Blood Line (10 page)

No. He must not remember. He had trained himself in forgetfulness and he would not allow Miss Haston to open that storehouse of bitter memories.

As he left them in the High Street, his daughters bestowed their ritual of smacking kisses while Miss Haston watched wistfully, as if she would have liked to be included.

Faro felt quite confused as he walked towards the Central Office. Perhaps he had hurt her feelings, perhaps he should have kissed her gently and innocently on the cheek, indicating that he regarded her in the same light as Rose and Emily. To kiss or not to kiss. Oh dear, what was a man to do?

Once inside his office, all such domestic problems were instantly forgotten. His presence was being eagerly sought by the Superintendent, who had just been alerted to yet another hiding place of the elusive Clavers, recently sighted at Leith.

The police carriage with its reinforcement of constables set out at a brisk pace for the harbour. They were too late. There was no evidence of Clavers and his gang in the now deserted shipping warehouse where they had allegedly gone to earth.

At this stage, Faro began to have serious doubts as to the integrity of the Superintendent's informant. He had a strong suspicion that his superior officer was being extremely gullible, deliberately misled by one of the gang or even one of Clavers's doxies (of which he was reported to have a considerable number, along with a remarkable capacity for keeping them all happy).

Retracing his steps to the police carriage waiting in the shade offered by the nearby church for the hot dusty ride back into Edinburgh, he read, 'St Patrick's Roman Catholic Church. Reverend Father James O'Rourke.'

Faro remembered his father's casebook. The John Femister who had died in 1837 had been from Leith. His fellow labourers were believed to be from Ireland in which case they were most likely Catholics. So there was always the remote possibility that they might have been interred in the one burial ground of that denomination in Leith.

Instructing the driver to wait, he wandered round the kirkyard inspecting the graves. As the church bore the date '1820' carved in stone, most of them were relatively modern.

There was no Matthew O'Hara or Peter Dowie and he was ready to give up when he came upon a headstone half-hidden by weeds, 'Jean Femister, died 1832, aged 29 years, beloved wife of John Femister, died 1837 aged 35 years. R.I.P.'

Returning once more to the grave of the sadly young couple, he suddenly realised the significance of its neglect. The Femisters had left no close and caring relatives. Yet, according to the newspaper, Femister had left a daughter. Was she the reason for her mother's early death? He did a rapid calculation. She would be about his own age, and with luck, she might have survived.

There was one way to find out. He set off along the gravel path leading to the church, where his further investigations were thwarted by a locked door. Disconsolately, he walked around the building and was about to leave when a priest hurried across the grass, his eager expression suggesting that Faro's attention to the gravestones had not gone unnoticed.

'Is there someone in particular you are seeking, sir?'

As Faro explained, his hopes of success faded. This rosy-faced cherubic priest was considerably less than forty.

'Alas, I cannot help you. I am new to this area. Father Bruce would have known. He was here for fifty years.'

'Perhaps I could talk to him?'

The priest shook his head and pointed solemnly to a new grave with a shining monument of a hovering angel. 'There he lies, sir. Buried three months past. Your best hope now is the parish records. If you'll come with me.'

Inside five minutes Faro had all the information he needed: John Femister's marriage in 1831 and a year later, the birth of a daughter, Griselda, and the death of his wife, Jean.

He found Father O'Rourke in the dim, cool interior with its odours of incense and the smell of old Bibles peculiar to stone-walled churches.

'Griselda Femister? No, I am certain there is no one of that name in our congregation. If she was only five when her father died then it is most likely that relatives took care of her - if she had any.'

And perhaps took her many miles from Leith. Without knowing their names it would be a hopeless task to trace her. Besides a child of five might have only the vaguest memories of her father and remember even less about the circumstances surrounding his death.

'If she had no relatives,' the priest continued, 'then she would have been placed in one of our orphanages, either in Edinburgh or in the Lothians. However, if she remained in the district and eventually married, then of course, she would most likely have been married at our church.' And when Faro looked hopeful, 'Perhaps you would like to consult the marriage register?'

Back in the vestry, Faro ignored all entries before 1848 as it was unlikely that Griselda Femister would have married before she was sixteen. It was not until March 1853 that he found the entry he sought, 'Griselda Femister, daughter of the late John and Jean Femister of this parish, and Malcolm Penfold, baron, of Heriot Row, Edinburgh.' Neither of the witnesses, alas, were Femisters.

Lord Penfold was well known to every member of the Edinburgh City Police. A High Court judge, a respected member of Edinburgh society, he was also a pillar of the Church of Scotland. What of his wife? Had she changed her religion?

Thanking the young priest, Faro made his way back to the police carriage, eminently satisfied with his afternoon's work and delighted by the discovery of a lead, however tenuous, to those events of 1837.

There was always the chance that Lady Penfold might produce foster parents, relatives or friends with long memories. And it was by painstakingly following such minor clues that a detective whose character was strong in patience and persistence might discover a path through the labyrinth. At the end of it, such a man might be rewarded by the revelation of many long forgotten - and often dangerous - secrets.

Chapter Seven

Faro returned home to find Vince alone in the drawing room studying Magnus Faro's notes.

'Fascinating stuff, Stepfather.'

'Where's the family?'

'Long past their bedtime. Haven't you noticed the time?'

'Did they enjoy the Botanic Gardens?'

'Positively wild with delight. By the way, I had a tantalisingly brief meeting with the delectable Miss Haston as she was leaving.'

'Did she stay to supper?'

'She did indeed. After putting the girls to bed and reading them a story. Even then she was disposed to linger. Anxiously enquiring for your welfare. Did they always keep such late hours at the Central Office?'

