Murder in Paradise (13 page)

Ill health had never troubled Faro. Feeling fit and well was something he took for granted, apart from occasional twinges of toothache and extractions, which he regarded with the utmost dread. These were rare indeed, however, for he had inherited excellent teeth from his Orkney environment.

Now in a life free from any ills, quite suddenly on the day Erland died he was afflicted by a headache of unbearable magnitude, affecting his vision and bringing with it feelings of nausea and sickness. This unusual condition he was inclined to dismiss as emotional, caused by his friend’s sudden death and his secret suspicions that he had been deliberately poisoned but as his symptoms showed signs of increasing, he felt sudden, justified alarm. Could he also be suffering from the effects of poison?

A little thought, however, told him that was not feasible, confirmed when he discovered that his fever was being shared by several of the folk in Red House. Morris, with his iron constitution and amazing digestive system, had been spared. His wife Janey was laid low, so too were Rossetti and Elizabeth Siddall.

Even Poppy was ill with what they realised was the dreaded influenza. It was already rife in the village and had most probably been introduced into Red House by some of the extra servants brought in to serve food for the masque.

Influenza was not something Faro had ever dealt with and he was determined to fight it off as he might have done with a simple cold in the head. His brave attempts were doomed to failure. Legs so weak he could hardly stand, his head thumping as if an army of drummers was within, he retired to his bed as the fever rode in and raged through his body. As the illness progressed, he lost all sense of time, so weak that even opening his eyes took considerable effort and trying to focus on objects was an agony which he soon abandoned.

So he accepted the inevitable, welcomed what might even be death for there was no power in him left to fight.

Occasionally he stirred to find a man, Dr Innes, taking his pulse in a very professional manner or recognised Morris with the chamber pot. Sometimes a swish of skirts and a dark female figure entered the dimly lit room, a nurse of some sort, moving about. A perfume he recognised too as she lifted his head for a cooling drink of water, forcing liquid into his dry burning lips, smoothing his pillows.

One day the clouds cleared a little and the perfumed presence became Lena.

He tried to sit up, to protest about what he knew not – a hundred muddled reasons, a sense of danger among them. Then with time lost, one day, it seemed, his mind suddenly cleared, the fever abated.

There was a man at her side. George Wardle. What was he doing here in Red House again? Their clothes were black, their faces sombre.

Wardle leant over, smiled and said: ‘Good to see you awake, old chap. I shall have to take your excellent nurse away for a while.’

With an effort Faro turned his head and looked at Lena, as Wardle continued, ‘She has looked after you very well and so has Topsy.’ A look exchanged between the two. ‘We have to leave you for a short while – Erland, you know—’ he sighed, adding gently, ‘the funeral.’

With considerable effort, Faro said, ‘I must go with you.’

As he tried to sit up, Wardle attempted to push him back against the pillows.

‘Let me go. I am coming with you,’ Faro said angrily.

‘That would not be very sensible.’

‘Sensible or not, I intend to go. Now if you will excuse me, I have to get dressed.’

He swept aside their protests. Realising there was no way they could change his mind, Wardle said, ‘Very well, we leave in half an hour,’ to which Lena added, ‘Get some warm water sent up, straight away, will you, George.’

Weak on his feet, Faro almost pushed them out of the room, closed the door and leant against it. Then, staggering abut the room, washing in the basin the maid brought him, searching for clean linen, he regarded his unshaven face in the mirror. He had not time to shave. He must go as he was, if it killed him.

Slowly dressing, dragging on trousers and shirt, he was fumbling with a black cravat when Morris appeared at the door

‘Listen, old chap. We understand how you feel about this, but your going out so soon isn’t advisable and poor Erland wouldn’t want you to—’

What did Morris really know of him on such short acquaintance, or of Erland for that matter! He said shortly, ‘I am going, that is all. Final.’

Morris looked at him, frowning, studied him silently, his grave expression saying quite clearly that he thought it might be final for Faro too.

He sighed. ‘If you must, if I can’t persuade you. Fortunately it’s a fairly mild day,’ and indicating the cloak he was carrying, ‘This is fur lined. It will keep you warm at least. The wagonette will take you. Some of us can walk.’

