Murder in Paradise (14 page)

Mrs Lunn appeared and was informed that Mr Faro would like a few words. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ her ladyship added, observing the startled look on the housekeeper’s face. ‘Merely as a favour to us, to help clear up this inquiry.’

Mrs Lunn looked at him darkly as if she too would like to refuse this request for an interview. Then without another word she led the way into the kitchen.

Closing the door, she asked, ‘Well, what is it you want to know this time?’

‘This time I want to know how someone got access to your keys with such disastrous consequences.’

‘How should I know that?’ she bristled angrily.

‘As I recall you carried them around your waist on a chatelaine.’

‘Of course, and they seldom left my charge. Sometimes, when I was attending to other duties, I might have laid them aside for a few moments?’ She thought for a moment, frowning. ‘Anyone coming into the kitchen might have—’

‘Anyone – such as?’

‘Well, Bess Tracy came from time to time.’

‘And you think she could have taken them.’

Mrs Lunn looked startled. ‘You’re a policeman, surely you realise that keys are copied all the time by unscrupulous servants,’ she laughed mockingly. ‘All that is needed is a lump of wax, heated at the stove over there.’

‘And was the girl ever left alone to avail herself of such an opportunity?’

‘Sometimes – when I was needed in another part of the house.’

Faro’s vague expression seemed to convince her, although he thought it extraordinary that she had such ready knowledge of how keys were copied.

‘Are you aware that the girl is missing?’

She looked startled. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘She left home several days ago and has not returned.’

Mrs Lunn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is that all? From what I gathered she had a dreadful life at home, and it wouldn’t be the first time she had walked out to get away from that dreadful father of hers.’ With a mocking laugh, she added, ‘But missing? It’s just an everyday occurrence with girls like Bess Tracy – I think you’re making far too much of it. Making it sound far too sinister.’ A pause and she added coldly, ‘Is that all? I have duties to catch up with.’

Faro said, ‘I regret having to detain you but there are a couple more items that you might be able to help me with. The two missing paintings from the library.’

She shrugged. ‘Those dreary old things. I didn’t even know that they were valuable although I dusted them regularly.’

‘Did Sir Philip tell you of their value?’

She quavered. ‘No-o. But I kind of guessed – why else would anyone steal them when they already had her ladyship’s jewels?’

Why indeed, thought Faro. As he was leaving, he asked another question: ‘Did your nephew also have access to the keys when you were presumably occupied in another part of the house?’

She stared at him. ‘Nephew? what nephew? I have no nephew, who told you that – you must be dreaming.’

But his question had taken her by surprise. She was scared.

He went on, ‘I mean your occasional lodger then, the gardener from Red House who you said came to stay with you while the Brettles were abroad.’

She banged a fist on the table and, red-faced, said angrily, ‘I don’t know what you are on about. I have no nephew and I don’t know where you got the idea that I ever took in a lodger. The very idea! And if you intend rushing to her ladyship with such tales about me – she would never believe such a thing. You must be mad, Mr Faro, and I advise you not to spread such silly wicked rumours, ruining a lady’s reputation like that.’

Mrs Lunn’s statement had been absolutely accurate in one aspect, that of denying she had a nephew. The Honourable Paul, that young man with the unlikely surname of Jacks, had claimed acquaintance having seen her in church. Her natural suspicions were soon put at rest by his charming manner and his flattery, the latter an experience new to her years and her long sojourn with sir and madam.

While she was cutting flowers in the garden he had appeared. Watching her, he had volunteered the information that he was a gardener at Red House. Could she recommend suitable lodging?

Mrs Lunn was impressed by his educated accent, especially as he was such an ordinary-looking man, not at all that young or what she expected of the upper classes. His kind remarks were so reassuring, however, especially when he was so confidential with a sorrowful tale that he was only here because of a difference of opinion with his father, who was in the House of Lords no less, over an arranged marriage.

He must be younger than he looked, she decided, as with a gentle rather absent smile he continued that he had other plans, a sweetheart his lordship considered most inappropriate to his position in society. The only son and heir, he decided that his absence from the family home would give his otherwise devoted parent time to reflect.

