Blood Line (20 page)

'Sir James's valet, Mr Peters, might be able to help you.'

The house, built to look medieval, Faro recognised as being of fairly recent date. The lofty hall was not an unpleasant place to take a seat, surrounded by splendid portraits of Piperlees past and present, as well as their favourite racehorses and dogs.

Peters the valet was elderly. He descended the vast and heavily ornamented staircase cautiously, but to Faro's delight he recognised the jacket immediately.

'Yes, of course. I remember this garment very well. Sir James wore it about two years ago. A favourite of his, when it was the height of fashion. You will notice that the lapels are narrower now, seats are broader, and - those buttons.' Shaking his head, he added, 'How well I remember those buttons and the trouble they caused, Inspector. You see, Sir James lost one and we could never get a perfect match. Well, the master being a stickler for perfection as you might say, he refused to wear it ever again.'

'What happened to it after that?'

Peters frowned. 'I seem to remember that it hung in the wardrobe for some considerable time, until he decided to get rid of it.'

'Have you any idea who he might have given it to?'

Peters scratched his cheek thoughtfully. 'Now that's a poser, Inspector.'

'Someone on the Castle staff, perhaps,' suggested Faro helpfully.

Peters shook his head. 'Hardly, Inspector, more likely one of the tenantry or some benevolent institution. We are of a size, the master and myself,' he added ruefully, 'but I am never allowed to inherit any of his grand clothes. He's very strict about such things, bit of a hoarder. He would get positively enraged if he happened to meet any of the Castle staff wearing his discarded clothes.' He smiled grimly, 'Especially his own valet, if you see what I mean.'

Faro sighed deeply. After this promising start, it looked as if he had now reached yet another road that led to nowhere.

'May I ask you how you came by it, Inspector?' asked Peters with a nervous glance at the jacket.

'Of course. It was worn by a man who was killed in an accident - and who had no other means of identification.'

'Dear, dear. Nothing to identify him. That was awkward.'

And Faro, on impulse, withdrew the cameo. 'Only this. It was found beside him. Fell out of his pocket.'

'May I, sir? Very old, isn't it? Am I right in thinking it's very valuable?'

'You don't happen to recognise it?'

'No. It isn't one of our treasures.' And as Peters handed it back, Faro studied his face carefully. Unless the old valet was also a superb actor, he was speaking the truth. Noting the Inspector's doubtful expression, Peters added, 'You might ask Sir James when he gets back on Friday, Inspector - if you wish. However, you could take my word for it. I've served Sir James and his father before him for forty years. I think I can say I know every family trinket quite intimately.' And pointing to the cameo he said, 'That one I have never seen in this house before. I'm certain of it.'

Ushering Faro towards the door, and the waiting sergeant, he added, 'If you doubt my word, Inspector, you might have a word with Mrs Wheeler, the housekeeper. She's been at Piperlees for as long as I can remember and there isn't much that goes on in this family that she doesn't know about. She's a kindly soul.'

Peters rang the handbell and, as they awaited the housekeeper's arrival, Faro asked, 'Has Piperlees been troubled at all with this recent spate of burglaries in the neighbourhood?'

'No, thank goodness, we have not. We've been very lucky, or rather Sir James is a great stickler for bolts and bars on everything.' Looking at Faro, he smiled, 'Curious that you should mention those burglaries, Inspector, because it did just occur to me, that that piece, old and obviously valuable, might have come from one of the big houses.'

As the baize door opened, Peters introduced Mrs Wheeler and bid them goodday. 'Please let me know if I can be of further service to you, if you wish me to arrange a meeting for you with Sir James.'

Mrs Wheeler shook her head and confirmed Peters' statement that the brooch, as she called it, didn't belong to the Piperlee family. She showed even less knowledge on the subject than the valet. 'A pretty bauble, Inspector, and of course those jewels will be paste. They do these imitations very well these days, don't they? A body can hardly tell the genuine article any more.'

'What about this jacket, Mrs Wheeler? Have you seen it before?' asked Faro, holding up the garment for her inspection.

