Murder in Paradise (16 page)

Abandoning the seance, he had returned to his bedroom and was considering the next entry for his logbook. Because of his preoccupation with Madeleine and Erland this usually invaluable device had failed to provide him with the necessary clues.

Now Erland was dead and all that remained was that he track down Macheath and solve what had happened to Bess Tracy and return as soon as possible to Edinburgh where he might honourably resume his association with Lizzie, although he had to admit, however reluctantly, that the exotic womenfolk at Red House, particularly the model Poppy, had cast doubts on his feelings for her.

As for the events at Brettle Manor, they rested firmly in the province of Constable Muir, since the Brettles, both for their own secret reasons, declined the assistance of the Metropolitan Police. How the constable would cope with this problem was not his concern, although the possible outcome intrigued him.

All these events were outlined in his logbook, including the abortive interviews with the Brettles and with Mrs Lunn. He hoped that entering the details in his logbook would clear his mind and direct his thoughts into more positive channels.

‘If in doubt write it down, every fact that you know and what is missing is invariably where the solution lies.’

Such had been McFie’s words when he recommended this device at their first meeting and Faro’s log conscientiously dated day by day the chronicle of his futile search for Macheath, the telegraphs to Edinburgh and Noble’s terse replies, his interviews with Mrs Lunn.

Faro’s certainty that Macheath had stolen the Emerald Star now justified what had seemed a futile pursuit as well as Noble’s faith in his ability to track down this particularly elusive criminal.

‘Remain in Upton.’ But as he wrote the words, Faro asked himself: Had Macheath, as Mrs Lunn’s lodger, found the perfect opportunity to make wax impressions of the keys? At last the right moment had arrived when she had departed to London and the house was empty.

Perhaps Mrs Lunn had her own suspicions and because this new acquaintance might implicate her with the theft, had denied all knowledge of the occasional seasonal gardener whom she had previously claimed to Faro was her nephew.

Faro shook his head. From information thus far he realised one important fact that he had overlooked. To remain in the district and keep an eye on Brettle Manor, Macheath must have a base somewhere near at hand. But where?

Laying aside the logbook, he realised that he must retrace his steps. As he walked through the orchard taking the short cut to Brettle Manor, the gardeners were busy with their early autumn activities and acknowledged him with their usual polite greetings.

Deep in thought at last he walked down the drive and stood by the kitchen door, looking towards the cottage so hotly disputed and he realised there was in fact only one place for Macheath’s vigil.

Faro knew then that he had guessed part of the truth, but was the old man sitting in the porch his accomplice? Faro thought not, considering what he knew of the recluse via Muir and the alehouse gossip. Boone had been curious enough about Faro as a stranger to the district and apparently eager to be friendly at their first meeting in the village. Why then had he turned so hostile when Faro approached him on a visit to Brettle Manor.

Then there was the dog, whose barking had kept intruders at bay and Sir Philip off his sleep. The dog no longer barked at his distant approach or was even visible as a warning presence. He thought it unlikely that Sir Philip had shot the animal as he had threatened. However, bearing in mind that Macheath was a master of disguise, that present scene outside the cottage had suddenly taken on a more chilling and sinister interpretation. Was Boone still alive?

Excited by what he had revealed, all that now remained was to confront Macheath. How he was to accomplish this, he had as yet no clear idea. There were certain obvious disadvantages, being unarmed when faced with a killer ready to fight for his life.

As for Bess, where did she fit into this puzzle? Indeed, was she still alive?

Even as these thoughts engaged Faro’s powers of concentration, he need not have been too concerned, for the idea of confrontation was also at that moment engaging the mind of Macheath with Faro as his objective.

In one thing Macheath was wrong about Bess. The added ingredients he had overlooked – so common in most women – were curiosity and boredom. She soon got bored if he was not around to make love to her all day. It was an accident however that triggered off the baited trap prematurely before he was ready or had his target Jeremy Faro firmly in place.

Bess had only one gown, the one she had been wearing for several days while he was making provision for that mythical wardrobe. Unfortunately Bess’s monthly bleeding began suddenly and heavily and her pale-yellow dress was stained. Standing in her shift, she realised that this was a valid reason and opportunity to search around for that promised wardrobe of handsome gowns and cloaks. It was doubtful that the house’s owner, the family friend, would remember exactly what his daughter had worn and Bess felt sure that one gown would never be missed.