Like someone awakening from a slow-moving nightmare, his legs heavy as lead, Faro followed him weakly downstairs. In the hall a gathering of solemn men, few of whom he recognised apart from the residents of Red House.

A few minutes later and they were following Erland’s coffin into the cold dark church, listening to the droning voice of the vicar, the 23rd Psalm and a eulogy from Morris, beautifully delivered and extracted from one of his own poems that had been Erland’s favourite.

Trying to listen intently, Faro found his attention was diverted by the droning of a trapped insect on the stained-glass window (donated by Morris) and trying frantically to escape. All that life and energy in a tiny insect, he thought sadly, while Erland lay dead, awaiting burial in the cold earth.

He insisted on being one of the pall-bearers, carrying the coffin the short distance to the open grave, their solemn cortège accompanied by birdsong from the trees above their heads, trees changing colour, already shrouded in the rising mists of an autumn afternoon.

Faro found strange comfort from the ritual for the burial of the dead, its sad familiarity from long-ago funerals in Orkney and in Edinburgh, but none as poignant as this one. He had been too young to remember his father being laid in the ground, an event his mother had relived and retold over and over, his only memory her tears beneath her veil, his warm and loving mother, suddenly turned into a black-clad stranger with cold hands.

At last it was the moment of ‘earth to earth’, his right as Erland’s friend and kin, Morris whispered. A handful of soil onto the coffin far below, then it was over. As they turned from the grave, Faro was aware of a figure almost hidden by the distant trees.

Too misty to see clearly a tall man, with a white beard, dark eyeglasses – and a white stick. A blind man, yet there was something about him that puzzled Faro, something oddly familiar. But even as he turned to look again, Morris was at his arm, ushering him into the wagonette.

‘The man over there, the blind man, do you know him?’

Morris followed his gaze, shook his head. ‘Never seen him before.’

‘I wonder why he’s watching us and didn’t come forward.’

Morris smiled sadly. ‘Probably just visiting a grave and stayed out of curiosity.’ When they looked out again, he had disappeared.

So strange and Faro continued to be haunted by the vision of the blind man, certain he knew him but from where? Some friend of Erland’s perhaps, but why that startling moment of awareness, out of context. He gave up the struggle, for the ceremony had, he knew, been too much for him, the shadows were closing in again, as weakness and mortal darkness threatened.

They got him out of the wagonette and into Red House, helped him upstairs. Someone took off his boots, helped him to undress and, grateful, he flopped back on to the soft white pillows, so exhausted by that short journey he felt as if he had been to the end of the world and back again.

He slept. Day became night, night became day, a moon arose and cast its silvered light across the floor and was replaced by golden sunlight.

At last a woman’s hand, warm sweet liquid to his lips. He looked up into Lena’s face.

‘Drink this, it’s warm and strong and it’ll make you feel better.’

Hot sweet cocoa. He had no choice but to drink, too weak to utter words of protest or to thrust the cup away.

Hot sweet cocoa. But Erland had died.

Next morning (or was it) he awoke, aroused by pangs of hunger and the drifting smell of toasted bread, bacon and coffee from downstairs. The door opened; Lena came in with a bowl of porridge.

He sat up slowly. ‘I can feed myself.’

She watched him, not speaking.

‘Where’s Poppy?’ he asked.

‘She had the influenza too – a mild attack, thank goodness. She is recovering, rather weak too.’ Removing the bowl. ‘Drink this. You’ll see her soon. She asks after you all the time. She’ll be so glad to know you’re getting better.’

He drank the coffee and, removing it, she said, ‘The doctor will be looking in today sometime.’

‘I want to see him’

‘And so you shall – he will be pleased that you have made such a good recovery. You were really very ill, you know.’ She wagged a finger at him and smiled. ‘You could have killed yourself, Jeremy, undone all our good work in nursing you, by going out the other day.’ She did not mention ‘funeral’ but the sadness in her eyes said it all.

‘Well, I am fine now.’

‘Don’t be too sure—’

The door opened and admitted the doctor, a stranger who exchanged a few words with Lena. She came forward and said, ‘This is Dr Grant.’

‘Good morning. Mr Faro.’

