Murder in Paradise (6 page)

There was no escape from the present or the charming girl whose attentions he would have normally found extremely flattering. Leading the way beyond the rose garden to the secluded summerhouse, she indicated one of its rustic seats and asked gently, ‘Are you here for your cousin’s wedding?’

Faro thought for a moment. A lie perhaps? ‘Not entirely. I happened to be in the district on business.’

Had Lena kept Erland’s promise of secrecy or did she also know that he was a policeman?

Poppy looked at him eagerly, her expression demanding further information, and he said, ‘I’m here on business for an Edinburgh client.’

‘You are in property then?’

‘In a way.’ That much was vaguely true.

‘When did you last see Erland?’

‘A long time ago. In Orkney when we were young, at school in fact…’

She frowned. ‘How odd – I thought you were in constant touch with one another – being cousins, family and that sort of thing—’

She sounded reproachful and he hastily interrupted. ‘He isn’t really my cousin.’

‘But he said—’

‘His family and mine are distantly related – in a small island community that often happens. We are just school friends from way back although Erland likes to pretend that we are cousins.’

She smiled sadly. ‘That is not unreasonable – to claim kinship, when one is alone in the world. I feel so sorry for Lena, you know. A wedding without any family members present.’

A useful introduction to that painful topic, Faro thought, and asked, ‘How did you two come to meet?’

‘Here. I’m a local lass, got a job as a kitchen maid when Mr Morris was engaging staff for the house. Then on one of his visits Gabriel spotted me and insisted that I should model for him. I was flattered and impressed and, as I’m fond of fine sewing, it sounded like a better option than scrubbing the stairs.’

Faro looked at her, unable to believe she had ever served in such a lowly capacity, as she went on. ‘My mother lives in the village – a widow – I’m the eldest and I have three younger sisters—’

‘Do you know the miller and his family?’ Faro interrupted eagerly. ‘I have to visit him.’

Poppy grimaced. ‘I don’t envy you. From all accounts he is not a nice man, a bully. He has a very bad reputation. Everyone feels sorry for his wife and daughter.’

And that, Faro decided, was the lead he was looking for as he asked, ‘Is Bess a friend of yours?’

She shook her head. ‘Hardly know her. She’s a bit younger than me.’ A shrug. ‘Quite frankly, Mam didn’t like us associating with the Tracys.’ Her reticence explained many things to Faro without the need to ask any more questions. There was one Poppy put to him.

‘Why do you ask?’ And a curious glance. ‘What’s your interest in Bess?’

‘Oh, just part of my enquiries.’

Poppy gave a wry smile. ‘I gather Bess always has plenty to say to a good-looking man. She won’t fail you there, for sure.’

She laughed and her knowing glance made him uncomfortable. He would have liked to ask if she knew Bess was missing, but such a question would require a tortuous explanation that he was not at all keen to give.

Changing the subject he said quickly, ‘You get along very well with Lena.’

She nodded. ‘I do indeed. She is my best friend. From the moment she arrived with Erland. I would do anything for her. She is a wonderful person, so kind and understanding with everyone.’

They were no longer alone in the garden. A lot of unseen activity nearby indicated the gardeners were approaching.

A group of hooded figures came into view. Sacking over their heads and shoulders, protection from the weather and doubtless the falling apples they gathered, transformed them into medieval figures from an ancient pastoral tapestry, a picture of harmony in keeping with their surroundings as they toured the gardens with their wheelbarrows.

Two of the group were engaged nearby in the thornier prospect of trimming the roses and seemed to be chatting amiably to each other, but this was hardly a suitable moment for Faro to dash off, leaving Poppy without explanation, to elicit possible information about Bess’s swain.

As he watched them with suppressed frustration, wondering if one of the two fitted the role of Bess’s ‘very respectable chap’, perhaps imagining that his preoccupation was boredom, Poppy asked, ‘Do you like roses? Topsy would only allow those of the perfumed variety. He said roses had to smell like roses or they were just a hollow mockery. On his instruction the petals are all harvested and made into perfume by the ladies. Look, here he is.’

Poppy waved to Morris and he approached with his easel from the direction of the shrubbery where he had been making sketches of various wild flowers, destined to play their part in designs for one of his wallpaper and tapestry projects.

Faro observed that there was considerably more paint on his clothes and hair than was justified by painting a few flowers and, in fact, he looked more of a labouring man than the gardeners, whose garb was neat and tidy by comparison.

Poppy greeted him with a polite good day but, almost embarrassed by this encounter, Morris merely stared at her and at Faro as if he had never seen either of them before. With a bow, a puzzled frown and mumbled response, head down, he darted towards the courtyard.

Faro decided that he was not the only one who suffered from preoccupation as Poppy whispered, ‘He’s like that. Totally absorbed in whatever he is doing at the moment—’

The sound of a gong nearby erupted into the silence, frightening birds enjoying a quiet siesta on their various tree perches, into noisy squawking flight.

‘What on earth is that?’ Faro demanded.

Poppy leapt to her feet. ‘That’s for me. I must go.’

‘Have they no clocks in the house?’

Poppy smiled. ‘Gabriel needs me again. The gardens are so large, we are all apt to get lost. He is sure we will wander away and this is his way to summon back to the studio any models out for a breath of air. I enjoy sitting for him, it’s easy work and I earn a lot more than I did in the kitchens,’ she added candidly, her sigh and wistful glance indicating that she would have much preferred to stay with her new companion.

A house without clocks, a medieval garden with gardeners to match. Faro felt as if he had stepped back in time. Only the
chug-chug
of an engine and a puff of smoke from the nearby railway line as a train headed towards London reassured him that this was indeed the year 1860.

