Murder in Paradise (4 page)

Lena Hamilton she called herself now. Her name was Madeleine Smith, Hamilton the name of her maternal grandfather, the famous architect and mastermind of Glasgow’s Royal Exchange and the Western Bank.

Faro had been given the special privilege of attending the trial by Chief Inspector McFie. Already impressed and assured of this remarkable young policeman’s future, he was keen to have his protégé’s assessment of what promised to be the trial of the century.

Whatever the jury, seduced by her youth and charm, might decide, Faro was sure that there had been a serious miscarriage of justice. As he listened to the evidence, he was certain that she was guilty of poisoning her lover Emile L’Angelier by putting arsenic in his cocoa and that only her youth – she was twenty-one years old – her beauty and her place in the echelons of Glasgow society had saved her from the gallows.

A young girl from a prosperous background, daughter of an eminent and respected architect, about to marry William Minnoch, a bachelor in his early thirties and a senior member of a firm of merchant importers, a man approved of by her parents, Madeleine Smith had apparently been seduced by a heartless womaniser.

Such were the implications of the evidence in her favour.

Who would credit that she could ever have been willingly the lover of a lowborn Frenchman? Everyone knew what Frenchmen were like, especially women. The men too had bad memories of the Napoleonic wars. No doubt about it, France was still regarded by most people as Britain’s natural enemy.

L’Angelier, however, was only French by descent. His anti-monarchist family had fled from persecution in 1813 and settled in Jersey where ten years later Emile was born, son of a respectable shopkeeper. Popular rumour, however, was ready to claim that he had taken advantage of her innocence with his Gallic charm, had used those indiscreet letters she had written believing him to be in love with her, vile seducer that he was, and when she was to marry William Minnoch, was using them to threaten to tell her father.

But Faro was not convinced and never would be.

He had a moment of sheer panic. But this girl turning to greet him, Lena/Madeleine, clinging to Erland’s arm, did not know him. There was no flicker of recognition in that smile.

Faro shocked beyond speech or thought could think of nothing to say; it was his turn to stammer, following them indoors with the nightmare about to unfold, the peace of Red House to be bitterly ended.

What was he to do? Did Erland know her real identity? That was impossible. He suspected that the inhabitants of Red House, if they were aware of it, would disregard such a scandal, perhaps even relish having such a stunner as a suspected murderess in their midst.

As for himself, Lena could not be expected to remember the uniformed and helmeted constable who had been allotted to assist her exit via the back door of the Edinburgh High Court. A young woman from the courtroom’s audience who had attended most of the trial was persuaded by Madeleine’s defence lawyer to exchange clothes with her and, thus veiled, was hustled out to the waiting carriage to lure the crowds away.

Not that those crowds were hostile. By no means. Far from it. Most were cheering. Madeleine had smiled shyly at them, and their hearts went out to her, so serene and composed in court, so brave. How could this gently brought up, lovely young girl have poisoned her seducer, that Frenchman chap, a common, flash, shallow womaniser.

But Emile L’Angelier was more than a lover. He and Madeleine referred to themselves in their letters as husband and wife. And that in Scots common law, according to Faro, was regarded as ‘marriage by habit and repute’.

He remembered as he had emerged with Madeleine Smith from the court’s back entrance, she had raised her eyes to him gratefully, eyes the dark blue of innocent summer flowers and Faro knew in that one glance that, even aware that she was guilty, he had sympathy for the jury. With already enough of the detective inborn to recognise, to sift through evidence and come to his own conclusions, whatever his heart might declare as a man, the evidence – remembering her declaration and the letters read in court – said she was guilty.

But as a man he understood the emotions of that male jury, many of them middle-class Edinburgh citizens, some with young unmarried daughters just like her. He had sympathy for them. How would they live with their consciences afterwards – would they lie sleepless at night wondering if they had given the wrong verdict? Only two had called for the guilty verdict and he could imagine how they were shouted down. They could not hang her. Such a verdict would have met with public outrage.

Now walking a few steps behind Erland, who had his arm about his bride-to-be, Faro was faced with a dilemma indeed.