Lena left them, closing the door as the doctor moved over to Faro’s bed. ‘How’s the patient today. Dr Innes passed on your message, by the way,’ he added while taking his pulse. ‘This influenza outbreak has been quite devastating but you seem to have a splendid constitution. A few days and you should be fit as a fiddle again.’ Suddenly serious, he added, ‘I was sorry we could do nothing for your friend. Mr Morris tells me that while you were in a fever you were very concerned about him.’

Faro felt suddenly embarrassed. What had he said – what accusations had he made?

Dr Grant continued. ‘You were very troubled; Dr Innes confirmed this too.’ Head on side, he looked at Faro and said: ‘I gather you imagined that Mr Flett had been poisoned.’ Pausing, he awaited comment which did not come. ‘I returned from holiday; got your message regarding Mr Flett and I came as soon as I could.’

Another pause, the doctor’s turn for embarrassment. ‘You were insisting that there should be a post-mortem on Mr Flett. Such imaginings are often part of a high fever. I expect you now realise that.’

Faro said slowly, ‘Not at all. I am in my right mind now and I still believe he might have been poisoned.’

Dr Grant’s eyebrows rose. ‘I can assure you that food poisoning of the kind suffered by the folk here rarely produces fatalities.’ He shook his head, attempted a soothing smile. ‘I understand from Mr Morris that you had not been in touch with your friend for some time before you met here again quite recently. Is that so?’

Faro nodded. ‘Not for years, I’m afraid.’

‘Then you were also not aware of the state of his health.’

Faro looked at him as he went on, ‘Mr Flett had a serious genetic heart condition. He could have died any time, without warning. He was aware of his condition but preferred to ignore it. Hadn’t had an attack for several years and believed he was over the fits he had once suffered so frequently in childhood.’

And Faro’s memory vividly returned to the ‘doon-fallin’ sickness’ that had been the bane of Erland’s young life in Orkney.

‘A few weeks ago he fainted in the railway station at Upton. They brought him to my surgery and he told me his case history. He was in a panic, poor young man. Getting married and naturally, he wanted to know the truth. I did a few tests and advised him to tell his fiancée, Miss Hamilton. In all fairness, she must know – what to expect.

‘I believe he did so and on his next visit, he told me that they had agreed to go ahead and get married. He still believed that, with due care, the medical diagnosis might be proved incorrect and that he would have a normal life span.’

He sighed sadly. ‘As he left me, his last words were: “I’m not a religious man but if I were, I’d say ‘We are all in God’s hands’”.’

So he had been wrong about Lena. Or had he? If as Dr Grant said, Erland had died of heart failure related to those boyhood fainting fits, Faro was still unable to rid himself completely of his lingering suspicions.

In part these were due to keen observations of Lena’s behaviour which suggested that she was by no means as heartbroken as one would have expected at the suddenness of Erland’s passing which, Faro coldly considered, also cleared the way for her to devote all her attentions to a new suitor, George Wardle.

And she made no delay, within days seeing their heads close together, deep in conversation, he wondered uncharitably if she was secretly relieved by not having the prospect of ridding herself of yet another lover.

That she was a wildly passionate woman, despite the serene and gentle appearance that had completely fooled a jury, had been confirmed for him on the night of the masque, a memory that refused to be banished from his nightmares and eagerly taunted him each time they were alone together. A glance exchanged and suddenly the distance between them seemed to diminish. A step across the room and the barrier would be down, their arms outstretched and he would hold her to his heart once again.

He shook off the image wondering how well Wardle knew her or knew of her past. He seemed a decent fellow, good-natured, kind and Morris was already proclaiming that he did not know how he had managed any of his business affairs before – fortune had indeed smiled on him when George had come into his life.

More or less restored to health and strength again, and enjoying the luxury of the house’s portable hip-bath, Faro knew that he must establish contact with the police office.

Constable Muir greeted him warmly. His wife and daughter were just recovering from the influenza which accounted for his concern.

‘You were lucky to escape,’ said Faro.

Muir grinned. ‘Wife calls it pickled in alcohol. Nothing like it for a barrier against infection.’

