head. ‘Unlikely that he carried her off as well as the stolen paintings.’ He could not visualise Macheath transporting her large person, fighting and struggling, in addition to the stolen paintings and added, ‘Perhaps you observed what that unpaved drive, still muddy from the heavy rain, has left for us?’

Muir shook his head and Faro continued: ‘There were two sets of large footprints, going towards the house and returning from it—’

‘We’ve got it. The thief’s!’ exclaimed Muir.

‘Alas no, they were yours. Have a look at your boots and compare them if you don’t believe me. But as we walked down that muddy drive I noted particularly that there was evidence of only one wheeled carriage, which had presumably brought the Brettles home.’

‘That was very observant of you,’ Muir grinned. ‘So our thief left no footprints and no evidence of wheeled transport.’ Pausing, he scratched his head. ‘Any theories then on how he left the premises?’

Faro shrugged. ‘He could have avoided the muddy ground by keeping to the grass verge. But I also noticed that was fairly untrodden, difficult to achieve for a man carrying a heavy burden on wet grass.’

Muir shook his head. ‘A puzzle right enough. How did he leave then?’

‘There are lots of alternative exits in gardens this size, easy for a man to leap over a wall out of sight of the house.’ Faro shook his head, looking towards the disputed cottage whose surly owner and his allegedly savage dog might have deterred a heavily burdened thief crossing his path. ‘But my main concern is Mrs Lunn.’

‘Has he murdered her, do you think, hidden the body somewhere?’

‘If the thief was Macheath, it is out of character. He’s a villain and a brilliant thief, whose success lies in moving very fast indeed. In the past he has taken care to avoid unnecessary complications by abducting or killing his victims. He has only one murder to date – that we know of – and that was an owner who arrived unexpectedly and challenged him with a pistol. Unfortunately, he had not had time to load it first.’

‘But what about those valuable paintings?’ Muir put in.

That was a problem, but Faro put it aside for the moment, his mind racing ahead as Muir said, ‘Sounds to me like he had an accomplice.’

‘Doubtful, if we are looking for Macheath. He works alone.’

But even as he said the words, he realised that other possibility. Again he considered the possibility of Mrs Lunn’s nephew, whose cape he had seen hanging behind the kitchen door, the cape that, like Mrs Lunn’s, was also missing. A seasonal labourer according to Dave, not known to the rest of the team; had he also played another role as a squire at the masked ball?

Was he the clever thief they were searching for or…? Faro experienced a sudden chill as he remembered another incident.

‘I think I had an encounter with your local poacher the other morning.’

‘How so?’ asked Muir.

‘I was having an early morning walk on the heath when someone took a potshot at me.’

Muir’s eyes widened. ‘I doubt that. Probably old Boone out shooting rabbits. He’s a sly old devil and he’s been on my books for years now. Comes into the alehouse for a pint now and then. Brags to everyone that he’s respectable now, given up the rabbit business. Old age and rheumatism have caught up with him instead of the law. That damned nuisance of a dog barking half the night was another cause for official complaints from his lordship. Even threatened to shoot the beast.’ And with a shrug. ‘Maybe he did.’

The old poacher dismissed, Faro’s thoughts returned to the identity of the unseen rifleman on the heath. Was he also the mysterious gardener who had some connection with the housekeeper at Brettle Manor?

As he shared his theories, as briefly as possible, regarding Mrs Lunn’s alleged nephew, Muir said triumphantly, ‘Looks like, find Mrs Lunn and we’ve solved this case. You think there’s a possibility that she was the thief’s accomplice?’ he added eagerly. Then with a vigorous shake of his head, ‘No – I can’t believe it. Not of Mrs Lunn. According to the missus, she’s a regular churchgoer, Women’s Guild and all that sort of thing. Not Mrs Lunn,’ Muir repeated obstinately. ‘She’d never steal anything.’

Faro had no such faith in human nature. If Mrs Lunn was not an accomplice, away to London with her fake nephew, her purpose served, the grim alternative remained that she had been disposed of permanently.

‘We had better see Sir Philip,’ said Muir. ‘He’ll be glad of an explanation.’

‘And I should imagine he has already summoned the Metropolitan Police.’

Muir stopped in his tracks. ‘No, Faro. There’s another problem here. You see, it’s very awkward, but Sir Philip doesn’t want the big nobs brought in. Most essential that word doesn’t spread around. He wants the whole thing to be solved locally.’

‘For what reason?’ Faro asked in surprise.

Muir shrugged. ‘He didn’t give me any reasons. Very firm about that.’

‘Surely he wants his stolen goods returned and the thief apprehended.’

Before Muir could provide further enlightenment, footsteps in the hall announced the arrival of the owner of Brettle Manor.

‘Saw the pair of you prowling round the gardens. Well, any clues?’