She often thought about the old gentleman who lived on the ground floor and spent so much time smoking in the garden. He also provided her meals. They were not always punctual. Sometimes she was quite hungry and, without a clock, nothing to guide her beyond hunger pangs, daylight and darkness. She had learnt to content herself with the generous supply of sweetmeats her lover had provided and await the arrival of a tray along with water for her ablutions, which were placed at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading to her attic room, cut off from the rest of the house by a locked door.

Denied any communication with the bearer, who as her lover told her was old, her curiosity was aroused by his footsteps, which sounded light and quick, and she would have welcomed a word with him. She therefore determined on a closer acquaintance.

Once hearing his approach, she called out a greeting. He turned and scuttled away leaving her with only a glimpse of white hair. At the sound of a key turned in the lock, for the first time she had to acknowledge that she was virtually a prisoner in this house, albeit a happy one.

As for the house’s owner, men, as she knew from her already vast experience, were odd creatures. Some were bold and some were painfully shy and afraid of women. The old gentleman obviously belonged to the latter but as her lover’s family friend who had offered them this safe refuge, she felt a little hurt and neglected.

But she was happier now than she had ever been in her short life, ashamed to admit boredom with the silence of her attic room, invaded only by distant sounds of carriages from a main road beyond the wooded garden. Once she heard a dog barking – she wished she could see it, she liked dogs.

With the gown waiting to be washed, this was a good excuse to go in search of some suitable garment. Her lover might return at any moment and she did not want to be found by him in a ragged shift that had once belonged to her mother.

As she slipped downstairs, the attic door was not the problem she had expected. The lock was old and rusted, a determined push and it yielded to her shoulder. As it sprang open she hoped the noise had not been heard and looked out cautiously.

There was no sound of movement in the house, but she must hurry. Soon it would be dark. From the landing, looking out of the window, she realised that she knew exactly where she was now. Although the treetop view from the attic had concealed the contours of the adjacent countryside, the area she now looked on was familiar and indeed not far distant from her home.

She did not linger. Caution and speed were essential. Far below on the porch, she caught a glimpse of the old gentleman with his clay pipe. She certainly did not want to attract his attention and have to explain what she was doing downstairs in her shift.

She looked along the dark landing. Two doors, presumably bedrooms. Opening the nearest, it was apparently used for storage, the entire floor area heaped with silver and ornaments of all shapes and sizes, doubtless the old gentleman’s hoard of a lifetime’s possessions.

No wardrobe however was visible.

The second bedroom was completely empty, the old gentleman must now sleep downstairs, although remembering those light footsteps he had not yet reached the stage of finding stairs a trial.

She sniffed the air. Although the room was empty, there was a distinctly unpleasant smell, a slightly sweet, animal smell. Not the sort of room she’d want to linger in, with only a wall cupboard alongside the old fireplace. This cupboard she decided must be the wardrobe where the gowns were stored.

Excited now, she went to open the door, expecting a flood of bright colour, frail perfume.

Instead the unpleasant smell was decidedly stronger, so strong she held her breath. It was too dark to see the interior clearly but there was the first disappointment.

Not a single gown, just a tumbled heap of clothes on the floor and a mass of shabby fur. The smell was awful, she leant forward and touched the bundle of clothes. A face appeared, a gnarled hand.

She screamed. An old man’s face, bewhiskered, pale, the mouth open as if in a noiseless cry. And at his side, the matted fur took shape now in the body of a mongrel dog.

Both were dead! And neither by natural causes. She knew in that instant that they had been murdered.

Trembling she stood up and, sobbing, ran from the room. She had to escape from this terrible scene, this lovely home, this lovers’ refuge now tainted with such horror.

At the bottom of the stairs, clutching the banister, she stopped in her flight. Terrified, confused by this discovery, one thought penetrated.

Who did the bodies belong to? How long had they lain hidden in that unlocked room? About to open the front door, some instinct – a sense of caution – made her hesitate.

If the man and his dog were dead – who then was the old gentleman she had seen out there, smoking his pipe in the garden?

All thoughts of a lovely wardrobe vanished, taking her prudent lover with it as a dream of love exploded into a terrible reality. There was a cloak hanging behind the front door.

She had to escape. She pulled it on as she opened the front door and ran out, just as the old man with white hair was crossing the garden.

