Murder in Paradise (15 page)

Faro was wrong.

Bess Tracy was alive and the contents of the letter to her mother had been right.

She was indeed delighted with her new life. Her temporary home was much warmer and more comfortable than the horrible dark mill house where she had lived all her life, constantly hungry and cold and for ever evading her drunken father’s blows.

Now although she was restricted to one room, it was full of small luxuries, a nice thick carpet on the floor for her bare feet to snuggle into, delicate china, handsome furniture with a big cosy bed and a deep armchair. Paintings on the walls too.

She was living like a lady for once. Looking around, she could hardly believe her good fortune. This was indeed the escape into another world she had always longed for and her only fear was that one morning she might awaken to find that it had all vanished, it was only a dream.

For these wonderful surroundings also included a wonderful lover, a lover unlike any she had ever known in her short adult life, who promised a future of so much more than this cosy attic room. A castle no less, once he had persuaded his father to allow their marriage.

Marriage to a rich lover, heir to a fortune and a title.

She closed her eyes ecstatically. She would be Lady Jacks…she frowned. She wondered about that name. Sometimes she even thought it wasn’t his real name, far too common for a lord, but she did not really care too much. It wasn’t important. Life was too good to ask questions and she had promised never to leave the house, but she loved her silken prison.

After all it was only for a short while, a week or two until things were settled with his silly old obstinate father who wanted him to marry a rich heiress who was fat and ugly.

Not like you, Bess, he had said to her. You’re so lovely. No man could resist you.

Lovely words to think about when she was alone.

And that was most days, since he was off in the morning, sometimes going up to London to see lawyers, getting everything in order, he said vaguely. She never asked for details, content to accept legal matters that she could never hope to understand even if he had wished to explain them to her.

Her only worry, and that quite a small one, was her mother. She would be angry as well as anxious. Bess went on and on about it, so in the end he relented, but her writing was so atrocious, he made her write it several times. In the end he threw it away; her spelling was awful so he rewrote it for her.

She made him promise that he would take it to the mill personally and make sure that her Pa would not see it, that he would deliver it into her mother’s hand.

That settled, for Bess there were no more worries.

The house’s owner, an old gentleman and a long-time family friend she was told, had a kindly heart and had given the runaway lovers refuge. He had promised to look after her well when her love had to be absent. So far they had never been introduced and she rarely saw him or anyone else for that matter.

The attic which housed her lovely room had high windows and only by standing on a chair could she see down into the garden. Even then it was only trees that were visible growing close to the walls.

She could have been anywhere, in the middle of a forest for that matter, as there were no signs of the countryside beyond the band of trees, although she sometimes heard sounds of birds and animals, cows and sheep, a dog barking and she guessed they must not be far away from a main road with occasional sounds of horses and carriages and once during the night a train’s whistle. He had brought her here after dark that night a week ago when he asked her to marry him and she accepted. He wanted their first night together to be in this honeymoon house, a secret from the rest of the world, he said. Just the two of them. So romantic.

He had met her with a hiring cab on the main road near the railway station and, once inside, they had travelled what seemed a long distance, although Bess could not be sure about how far or what lay beyond the windows, as she rather lost track of time. It all became rather hazy, lying in his arms, being hugged and kissed and responding so rapturously, only pausing to drink the brandy or some such fine spirit he had brought with him for the journey. She needed little persuasion to indulge rather recklessly although it made her head feel strange.

A toast to their future – another and another – just a sip – when all she had been used to with other men was a miserly glass or two of ale.

Such generosity painted a rosy picture of the future. Perhaps she even slept a little for when she opened her eyes, she was still in his arms, but they were climbing out of the gig.

It was completely dark, no moon or stars and he was whispering that she was to be carried like a bride over the threshold of their first home together.

After that first night of love she realised she had never experienced anything like this from the lads in the village who had been, what now seemed a long time ago, her initiation into womanhood. She thought of their fumbling hands, their gross thrustings, with a shudder. What bliss never to have to return to those experiences, which were considerable, as many of those village lads and an occasional visitor to the alehouse could testify.

After such a night Bess did not expect to awake alone. She expected him to be at her side, today and every day, with love unceasing, but he was up and about, dressed and ready to leave her. Kissing her fondly he said, no, he wasn’t going to London, but smiling gently, did she not remember that he had humble employment as a gardener, for he had nothing from his father and he needed wages to pay for the rent of this love nest.

That surprised her, that they had to pay for this refuge, from the family friend, who must have a mean streak. However, he added quickly that he also needed money to keep them in food and new gowns and cloaks as befitted this new role in her life.

