Blood Line (3 page)

Faro suppressed amusement for there was nothing in the least avuncular in this stern aristocrat's manner.

'But, Uncle . . . ' protested a sadly diminished Lucille.

'Now,' Sir Eric repeated firmly. He rose to his feet, a tall, regal, grey-haired disciplinarian. A sight to make strong men quail and more than a match for his spirited niece.

'It's been lovely to meet you,' said Lucille weakly. 'I hope I'll see you again before I leave,' she added with a sigh.

'Seeing that you're to be here until the autumn, I don't see how that can be avoided,' said Sir Eric, his good nature restored. His affectionate glance was followed by a threatening gesture. 'Now, be off with you, young lady. Good night, sleep well.'

'Good night, Uncle. Good night, Inspector.' A pretty curtsy and the door closed.

Handing Faro a dram, Sir Eric relaxed in the chair opposite. 'Hope she wasn't being too tedious. Bit of a rattle, but a sweet child really. Have to watch her with all these soldier lads about in the Castle. Seems to have no idea what men are like - well, you know what soldiers are. Given any encouragement, it could be deuced awkward.'

Drinking deeply, he sighed. 'We inherited her when a Vermont Haston cousin died. Time she had a husband. Her aunt's finding her a bit of a handful. Got this brilliant idea that there might be more chance of a good marriage here in Edinburgh. Perhaps when the Court comes to Holyrood. Anyway, I dare say you aren't here to talk about my niece. What can I do for you?'

'I'm not sure, Sir Eric. There was a body found at the base of Castle Rock . . .'

'So I've heard. Fellow trying to get into Queen Mary's apartments. Up to no good, I warrant. Expect he was disturbed, panicked and tried to make his getaway. Good Lord, nobody's climbed down Castle Rock and got away with it since the wicked Earl of Bothwell back in the 1560s. Don't make men like that any more.'

'Have you any idea what he could have been looking for? Are there any valuables missing?'

'No, thank God. All safely locked in their glass cases. The rest of it is memorabilia - shoes, gloves, that sort of thing. Then there's a bed with hangings Mary embroidered personally.' He laughed. 'All authentic, dating from the sixteenth century, whether they belonged to the Queen or not.'

'I wonder if I could have a look round.'

'By all means. But you'll be wasting your time, lad. I know every item after all these years. Naturally when I heard about the intruder, first thing I did was to have them checked. Nothing missing, nothing even disturbed, I'm told. In fact, how he hoped to get in and out again is a mystery.'

Faro smiled and Sir Eric continued, 'Which, of course, is why you are here. Who was he, anyway?'

'We have no idea as yet.'

'I see. Well, you're more than welcome to have a search for any clues if you feel my men might have missed something vital. But you'll need to come back in tomorrow. Forster, who keeps the keys, is off duty, away to Haddington, I think. Returns in the morning. Now, time for a game of chess?'

'Not tonight, I'm afraid, sir. My mother has just arrived from Orkney with Rose and Emily - '

'Then I mustn't delay you.' With a sudden tender glance, he added, 'Compliments to your dear mother. It is far too long since we last met. Tell her I shall take the liberty of calling on her very soon.'

'Please do, Sir Eric. She would enjoy that.'

'You really think so?' He sounded eager. 'Such a splendid lady and one I have always held in the highest esteem.'

There was a suppressed sigh. 'We were very close after your father's death, you know.'

Faro did know, but not from Sir Eric. He had gathered from his mother's coy innuendoes that she might have married Sir Eric had she had the notion for a second marriage. But like her adored Queen Victoria she preferred to remain in love with the memory of a dead husband, relishing her widowhood to the full.

'Besides,' she told her son in a moment of confidence, 'it wasn't proper at all. I know my station in life, son, and it was not to be Lady Haston-Lennard. The very idea. What would my Orkney friends think of me, giving myself airs?'

'It's done every day in high society, Mother. Poor-born females are raised up by marriage.'