'I should just think I have, Inspector.' And looking round to make sure that they were alone, she dropped her voice to a whisper, 'I know that the master dislikes meeting any of the staff wearing his discards, as you might say - and what an eagle eye he has for that sort of thing. However, when Mr Peters said it was to go to some charitable organisation I thought, well, charity begins at home. So I gave it to Jess at the bakery, for her old uncle.' She touched her head. 'He's not all there, poor man, but he's harmless, a good worker, too . . . '

'Works on the estate - out of doors?'

'Why yes. How did you know that, Inspector? When he was young he was a lumberjack and a gold miner, oh the tall stories he'd tell if he had the notion...'

But Faro was no longer listening, preoccupied with the vivid picture of a dead man, elderly with tanned arms and neck, and scratches on his arms.

Mrs Wheeler was shaking her head sadly. 'Such a lot of misfortunes, he'd had . . . '

'What was his name?' Faro interrupted.

'Name?' Mrs Wheeler seemed surprised by the question. 'Harry.'

'Harry what?'

'I don't know. We don't go in much for surnames among the estate folk, unless they're tenants.'

'What is his niece's name then?'

'Porter. Jess Porter.'

'And where does Mrs Porter live?'

'She isn't married - and she lives at the west lodge. Just go down the main drive, turn right then left, about five minutes away.'

Thanking her, Faro turned at the door and asked, 'One more question, Mrs Wheeler. Do you happen to know if Harry had a brother?'

'I think he had, older than him, but dead long ago.'

'Does he ever talk about him? About how he died, for instance?'

'He was killed - in an accident.'

'Do you happen to know where this accident took place?'

Mrs Wheeler's expression indicated that the conversation had taken a curious turn. 'In Edinburgh - I think it was up at the Castle.'

Again Faro thanked her, shaking her warmly by the hand. It all fitted perfectly and he had no further doubt that the dead man's name was Harry Femister, who would have been a young man in 1837 when his brother John died. He was so certain of his deductions that he sent McQuinn back to the police carriage with a message that they might have to take an extra passenger back to Edinburgh.

As he walked along the twisting, tree-lined path towards the west lodge he had a sense of jubilation. Here was the stroke of luck, the link he had hoped for. Found, he thought, with considerably less effort and legwork than he had bargained for. For once, fortune had smiled on him and soon he would have the mystery unravelled as well as the secret of the two Queen Mary cameos: whether they were part of a treasure hoard and worth another Queen's ransom.

A delicious aroma of baking bread, borne on the summer breeze, warned Faro that he had almost reached his destination.

'You can't miss the cottage, Inspector, it's one of the originals, a lot older than this house. Been here for two hundred years or more, thatched roof and all. Jess is the local baker,' Mrs Wheeler had explained, 'makes her bread in the same oven as her father and grandfathers before her. The Porters didn't go in much for progress.'

Chapter Thirteen

The bakery door was open.

'Miss Jess Porter?'

A plump and comely woman of about forty whose rounded arms showed evidence of recent contact with flour came to the old wooden bench that served as a counter.

Faro's early training led him to realise how very important were those first thirty seconds of meeting and how many details, relatively unimportant at the time, were to prove of great significance afterwards. Even as he took in her pleasing appearance, he had observed that her eager greeting died on her lips. He was not the one she had expected. She was disappointed.

Once he had introduced himself, without further question she invited him into the large kitchen which served as bakehouse. Taking a cloth she wiped the table clear of flour.

'Take a seat, won't you. Would you like some refreshment? It's a warm day.'

As she bustled about the kitchen, Faro was aware that her eyes wandered constantly towards the window. He had only half her attention as she watched over his shoulder for that other caller so anxiously and imminently expected. Then, with a final despairing look, she took the seat opposite and spoke, as if suddenly aware of him for the first time.

'Inspector - did you say?'

'Yes, Miss Porter. We are making a few enquiries.'