A chance acquaintance had led him to Red House and as the gardens at the family castle were a showpiece, it seemed an appropriate refuge. Happy working with the lads there was one problem – the sleeping arrangements. He shuddered; he had never shared a bed with anyone as an only child – it was a new and unpleasant experience, especially as bathing facilities were not in evidence.

Mrs Lunn found herself in sympathy, even more so when he added that she was so like his aunt who had a title and both, he added, such gracious ladies.

As he stood up and thanked her for the delicious tea and bowed, afraid she might never see him again, she said hastily, ‘I could give you a bed here – if you would not object to the kitchen sofa.’ He eyed it and said it looked most comfortable, if she was quite sure it would not inconvenience her. Overwhelmed, he gave her a great hug. It was her birthday that week and not even Lady Brettle remembered after all these years. Her new friend brought flowers and a bottle of wine, which they shared. In the course of convivial conversation she showed him the rest of the house, giggling and stumbling rather a lot.

And that was that.

Faro left the Brettles. On his way to the police office, the rain began and Jim Boone’s cottage would have made an easy and speedy access to the main road, he thought regretfully. Small wonder that the Brettles had been so anxious to add it to their property…

The old man was visible in the porch and once again considering his friendly overtures at their first meeting Faro was tempted to walk over and have a cheery word in the hope that he might well have observed something significant regarding the Brettles’ burglary.

However, remembrance of those threatening words regarding trespass, reinforced by the savage dog, at present invisible, was a sufficient deterrent against a second try.

As he walked down the drive his thoughts returned to the recent interview with Mrs Lunn, whose reactions to the missing Bess Tracy were similar to Constable Muir’s. Why was it then he could not shake off the feeling that the girl’s disappearance, taken so lightly because of her wild reputation, had sinister implications?

As for Mrs Lunn’s downright lie, denying what she had told him regarding a nephew, the seasonal Morris gardener and her occasional lodger, Faro was certain that he held a clue to unravelling this particular mystery

The steady downpour was a deterrent to visiting Constable Muir and he decided to return immediately to Red House.

Poppy and Lena were in the drawing room, sewing pieces of embroidery in cheerful colours at woeful variance with their black gowns and sad faces. All that was missing from Lena were the widow’s weeds to have added the ultimate expression of grief.

Faro could not escape meeting her while he remained under the same roof but realised that beyond the conventional remarks the suspicion that she had possibly poisoned Erland, despite the doctor’s diagnosis, would not let him rest and would remain to torment him for the rest of his life.

He knew now that whatever happened he must leave this house, he no longer qualified for hospitality as Erland’s friend and he should seek lodgings in the village. He had the words ready when the door opened and Morris came in with Rossetti.

‘Leave us, old chap? You certainly cannot do that. You are still our most welcome guest and we insist that you make Red House your home until your business in this area is settled.’ And turning to Rossetti, ‘Isn’t that so, Gabriel?’

Rossetti nodded eagerly. ‘It most certainly is. Besides,’ he added with a certain lack of tact, Faro thought, ‘we have a painting to complete. I have just begun
The Rape of Lucrece
and those sketches of you, for which I am very grateful, have been of considerable help. But there is nothing like the real thing, and as Poppy is already modelling for another painting, I have decided to have Lena as Lucrece. She has a little more fire than our dear Poppy,’ he added in a whisper, looking towards the two girls standing by the window, ‘if you know what I mean.’ He chuckled with a sly look. ‘Besides it will be the perfect thing for taking her mind off poor Erland.’

From his short experience of modelling, Faro thought that standing still and silent for hours was hardly the best antidote for taking one’s mind off anything as Rossetti said, ‘Well, old chap, what do you think?’

Faro couldn’t think of an answer except that the idea of posing as Sextus Tarquinius with Madeleine Smith as Lucrece was utterly horrifying.

