A Quiet Death (13 page)

He tapped his fingers against his glass. 'In other words, Faro, someone has been making a hefty packet out of the enterprise. But this is no ordinary fraud, this is tantamount to murder when you consider the lives that have been endangered.'

It was a shocking story and confirmed what McGowan had told him of his son's discovery.

'This man McGowan who fell under the train—'

Johnston nodded and Faro continued: 'He told me that his son who worked in the finance department suspected fraudulent dealings.'

'Precisely. It was from him we received our first inklings.'

'Were you not suspicious then, when he so conveniently met with an accident on the bridge?'

'Of course we were. First the man Simms and then young McGowan. The two prime witnesses in a fraud enquiry.'

'Then why didn't you do something about it?' asked Faro angrily.

'Look, Faro, you know the rules as well as I do. They were both dead and we had nothing yet to prove our suspicions. But if we stormed in with accusations at this delicate stage, we'd alert whoever was guilty. Then Simms and McGowan would have died in vain.'

His reasoning didn't please Faro. This wasn't the way he worked even if there was a kind of logic about it. 'Can nothing be done about the bridge at this stage?'

'Not without tearing down the whole structure and starting again. And we'd certainly never be able to convince the shareholders that we were acting in the passengers' best interests. Or that poorer materials than those ordered had been used and that careless measurements had been made. They would simply laugh at us. After all, they have big money at stake. And that is what counts. Not human lives, Faro. Money and secure investments.'

'But if this goes on and the bridge is ever completed, you realise the danger. A trainload of passengers. My God, to sit back and do nothing is quite unthinkable.'

'We could all be wrong, you know. It is maybe not as serious as it sounds. We can do nothing meantime but if this fraud is proved then we will certainly insist that the work so far be properly reinforced to make it doubly secure.'

'Let us hope that it isn't too late and that your bridge isn't already doomed.'

Johnston frowned. 'Of course, it will cause a lot of bother. Delaying completion for a few more years will greatly distress the shareholders.'

'Damn the shareholders. What do their feelings matter when the whole bridge may fall in the first storm and take a full passenger train with it?' Faro shuddered. 'Dear God, it doesn't bear thinking about.'

'We've already been warned about that.' A moment later Johnston added casually. 'Not psychic by any chance, are you, Inspector?'

'Not that I admit to.'

'Then you needn't worry. My mother was Highland and I get the odd quiver now and again. One of our famous citizens was the Seer of Gourdie.'

'Yes, I've heard of him.'

'He was remarkably accurate about his own and other people's lives, foretelling his own death and other major, less personal events.'

'And he predicted that this rainbow bridge would fall. I heard about that.'

Johnston nodded. 'Of course, everyone laughed at such an idea. Took refuge in the knowledge that old Patrick Matthews was born in the eighteenth century. What could a man with old-fashioned ideas possibly understand about the marvels of modern progress and science?' Johnston paused and regarded him grimly. 'I just hope he's wrong.'

'And if he's right, that there's no train going across at the time it falls,' Faro repeated in worried tones, for the enormity of Johnston's revelations had thrust all else aside.

While the waiter replenished their glasses, Johnston asked: 'How is your stepson today? Has he recovered from his temporary experience of police hospitality?' he added with a grin.

'I hope so. I gave him a good talking to and extracted a promise that he would keep away from Deane Hall.'

Johnston sat back in his chair. 'Poor lad. If it isn't too late I'd implore him to steer clear of Rachel Deane. Forget about her.'

'How so?' demanded Faro sharply.

The Superintendent shrugged. 'Because the lass isn't—well, stable, let's say. She has a family history of mental illness, her mother and father were first cousins and Mrs Deane committed suicide while the lass was still a bairn.'

'One of my friends, Tom Elgin, whom you may remember, told me about that when I was visiting him.'

The Superintendent nodded. 'As is often the case in these close-knit families, they waver between producing brilliant sons and simpletons.'

'Do you know Miss Deane personally?'

'We've visited the house socially through the years. And I've never been left with a very good impression. Rude, wild, and liable to throw the soup at the maid if it didn't please her. The kind that makes you grind your teeth and if there wasn't the excuse of some kind of mental disturbance, then you'd be tempted to take the hairbrush to her backside.'

'Has she ever been under restraint?'

'You mean put away? No, that possibility has never been raised. Not strictly necessary in her case since she has never been a danger, so far as I have heard, to anyone but herself. If she'd been in poorer circumstances there might have been some reason, but fortunately for her, Deane Hall is a big place. When she has these erratic outbursts from time to time, I gather she can be effectively put under restraint at home.'

'But this girl is the heiress, the whole of Deane's fortune comes to her as the only offspring.'

That has been taken care of. Wilfred Deane, her second cousin, is in charge of the family finances and in fact is virtually top man since Sir Arnold's illness. He wants to marry her. Did your stepson mention that?'

'No. First I've heard of it.'

'Well, give the girl her due, she is not to be pushed into marriage either. Just as well,' said Johnston.

'You mean—'

'If this embezzlement businesses proved, Wilfred Deane is likely to be spending some years behind bars.'

What an unholy mess. Faro walked back to Paton's Lane feeling considerably upset. How could he tell Vince that Rachel Deane had obviously escaped her supervised seclusion in Deane Hall only long enough to indulge her appetite for romance? Perhaps any man would have done just as well. The butler for instance.

But how to tell his lovesick stepson that his first great love, the consummation of his passion, had been with a girl with a family history of madness. A girl he could never hope to make his wife, even if she had not denied ever knowing him.

Johnston's revelations explained her violent reaction but how could he tactfully warn Vince? He rephrased over and over the words he would need and discarded them all as totally inadequate consolation for Vince in his present state of mind.