And now he was left wondering whether Mary Faro could possibly be the reason why Sir Eric had remained a bachelor.

'Do bring the little girls with you next time. I'd like to take them round myself. Tell them a bit of the history.'

'They would love that. They're full of stories about Queen Mary.'

'Good for them. I'll get my niece to go along too. Might stir her interest in the past. Our glorious history leaves her quite cold. All she cares for are pretty clothes and theatres and grand balls. Don't know what this young generation is coming to.'

Faro didn't feel inclined to argue that some of that young generation, like his doctor stepson Vince, were a credit to Scotland's future. At the door the two men shook hands.

'I'll expect you about ten tomorrow,' said Sir Eric.

'Thank you for your help, sir. And I'll bring the family on some later occasion.'

'Of course, of course. Crime and domesticity don't mix, do they?'

Rose and Emily Faro were early risers, so too was Faro's mother - the latter somewhat surprised, on preparing to indulge her son with the special treat of a breakfast tray, to find his bed slept in, but the room empty.

'He left the house half an hour ago, Mrs Faro,' the housekeeper told her. 'Quiet as a mouse he was. 'Spect he's gone for a constitutional. Oh yes, I'm sure he'll be back soon.'

Even as she spoke Faro was perched precariously on the Castle Rock. The point to which he had climbed was some eight feet above the spot where the body had been found. As he conducted his minute search of the area, he kept remembering those empty pockets.

Unless the dead man lived within walking distance, he must have had some money. And a clay pipe and tobacco in his pocket, since evidence had pointed to a smoker.

It was the stem of a clay pipe which led him to the discovery of a large knotted handkerchief, jammed in a crevice and almost hidden by gorse. Inside he found small coins and the pipe's bowl. He had guessed right. Its mode of transport had probably been the trouser pocket, since the hand-me-down jacket was such an uncommon tight fit.

Looking at these anonymous tokens, Faro almost missed the jewel completely. The sun, tardy in putting in an appearance, suddenly blazed forth from behind a bank of cloud. At that moment, Edinburgh's many churches, whatever their denomination, were more or less united in chiming forth the hour.

Eight, nine. Faro sighed. The search had taken longer than he had planned. It was hardly worth returning home for breakfast. He might as well go direct to the Castle, contact Forster and begin his investigations with a thorough search of Queen Mary's apartments.

It promised to be a glorious day, the sunlight swiftly drying the night's dewdrops in a kaleidoscope of delicate colour. Suddenly he strained forward for a closer look. This particular dewdrop was in fact the ruby and diamond glint of a jewel about three feet above his head. Weighing it in his hand, he thought about the constables' method of investigation. Doubtless they had been conscientious enough but had used little imagination. They had searched below where the man was found, not realising that as a body rolled downwards, through such an uneven terrain of rocks and gorse, items carried in pockets could well be dislodged.

The jewel was a cameo pendant of delicate gold and enamel filigree surrounding a tiny miniature of a man in sixteenth-century apparel. The likelihood of it being 'buried treasure', lying here in this crevice for many years undiscovered, seemed very remote. The gold would have tarnished, in fact it was doubtful if that delicate filigree would have survived the passage of time.

Faro felt certain that the piece was authentic, valuable, and had found its way down the Castle Rock very recently. Looking up at the window of Queen Mary's apartments, he was now sure that the jewel he held had been connected with the man's violent death. When he walked round the glass cases shortly, Forster would confirm that one piece was missing.

There was a thrill of personal triumph in knowing that the mystery was beginning to unravel. In his hands he held the thread to the labyrinth, the very first clue. He was still certain that the scanty clues of the dead man's apparel pointed to his having been murdered, but why? A struggle on the heights with someone else who wanted to gain possession of the jewel? Was it that simple?

He should know part of the answer in ten minutes' time and could almost hear Sir Eric saying, 'Yes, of course. One of our treasures, belonged to Queen Mary. I know it well.'