She ran and ran towards the village. She had to find help. Aware that time was not on her side, and of her terrible danger, she did not run for home. It was too far away, he would catch up with her.

She panicked. Red House was nearer.

She knew some of the gardeners intimately. They would know what to do. They would help her.

Macheath saw her leave the house, running, obviously something amiss as she would not willingly disobey him.

It took him just seconds to whip off the old hat and beard and throw on the gardener’s hooded cape. He could move like lightning and had no difficulty catching up with her just as she reached the gate leading to Red House.

As Paul Jacks he turned on all his charm and concern. She clung to him, sobbing out a terrified story about a dead man and a dog hidden in a cupboard. A totally unexpected blow to his plan for her.

Expecting to be chided for running away, for disobeying his orders, Bess was consoled that he wasn’t angry, said this was a serious matter indeed. But there was one man who could help them.

This man was a policeman. He would take her to meet him. He would know what to do.

Gratefully she smiled at him, trusting as always, as he wiped away her tears.

For his plan to work, he needed Dave’s assistance and he heard the gardeners’ voices in the orchard as he led her towards the summerhouse and told her wait there and try to be calm while he went in search of the policeman who was at Red House.

She was quiet now, but accepted this without question as the right thing to do. It remained for him to get Dave to play his part.

He took her in his arms, murmured reassurances and, trusting to the end, she hardly felt the knife thrust and died still smiling as he went in search of Dave to deliver the message upon which all his plans now depended.

Faro was leaving Red House considering with satisfaction how he had solved the case of the Brettle Manor burglary, the theft of the jewels and the missing pictures. There remained however the missing girl as well as the tricky business of how to confront Macheath.

Today it seemed he was in luck. The gardener Dave, clearing the first fallen leaves, preparing the ground for the onset of winter, called a greeting.

‘You know that lass you were so keen to meet? Bess Tracy.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘Well, there’s a message from her. She wants to see you – urgent like. In the summerhouse.’

At last. Faro felt jubilant, a sense of triumph. This was the moment he had been waiting for, certain that Bess was still alive and held the clues to what had happened at Brettle Manor.

The rustic summerhouse was surrounded by trees, an idyllic setting. Here he had sat with Poppy on a bright sunny day, wondering if he was falling in love.

He could not see Bess from the distance as he approached, only a moving figure in the gloom. Hurrying forward he ran up the steps and was roughly seized. He tried in vain to twist round to evade the hammer blow and fell to the ground and as the blackness descended his last thought was that he had been tricked and would never know how or even why.

Macheath looked at the two bodies with satisfaction. It had been so easy, fortune had smiled on him that day. He hoped it would continue to do so and that he would be safely in America before anyone entered the deserted cottage on the Brettles’ estate.

He grinned wolfishly as he placed the bloodied knife in Faro’s hand. Running across the grounds towards the gardeners, he shouted, ‘Help, help. Murder.’

Dave turned round. ‘What’s up?’

‘In the summerhouse – Bess – she’s been murdered…’

Dave was bewildered, confused and shocked. Assignations were one thing, murder quite another. He yelled to the other gardeners, who downed tools as they headed after the man they knew as Paul. As they ran he gasped out the story he had prepared, ‘I was passing by, heard her scream. Man had hold of her, tearing at her clothes. I was too late, he took out a knife.’ He gestured towards his throat. ‘Turned on me, he did. But I knocked him out. He’s lying there.’ He stopped, yelled, ‘You lads, don’t let him get away. I’m off for the constable.’

In sight of the summerhouse Dave shouted, ‘It’ll be that Scotch fellow, the queer cove from the house there, always asking about her. Always thought he was mad—’

Faro was dragged to his feet, roughly roused. He had hardly time to realise that he had a very sore head when he was struck across the face. Opening his eyes, the gardeners were around him, his arms pinned to his sides. Somebody took another punch at his face.

He stepped sideways, staggered, evading the blow.

An ugly murmur and Dave held up his hand. ‘Leave this to the police, lads. They’ll see that he hangs for this.’ He pointed to the knife lying on the ground. ‘Remember all of you, this was in his hand when we found him.’

There were angry yells, threatening gestures. ‘If the village doesn’t do the job first, then you’ll have us to deal with, you bastard!’

Faro’s senses were fully returned, and he pointed to the knife. ‘Look, all of you. I didn’t kill her. She was dead when he hit me.’