With a teasing glance, Vince added, 'You know, I had the distinct feeling she was most reluctant to take her departure before you returned. Wished to thank you for - I quote - introducing her to two such delightful little girls. Tell him I have had a marvellous time and that, with Mrs Faro's permission, I shall call on them tomorrow.'

And clearing his throat gently, Vince said, 'I think, seeing this is my day off, that I shall make myself quite indispensable.'

'You will enjoy riding in Sir Eric's splendid carriage.'

'That is not all I hope to enjoy, Stepfather.'

'Then I wish you joy of the lady, but do bear in mind that she is Sir Eric's niece.'

'And what do you mean by that?'

'You know what I mean, Vince lad. She is not to be regarded as one of your easy young women.'

'Easy young women? Somehow I didn't get the impression that she would be difficult or inexperienced in the ways of the world.'

'Come now, Vince, if you are intending to make a conquest . .'

'A conquest, Stepfather? Seduce that delightful creature? Nothing is further from my mind.'

'So be it. If any harm comes to her while she is under my roof, you'll have me - and Sir Eric, who is even more formidable - to answer to.'

'You are losing your sense of humour, Stepfather. Or could it be that you have a fancy for the lady yourself?'

'You talk nonsense.' And irritably shrugging off the hand Vince had placed on his arm, he added, 'If I had, then I should certainly not have missed an opportunity of spending a pleasant summer afternoon in the Botanic Gardens.'

Seeing Vince's puzzlement at his rather violent response, he sighed apologetically. 'I've seen them many a time, lad, that you know, in peace and in the pursuit of criminals...'

'But not, I imagine, with anyone as adorable as Miss Haston.'

'Who is young enough to be my daughter.'

'When did that deter any lusty male? God created men to love for ever.'

'Then let me put it another way. Do you think I'll ever fall in love, after what I have been through - or have you forgotten?'

And seeing his expression, Vince patted his shoulder. 'No. And never will,' he added gently. 'Forgive me, Stepfather, I am being crass and more tactless than usual. I realise it's early days for you - after . . . '

'Yes, yes,' Faro interrupted. He could not bear to go into the agonising details of his recent loss. 'And now, let's get down to these notes you've been reading.'

As he ate Mrs Brook's standard 'cold collation' left for either the doctor or the Inspector if they were unfortunate enough to miss supper, Faro filled in the details of his visit to Edinburgh Castle and his meeting with Lieutenant Arthur Mace. As he spoke, he spread the two Queen Mary jewels side by side on the small table before them.

'What do you make of it all, lad?'

Vince sat back in his chair. 'I should say, Stepfather, that, regardless of Mace's theory, whatever that tomb in the wall contained - and I'm inclined towards a treasure hoard personally - we can certainly dismiss any notion that the small coffin was a hoax and contained the remains of some small animal.'

'They couldn't have made a mistake?'

Vince shook his head. 'You don't have to be a medical man to know about such things. You couldn't mistake a mummified monkey for a child, could you?'

Faro shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'Nor, I assure you, could the most ignorant of workmen, unless they were also half blind, which I doubt. And having read your father's notes, I am convinced that this discovery was no practical joke, but one to be taken very seriously indeed.' Pausing, he put the tips of his fingers together and regarded his stepfather thoughtfully. 'Has it not occurred to you that the existence of this small coffin hidden for nearly three hundred years might well pose one of history's most intriguing questions? Was the man who succeeded Mary as King of Scotland and England really her son or was he an impostor?'

'Yes, and in the words of Lieutenant Mace, if that were so, a great deal of our history would have to be rewritten, especially in regard to the royal succession,' Faro added slowly.

'If the baby was James, then what have we in support of our theory? Where does the secret of that tiny coffin begin?'

'Has your history improved, lad?'

Vince grinned. 'Not much. It was always my weakest subject. Too dry and dusty when there were so many urgent matters in the present to engage one's interest. However, no one living in Edinburgh could be immune to Scotland's tragic Queen.'

'You recall David Rizzio's murder?'

'I do indeed. Every schoolboy worth his salt has gloated over the bloodstained boards in the Queen's supper room at Holyrood. Do you think it still gets another dose of ox's blood from time to time to keep it fresh?'

Faro sighed. Keeping his stepson's mind on historical facts had always been difficult. 'Doesn't it intrigue you as a medical man to wonder why the Queen, who was six months pregnant when she witnessed Rizzio murdered before her eyes, with Ruthven's sword point at her stomach, did not miscarry?'

Vince nodded. 'Wasn't her husband Darnley in the plot too?'

'He was indeed. Listen to this. It's a contemporary account from a volume in the Records Office - very forthright in its language. The Queen's Secretary, Maitland of Lethington, is reported as saying of Darnley, "He misuses himself so far towards her that it is an heartbreak for her to think that he should be her husband." Yet when he had smallpox in Glasgow she went to nurse him personally.'

'Poor Mary. Reading between the lines that smallpox was a polite name for another pox - syphilis, in fact,' said Vince.

'What an appalling discovery for any young bride -especially the Queen of Scots,' said Faro.

Vince smiled grimly. 'A discovery, alas, none too rare even in our own respectable society here in Edinburgh, if truth be told. Too much sowing of the wild oats down Leith Walk can leave a very nasty souvenir.'

'Aye, and there's a suspicion that ladies of easy virtue were not Darnley's only debaucheries.'

'A penchant for page boys?'

'Indeed. Mary must have been horrified and disgusted when so soon after marriage she discovered that her golden lad was perverted. Perhaps even worse was to know that his love for her - if it ever existed outside her imagination - came a very poor second to his lust for the throne of Scotland.'

'Let's go back to Rizzio's murder,' said Vince. 'I seem to remember the hint was that Mary and Rizzio were lovers. Do you think there was any truth in it?'