Gowns and cloaks immediately had her interest and he said that the old gentleman had a daughter who left home many years ago, but there was a wardrobe of her clothes still in the house. For these splendid gowns, cloaks and shoes he was negotiating on her behalf and very soon, as soon as he could afford to buy them, they would be hers. Meanwhile she must make do with the clothes she wore.

Bess did not mind. Having more than two gowns to her name suggested a new exciting experience and while she waited she was content with her new home by day and with a wonderful lover by night – although not quite as frequent as she had first hoped.

However, she was patient as ordered. There was always food and drink and such a future to dream about. She would have been worthless and ungrateful to feel for even one second, after that first glorious night of love, that there was something lacking in his attention. This she put down to the sorry business of persuading his father regarding their coming marriage and the need to earn wages as a humble gardener.

She hoped she might persuade him to come and meet her mother; she would love to have the opportunity to parade this lover before her hateful father before they left in triumph for that castle in Sussex.

As for Paul, Bess’s lover, better known to Faro as Macheath, he was pleased and excited by his superb and unique plan. He had achieved his goal by stealing the Emerald Star. All that remained was the perfect exit, the perfect revenge in the death of Jeremy Faro.

Although appreciating the efforts of his secret accomplice, whose identity was beyond suspicion and worth every percentage of the shared profits of the many daring robberies he had engineered in Scotland, Macheath now urgently needed an accomplice here at hand to assist in the final downfall and death of Constable Jeremy Faro. Mrs Lunn had at once sprung to mind, but he did not altogether trust her, embedded with feelings of loyalty to her mistress. Information of when she would be absent with her mistress in London had been invaluable and sleeping on the kitchen sofa had provided access to the keys.

A lucky find was Dave, one of the young gardeners with anarchist tendencies, scorn and contempt for the upper classes. Courting one of the kitchen maids in Red House provided extra pairs of ears and eyes to keep him informed regarding Faro’s movements. Neither of these young people had the least idea of what was involved. They enjoyed their roles, especially when they believed this chap Paul was a traitor to his class, and very open-handed with money.

Now everything was in place and Macheath relished the fact that he could have killed Faro almost any day, from their first encounter on the village street with himself in the role of the tetchy stubborn owner of the cottage on the Brettle estate (now the late Jim Boone residing permanently in a cupboard alongside his faithful dog). Once Faro was disposed of and before he quit this country for ever with a passage on an emigrant ship to America, perhaps he might rearrange that little scene so that the man and dog appeared to have died naturally in the hope that by the time someone found them all evidence of violence would have vanished with their decomposing corpses.

He laughed out loud remembering how the disguise had been almost too easy as the smelly bewhiskered old man, to whom the villagers gave a wide berth. There had been so many opportunities for a fatal shot; that early morning on the heath would have done the trick. Another time near the orchard of Red House, he had waited, rifle in hand, but the door had opened, the womenfolk and their dogs rushed out. And at the masque, when he had stood behind Faro’s chair as his squire, how easy to have poisoned his wine!

And in recent days seeing him leave Brettle Manor. One bullet could have rid him of his bitter enemy. He chuckled at those possibilities, but dismissed them hastily. Too risky and too easy. Besides, he was really enjoying the end of a game that had begun five years ago in Scotland. A game where he was the victor carrying off the spoils from raids on great houses, and the police had never tracked him down until one owner was accidentally killed and Constable Faro appeared on the scene and made his life so difficult. Now the score included murder, which was very trying.

What he really wanted in compensation was for Faro to suffer a long, lingering end, a death by hanging for a crime he did not commit. He wanted him to have that additional agony of mind as well as body.

As for Bess Tracy, he considered her coldly. He knew her kind: too ignorant, too lacking in imagination, food and drink and sex were the only ingredients she needed to keep her happy.

Not for very much longer. She had served her purpose. The trap was set, the girl the bait. He knew from previous encounters with Faro in Scotland that he would never rest until he had found the missing girl

Jeremy Faro’s doom was sealed.

As Faro left Brettle Manor, the first black clouds were riding steadily in from the horizon, the thunderheads already rising, preparing for a violent storm. He felt the first heavy drops of rain as he hurried into Red House.

There he beheld a scene in sympathy with the weather, alerted senses and suppressed excitement as Rossetti and Morris welcomed two new visitors, one a very thin, middle-aged, nervous-looking woman; the other her a buxom cheery-faced, young companion.

Both ladies were attired in black, a fitting accompaniment to the mourning now adopted by the inhabitants of the house in respect for Erland. Looking at Elizabeth Siddal’s sorrowful countenance, and those other solemn faces, Lena’s almost bright by comparison, Faro realised that Erland’s death was an emotional situation they were well able to deal with.