Erland obviously had no idea of her true identity. She had lied to him, presented an ingenuous story about being orphaned, an aunt who had died. She would consider herself safe in the bohemian circle of Red House.

But would she be content to marry Erland and bury the past or was he merely a stepping stone to something greater? She was capable of sexual passion, no one could doubt. This Faro knew from the evidence and those love letters to Emile, so explicit that the court realised they were too indecent to be read out loud.

Suddenly at his side, behind Lena and Erland, he was aware of a pretty girl, her companion who had emerged from the wagonette. He had been introduced to her, but in his all-consuming anxiety, he had promptly forgotten her name.

She was laden with parcels and, remembering his manners, he took them from her, this humble act of chivalry rewarded with a sweet smile as she looked up into his face. Now she was talking, telling him all about their shopping expedition to London, what a splendid visit and how they had been lavishly entertained by such a nice man, a special friend of Topsy, his business manager called George Wardle.

Faro was hardly listening, following Erland into the house, who looked over his shoulder and gave him a knowing wink at the girl on his arm and called, ‘Jeremy will take good care of you, Poppy.’

The front door closed behind them and at once Faro bowed, put down the parcels, made his excuses and fled to his room with its Gothic windows and wall slits for arrows, as if this was indeed a medieval castle and he was a condemned man.

Glad to be alone, he groaned.

What on earth was he to do? He could not stand by his friend’s side at the altar in a few days’ time and ignore the fact that he knew ‘just cause and impediment why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony’.

Now remembering those past schooldays in Orkney how Erland had relied upon him to fight his battles, could he choose that moment to publicly blight his future, break his heart?

One thing was certain. He could not remain in Red House any longer. He must make an excuse, tell a lie, say that Macheath had been spotted and that he must go in pursuit.

But even as he seized his few possessions and thrust them into his valise, he knew he could not do it. Such was the coward’s way out. Even if he left, his action could certainly not stop Erland going to the church and taking Lena Hamilton alias Madeleine Smith, the Glasgow poisoner, as his wedded wife.

That was bad enough but what of the future? What of Erland’s own safety should some more attractive possibility come her way, another William Minnoch who had a great deal more to offer.

A way out of this dire situation must be found. Who was this George Wardle that Poppy had been so enthusiastic about, and his warm reception during their London shopping visit? He must find out more about him.

As the occupants of the house assembled for the evening meal, at the gong’s loud summons Morris came up from the cellar, beaming with joy, his hands full of wine bottles with more tucked rather perilously under his arms while Faro’s fears of getting through the evening were relieved by the absence of Erland and Lena, as well as Poppy. The trio, he was told, had been invited to dine with the local minister.

But seated at that round table, a gastronomic delight was in store: a splendid meal of gargantuan proportions. There was a leg of lamb from the local butcher, a variety of vegetables and fruit home-grown in the gardens, and apples and blackberries for a rich dessert.

Each course was accompanied by fine wines. Faro had learnt his lesson and he was cautious, keeping a watchful eye on the bottle being passed around the table and being strong enough to refuse the constant refills.

His companions were less circumspect. Morris was the reincarnation of a medieval host and when he wanted to make a point in his loud conversations, he would spring from his seat at the table into the middle of the room and flourish his fists, ready to fight anyone who disagreed with him. Such actions were greeted by roars of laughter and jeering, teasing comments, while the apples that had not found their way into the dessert but were reclining in a bowl alongside pears and oranges would be pelted at him.

This behaviour caused a great deal of merriment with music hall songs in abundance and, as the wine took effect, Faro found himself caught up in the general innocent horse-play as befitted the medieval atmosphere.

As he went up to bed at last, yawning and well-fed, his senses lulled by good living, he put aside his misgivings regarding Erland and told himself that a way must be found out of this tricky situation, but tomorrow would do for that.

Tonight all he welcomed was sleep and his last thought as he closed his eyes was of Lena’s friend Poppy. She had paid him a lot of attention. Every time he glanced her way, she seemed to be smiling at him, her eyes shining.

He sighed. Such a pretty girl.

