Murder in Paradise (10 page)

He was walking along the road towards Upton when the sound of a carriage made him turn round. It was the Red House wagonette, and George Wardle leant out.

‘Can we give you a lift? Going to catch the train. Jump in.’

Faro did so. Had what he witnessed with Lena been merely a polite farewell kiss?

‘I see you’ve recovered from last night’s festivities. I trust you avoided mussels too?’ Wardle laughed. ‘I left some very sore heads and even sorer stomachs back there. Where are you off to?’

Faro explained that he was in search of a doctor.

‘You won’t find one back there, I’m afraid. Is it urgent?’ Wardle asked anxiously.

‘I think so. For Erland – he is very poorly.’

Wardle shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t let that worry you too much. So are they all. By tomorrow all will be well again and wiser.’

‘But this is different. Erland seems to be getting worse by the hour. And yes, I’m very concerned.’

‘Of course. The wedding.’ Wardle nodded slowly. ‘Has to be fit for that. Topsy asked me to stay but alas I have important engagements in London. That’s why I’ve spent the whole day with him.’

For Wardle’s non-appearance at the wedding Faro was grateful as he continued, ‘I do know a doctor in Upton, friend of mine from college days. I’d stop by and introduce you but haven’t time. Only one evening train on Sundays, you know. However, we pass Dr Grant’s house on the way to the station and we can drop you off at the very gate.’

Faro was again grateful as the wagonette deposited him outside a handsome new villa. ‘Good luck. And give Freddie my best,’ Wardle shouted in farewell.

Opening the gate, Faro walked up the path through the pretty garden and rang the front doorbell.

It was opened by a maid. ‘The doctor is away from home, sir. He’ll be back tomorrow. Can I take a message?’

Faro told her he was urgently required at Red House, as soon as possible. It was the best he could do and that she was to tell Dr Grant that Mr Wardle sent his regards.

As he was walking back down the road, he hailed the wagonette approaching on its way back to Red House. He was glad to escape the rain since he was now drenched through, even his boots oozed water. As they sped along the road, past the Mill House, he realised he had not thought for some time of the fate of Bess Tracy. There were no lights in the cottage and he wondered if she was still alive.

Faro left the shelter of the wagonette to find the scene at Red House dismal indeed. The orchard was hardly visible through the rain, trees dripping heavy with water, the courtyard flooded.

There were voices from the dining room as Faro deposited his rain cape on the hall stand and squelched his way upstairs, glad to get out of his wet clothes and remove his sodden boots. After drying his hair with a towel, he made his way along to Erland’s room.

His approach had been anticipated for Poppy came to the door.

‘He’s asleep and he seems a little better.’

As he angled his way past her, she put a hand on his arm, frowning. ‘Please don’t disturb him, he needs all the sleep he can get. Lena has been with him all day. Hardly eaten a thing. I insisted that she go downstairs and have supper.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Poor Lena. I had to almost throw her out. She has refused to leave him for an instant.’

While she spoke, Faro edged nearer the bed. It was too dark by the light of a solitary candle to see Erland’s shadowed face clearly, difficult to see whether he looked better or worse as he was sleeping very deeply, his chest rising and falling with the effort.

‘How long has he been like that?’

‘Most of the day, I’m told.’

Faro sneezed and she gave him an anxious look. ‘I hope you’re not taking a fever. I gather,’ she added with a glance at his wet hair, ‘that you’ve been out braving this atrocious weather.’

‘I won’t melt away,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve been searching for a doctor to come and look at Erland. Best I could do was leave a message for Dr Grant.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Lena asked me if that was where you had gone. If he isn’t any better by tomorrow, we both agreed that a doctor should be called. The others similarly afflicted have mostly recovered – to varying degrees.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I suspect that was according to the amount of wine consumed rather than the mussels.’

The door opened behind them and Lena appeared.

She seemed surprised to see him there and said to Poppy, ‘Thank you – I’ll take over now.’

Poppy pointed to the sewing on the bedside table.

‘I’ll keep you company.’

Lena sighed. ‘At least there have been no interruptions today. I’ve had plenty of time on my hands.’

‘I’ll fetch more candles, shall I?’ And indicating what looked like a stack of velvet material thrown across a chair, Poppy added ruefully, ‘We still have plenty to do.’