He had already observed the mysterious agony of love with its drooping heavy-lidded frustration, the unspeakable sadness of loss in which they had a merciless indulgence. The endless sorrowful saga, the cruel tragedies of the medieval knights and ladies with their doomed love, provided the background of their everyday lives. It was life and breath, the integral ingredient of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, a theatrical sense of drama which they exploited to the full and enjoyed considerably more than any mundane straightforward relationship.

As Faro was introduced to Madame Pireau and her daughter Euphemia, Morris whispered, ‘We weren’t expecting you, old chap. These ladies are our invited guests, come down specially. We are to hold a seance.’

The maids were drawing the curtains, an unnecessary precaution since the room was threatened by the darkness of the approaching storm, the rumble of distant thunder.

‘A seance?’ Faro had never associated the practical William Morris with the new fad of spiritualism, which had its origins in America but had taken Britain by storm a few years ago in 1852. Getting in touch with the dear departed was sweeping the country, in no small measure thanks to the enthusiasm of novelist Charles Dickens, who had achieved phenomenal success with
A Christmas Carol
, and Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria would be persuaded to believe that she could get in contact with her beloved Albert after his death in 1861.

Inevitably, the spiritualist movement had its trail of charlatans as well as true believers. Rossetti, perhaps interpreting Faro’s astonished and doubtful expression, said hastily, ‘Madame Pireau is a medium, she has proved many times that the spirits of those we loved who are on the other side now keep constant watch over us. Their help is invaluable. They can not only advise but also warn us. They are all around us,’ he made a dramatic gesture, ‘everywhere! In constant attendance, just waiting to be summoned.’

Faro nodded vaguely, his cynical thoughts that the spirits that inhabited Red House most often came out of a bottle, not from hands eager to be linked over the small round table that was being carried into the room.

Rossetti looked towards Lena, as she talked politely to the new arrivals. ‘This visit was arranged several weeks ago. Madame has just returned from a triumphant American tour. Topsy thought we ought to cancel it – Erland, you know…’ he added in a whisper, ‘but Janey and Elizabeth persuaded him that this visit was well timed; indeed, the spirits themselves could not have done better.’

Looking towards Lena, as she talked politely to the two guests, he nodded sadly. ‘And I agreed. In fact, we all decided that it might help dear Lena in her sad loss, cheer her up to know that she might be put in touch with Erland again.’

Faro doubted that, as Lena’s calm untroubled expression, gently smiling at Euphemia Pireau, showed less grief at that moment than any of Erland’s friends who had followed his coffin to the grave.

The medium’s daughter was throwing over the table a circular black cloth edged with large white letters of the alphabet. From her basket she produced a large glass tumbler, which she set in the centre.

Rossetti pointed to it. ‘Madame has just told us, she was advised by her guide, who had a severe cold and had lost her voice, to use this method instead. We all place a finger on the glass and it moves to spell out words. She has found it extremely useful to help reluctant or shy spirits to declare themselves.’

He regarded Faro anxiously. ‘We would be delighted if you would join us. Perhaps you have a loved one…’

The only loved one Faro would have liked to have heard from was his policeman father, Constable Magnus Faro, whose death his mother stoutly maintained was murder, but he doubted the solution of that particular mystery was within the powers of any spirit guide.

With little desire to take part in this experience, he realised it would be churlish to refuse and he decided to sit down at the table with the others, somewhat unwillingly perhaps, but nevertheless with a sense of curiosity. Although he scorned such procedures, the instincts of a detective in him hinted that there was trickery involved, which he would observe with a very watchful eye, eager to know how the two women made it work.

As if his thoughts were overheard, Madame said, ‘I must warn you not to expect too much. Sometimes, although we all have our fingers on the glass, it either refuses to move or else travels round the table at high speed, spelling out gibberish nonsense. We must prepare ourselves for disappointment; sometimes the spirits are not in the right frame of mind and my guide, a small girl, can be disagreeable and sullen.’

She paused, and added darkly, ‘Sometimes we have to realise that elementals have invaded and are in our midst. Elementals are bad spirits, and it is advisable then to close down our experiments immediately.’

Listening, Faro decided that this was all nonsense, but at least entertaining. As for the presence of bad spirits, he hoped he would be able to keep a straight face.

Seated around the table were Madame and her daughter, Rossetti, Elizabeth, Morris, and Janey, with himself between Poppy and Lena.