Next morning, there was a breakfast as huge as the evening meal consisting mostly of cooked ham, kidneys, tea, jam and what the assembled company referred to as Topsy’s ‘horrid eggs’, a huge platter which he consumed in vast quantities. Faro ate little as, seeing Erland, all his anxieties were renewed. The two lovers were engrossed in themselves, seemingly so happy and carefree that his conscience smote him anew. If only he knew what was right, what to do.

Aware of his inexperience he would have given much for the advice McFie had to offer in plenty. He had never approved of this assignment and Faro, visiting him before he left Edinburgh, had found the retired inspector taken aback at Noble’s order to send the young policeman down to Kent in pursuit of a desperate criminal and murderer and alone to bring Macheath back to Scotland to stand trial. Shaking his head sadly he said: ‘They certainly do things differently since my day.’

In retrospect, Faro felt there was something ominous in the old detective’s words. He had sent him the promised letter that he had arrived safely at Upton and was staying at Red House. Now in despair, he thought if only he could explain his predicament to McFie who would probably be in Sussex at this moment on his annual visit to his married sister. Alas, he did not know her address and by the time a letter marked urgent was forwarded from Edinburgh and a reply reached him, Erland and Lena would be married.

Faro realised how much he had come to value McFie’s support. Newly arrived in Edinburgh, his fellow constables tormented him with their unceasing teasing. ‘This foreigner from Orkney – where on God’s earth was that and did they still live in caves?’ Their attitude was not much improved when rumour reached them that on the recommendation of Chief Inspector McFie the lowly beat policeman would shortly be promoted to Detective Constable.

McFie had become his ally after Faro saved his life – so McFie claimed – by racing after his runaway carriage, leaping on to the horse’s back and bringing it to a standstill as it toppled on the icy slope of the Mound.

His bravery earned him a grudging, though scornful, respect from his colleagues although Faro had not then known the occupant’s identity until he was called into the inner office.

McFie was grateful, wanted to know all about him, his background and his father, Constable Magnus Faro’s fatal accident. They had never met as McFie had been serving with the Aberdeen police at that time.

McFie learnt that young Faro was alone; his mother, blaming the Edinburgh police for her husband’s death, had returned to Orkney and had never quite forgiven their only son Jeremy for not staying in Kirkwall and making a decent Orcadian living from the fishing and the land as his ancestors had done. Instead he had rushed off to that dangerous, wicked mainland and the city that had killed her man.

Faro found the old inspector, a long-time widower and about to retire, very sympathetic. His only son, who had been killed in a riding accident, would have been Faro’s age. Had he been less than a practical, no-nonsense policeman and more of a God-fearing citizen, he might have allowed thoughts that Faro had been sent by divine providence to replace his lost son.

Whatever his secret thoughts, when McFie retired he kept in touch with Jeremy Faro through a weekly meeting at a local inn, then, realising that Faro was in the rather basic lodgings provided for unmarried constables, their meeting was transformed into an evening meal at McFie’s home in Nicholson Square prepared by his housekeeper, a young highly efficient woman called Mrs Brook.

So began a friendship between the lonely old man who sadly missed the Edinburgh police and felt that he had been put out to graze far too soon with many years of criminal investigation still in him. Faro became his link with those past days and the present, keeping him in touch with the comings and goings, especially DS Noble, newly arrived from Glasgow and keen on throwing his weight about, especially in young Faro’s direction for whom he seemed to have taken an instant and quite irrational antipathy.

McFie knew the type well: older, more experienced officers who felt threatened by clever young constables and enjoyed cutting them down to size. Well, he had certainly achieved this in sending young Faro down to Kent, to single-handedly bring back a wanted man. He would be very lucky indeed to survive. The waste of a good policeman, thought McFie, shaking his head sadly at the news.

Now in Red House, walking the floor of his room, with Erland and Lena’s voices reaching him from the garden far below, Faro remembered how it was McFie’s influence that got him to the trial of Madeleine Smith, a trial that took not only Edinburgh and Glasgow but the whole of Britain by storm, with daily reports in the national newspapers.