Faro wasn’t so sure about that as Muir went on. ‘Half the village were down with it.’ And regarding Faro shrewdly, ‘You got off lightly. I was sorry to hear about your friend though. Rotten luck.’ And turning to some papers on the table. ‘Sergeant Noble has been asking after you. Very concerned,’ he said mockingly and handed him the telegraph.

‘Tell him to get in touch, the minute he returns.’

Muir watched Faro’s face as he read, with a sarcastic grin. ‘Kind-hearted sort of chap, isn’t he?’

Faro groaned. He was hardly yet in a fit state to go bounding after Macheath wherever he might be, presumably far from Brettle Manor.

Muir said, ‘I still can’t imagine how our burglar managed to transport those paintings without any kind of vehicle. There’s a mystery for you to solve.’

Faro had his own ideas about that. Ideas he wasn’t yet prepared to share with the constable.

‘Lady Brettle is back, by the way, and is keen to meet you.’

‘What about Mrs Lunn?’

‘Oh, of course you wouldn’t know. She was with her ladyship. Apparently she’d been given permission by her to visit York, see some cousin or other and then join her mistress in London.’ He laughed. ‘Help her home on the train with the shopping, I expect.’

‘Well, that is a surprise. Why on earth didn’t she share this information with her husband?’ asked Faro.

Muir sighed. ‘That could have helped. There we all were thinking the burglar had done her in or some such nonsense.’ He scratched his head. ‘God’s sake, do these well-off folk never talk to each other? Do they always have separate bedrooms and so on? Doesn’t seem quite decent somehow. No wonder husbands go astray.’

Faro’s thoughts however were on a more urgent matter. ‘Have you considered that if Mrs Lunn was in London with her mistress, who opened the kitchen door and the one kept locked into the rest of the house?’

‘Someone else had keys.’ Muir frowned. ‘The maid, that lass Bess Tracy.’

‘Unlikely. By her own admission Mrs Lunn kept a watchful eye on Bess. Didn’t trust anyone.’

Even as he said the words, he remembered Mrs Lunn’s theory about duplicate keys. Her hints indicated Bess, but what about that nephew? He could have made a wax impression and, aware that Mrs Lunn was absent in London, seized the opportunity.

As he walked the short distance to Brettle Manor he decided that this offered some very interesting possibilities as well as links with the identity of the thief.

Find him and he might also find Macheath.

Mrs Lunn opened the door, the front door this time, but her greeting could hardly have been called genial as, without a word, she ushered him across the hall and into the library where Lady Brettle sat at a desk, head bent down, presumably catching up with her correspondence.

As the housekeeper left them, Faro wondered if she realised that she had been considered strongly as a possible accomplice of the burglar. Or even worse, that she had been murdered, her body hidden.

When Lady Brettle turned round to face him, Muir’s description ‘horsey’ fitted remarkably well. A formidable lady indeed, large bosomed, her heavily corseted figure creaking at every movement, Faro found himself searching in vain for the remnants of a once lovely woman who had wooed and won Sir Philip.

Of course, had they been on more intimate terms, Sir Philip might have told him that it was never so. Like so many of his class, it had been an arranged marriage for money and dynastic purposes. When it was doomed to be childless, his duty done, Brettle had lost all interest and a chain of young and pretty mistresses took over that function of his life.

Whatever Lady Brettle lacked in beauty she certainly made up for in intelligence as Faro soon found out, delicately rehearsing some probing questions, especially as Sir Philip had entered the room behind him. He now hovered, silent and listening, a hand resting on the back of his lady’s chair. His darting looks at Faro could best be described as consumed with anxiety that he gave nothing away of their own previous interview.

And it was soon quite evident that this big, strong, aggressive ex-soldier was in awe of his wife and reminded Faro of a saying in the Edinburgh police that many a cock o’the walk in the force is just a poor feather duster at home.

As he asked for a description of the missing jewels, Lady Brettle turned to her husband. ‘Don’t hover, Philip. I can deal with this matter. I know exactly what my jewels looked like. I don’t need you – go away, please, and do something useful.’

With a last despairing look at Faro, Sir Philip managed to leave the room with as much dignity as he could muster after his humiliation.

