Murder in Paradise (17 page)

Faro realised that his best method of dealing with the situation was to stay calm while detained at what represented Her Majesty’s Pleasure, in this case a police cell in the local constable’s cottage. There, while awaiting the arrival of the Metropolitan Police, he would put his enforced solitude to good effect by writing up the case, perfectly satisfied that he could prove his innocence.

Confident that DS Noble would substantiate his claims regarding Macheath as well as an excellent character reference, he never doubted that he could prove not only that his arrest had been a mistake but that it was also a plot engineered by the same Macheath who had murdered Bess Tracy.

But why? The motive remained obscure, although now he was almost certain that she had been concealed in Boone’s much disputed cottage on the edge of Brettle estate. Whether as prisoner or a willing accomplice of Macheath, now that she was dead, he would probably never learn the truth

Murder had an unfortunate tendency to spread like waves in a pond, linking innocent and guilty alike. In Bess’s case, they would most surely engulf the robbery at Brettle Manor to the exasperation and despair of the Brettles, who because of the murder of their maid would now most likely find themselves being thoroughly investigated by the Metropolitan Police. And despite their desperate attempts to have the robbery kept within the confines of the local police, those shaming secrets and scandals would become sensational public news.

Morris and Rossetti looked in to visit Faro briefly, embarrassed by the circumstances and strangely inarticulate, murmuring reassurances that they did not believe a word of such a dreadful accusation and that they would readily support his excellent character at the trial, if summoned to do so.

Considering that they knew little of him on a very short acquaintance, merely that he was a friend of Erland’s, Faro was grateful indeed. There was a great deal of clearing of throats and eyes straying uneasily towards the bars on the window as they attempted a normal conversation about his health, some futile observations concerning the mild weather but they left tactfully without any mention of the reasons that accounted for their late guest’s arrest for murder.

Faro was well taken care of in his unusual prison cell. Constable Muir brought regular meals prepared by Mrs Muir no doubt regarded by her merely as an extra mouth to feed.

As he spent his time writing down his theories, the Brettles’ shattered future concerned him considerably less than his compassion for Bess’s grieving mother, an innocent victim of this terrible news.

The visit of Morris and Rossetti was shortly followed by a surprise appearance from Lena bearing fruit from the orchards and cake from the Red House kitchen.

Ushering her in, Muir made a bad joke about hoping that a file was not hidden in that basket and then went off briskly to brew up a cup of tea.

Faro bowed his visitor to the one chair and took a seat on the bed. The constable had made the cell as comfortable as possible. But for the presence of a barred high window, it could have passed as the parlour of a small cottage with the necessary toilet facilities discreetly out of sight.

Lena smiled, gesturing away his stilted thanks for the visit and the gifts. Unlike his previous visitors, she came straight to the point.

‘I am sure you are not guilty of killing that girl.’ She paused and said slowly, as if repeating a lesson, ‘For murder there has to be a motive and what motive could you have had? You who had, according to all accounts, never met her before and knew only of her reputation. Attempted rape, is the whisper.’

She shrugged. ‘And that doesn’t seem to fit your character at all,’ she added, and cupping her chin in her hand, a gesture that took him back to her Edinburgh trial three years ago, she studied him intently. ‘Such a pity they do not have a Not Proven verdict in England. As you know, it has been found very useful in Scotland.’

The look on Faro’s face surprised her, for she laughed. ‘Come now, Mr Faro – or is it Constable Faro?’ Before he could answer, she wagged a finger at him and said, ‘I knew you were a policeman, despite dear Erland’s attempts not to give the game away with some vague descriptions of your business here.’

She paused to give him a triumphant smile. ‘You see, I have a very good memory and as soon as Erland mentioned Edinburgh, I remembered that you were the kind young constable who escorted me across to Slateford to meet my brother – and safety. After the trial.’

Her expression darkened, the incident vividly remembered. Then again she smiled. ‘I rather liked the look of you,’ she said, eyeing him candidly. ‘Being a policeman seemed quite wasted on your good looks. I felt you were meant for better things.’