Gloomily aware that by now his stepson might have another pressing problem, in the form of dismissal from his situation as factory doctor, he climbed the stairs to their lodging.

Vince bounded towards him, beaming with delight. But the letter in his hand was the last that Faro expected.

'Guess what. Stepfather. I've had a note from Rachel. I knew—I told you—it was all her family's doing. And I was right. She wants me to meet her. I knew she still loves me. And she does.' He flourished a piece of paper. 'Read that. Read it. Now you'll be convinced.'

And Faro realised that any words of warning he might care to offer were now too late.

Chapter Eleven

Dearest Vince. Meet me at Magdalen Green (where we met once before by the bridge) at 7 this evening. I will explain everything then. Do not fail me. I love you. Your Rachel.

Faro handed the note back. He was speechless. 'Well, Stepfather. What do you think of that?' demanded Vince triumphantly.

Highly suspicious were the first two words that occurred to Faro. He could not bring himself to respond to Vince's enthusiasm and utter the encouragement expected of him. Somewhat hesitantly, he said 'I presume there is no doubt that this is Rachel's handwriting?'

'Really, Stepfather,' was the scornful rejoinder, 'I do know her handwriting. For heaven's sake, this is their crested notepaper, too. And I have other notes from her. Here,' he added taking out his pocket case. 'Read them if you wish. Check them carefully,' he added stiffly.

'No need for that, lad.'

Thank you.' Vince's words were tinged with sarcasm as he replaced the notes, but on his lips was a dreamlike smile. Now that he believed Rachel Deane loved him, he was ready, even eager, to forget all the indignities she had heaped upon him. It was as if the last two days had never happened and Vince was about to rush headlong into the fantasy world they, or most likely he, had created.

'I can hardly believe it, after all that has happened.'

Neither can I, lad. Neither can I, thought Faro gloomily.

'It's like a miracle.'

A miracle or another cruel trick to destroy his stepson, he thought, listening to Vince now full of plans and speculations, all highly romantic and, Faro decided, highly impractical.

'Her grandfather dotes upon her and I have not the least doubt that she has persuaded him to let us marry. Don't you agree?' And not waiting for a reply, That swine Wilfred must have been the stumbling block. No doubt she will tell me all about it—'

Faro cut him short. 'Wait a moment, lad. Why all the secrecy? If she has the family approval, surely she or her grandfather might have invited you up to the house?'

He had to do his best to warn Vince that all might not be as he anticipated. He succeeded, for Vince looked suddenly thoughtful.

'Yes, that is a possibility I hadn't considered. Another is that she is making her escape from Deane Hall and wishes us to elope. That is something we have discussed before, in happier days,' he added wistfully. 'After all, she will be of age in two weeks' time—'

The more Faro listened, the more convinced he became that the note from Rachel and the whole situation it conjured up were deeply suspicious. A situation that Vince, in a sane mood, would have regarded with the utmost caution.

Watching his stepson prepare for the meeting, whistling happily, filled Faro with ominous dread that this time Vince himself might be in danger. When he emerged shaved and well-groomed, wearing his best suit and cravat, every trace of any recent despondency had vanished completely. Young and handsome, he was revitalised by his lost love returned.

At six thirty the sky clouded over. The weather had changed, a squally wind followed by heavy rain indicated that a storm was blowing up the Tay.

Vince mistook his stepfather's sombre countenance for anxiety about the weather. 'How exasperating!'

It was just a few minutes' walk from Paton's Lane to Magdalen Green but on a night like this, with forebodings of disaster pricking like daggers in his mind, Faro came to a sudden decision. 'We'll need to take a carriage. And I'm coming with you.'

'But—but there is absolutely no necessity—'

'It's all right, lad, I promise not to intrude. I shall remain discreetly inside the carriage.' And in a flash of pure invention, 'You see, it's just occurred to me that if you're eloping, the assistance of a third party might be extremely useful.'

'Well done, Stepfather. It never entered my head. You do think of everything, don't you?'

Hiring carriages on the busy main road from the railway station were readily accessible. At five minutes to seven they reached Magdalen Green. As the road near the bridge offered little shelter but a large quantity of mud underfoot, the cab driver agreed that for another shilling they might wait inside the carriage.

Those last few minutes were an eternity for Vince and a gnawing anxiety for his stepfather. The bridge was empty of workmen now, with gaslight flares to help the night-watchman in his task.

The swaying lanterns reflected the ghostly dark shapes of the piers of the bridge. No longer echoing with the sound of daytime hammerings, the creak and groan of cranes and pulleys as they elevated their heavy baskets to the higher platforms, only the wind whistled eerily, rustling up a tide which tugged and dragged at the half-finished girders.

Seven o'clock struck and faded away, but there was no sign of Rachel.

As for Faro, he became more convinced with every passing moment that Rachel herself would not appear, as his sinking heart told him that this had been yet another cruel practical joke at Vince's expense.

Nevertheless, he was now watchful, alert to possible danger. If that note had been a ruse to lure Vince to this lonely place, then the lad might be in mortal peril, with paid assassins lurking in the dark shadows of the bridge.

They were in for a surprise, he thought grimly, feeling triumphant and thankful that he had spoilt their plan by accompanying Vince to this assignation. He and Vince had been in many similar scrapes and they had acquitted themselves nobly, more than a match for their adversaries. Wishing he had not left his pistol in Edinburgh, he now looked for something that might be used in defence as well as their own fists.

In the flickering gaslight, he could see by Vince's eager face that he had not the least suspicion that anything was amiss. Hopeful, his spirits buoyant, he whistled under his breath.