Lena nodded. ‘No urgency now, I’m afraid.’ She sighed. ‘Everyone involved has been told.’

‘No wedding?’

It was a question from Faro and Lena shook her head sadly. ‘Alas, no.’ Then looking at the sleeping figure, she brightened. ‘But no matter, there will be other times for weddings,’ she added wistfully.

Indeed yes, but as he was leaving, Faro wondered whether it was Erland she was thinking of at that moment?

In the dining room, he found a very much sobered group tackling cold meats with re-heated vegetables and, as befitted the survivors of last night’s banquet, like the diners themselves, somewhat wilted.

Apart from a brief greeting, the wave of a fork momentarily suspended from Morris whose appetite seemed unimpaired, Faro was ignored. He had little wish to be sociable and soon realised that his presence was quite superfluous to the animated discussion between Morris, Rossetti and Burne-Jones regarding care needed in travel arrangements for their works at forthcoming exhibitions, galleries with atrocious hanging facilities as well as greedy owners.

Bypassing the wine bottle headed in his direction, Faro seized the pause to mention Erland’s postponed wedding. For a moment they stared at him blankly as if this was the first they had heard of it. Then, with murmurs of ‘Too bad, rotten luck’, returned to more important matters, a heated discussion about how to evade the hefty commissions London galleries were charging.

Faro ate his indifferent meal in silence; his departure, carrying his coffee, caused no raised heads in his direction. Halfway upstairs he met Elizabeth Siddal looking more ethereal than ever, as if a strong puff of wind might blow her away.

‘Gabriel said you were anxious about your friend. That he should see a doctor. We often have stomach upsets and as it has just cause,’ she smiled palely, ‘wine – and other things, we don’t take them very seriously. However, some of us – we ladies do have occasional medical problems, I’m afraid, although there is little sympathy,’ she added with a dark glance downstairs at the closed dining-room door as if they might be overheard. ‘They – believe in mind over matter. Illness is despised and depression regarded as an indulgence of one’s own making.’

She was more voluble than usual and looking at her face, so beautiful and frail, he wondered how much of this was from her own bitter experience. ‘We cannot wait always for our doctor from London, excellent as he is. I – and the other girls – prefer to have a doctor near at hand for our troubles. An excellent fellow, Dr Innes, lives a couple of miles down the road and I have sent one of the grooms with a message. He will come tomorrow and have a look at Erland – and give me some more of my medicine,’ she whispered. ‘Something we ladies prefer to keep a secret.’

Faro guessed that would be laudanum, the universal pain-killer, used by even the highest in the land, including, according to rumour, Her Majesty.

He looked in to see Erland again and, although he was very poorly, he was awake, with Lena helping him drink from a cup.

What was in it? Was it cocoa? Faro did not dare to ask.

Erland raised his head from the pillow and smiled weakly. ‘So sorry, old chap.’ And with a shake of his head, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get married tomorrow. Awful to disappoint all my dear friends – and my precious girl here. But I feel so weak, I don’t want to fall down and alarm everyone during the ceremony.’

And to Lena, ‘I used to faint regularly at school but I outgrew that. Remember, Jeremy?’

Faro had almost forgotten and he had a sudden vision of those far-off days, a return to the protective affection he had known for the once frail, crippled boy as Erland reached out and seized his hand. His other hand sought Lena.

‘And here I am laid low, but with my very best friend and my very best girl. Who could ask for more? You’ll see me right, won’t you?’

A shaft of fear, of terrible premonition, swept through Faro at this strange pronouncement. He looked at Lena, now stroking Erland’s forehead. A faithful, loving and gentle nurse: hard to reconcile with the passionate woman who had come to his bed last night. He shuddered at the remembrance. At least Erland would never know of that encounter, that betrayal.

Erland’s eyes had closed again. His hand released, Faro stood up and Lena, without looking at him, said, ‘You go to bed, Jeremy. I will stay with him. He likes to see me when he wakes up.’

‘The doctor is coming tomorrow.’

‘I know. That is for the best, best not to take chances with food poisoning,’ she added, in complete denial of her earlier reassurances.

He slept badly that night, troubled by nightmares, and left the house early next morning to call on Constable Muir, to get his farcical daily visit behind him. Not that he imagined there would have been any sightings of Macheath over the weekend. Perhaps in the criminal fraternity that was giving him shelter, Macheath too could be relied upon as going to ground, untroubled by thoughts of hell and damnation being preached in sermons throughout the land, but merely taking it easy and staying out of trouble on Sunday.