While Muir shook his head, coughed apologetically and, stammering, strove in vain for a positive response, Faro took stock of Sir Philip Brettle. An impressive figure, well above average height and with the build of a wrestler. His still abundant hair was tinged with grey, the rather florid complexion and a watch chain stretched to its ultimate anchorage gave evidence of once handsome looks falling into the ruin of a well-seasoned dedication to good living, pointing in the direction of a steady indulgence in the regions of wines and spirits.

With an impatient gesture, Sir Philip turned his attention to Faro. Studying him carefully for a moment he asked Muir, ‘Is this gentleman a detective by any chance?’ He sounded eager.

Faro, conscious of Muir’s rather resentful look, said. ‘I am Constable Faro of the Edinburgh City Police, here on a special assignment in pursuit of a very clever jewel thief who has been robbing wealthy homes in Scotland—’

‘So that is why you are not in uniform.’ Sir Philip sighed, a disappointed man. ‘You think that this might be your man’s work?’ he added hopefully.

‘It may be so. And it happens, sir, I am the only one who has seen him face to face. In a very close encounter in Edinburgh I caught up with him. We grappled. I was unarmed, he knocked me down and escaped. We then learnt that he had been apprehended and was being held at the Abbey Wood police station. I was despatched immediately but by the time I came down, it was too late. No ordinary police cell, little better than a room with a barred window, could hold such a wily character—’

‘An unfortunate circumstance, indeed,’ Sir Philip interrupted, ‘if you’re sure this is your man.’

‘I cannot be certain of that, sir, but the real reason I was asked to remain here was that Constable Muir received a report of a break-in at your home a few days ago.’

Sir Philip raised his eyebrows. He scowled at Muir. ‘And why was I not informed of that, Constable?’

‘I have all the details here, sir. The official report is at the police office,’ and Muir produced a notebook from his pocket with an air of importance.

‘Read that then!’ said Sir Philip impatiently.

Muir read the rather dry account beginning with the date and time that the maid Bess Tracy had reported a break-in at Brettle Manor but that nothing had been stolen apart from food items from the pantry.

‘The general assumption, sir, was that the burglar had been a vagrant in urgent need of sustenance.’

‘Or a thief on the run,’ was Sir Philip’s acid comment. ‘What about this Bess Tracy? What do you know about her?’

‘Only that she was a maid employed to assist Mrs Lunn. Lives in the village.’

‘Never heard of her.’

Faro thought that hardly surprising as Sir Philip added, pointing to Muir’s report, ‘No doubt she was sent by Mrs Lunn who would be very upset.’

Faro looked at Muir. They both knew that was not so, as Sir Philip added, ‘Where is the girl now? Perhaps she could give us some explanation.’

Muir cleared his throat and said nervously, ‘We don’t exactly know her present whereabouts, sir.’

‘Then I suggest you do something about that and find her sharpish,’ was the irritable response. ‘We are just wasting precious time, Constable, and the sooner we catch this thief the better our chance of recovering my lost property.’

Faro and Muir exchanged glances as Sir Philip continued, ‘No doubt Mrs Lunn will be able to enlighten us as to exactly what happened. Where is she by the way? I expected to see her here, to have all in readiness for my return.’

Muir exchanged a glance with Faro. ‘We don’t rightly know, sir, she seems to have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Sir Philip thumped his fists together. ‘Mrs Lunn and the maid – what the devil is going on here?’ he demanded.

‘Well, sir,’ said Muir uncomfortably. ‘We don’t know exactly what happened. Mrs Lunn wasn’t in the house when we arrived.’

‘Evidently,’ snapped Sir Philip. ‘Do you think the thief has made off with her as well as her ladyship’s jewellery and my two valuable and rather large Dutch paintings.’ Without waiting for a reply, he asked Muir, ‘Or have you a more plausible theory? Come with me.’

As they followed him upstairs, Faro decided there was a distinctly military bearing about Sir Philip and was not surprised to have this confirmed by his portrait in an officer’s uniform on the landing.

He had fought for his Queen and country in India. But in that tour of the rest of the house, there were glass cases of medals, memorabilia and arms on display, none of which had been of any interest to the thief.

As for the house itself it was very handsome in a modern manner with none of the distinctive architecture of Red House. Although luxurious, most of the furniture was still in dust covers, suggesting that, unveiled, it would reveal a tendency to be ultra fashionable. And that meant, in Faro’s eyes, to be as florid as its owner, with an indulgence in small tables cluttered with ornaments and bric-a-brac.

A tall man, he was already encountering difficulties in avoiding a plethora of large vases, undoubtedly Ming, priceless and large enough to hide a different set of thieves, those of the fabled Ali Baba.

Sir Philip threw open the door of Lady Brettle’s elegant bedroom, its furniture shrouded, the postered bed neatly covered.

Faro turned to Sir Philip and asked: ‘Was the room exactly like this when you discovered the missing jewellery, sir?’