A pause with some embarrassment on Faro’s side before he said, ‘Is that the reason for – for your deception at the masque?’

She clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Why, of course! Men are such an entertainment – I wondered how a handsome young policeman would react to a little lovemaking from a woman whose trial had been a matter of nationwide interest.’

Faro, shocked, stood up sharply. ‘Your behaviour was outrageous.’

She stared at him, frowned. ‘I don’t know—’

‘Not at the trial, I mean, at the masque. A betrayal of Erland, as well as Poppy, your so-called best friend.’

She stood up to leave. She shrugged. ‘Betrayal – of course, you are right, I am sure. But I think we both enjoyed it, did we not?’

And Faro could think of no answer that would not be an outright lie. They were just inches apart; he could feel her warm breath, smell her perfume.

‘Why did you come?’

‘To bring you sustenance, of course, a goodwill visit.’ A sly smile as she added, ‘No cocoa, of course.’

At his stony expression, she moved away. Suddenly serious, she turned and came back, standing again close to him. He felt his heart racing and wondered if she could hear it.

‘There was another reason.’ She gazed up into his face. ‘I was curious. I wanted to ask you a question. The answer to which you have now many hours of solitude to reflect upon.’

‘And that is?’

‘How does it feel, Constable Faro, to be accused of a murder, to be innocent and yet quite unable to prove it?’ Her voice rose, almost in a crow of triumph as her finger pointed at him. ‘And in your case to have no expectations of a sympathetic jury of men who will save you from the gallows.’

Faro bowed, his expression a calm he was far from feeling at that moment. ‘I trust that I will survive long enough to provide you with an answer – indeed, to compare notes,’ he added with a note of sarcasm.

Gathering her basket, she laughed and walked lightly to the door.

‘Tell the constable to keep his tea—’

‘A moment,’ Faro said. ‘Tell me one thing before we part – are Morris and Rossetti aware of Lena Hamilton’s real identity? That she is also known as Madeleine Smith?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Of course! They have always known. It was something of a thrill for them, a delicious prospect to have a woman who might well be a notorious poisoner under their roof, an added secret excitement to their daily bread.’

‘Did Erland also know?’ he demanded sharply.

She shook her head. About to leave, at the door she turned and said sadly. ‘Jeremy Faro – have you never believed in redemption?’

A moment later the door closed and she was gone.

He would never know the truth. Perhaps he had been wrong about Madeleine Smith and her role as Lena after all. But somehow it seemed less of a major problem now that his own future was in doubt.

He had been less than two days in the police cell when Muir told him he had received a telegraph from Inspector Holt of the Metropolitan Police, who was arriving that evening to escort him to London to be tried for the murder of Bess Tracy. Muir was to take him to the railway station at Upton to hand him over to the inspector.

There was a second telegraph, but he was not yet at liberty to disclose contents or sender.

Faro had no chance to say goodbye to Red House, or to thank Morris and Rossetti for their kindness to him. But he had one more visitor just an hour before he was to leave with Muir.

It was Poppy. A very tearful Poppy, who put her arms around him and sobbed on his shoulder.

He tried to comfort her but all she could gasp out was, ‘This is so terrible. I never believed any of it. No one looking at you could ever believe that you were a murderer.’

Stroking her hair, he thought but did not say that very few murderers ever looked the part. In general they looked like ordinary citizens and, in Macheath’s case, their very ordinariness was the best of all possible disguises.

‘Come now, dry your tears,’ he whispered. ‘It isn’t the end of the world.’

Her look suggested painfully that this was indeed the end of her world and all her future hopes as she gasped, ‘I had no idea that you were a policeman, until Lena told me. It’s outrageous, the very thought of it. Don’t they understand that policemen like you are here to protect us, they don’t go round murdering people.’

Again he thought and did not say that sometimes they do just that, as she went on, ‘You were so gentle and kind and you didn’t even know that girl.’ She shuddered. ‘To hint at such wickedness, they must be out of their minds to even think of such awful things about you, a well-educated gentleman, that you are.’