‘We will begin with a prayer for protection,’ said Madame. ‘Our Father, which art in heaven—’

The Lord’s Prayer, inappropriate company for Morris and Rossetti, would at least take care of the elementals, Faro thought, glancing around at the bowed heads, eyes firmly lowered.

‘Amen. Amen.’

Madame lifted her head. ‘Our hands linked, we will begin in the usual way.’ A pause. ‘Is there anyone there? One rap for yes, two for no.’

There was no response. She tried again, then a third time. By then Faro’s limited patience was at an end.

Madame sighed. ‘We will now proceed with our alternative. Fingertips on the glass if you please, and I beg you let them remain stationary. The spirits will do the rest.’ A pause. ‘Is there anyone there?’

The table rocked gently, a shudder then stillness.

‘Have you a message for anyone here?’

The silence was shattered by a loud clap of thunder as rain beat on the windows. Through a gap in the curtains, lightning flashed.

Faro began counting as he had been taught long ago, to see how many miles was the eye of the storm.

As Madame repeated her question, another wait was involved and Faro sensed a flutter of impatience, a suppressed sigh round the table.

Then the glass moved, began to search out letters.
F – A – R – D – E – A – T – H
. It stopped. Looks were exchanged, Madame smiled indulgently. ‘Oh, the spirits are up to their tricks again, telling us what we know already, that we must all leave this earth. Hush—’

The glass was moving again. ‘What is your message?’

‘
EMIL – EMIL
…’

The glass stopped. Madame said: ‘Sometimes they can’t spell very well. Do we have an Emily here? No. Continue, spirit, tell us who you have a message for?’

‘
MIMI – MY – MIMI
…’

Another smile from Madame, a look around the table. ‘Do we have a Mimi?’ Looks were exchanged, heads shaken.

‘Dear me. Very well. What have you to tell your Mimi, spirit?’

‘
WHY – DID – YOU
—’

Silence again. Madame shook her head. ‘Continue, spirit—’

‘
MIMI – WHY – DID – YOU – KI – K – K
—’

Before the word could continue, at his side, Lena’s finger left the glass. She stood up sharply. ‘I’m unwell. The thunder, you know – affects my head. Please excuse me.’

Hurriedly pushing back the chair, she fled from the room.

Looks of consternation were exchanged. At Faro’s side, Poppy whispered, ‘Poor Lena, I must go to her. She suffers from frightful headaches.’ And to Madame, ‘Miss Hamilton has been very recently bereaved. The day before her wedding,’ she ended on a sob and a reproachful look towards Morris and Gabriel, indicating that this was all their fault for upsetting Lena.

Rossetti had left the table and opened the curtains. ‘My apologies, Madame. Perhaps we can try later. I am sorry about this. I thought it would cheer Miss Hamilton, that her dear bridegroom might get in touch with her.’

Faro declined the tea and sandwiches that the maids had been summoned to bring. Madame Pireau was also upset and her daughter was administering the smelling salts. Doubtless she was rather angry since her much vaunted attempts to raise the spirits of the dead had failed so utterly.

He heard her say to Janey Morris, who had taken her hand, ‘If only our spirit guide had been permitted to finish that message. It is extremely dangerous to be interrupted like that. And now we will never know how important the message was.’

Faro slowly climbed the stairs to his room. The storm was wild now, as if indeed the spirits were out in an army trying to invade Red House, hurling themselves against the windows.

In his room he closed the door. For an unbeliever like himself, it had been an interesting experience and he had interpreted much which was lost on the others. ‘Far—’ that could well have been ‘Faro – death.’ A kindly warning he did not care to consider too deeply, as danger and death were the constant hazards of his existence.

But only he knew the truth of that abortive seance. There was no mysterious Emily; the glass had been trying to spell out Emile, whose pet name for Madeleine had been Mimi.

‘Why did you ki—’ Was the word Lena had interrupted by her flight ‘kill’, and was the tormented spirit of Emile d’Angelier wishing to know why his Mimi had killed him?

His normally acute powers of observation and deduction, about the futile quest of being sent down to Kent to track down Macheath, had been clouded over by the shock of meeting Madeleine Smith as Lena Hamilton and his deep concern for Erland’s coming marriage to her.

Erland’s death had been the final straw, and the fact that the doctor refused to countenance that he had perhaps been poisoned, stoutly maintaining that, as he had suffered heart failure, there would certainly be no reason for a post-mortem.

Then something happened that cast all thoughts of Madeleine Smith aside, enlightenment that changed the whole complex of the missing Macheath.

He knew that the answer to the one vital piece of the puzzle had been with him every day.

From the beginning – his first day at Red House – staring him in the face although he had failed to recognise it.