The rain had stopped and a thin sunshine fingered the drenched gardens. Already the storm had stripped some of the leaves from the trees, carpeting the grass with their first red and gold.

Taking the short-cut through the orchard, Faro observed that three of the gardeners were already hard at work, three young lads chattering like magpies over their weekend exploits. He wondered if they were well paid by Morris for their roles at the banquet.

They greeted him cheerfully. He recognised one of them as Erland’s squire and this was a great opportunity to get some answers from him regarding the wine. As he paused indecisively the trio stopped talking and stared at him. Unable to think of an excuse to detach the man from his comrades, Faro merely nodded and continued his walk.

As always he imagined their amused comments following him, especially after having obviously misunderstood his query regarding Bess Tracy, their giggling comments would doubtless be: ‘Bet that queer cove is after a woman again.’

At the police office, Muir emerged from his cloud of smoke to give the now routine negative response about Macheath and Faro sent the usual negative telegraph to Edinburgh.

He would soon have been in Kent for a week. A wasted week but now, for the first time, he was no longer dismayed or frustrated by Noble’s response, hoping that he would not be summoned back to Edinburgh before he could see Erland recovered.

When he told Muir that the wedding was postponed and the reason, the constable shrugged and said enigmatically, ‘I expect they’re well married already if not churched – if you get my meaning – from what I hear of the morals of the folk back yonder.’

A pause, then he grinned. ‘What was your evening like – apart from the food poisoning I mean. Were there any interesting goings-on?’

Faro shook his head firmly. He had no intention of indulging Muir’s low opinion of artists and gossip about their scandalous behaviour, which was rife in the district, so changing the subject, he asked, ‘Any word yet of Bess Tracy returning home?’

Muir puffed energetically at his pipe. ‘Haven’t heard.’ He sounded unalarmed and Faro said, ‘How long has she to be missing before there is an official inquiry?’

Muir stared at him and sighed deeply. ‘You’re off again, Faro. You don’t seem to understand that such matters are quite usual in rural communities like ours where young lasses like Bess, who spread themselves around, are concerned. They meet a chap, take an interest – perhaps a few shillings in it for them – and away they go.’

‘You’re implying that she’s earning a living by prostitution.’

Muir chuckled. ‘That’s it, lad, you’ve got it right this time. She’s the local whore, well known.’

‘Sixteen’s a bit early—’

‘To be on the game, you mean. Never too early. Often with the approval of parents who have other bairns and are grateful for any coins that come their way. They see a pretty lass as a good earner.’ He paused and added heavily, ‘A fact of life, I’m afraid. And I’m sure you find the same thing in big cities like Edinburgh. Parents, most likely a mother, who turn a blind eye, happy to accept a pretty daughter’s immoral earnings.’

Faro knew that was true. These were not only country matters. Every evening on his beat down Leith Walk or a glance into the closes of the old town could be guaranteed to reveal the sordid truth of Muir’s statement.

‘Set your mind at rest, Faro lad. The only way the police will be involved is if her anxious parents ask for a missing person inquiry and have evidence for their fears. And I have to tell you that from what I know of Bess’s dad, that’s not very likely. So don’t you concern yourself, no need to lose any sleep over this one,’ he ended sarcastically.

Faro thought of Bess’s anguished mother, her tearful conversation. However Muir was right, it was no concern of his. He was helpless to do anything about Bess Tracy. His main concern was Erland and whether he was suffering from an aggressive form of food poisoning – or something much more sinister at the hands of or, more precisely, in the cocoa provided by Madeleine Smith alias Lena Hamilton.

On his way back to Red House, Faro had two significant encounters. As he walked along the main road past the alehouse, Mrs Tracy emerged from the local shop.

She looked weary and scared, her face still bearing bruises no doubt from recent altercations with her villainous husband. She would have walked straight past him, her head averted, but greeting her, he asked, ‘Heard from your daughter yet?’

‘Who wants to know?’ she said, looking round apprehensively.

Faro wasn’t sure how to respond to that question, especially when she demanded, ‘What’s my Bess to you?’

