Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 (18 page)

If these present documents contained the same passionate and explicit references to lovemaking with John Brown, or were confirmation of a secret marriage made public, they would be dynamite enough to bring down the Royal throne. The scandal would rock the country, the moral old lady who set such high standards for the meanest of her subjects, whoring and drinking with her ghillie.

'Perhaps you can understand why the Fenians want it. They
feel that with this as blackmail they might get what they want.
Home Rule for Ireland.'

'It's preposterous,' said Faro. 'I've never heard anything so evil—so wicked.'

'On our side—or hers?' said Imogen wryly.

'The ravings of a lovesick, romantic, silly woman have cost
three people their lives. Three we know about, the McNairs—' She winced as he continued, 'And your cousin. God only knows how many more have perished, or are in danger.'

'There was another Queen in your Scottish history, I
recall, who was foolish and lovesick and her letters destroyed
her and cost her love Lord Bothwell his life and sanity,' said Imogen.

History was indeed repeating itself. Faro did not need to be
reminded of the 'Casket Letters' which Lord Bothwell, who was not famed for his sentimentality, had rashly kept with him when he was captured in his flight after the Battle of Carberry Hill. Love letters undoubtedly forged but with
enough truth in them for Mary Queen of Scots to lose her throne and her head, he thought as Imogen continued.

'Only a few people close to your Queen know about this journal, which she carries on her person at all times. Her
gowns have a secret placket made for it. A small leather book
with love sonnets of her own composition which she delighted in reading to John in their private moments.

'While they were at Glen Muick the Queen fell getting out of her carriage. Her voluminous riding dress was torn and muddied and the lady-in-waiting, knowing that Bessie was visiting one of the servants there, took it to her for mending.

'Bessie found the journal. She and Davy weren't great
readers, but they realized this was something that might be of
considerable value. In fact, it was like manna from heaven for
Davy. He'd been under a cloud with the stablemen and the locals, gambling, and losing heavily. He was under notice to leave the Castle. Bessie was distraught. Apparently, she had been trying to help him pay off his debts by carrying off the odd piece of china, a silver spoon or two from the Castle— nothing that would be missed or recognized—and selling them in Ballater.

'Now, with the journal in their possession, they felt their troubles were over. They left straightaway, while the going was good, especially as the Queen was still a little confused,
having hit her head when she fell. It wasn't until she got back
to Balmoral that she discovered the journal had gone and all hell broke loose. She thought she had lost it on the fatal ride; it wasn't until much later she learned the truth. John Brown guessed that Bessie McNair had stolen it.'

'But how did it get into Fenian hands?'

Imogen bit her lip. 'It hasn't—yet. Oh, the McNairs hadn't
any preference for Fenians in particular. All they wanted was
someone who would pay them good money. I don't imagine they guessed the power they had in their hands at that moment, the contents of a journal that could be used to bring down the monarchy. You see, all they recognized was the Queen's signature or Brown's, and the occasional name and words of endearment, but the ambiguities, the love language
and
double entendres
were quite beyond them.

'They needed someone to tell them what it was worth. And Bessie remembered that I was a writer and I had given her a forwarding address, because some of the people I had met
might have notes to send on for my book. When I heard from
her that she had a journal that belonged to the Queen, I wasn't particularly interested but guessed that it was Seamus's territory. I gave her his address.'

She paused. 'You know the rest. Almost. Seamus got in
touch with her in Edinburgh by this time. She was fly enough
not to let him see the whole journal but gave him a couple of pages, just to let him see it was authentic. It was enough for him to guess that this was explosive material, far more effective for his Fenian comrades than a dozen bombs or ineffectual assassination attempts.

'But however fast he moved the Queen was faster. It hadn't taken long for them to guess that the journal was with the
McNairs. Time was of the essence and by the time we visited
the cottage, at Bessie's request, she had gone.'

She stopped and sighed. 'We couldn't understand it. Now I
do. The poor woman was already dead, murdered as you say.
Seamus went in search of Davy and when he didn't find him, his fellow comrades were very upset. They still are. They desperately want to lay their hands on this journal.'

'Who is their contact over here?' When she didn't reply, he added sharply, 'It is you?'

She laughed. 'Sure now, you can't expect me to answer that
honestly. A loyal Irishwoman like myself giving away such vital information to a policeman.' She paused and added bitterly, 'A woman with good reason to hate the English who murdered her uncle and her cousin and who has served time
at Her Majesty's pleasure in one of her hellish prisons. Surely
you can understand that.'

'Yes, I understand even if I think you're wrong. But I'm not involved in the Fenian part of it unless they also happen to be
the McNairs' killers.'

Imogen shook her head. 'They weren't Fenians, I can assure you of that,' she said. 'They were murdered by your own people, the same that murdered Seamus.'

'Not my people, Imogen, not the police. We're here to establish law and order, not to murder people. Our law is justice for the guilty and freedom for the innocent.'