I know it well. The imagined words repeated themselves over and over. I know it well. True, he knew little about jewellery, but what he now felt was the unmistakable sense of recognition. Just as he was certain that what he held was not a modern reproduction of an antique cameo, he was experiencing a feeling that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

A sensation of times past. Of a happening far off but familiar too. At some other period in his life, he had held this piece in his hands. No, that could not be - one very like it. The remembrance brought with it a rush of guilt and shame. Someone had been very angry with him. His mother? Yes, his mother. No, she wasn't angry. She was upset - crying. And that made him feel terrible.

His fist tightened over the cameo. The possessor of a phenomenal memory, he fought desperately to remember. How, when and, most important, where?

At that moment, his glance took in a shadow moving far above him. Arms gesticulating? A large bird?

No. A black shape - hurtling down towards him.

He flattened himself against the rock and felt the wind of a huge dark object flying past him. A second later and it bounced, cracking, stone upon stone, past the very spot where he had been perched, to crash vibrating the railings far below.

His sudden evasive action dislodged the heath root supporting his weight. The next moment he too was hurtling down - down, the ground coming to meet him, dazzled in morning sunshine.

Chapter Three

Slithering painfully against every rock, Faro's downward progress was arrested with a sickening thud as he hit the ground and his ankle twisted under him.

He tried to stand. The pain was agonising. On hands and knees he crawled the short distance to the railings and stared helplessly through at the road with its bustling morning traffic, walkers and riders, carriages driving towards Princes Street and the West End.

'Help me, help me, please.' But the first passer by, a respectably dressed middle-aged woman walking with a small child, gave him a look of horror and speedily averted her eyes as if from some improper sight. Propelling the child along, ignoring shrill questions and backward glances, she hurried on, deaf and blind to his distress.

Next came three young girls, whispering and giggling as they walked arm-in-arm down the Wynd.

'Ladies, ladies. Please help me.' They slowed down momentarily. 'I'm a police officer,' he added desperately, trying to sound stern and convincing.

Hands on hips the trio regarded him. 'Don't look much like a policeman, does he?'

'Come away, Meg. He'll be one of those dafties, always tormenting decent folk.'

'Please listen,' Faro shouted as they moved away. 'If you won't help me, then tell the next constable you meet...'

But the three hurried on with occasional nervous backward glances and furious giggling, leaving Faro clinging miserably to the railings, staring after them. What a ridiculous predicament. Here he was, unable to climb the railings or walk in search of some exit. His hopes of getting anyone to help him steadily diminished - where, in heaven's name, were all Edinburgh's great God-fearing citizens who poured forth from churches each Sunday, eager with their good works?

'Help me please, I'm a police officer,' raised only looks of mocking merriment from a band of workmen.

'Serve you right,' they shouted across at him.

'Aye, hope you rot there.'

Could this nightmare be really happening to him, or would he awake in his bed in Sheridan Place? Now for the first time, he was experiencing a new dimension of crime. How easily attacks, even murders, could be accomplished in broad daylight without exciting more than a flicker of curiosity in passers by. Curiosity that might extend to perverse amusement at the victim's plight without arousing the slightest inclination to rush forward and offer assistance.

At last, the most welcome sight in the world, a police carriage trotting briskly up Johnston Terrace from the direction of the old King's Stables Road. At his frantic waving through the railings, the uniformed passenger jumped down; it was his assistant, and constant thorn in his side, Constable, lately promoted to Sergeant, Danny McQuinn.

The sight of his superior officer seemed to fill him with ill-suppressed merriment. 'Fancy finding you here, sir. Some young ladies said you'd been in the wars and needed help? Well, well - what did you do?'

'I had a slight argument with a falling rock,' Faro snapped and thought bitterly that the girls must have enjoyed relating their story to the handsome young policeman. He could just imagine them with their giggling, their flirtatious glances. Aye, McQuinn doubtless got considerably more of their anxious attention than he had done.