‘Exactly. Nothing had been disturbed. My attention was directed at once to the jewel drawer. It was open, its lock broken.’

Muir had taken out his notebook and flourished it importantly, while Faro walked round the room. One thing was very evident despite the lack of clues. The thief knew exactly what he was looking for. Jewellery and a couple of valuable pictures. Was there more to it than that?

‘Are you able to describe the jewels in more detail, sir?’ Muir asked.

In reply Sir Philip considered the empty box for a moment then, closing it, he said firmly, ‘Diamond and emerald earrings, a tiara. Pearls. Those are the valuable items.’

Sighing, he shook his head. ‘I am afraid I was not familiar with the contents of her ladyship’s jewel case. The usual things, rings, brooches, of little value. There was one difference, however.’

From the back of the drawer he drew out a small velvet-lined case.

‘This contained the most valuable and irreplaceable item. The Emerald Star – a priceless antique.’

Muir whistled noiselessly and Faro, who had little interest in jewels, made a shrewd guess that the Emerald Star belonged to the India of long ago, long before the conquest of the Empire builders as personified by Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

He turned to Sir Philip. ‘May I ask how it came into your possession, sir?’

Sir Philip gave him an angry frown. ‘It is none of your business, Constable, but it came to us by honourable means. The colonel, my father-in-law, brought it back from India for his daughter’s fourteenth birthday.’

His flushed countenance and sensitive reaction told Faro that he had come by the jewel in the time-honoured manner of conquerors. In other words, in that pattern repeated throughout history, with the listener left to fill in the grimmer details, by deposing or more likely murdering the Indian ruler and making off with all his valuables.

Faro regarded the empty case again. It spoke to him very clearly of Macheath. This solved one mystery, his sole reason for lingering in this area, for a very carefully planned theft. His next question was the obvious one in the circumstances.

‘May I ask, sir, why this jewel was not kept in a locked safe?’

Sir Philip turned round. He bristled. ‘Her ladyship did not think it necessary. She obstinately disregarded its value, a devoted only child it was to her only a precious reminder of her father. She refused to have it locked away and wished to have it by her at all times. Her lucky charm, she called it. A lucky charm!’ he repeated scornfully and with a regretful sigh, added, ‘She believed, quite wrongly as it happened, that the house was burglar-proof and that Mrs Lunn’s presence was sufficient to fend off all thieves.’

His rather sarcastic tone suggested that he did not share his wife’s faith in Mrs Lunn and hinted at numerous arguments behind the bedroom’s closed doors.

‘That is all I can tell you,’ he said, firmly closing the drawer. ‘Are we finished now?’

‘The stolen paintings? May we take a look?’

Sir Philip frowned. ‘You may, of course. But there’s only an empty space on the wall. That will tell you nothing.’

In Faro’s experience empty spaces could give quite a lot of clues to a keen observer. He shrugged. ‘Nevertheless—’

‘Very well,’ said Sir Philip. ‘But this is a complete waste of time. Follow me.’

He led the way into the library and pointed to an empty space among several other less valuable paintings, mostly landscapes.

‘May I ask the size of the two missing paintings?’

Sir Philip pointed. ‘The two Van Meers fitted there – very neatly, with about a couple of inches to spare on either side. Constable Muir has their exact description,’ he added wearily as Faro made a closer inspection of the wall and the polished floor.

Standing back, he regarded the space again. ‘How long have the missing paintings been hanging here?’

‘Since we moved in, six years ago.’

‘This is their original position.’

Sir Philip frowned. ‘They have never left it. In fact all the pictures were carefully hung. We took great pride in such matters.’

Faro nodded. It was what he expected to hear. ‘May I?’ he asked before gently lifting the two neighbouring pictures firmly affixed by massive hooks to the wall.

‘Do be careful, please!’

His inspection complete, Faro decided he had all he needed to know regarding the removal of the paintings. ‘Were these pictures insured?’

‘Naturally. All the items that were stolen were covered by insurance – but that is not what matters. These are irreplaceable items, some of sentimental value. Have you finished now?’

‘Indeed yes. This is of course a preliminary inquiry, sir. The Metropolitan Police will doubtless send down detectives. The insurance agents will also need to make a detailed survey.’

Sir Philip looked momentarily surprised and, shaking his head, regarded Muir steadily. ‘As I have already informed you, Constable, I do not wish the Metropolitan Police to be informed. This is to be regarded as a local crime only.’

Muir nodded and closing his notebook, he said anxiously, ‘Several thousand pounds are involved, Sir Philip, as well as a rare and priceless jewel.’

It was a point Sir Philip declined to consider and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I have my private reasons for this, Constable Muir. Now if you will you kindly take another look at the kitchen on your way out.’ And to Faro: ‘No, not you. A private word, if you please.’ Muir frowned and darted a reproachful glance at Faro for what was an obvious ruse to be rid of him.