'You tell me that?' she laughed. 'I've tasted your justice.
And I'm as keen as anyone to see justice for Bessie and Davy
McNair. And to see their murderers hanged. But there isn't a snowflake in hell's chance of that. Your assassins are in the direct employ of your government, sanctioned by the Queen herself.'

Faro realized that Imogen was right. There was nothing he could say.

'Seeing that you're not involved, Inspector, I'll tell you something that might surprise you. Your own ranks are not without Fenian supporters. There are even Irish policemen who are on our side.'

Faro pretended surprise. ‘You can't make me believe that,' he lied, thinking about McQuinn.

Imogen stood up. 'I had better go now.'

'Where are you going?'

'Back to my room, of course.'

Faro shook his head. 'No you're not. You're going to stay here tonight—'

'But—'

'You are going to sleep in that bed and I'll sleep on the sofa
where I can keep watch.'

He could see she was glad to have him there. 'Not a very amicable arrangement,' she said softly.

He pretended not to hear her. He was already in so deep that it could destroy him. What she had told him had
confirmed his growing suspicion that McQuinn was right and
Imogen Crowe was more than she pretended to be.

Somehow he had to get the information to McQuinn regarding the contents of those so-called state documents, information that everyone who encountered them was so eager to keep secret. And for very good reason. Never before
had the throne been in such danger. If they were made public,
the monarchy, unsteady as it was, would topple.

At least it kept his mind away from the slight figure who was
sleeping so peacefully in the bed just yards away And from thoughts of how this night might have ended.

He had been in love before, wanted a woman as much as he
wanted Imogen Crowe, but to start a relationship with a woman who was also the Fenians' agent in Scotland was a sufficient dampener on his ardour.

He did not sleep much that night.

Soon after daybreak, Faro fell into a fitful dream-laden sleep broken by the sounds of a busy hotel's awakening.

Turning his head, his neck stiff and sore, every bone aching
with the discomfort of the hard sofa, he saw that Imogen's bed was empty.

Perhaps she had returned to her own room. Putting on his jacket, he hurried down the hall. But Room 16 was empty, a maid already changing sheets on the bed.

Downstairs the desk clerk yawned sleepily, told him Miss Crowe had left very early.

'Paid her bill'—and pausing to consult the ledger—'left no
forwarding address, sir,' he added, with an impudent look as if
he had already put his own interpretation on the nocturnal activities between Rooms 8 and 16 that night.

In no mood for breakfast, Faro left the hotel and wandered around the almost empty streets hoping that he might meet her. At last he gave up.

He should contact Danny McQuinn with his new information. Not wishing to draw attention to his interest in Wallace Close by asking directions, he found it at last with considerable difficulty and an inadequate map.

Twice he wandered past the window marked 'Jewellery
Repairs' in faded paint. McQuinn could hardly have chosen a
less prepossessing contact. The door was locked, the window barred and padlocked. The Close had a look of long desertion, foul-smelling, a resting place for stray cats and the debris abandoned by undesirable worthies of the human variety furthered its seedy appearance

It didn't look as if Mr Jacob did much business and Faro put a note in the door with little hope that McQuinn would ever see it.

'Goods ready. Please collect. F.'

Eager to breathe fresh air again, he hurried towards the station and waited for half an hour on the chilly platform, a very frustrated man. There were many questions he should have asked McQuinn when he had the chance. In particular his intentions regarding Rose.

When the train arrived, he looked out of the window on a landscape cold and grey as his own heart, with the colours drained away as they had from his own life.

Where was Imogen now? He loved her, wanted her desperately. He longed to wake up every morning for the rest of his life and find her dear head on the pillow beside him. He wanted her for his wife but, even as he recognized the depths and longing of his desire, he knew it could never come true.

Imogen had known it too. When they met in Elrigg, both
had become beguiled by the chemistry of physical and mental
attraction. But that was no guarantee of a lifetime's devotion. Beyond passion lurked the just causes and impediments, a policeman and a writer who belonged to that new race of independent womanhood, free from the bondage of husband and family, free to move where and when she chose.

Faro had little to offer in return. Only the uncertainties of
his own life, a vast chasm ever deepening between them. He knew that one day he would not be quite quick enough, his deductions not quite sharp enough and he would meet death at the hands of a quicker, younger opponent.

These uncertainties had always existed, even in his marriage
to Vince's mother, Lizzie. Now they had intensified with the passing years and he had even less security to offer as a husband.

What was he thinking about? A Chief Inspector of Police bound in marriage to a known Irish Fenian?

He sat up with a jerk.

'This is the terminus, sir.' The guard tapped on the compart
ment window and grinned. 'As far as we go.'

Through the steam he saw the platform of Waverley Station,
the Castle grim against the skyline, the gardens shrouded,
unwelcoming as he walked home towards Newington, sharing
his unhappy thoughts with the bleak greyness around him.