‘Who’s he?’ someone yelled.

Faro shook his head and it hurt. ‘One of you gardeners,’ he said lamely.

There were mocking jeers at that. Hopeless to try to explain that their comrade was most probably, as he now realised too late, also Macheath.

Dave said, ‘His name is Paul and he’s gone for the police. It’s jail for you – then you’ll hang. No funny business or you’ll regret it.’

There was a moment’s indecision as they all wondered what to do next. Then someone shouted, ‘Come on, lads, let’s take him to the police ourselves.’

His arms seized, Faro did as he was told. Hopelessly outnumbered and trying to think of a way out of the trap he had walked into, he gazed at the pitiful figure of the girl wearing only a torn shift to cover her nakedness.

Bess Tracy, he realised too late, had been the bait in the trap that Macheath, alias Paul, had prepared for him. And preoccupied by the revelations in his logbook he had walked straight into it.

Constable Muir, comfortably smoking his pipe in his office, had never been summoned to a murder before. A new and daunting experience as his sanctum was invaded by a group of angry young men holding Faro, his arms pinioned, in their midst.

‘What’s all this about?’ Muir demanded

Faro shouted, ‘Bess’s body has been found.’

Dave said, ‘It’s like Paul said. He came to tell you—’

Muir frowned. ‘What’s happened to her?’

An angry growl from the crowd. ‘She’s been murdered. In the summerhouse at Red House. By this bastard—’

‘Good Lord,’ said Muir addressing Faro over their heads, having presumed quite wrongly that it was Faro who had discovered her until he was pushed roughly forward.

‘It’s him – who killed her. One of our mates, Paul, saw it all and he was too late to save Bess, rape it was – heard her screaming then and knocked this fellow out and came for us on his way to get you.’

Muir looked round, bewildered, not yet able to absorb what he was being told. ‘Which of you is Paul?’ he demanded

‘None of us, Constable. I keep telling you, he came for you,’ Dave sounded exasperated as Muir shook his head.

‘I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t been here – when was all this?’

‘Just minutes ago.’

Muir sighed. ‘That’s it then. I’ve just come in. He must have gone on to Upton. Let’s go to this summerhouse. And there’s no need to hang on to Mr Faro like that. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.’

‘Mistake!’ they yelled. ‘You’re the one who is making a mistake, Constable, if you think that.’

As Muir accompanied them back to the murder site, the gardeners kept Faro well away from him, still holding his arms as if he might make a run for it.

In the summerhouse, as Muir surveyed the grisly scene, he was still taken aback to say the least of it to find that the man who the gardener had witnessed murdering Bess was Faro, found according to these witnesses lying unconscious clutching a knife in his hand covered in Bess’s blood.

It looked bad. He bent over the body, guessed that she had not been dead very long.

Faro said desperately, ‘Muir, this was a trap, I tell you. A set-up. Macheath was behind it.’

Muir looked up at him. ‘You know the rules as well as I do. Of course, I don’t believe you killed this girl—’

Interrupted by an angry roar from the gardeners, he held up his hand for silence and continued, ‘Just the same, Faro, you’ll have to come back with me until we can sort it out.’

There was no denying it. Faro knew the procedure that must be followed. There was a witness to a murder and the accused, even if he was a policeman, must be kept in custody until the Metropolitan Police arrived on the scene.

‘May I collect some things from the house?’ Faro asked.

‘Of course,’ and to the gardeners, ‘All right, lads, I’ll take care of this. You can go about your business.’ But they were suspicious and not to be dismissed, following them both towards the house.

Faro turned as he opened the door. ‘I will be as quick as I can.’ He hoped this extraordinary gathering, complete with Constable Muir, was not under observation from within, but all seemed quiet.

And as Muir shuffled uncomfortably, he said, ‘Don’t concern yourself, I won’t run away. You have my word – and I’m perfectly sure I can find the solution to this problem and the girl’s killer.’

But Muir did not share his optimism. He didn’t know Faro all that well and candidly, there was something deuced odd about all those telegraphs being sent back and forward between Faro and the Edinburgh police. He felt a lot of explanations were called for, although Faro seemed a decent enough cove on the surface, you never knew what lusts were brewing up under quite the guise of respectable gentleman or under the police uniform. As for the latter, well, they were human after all, no better no worse than the next man and equally at risk to temptations of the flesh.