The young woman accused of poisoning her lover with arsenic was from a wealthy, highly respected family of Glasgow architects. Emile L’Angelier, something of a womaniser, was what was commonly known as a waster. Emile had failed to fulfil the early promise of his respectable Jersey family and, on the lookout for a wealthy marriage, had spotted Madeleine and engineered an introduction to her through a common acquaintance.

There was an immediate rapport between the attractive girl and the rather flashy Frenchman some thirteen years her senior, a warehouse clerk with a firm of Glasgow merchants.

Perhaps initially it was the element of danger which appealed to Madeleine, a romantic novelettish relationship that must be kept secret at all cost, breathing an element of excitement and danger into the monotonous upper class-existence of her Glasgow life with its daily ritual of morning prayers and visiting cards for balls and parties.

After their first secret meeting in April 1855, both declared themselves in love and a series of passionate letters – some 400 – were exchanged during their relationship and marriage was discussed between them for the following September.

When Madeleine brought up the subject her parents were furious. They refused consent and as she would not be 21 until 1857 there was talk of elopement. However, her parents had other plans and a young man of their own class, William Minnoch, was introduced to the household and became a regular visitor.

Meanwhile the illicit love affair between Emile and Madeleine had reached a climax. They had become lovers but lovers without a hope of marriage. The letters, the secret meetings at night when the family slept or were absent on visits when Madeleine admitted Emile, with the maid’s assistance, to the house or if this was impossible to the laundry room, had to stop. It was a situation that could not continue and by January 1857 she had accepted William Minnoch’s proposal of marriage, beamed upon and blessed by her parents. But somehow she had to get rid of Emile.

The dream was over, the fun and excitement at an end. Much as she had thought she loved Emile, she knew that marriage was impossible, and exchanging her comfortable upper-class life for a world she did not know, as the wife of a clerk earning £50 per year, was unthinkable.

She proceeded to write a harsh letter at the beginning of February that ‘owing to coolness and indifference, we had better for the future consider ourselves as strangers,’ adding, ‘I trust your honour as a gentleman that you will not reveal anything that may have passed between us,’ and asking him to return her letters and likeness that Thursday evening. A dramatic change from the note written only a week before: ‘Oh sweet darling, at this moment my heart and soul burn with love for thee, my husband, what would I not give at this moment to be your fond wife.’

There were more hysterical letters as Madeleine begged Emile not to give her away and to destroy the letters. He refused and, as appeals to his chivalry and his sense of fair play were of no avail, Madeleine sent out the Smith family houseboy to purchase a small vial of prussic acid which she said was to clean her hands. The apothecary refused – a few drops could kill a healthy adult.

Meanwhile rumour had reached Emile of her engagement to William Minnoch and he now threatened to reveal all. Those wild indiscreet letters in which she signed herself ‘Mimi L’Angelier’, as well as bringing down her father’s wrath upon her head, would also be an end to any hope of marriage with Minnoch.

Madeleine now knew she had only one way out. To get rid of Emile by any other means available. Arsenic was the next resort.

She said at her trial later that she had read in a magazine, and learnt from a teacher at her boarding school in England, that arsenic was good for the complexion. She did not like to put this as the reason for signing the local apothecary’s Poison Book for sixpenny worth of arsenic, so she said that it was to rid the house of rats, a claim vigorously denied by the maid, Christina, who had given Emile, at Madeleine’s instruction, late-night access to the house in Blythswood Square. As by law arsenic was coloured blue in case of accidents, the maid had never seen evidence of colour in the blue washbasin she emptied each day after Madeleine’s use.

During that February to March, at three secret meetings at Blythswood Square, Madeleine had given Emile a cup of cocoa – it was shown later that this thick liquid would conceal the bitter taste – cocoa, which Christina said Madeleine kept in a packet on the mantelshelf in her room and to which no one else in the family had access.

Madeleine was cautious with the first two attempts, which only made Emile vomit and feel very ill. The third however had the satisfactory conclusion. Emile died.