And this time it was his brave strong Lizzie back in Edinburgh who came into his thoughts. A well-educated rich gentleman had raped her when she was fifteen years old, a maid in a big house. Her son Vince was the result, Vince who hated him.

He sighed. Poppy had a lot to learn about the world and as he put an arm about her, he realised he had learnt a lot as well. A few days ago, his main concern had been Erland’s wedding to Lena. He had also been attracted to this lovely girl, had even entertained thoughts that he might be falling in love with her.

Now Erland wad dead and buried, the world had moved on and his world had taken a dramatic turn for the worse.

‘I love you, Jeremy, and I always will – I’ll wait for you, whatever happens,’ she added loyally.

Faro was touched but he realised there was no place for Poppy in his future and perhaps there never had been except for the brief hour of a romantic picnic.

But how to tell her? How did you tell a girl who has just declared her undying affection that it could never be returned? What to say, only that if he were a free man declared innocent of Bess’s murder, then he had also closed the door on any return to Red House with all its memories of Erland Flett? Nor did he feel that like Madeleine Smith he would be welcomed because of his fleeting notoriety or his potential as a model; he thought with wry amusement at the memory of that brief experience.

His future lay in Edinburgh, and he yearned wistfully for his return to an undemanding relationship with Lizzie, the kind of woman needed by a policeman faced with day-to-day frustrations and dangers, a faithful wife waiting by the fireside with good food on the table and loving arms to hold him through the night.

Painfully he began to tell her of Lizzie’s existence, his explanation and her distress cut short by the sound of voices outside his door. At that moment, a blessing indeed.

A final tearful kiss and she left him hating himself for having hurt this gentle girl whom he guessed would have soon become disillusioned by the poverty and daily hardships of an Edinburgh policeman’s wife.

Muir was accompanied by two gentlemen and, as Faro appeared to be in the best of health, the constable was taken aback to learn that Dr Grant, who prided himself on his expertise in disorders of the brain, wished to put on record, for future reference and doubtless for Faro’s forthcoming trial, the patient’s mental state at the time of the murder.

Dr Innes, the local doctor, had been eager to assist him in this consultation and Muir was closely questioned by the doctors before they presented themselves to his prisoner, assuring them that Faro had shown no signs of madness or of any extraordinary or erratic behaviour while in his custody. He had in fact been a model prisoner and had made no attempt to escape.

Muir thought any confession of guilt was unlikely and, bewildered by the doctor’s theories, considered privately that it was perhaps Dr Grant himself who was a little mad, although doubtless the questions he asked regarding Faro’s background and scribbled down industriously seemed to bear little relation to proving that he had murdered Bess Tracy.

‘He is not an emotional sort,’ Muir said. ‘Very well balanced and I might add that he is quite certain that he can prove his innocence, that he has been the victim of a set-up by this criminal chap he was sent down here to take back to Scotland.’

‘Ah,’ said Innes, exchanging a nod of satisfaction with Grant. ‘They all claim to be innocent, easy-going decent chaps on the surface.’

Grant shook his head sadly. ‘Let us not forget that beneath these calm exteriors, there are frequently lurking violent erotic tendencies which they try so hard to conceal.’

Muir whistled, recalling the dreadful sight of the half-naked girl in the summerhouse, which he was certain he would never forget. ‘Incredible! So you think it might be possible, that he had some sort of a brainstorm?’

‘It happens to the best of young men who have not the benefits of a conjugal marriage. To a married man like yourself—’

Grant paused for affirmation and when Muir nodded, he went on, ‘Then I can speak freely, for I am sure you understand that regular intercourse is essential to the male’s well-being in body and mind.’

Muir had never had it explained to him thus. He coughed and, looking very embarrassed, murmured, ‘Well, I never,’ then hastily, ‘Shall I take you to Constable Faro?’

Following Muir to the prison cell, Innes whispered, ‘I suggest you wait in earshot, Constable. If Dr Grant is successful with this interview you may hear something that could be of particular interest. I believe he is hopeful for a confession of the vile deed.’