Watching the door close behind him, the formidable lady turned to Faro with a sigh. ‘I understand that you are a policeman and, fortunately for us, not from this area – or even this country.’ A tight little smile. ‘This makes what I have to tell you much easier. It must go no further and I must rely on your discretion.’

Already Sir Philip had asked for his discretion. What was this new addition to the domestic drama, he wondered, as Lady Brettle handed him a written list of jewels.

Reading it briefly, he asked, ‘Are there any drawings of these items? They would be an enormous help in tracing them.’

Lady Brettle shook her head. ‘Alas, they would be of no help whatever, neither would the list I have given you.’ With a deep sigh, she said, ‘In fact, it is my wish that this investigation is dropped immediately.’

‘Do I understand that you do not wish to have your jewellery recovered?’ Faro asked in amazement.

‘That is so.’

‘May I ask why?’ He shook his head. ‘This is a most unusual request.’

‘It is indeed. To put it as simply as possible, if any of the items are recovered, it may well reveal the truth’

‘The truth?’

‘Yes, Mr Faro. A very unpleasant truth. The real diamonds and rubies I sold long ago. My jewels are fakes. I had certain necessities, various debts of which my husband was unaware. I desperately wanted this house, he needed the money which I could not produce, so I sold my jewellery.’

‘Surely you could have told him. He would have understood your reasons for doing so.’

Lady Brettle froze at his words, all the warmth and confidentiality faded. ‘I am not prepared to discuss our domestic situation with you, the whys and wherefores are none of your business. My only business with you, in fact, is to urge you to drop this investigation at once. I am not sure how far enquiries may have gone, but I understand it is only as far as the local police. On my instructions, Sir Philip was to await my return so that I might give a full description before taking the matter to a higher police authority.’

A very convenient arrangement, Faro thought, remembering his conversation that also made certain Sir Philip’s young lady friend was not involved.

‘You realise, my lady, that this matter is in the hands of Constable Muir, not with me. I have no influence over the decision of the local police.’

‘Then you must think of something – some excuse. It is quite simple – that I had the jewels with me.’

‘And the Emerald Star too.’

Her face changed. ‘That too. Unfortunately it is the only item of value that was stolen.’ She shrugged. ‘Unique and quite priceless. Of sentimental value but alas there is nothing I can do to recover it without revealing my unhappy situation regarding the fate of my jewels.’

The emerald was a definite clue to the identity of the thief. For if he was, as Faro suspected, Macheath, that alone would have fitted his partiality for safe-breaking and stealing valuable property from large houses. It also strongly suggested that he had never left the neighbourhood of Upton and disappeared to London, but had remained with the sole purpose of uplifting Lady Brettle’s Emerald Star. He would doubtless be very disappointed to find that the rest of the items were fakes.

‘There were other items stolen. Two Dutch paintings.’

She shrugged. ‘That is entirely my husband’s domain. Valuable, of course, so I believe, but not to my taste. Too dreary. I prefer Mr Millais myself.’

As did numerous other much humbler households the length and breadth of Britain, with reproductions hanging on cottage walls and in parlours of long streets in industrial towns.

‘You must discuss this matter with Sir Philip. He is no doubt anxious to have his paintings recovered.’

Far from it, thought Faro, who had reached his own solution to that particular mystery and he felt a surge of excitement for his conversation with Lady Brettle had confirmed his suspicions and also provided a motive that, despite appearances, the Brettles were in desperate straits financially and Sir Philip at least had taken action to solve one aspect of the problem. It also accounted for the lack of servants apart from the loyal housekeeper and the occasional maid, Bess Tracy.

As he prepared to leave, Faro asked, ‘What of Mrs Lunn?’

‘Lunn was with me in London. She is in no way responsible for the break-in.’

Faro was not at all sure about that as he asked, ‘Have you any theories, then, how Sir Philip found the kitchen door open with no sign of a forced entry?’

She shrugged. ‘I can only guess that someone stole the keys,’ she said vaguely. ‘Had Lunn been here she would never have let them out of her possession for a moment.’

From what he knew already, that seemed a lame excuse but he said, ‘I would appreciate a few words with Mrs Lunn, if you please.’

Lady Brettle stared at him, as if she would have liked to refuse his request before seizing the bell pull.