However, the eruption into the room by Ned Burne-Jones with a domestic crisis about finances and the united cries of indignation that followed as they searched for an immediate solution gave Faro’s future as a model a temporary respite.

As he left the house a second time for the police office, the telegraph to Sergeant Noble and his usual terse reply, suddenly the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed him. Hearing the distant rattle of a train steaming north, seeing and smelling the smoke, he yearned again to be heading homewards to Edinburgh – to admit defeat, face Noble’s anger and scorn, his colleagues’ whispers as he returned again to his regular beat on Leith Walk, having thrown away this one chance of the first step on the ladder of his ambition.

Everything had progressed far beyond him, his futile search for Macheath and the extraordinary behaviour of the owners of Brettle Manor, their reluctance to have a robbery investigated because of the shaming secrets that would be revealed were outwith the limits of his experience so far with the Edinburgh City Police.

Erland’s tragic death, the terrible suspicion he was totally unable to prove, that set the note of finality upon this assignment in Kent. To these were added his own surge of guilt, of being personally responsible because he had not warned Erland in time, and worst of all that he had never properly responded to the bond of friendship he owed his Orkney friend.

If he needed gratification for his visit to Red House, with reasonable grounds for suspicion that the theft of Lady Brettle’s priceless emerald bore all Macheath’s hallmarks, by a simple process of observation and deduction he had solved the mystery of the highly valued missing Dutch paintings.

A shrewd guess indicated that they would be found hidden somewhere in house or gardens after Sir Philip had used the excuse of the theft of his wife’s jewellery to add them to a substantial claim for insurance, badly needed to ease his dire financial situation.

Faro felt certain that Mrs Lunn and Bess Tracy were also involved, although he had yet to work out their exact roles and whether they were innocent victims or accomplices.

In the police office, Constable Muir had a visitor. Faro recognised Mrs Tracy, looking very excited despite her bruised face.

Muir grinned at her. ‘This will relieve your mind, Faro. Bess is alive and well.’

Mrs Tracy held a note in a trembling hand. ‘This is from Bess. It was pushed through the door this morning. I brought it straight here. It says,’ pausing, she handed it to Faro, ‘it says this is to let me know that she is well and happy and being well looked after and that we are not to worry about her. Isn’t that right, Constable?’ she asked Muir.

‘Quite correct,’ he replied and she said sadly, ‘I never learnt to read and write – he—’ the sudden quaver in her voice indicated the identity of her husband, ‘he did all that sort of thing.’

‘Has your husband seen this?’ Faro asked.

She gave a slight scream. ‘No! For God’s sake, I daren’t let him know I’ve heard from her – he never wants to see our lass again, has barred her from crossing the threshold. So I brought it straight along to the constable here.’

Faro turned the note over. There was no indication of when and where it had been written and Mrs Tracy frowned as Muir said to her, ‘Well, you’ll be happy now,’ and to Faro, he grinned, ‘No missing girl, case closed.’

Mrs Tracy however did not look happy. Glancing at the two men, she frowned and shook her head vigorously, pointing to the note. ‘I hope you’re right. That definitely isn’t the way my Bess writes. I know I can’t read but I’ve seen things she’s written, like her school books about the house—’

Faro read, ‘Dear Mum, this is just to let you know that I am well and happy and in a very comfortable lodging with my young man. I will write again soon.’

It was a perfectly ordinary note, the kind any girl who left home in a hurry after a quarrel would write to put her parents’ minds at rest but Mrs Tracy was obstinately shaking her head. ‘It just doesn’t sound like her – those words – she didn’t talk like that either. It’s as if someone was telling her what to say.’

The note ended: ‘I am delighted with my new life. I will come and see you soon. Your loving daughter Bess.’

Handing it back, Faro said, ‘You will keep us in touch, when Bess arrives.’

He was sure that Mrs Tracy’s instincts were those of a mother for a cherished daughter. As for himself, he too felt uncertain about this note and that there was something terribly wrong. It rang danger bells and he could not shake off the feeling that neither Mrs Tracy nor anyone else would ever see Bess again.

Or even that she was still alive.