He decided to ignore that and asked, ‘Are you worried about her? Does she often leave home for lengthy periods without telling you?’

‘She never does. My Bess is a good lass. The lads are all fond of her, chase her and that sort of thing. It’s not her fault that she’s such a bonny lass. They’re all taken with her, buzzing around like bees at a honey pot, they are.’

Faro persisted. ‘Has she ever left home like this before?’

‘Never. It’s all her pa’s fault.’ Again that apprehensive look, over her shoulder as if avoiding a blow. ‘He hits her and she won’t stand for that sort of thing.’

Conscious that he was repeating the obvious question he had asked at their first meeting, he said, ‘Has she a steady admirer?’

Mrs Tracy sighed. ‘Oh yes, a nice chap this time, she said he was. A proper toff—’ and looking up at him wistfully, ‘a bit like yourself, sir, if I may be so bold as to remark on it.’

Faro bowed. A proper toff wasn’t how he would describe himself. Perhaps his Orcadian accent, more in keeping with the Highlands than broad Scots, made him sound more refined than one of the local lads.

‘Your daughter’s new friend wasn’t from these parts?’

‘Oh no, sir, proper gentleman he is, like one of them artist fellows at Red House.’

Faro thought it extremely doubtful that Topsy, Gabriel or Ned would be concealing Bess Tracy for the purpose of modelling as Mrs Tracy continued confidentially, ‘I’m sick with worry, sir. Tells me everything she does. Every little thing she ever does, or anyone she meets. She loves her ma, does my Bess, and now I don’t even know where she is and I’m feared that something awful has happened to her.’

Her eyes filled with tears and Faro said, ‘Then you should ask Constable Muir to make some enquiries, officially.’

‘No!’ A shriek. ‘Never that! Her pa would kill me if I ever let the peelers over the doorstep.’

Which sounded as if the brutal miller also had something to hide, Faro thought grimly as he realised that he was powerless to do anything regarding the missing girl. If her parents refused an official investigation, without any suspicious evidence, there the matter must lie.

And saying that he hoped she would soon return, with increasingly little confidence in that statement, he left her. Although Bess’s morals might leave much to be desired, she was apparently a devoted daughter who confided in her mother. If this was true, then it was very irritating that she had not thought to reveal her new admirer’s name.

A mysterious omission perhaps. But did she, or any child come to that, ever tell a parent every detail of such a relationship. From his own experience he thought not.

That fortuitous meeting with Mrs Tracy had given him food for considerable thought.

A toff for one thing ruled out a local lad. Had she met a stranger, a passing traveller at the local alehouse and gone off with him? Despite Muir’s suggestions earlier, in the light of her mother’s information, he thought that extremely doubtful and went on his way with an ominous feeling that there was something seriously amiss here, the same inescapable feeling he had had many times before in his brief career and these moments of intuition sadly were rarely proved wrong.

As he returned through the orchard, he had his second significant encounter of the day. The gardener who had been Erland’s squire was now alone, pruning some late roses. He was obviously a cheery lad, whistling while he worked.

He heard Faro’s approach, his feet rustling through the leaves and, turning, touched his forelock politely.

‘That was a splendid job you and your fellow gardeners did at the banquet,’ said Faro.

He asked his name: ‘Dave, sir. We all enjoyed ourselves no end, sir. It was a rare treat, although all that dressing up seemed a bit daft – begging your pardon. All those masks never fooled anyone, even the temporary servants. Mr Morris and his friends are all so well known to everyone around here.’

He grinned. ‘The good thing was there was so much food left over that we were allowed to take it away with us. The lads who are married took it home and their families, especially the young ’uns, were right grateful. Never seen food the likes of that in their entire lives, bless ’em. Neither had many of the rest of us, come to that.’

He sighed. ‘Food is simple and cheap and not always a lot of it. Mind you none of us working at the house can complain, Mr Morris is a good employer,’ he added hastily. ‘But banquets are special occasions.’

‘I hope none of you had any of the shellfish.’

Dave shook his head. ‘That was all gone. Some of us were sorry, we had never tasted much of that. But it was just as well from what we hear – nearly all of them down with food poisoning.’

He shook his head, whistled and said, ‘I don’t hold with the fruits of the sea, as they call them. My grandpa, who sailed with Admiral Nelson in the old days, said the sailors wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole, never mind eat them. You see, it was well known that the shellfish fed on drowned bodies.’