'Enquiries?' And with a puzzled expression that betrayed nothing of fear or guilt, she set the jug of home-made lemonade beside him. 'Then I dare say it's thirsty work in this weather. Help yourself.'

Thanking her, Faro refilled his glass. 'I will, it's delicious.'

He was heartily glad of the cooling drink. Despite cooking smells calculated to stir even the most flagging appetite, the kitchen with its huge baking ovens was intolerably hot for a summer's day.

'What was it you wanted?' Jess asked.

'Mrs Wheeler told me that you have an uncle lives here with you.'

'He isn't at home just now. I can't tell you when he'll be back, either. Took himself off to Edinburgh a few days ago on a wee errand.' Her smile was cordial, unperturbed. Obviously if Uncle Harry had been contemplating a break in at the Castle, then she was in complete ignorance of such nefarious activities.

She paused and Faro prompted, 'What kind of an errand would that be?'

Jess laughed. 'Oh, don't ask me - I wouldn't be knowing that. Uncle Harry is a law to himself and he often takes himself off on little jaunts. Being a bachelor and so forth.' Then, conscious of Faro's unflinching gaze, she coloured slightly and said, 'Well, I might as well tell the truth, Inspector. You see, he's a wee bit - well, fey - simple, some folk hereabouts call it. Oh goodness, please don't mistake me, Inspector, he wouldn't harm a fly - not wicked with it, not that sort at all. It's just that he likes solitude, to commune with nature, he says, writes a wee bit of poetry and so forth.'

'But he tells you where he's going?'

'Sometimes, if he feels talkative.'

'And this time...'

'Oh yes, he had to see someone - at the Castle.'

Faro's sense of triumph was now suffused with the dismay and indignation he always felt in having to break the shocking and totally unexpected news to an anxious relative that the loved one they expected home was never to return. This part of police duty even after twenty years had never ceased to offend his natural humanity. He felt the sickness growing at the pit of his stomach and asked, 'Did he tell you why?'

She bit her lip, looked uncertain and then said, 'Well, I'm sure there was no harm in it. All rather silly, really - and romantic, but then Uncle is romantic. A long time ago - before I was born - his brother came across from Ireland because they were terribly poor and he expected to find the streets of Edinburgh lined with gold. He was disappointed, like a lot of other folk. Anyway, Uncle John...'

'John Femister, was that his name?'

'That's right. Well, he was strong and went into building work, got married to a nice Leith lass, my aunt Jean, and they had a bairn, a lass.'

A shadow darkened Jess Porter's face and Faro gave a silent hurrah at this confirmation of his deductions so far. It all fitted so perfectly.

'Then one day when they were doing repairs at Edinburgh Castle Uncle Harry's brother was killed in an accident. But Uncle Harry refused to believe it was an accident, some strange warning dream he'd had - I know you'll laugh, Inspector, but I told you he's fey. Anyway, he was sure it was part of some dark plot. Though why should anyone want to kill a poor Irishman working as a labourer? What could they possibly get from him? I can't think, can you?'

Faro shook his head obligingly and Jess added slowly, 'Unless there really was buried treasure. That's why Uncle Harry believes his brother was killed.'

A note of excitement crept into her voice. 'Their father was a school teacher and he taught them their sums and their letters. They wrote to each other, John trying to persuade Harry to leave home, but he felt honour bound to stay and help his father, dying of consumption he was. Two little sisters and no mother either. Then just before the accident, Uncle John wrote telling him that he must come without delay as he had found something that would make their fortune.'

'That's what he said - a fortune?'

'Oh yes. A fortune. The exact words. My goodness, I couldn't mistake that,' she laughed. 'I've had that letter read often enough to me through the years.' Hesitating, with an anxious glance, she continued, 'I'm sure it's all right telling you, being a policeman and so forth and I've no doubt he'll tell you all about it himself if you come when he's at home. He's always on about the buried treasure at Edinburgh Castle. Tells everyone and that's really how he's got the name of being a bit simple with folk around here. They don't believe a word of it - how there's a fortune hidden away in a hollow wall in the Castle for anyone that finds it.'