No longer a threat, only those damning letters remained and Madeleine fled to the family home at Rowaleyn to be brought back by William Minnoch, who must have been utterly bewildered by this turn of events, preparing for his marriage to Madeleine and never having met or heard of his rival.

Two post-mortems on Emile revealed a massive amount of arsenic. He had indeed been poisoned and Madeleine was arrested and charged with his murder.

The result after a trial of nine and a half days, and thirty-five minutes for the jury’s verdict, was a Not Proven verdict, which so often was interpreted somewhat cynically as, ‘We know you did it but we can’t prove you did it, so go away, and don’t do it again.’

Faro had kept a log of the trial and the jury’s decision in no way curbed the heated debate about the case with possible solutions, both plausible and bizarre, which were to continue to be discussed long afterwards, not least by Faro and McFie.

Both agreed that there were several possible explanations.

The first and most obvious was that if Madeleine had not killed Emile, then he had, in fact, poisoned himself.

‘You’re implying that he took poison by mistake,’ said McFie.

Faro shook his head. ‘The problem is that we know from his co-workers and colleagues that he had an aversion to taking medicines of any kind. None at all and certainly no arsenic was found among his possessions after his death.’

‘What about suicide then?’

Faro frowned. ‘True. But why – the post-mortem revealed a massive dose of arsenic, how then had he obtained it without leaving any record?’

McFie nodded. ‘How indeed! There are very strict rules about poisons and his name was not found in the Poison Books in places where he had stayed in Edinburgh, Glasgow or Bridge of Allan—’

‘While Madeleine’s signature was found in three different apothecaries’ books in Glasgow.’

McFie thought for a moment. ‘For suicide, in my experience, there had to be a valid reason. In Emile’s case, a broken heart at her betrayal would be feasible and a possible desire for revenge.’ He shook his head. ‘But most suicides leave a note and if he wished to frame Madeleine for his death, then Emile would have to know about those arsenic purchases she made. And there is certainly no evidence of any such knowledge.’

‘I agree,’ said Faro. ‘Then there was that curious matter of his deciding to keep a diary with one line entries, and the initial M or Mimi, for the last two months of his life. Why he did this has never been satisfactorily explained.’

‘Nor has that last journey from Bridge of Allan where he had gone to recuperate from what he believed was a fever but was the effects of arsenic poisoning,’ said McFie. ‘If he intended to kill himself, why did he make that return journey to Glasgow when he was feeling so ill?’

‘Let’s not forget the significance of those first two bouts of illness. If these were in fact failed attempts at self-destruction, why would he attempt a third time – with arsenic – when the method was so painful and had failed twice? Why not try some other method?’

‘Exactly,’ said McFie. ‘Such as jumping off a railway bridge in the path of an oncoming train, that was always the most popular, or slitting his wrists?’

There was a moment’s silence, then McFie said, ‘Is there a possibility that someone other than Madeleine murdered Emile purposely or inadvertently implicating Madeleine in his death.’

Faro shook his head. ‘Madeleine’s defence team never produced any other person who might have wanted him dead, or had a motive for doing so. And while co-workers and colleagues’ opinions of Emile varied, even those who did not care for him particularly, calling him shallow, or flashy and vain, that is hardly sufficient reason to want to kill him.’

McFie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You have a point there, Faro – Emile killed by someone and framing Madeleine – well, he or she would have to be in possession of two pieces of vital information, such as being aware that the pair were involved in a romantic and illicit relationship and that Madeleine, wishing to end it, had made recent purchases of arsenic.’

‘I’ve thought a lot about that too,’ said Faro. ‘Emile’s co-workers and Madeleine’s maid Christina certainly knew of the love affair. The various Glasgow apothecaries, as well as Madeleine’s intended bridesmaid for her wedding to Minnoch – told it was for cosmetic purposes – knew of the arsenic purchases. But the only person who knew of both love affair and the arsenic was Madeleine herself.’

‘And if this was a typical love triangle,’ McFie put in, ‘then Minnoch would be the most likely suspect. But he didn’t know of Emile’s existence until after his death when Madeleine was arrested which must have been a considerable shock to him.’