It was a suspicion Faro had heard before in his Orkney days, heartily disregarded by most sensible folk.

‘Do you board with the other gardeners?’

‘No. I live in the village – my ma’s a widow now and I haven’t got a wife yet,’ he grinned and added with a sly look, ‘Still hoping, of course. Aren’t we all?’

Here was an opening not to be missed: ‘Do you know Bess Tracy?’ Faro asked.

The question must have been more abrupt than he intended as Dave laughed uncomfortably. ‘The lass you were looking for. Oh aye, all the village lads know Bess.’

‘She seems to have gone missing.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. She’ll turn up again.’

‘Let me know if she does. I’d like to meet her.’

‘Oh, I will, sir. I will do that. You won’t be disappointed.’ And without any further explanation, a flicker of embarrassment changing the subject, Dave said, ‘It was a good evening, last night.’

There was obviously nothing more forthcoming about Bess, doubtless a topic for lewd speculation with lads of his own age, but this ‘queer cove’ was older and in their words would approximate to ‘a toff’.

‘And you lads as squires made it an even more memorable one. A splendid occasion,’ said Faro and on an impulse handed the lad a shilling. It was gratefully received and Faro had a sudden idea.

‘I’d like to give something to the fellow who was my squire, but I didn’t even know his name. He is one of the gardeners. Perhaps you can introduce me.’

Dave shook his head. ‘Not one of our lads, one of the regulars, that is. He hadn’t been told that daft thing, about not wearing a mask.’

‘You mean he was a stranger?’ said Faro eagerly.

‘Not exactly. But kept himself to himself, so to speak.’ He shrugged. ‘We wondered why he was there. Guessed they probably needed extra help, and got some lads from the village or even Bexley. That would explain it, sir.’

Another thought struck Faro. ‘Is Mrs Lunn’s nephew one of your lads?’

Dave frowned. ‘Don’t know who you rightly mean, sir. Who might Mrs Lunn be?’

‘She’s the housekeeper at Brettle Lodge.’

A nod. ‘Oh, is that her name? Heard of her, of course but can’t say I know owt about a nephew.’

‘She told me he is a gardener.’

‘Is that so?’ He shook his head. ‘Could well be, sir. Some of the lads here have worked on the Brettle gardens.’ He thought for a moment and added, ‘Of course, gardeners come and go. It can be casual work depending on the season, although Mr Morris is most particular about who he takes on. Takes pride in being a good employer.’

Obviously a well-liked one as well, thought Faro, as he walked towards the house with yet another mystery to solve. Of course, Mrs Lunn might want to keep her nephew’s presence quiet, especially if he wasn’t her nephew at all and she was taking in a lodger and making a little extra cash – seasonally – when the owners were abroad.

A question remained unanswered and it troubled him. Was his squire, Mrs Lunn’s nephew and the casual gardener mentioned by Dave, one and the same person?

Returning to the house, he went upstairs at once and knocked on the door of Erland’s room. Lena and Poppy were there, sewing by the window, the floor glowing in pools of velvet.

‘The doctor?’ Faro asked.

‘You’ve just missed him. He looked in, first thing,’ said Lena. ‘Said it was a definite case of food poisoning and that some people take it worse than others. He left some powder for Erland to be given every four hours.’

Poppy looked up from her sewing with a proud glance at her friend. ‘He said Erland couldn’t have a better nurse than Lena here, she seemed to know exactly what was required.’

He took consolation that Erland was not getting any worse and in fact was now claiming to be fit and regretting that the wedding had been cancelled. However, anyone taking note of his ashen countenance, and observing how weak and frail he looked as he tottered downstairs to the dining room on Lena’s arm, would have rightly decided that he was hardly a viable prospect as a bridegroom.

Lena was ever attentive to his every need, the dedicated nurse, her devotion a constant source of admiration. To all except Faro, who, despite the evidence of his eyes and Erland’s apparent recovery, could not rid himself of a certain unease, a feeling that the story was not quite ended yet.

He didn’t like the sound of those powders in her charge one bit. Of course as Madeleine Smith, she would know all about the right amount to administer…

With fatal results.

He was unprepared however for dramatic events taking place beyond the confines of Red House which were to divert his attention momentarily from his friend’s well-being.