Now that Mr Morris had departed, the hooded figures were taking an early break from their labours, talking and laughing together as they did justice to pies and mugs of ale brought over by two of the kitchen maids, who received plenty of flirtatious comments in recompense. One of the men might well be the missing Bess’s suitor, Faro decided. But as he walked purposefully towards them, they all looked round, sprang to their feet and stared at him, not in an unfriendly manner but just polite and curious.

‘Is there something the matter, sir?’ one asked.

How could he respond? It was impossible to ask that question, it sounded too banal – and embarrassing. Yet the question must be asked.

‘I was looking for a young lady. Bess Tracy – do any of you know her?’

Knowing looks were exchanged, a nudge, a giggle suppressed. Obviously Muir was right about Bess Tracy’s reputation, a suspicion that had been reinforced by Poppy’s hints. And now those arch glances from the gardeners, surveying this well-dressed man, this toff, shouted louder than any words the truth of the matter; they clearly thought rumours had reached him regarding the remarkable abilities of the local whore, and they could guess his intentions.

As heads were shaken, Faro realised that he lacked the courage to turn his back and walk swiftly away. Instead he lingered, expressing a sudden interest in the variety of apples, enquiring which of them were mostly used for cooking.

This brought an unexpected bout of enthusiasm and it was with some difficulty that he managed to extract himself from the merits of the varieties the names of which he would never remember.

Making his escape at last, he took out his pocket watch. Time for his dismal routine visit to the police office. How long would this continue, the daily telegraph to Noble that no progress had been made? The same wording: ‘No sighting to report. Await your further instructions.’ And an hour later the inevitable response. ‘Continue your search. Remain vigilant.’

The whole situation was ludicrous. For one thing, although he had seen Macheath’s face at close quarters as they fought on that lonely stretch of beach at Portobello, his quarry – who was of medium height, strong and athletically built in his late thirties or early forties – had a dark beard which concealed any distinctive features. And a beard was an excellent disguise. Facial hair was the current fashion and all that was required was for him to shave it off and dye his hair for a new, relatively unrecognisable personality to emerge.

But Faro failed in all his attempts to tactfully convince DS Noble of this rather obvious fact, and that his continued inquiries here were a waste of police time and their expenses.

Noble had merely laughed, and smiled – a rare thing indeed, leaving Faro to ignore the sarcasm in his smooth response: ‘Ah yes, indeed, Constable, so it seems. But if anyone can find Macheath, you are the man for the job. The Edinburgh folk obviously have great faith in you.’

Constable Muir certainly did not share Noble’s sentiments. He made no secret of his opinion that the man must be mad. However, he was consoled by saying it could be worse and that Faro had at least found himself a cushy billet for his futile investigation.

‘Any further news about the missing girl?’

Muir shook his head. ‘Not a whisper.’

Faro regarded him sternly. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time for an investigation?’

Muir laughed. ‘Investigation, Faro. Never! Only if her family asked us and they aren’t apparently worried.’

‘Her mother seemed to be.’

‘Aye, poor soul. But with a man like she’s got, she’s prone to fear the worst.’ Leaning back in his chair, he puffed away at the fierce-smelling pipe. ‘Besides, when you talk of investigation, you’re forgetting something. This isn’t a big city like Edinburgh with a whole police force to call on. There’s just me on my lonesome and how would I begin to look for a missing girl, who probably just left home in a huff after another row with her father?’ He shrugged. ‘Happens all the time. Lord above, I’d be doing it every day of the week, Sundays included—’

‘I am most willing to give you a hand,’ Faro interrupted. Such a task would be infinitely preferable to sitting in Red House and trying to decide whether or not to tell Erland that his Lena had possibly poisoned her last lover.

Muir was eyeing him mockingly. ‘Experienced in this sort of thing, are you then? Bit off your patch, ain’t it?’ He laughed. ‘But looking for missing girls is a nice change for a beat policeman. Right up your street.’

And that in all truth was exactly PC Faro’s role. Despite McFie’s faith in him, he had yet to prove himself – by finding that needle in a haystack, Macheath.

Before returning to the house, Faro decided to call upon Mrs Lunn at Brettle Manor, regarding the expected return date of the owners in order to legally tie up any loose ends. An excuse, of course, for a further inspection of the kitchen where he suspected Macheath, rather than a passing vagrant, had broken a window and stolen food from the pantry.

As he entered the grounds, distant chimney smoke from the ruinous cottage indicated habitation and skirting some trees he observed the ancient Jim Boone sitting by his front door, clay pipe in hand, an old felt hat pulled down well over his eyes, giving the impression that the passing of time was no longer one of his immediate concerns.

Remembering his friendly greeting in the village street, Faro decided that further conversation with a long-time resident might be well worthwhile. Advancing briskly towards the cottage he called, ‘Good day’. Unable to see the expression on the man’s bewhiskered face, his threatening gesture however could not be mistaken for a welcome:

‘Keep yer distance. This is private property. Come any nearer and I’ll set me dog on ye.’ With those words he retreated indoors and banged the door shut.

Faro was a little taken aback by this reception. Charitably he decided that Boone’s eyesight was poor with age or, according to his reputation as an eccentric, he was in one of his famous bad moods. With a shrug, he proceeded to the house but Mrs Lunn was either not at home or not receiving callers. Fortunately she did not have a dog. He fancied she might well resort to the same lengths as the old fellow in the cottage.

Frustrated by this waste of time, he would have liked to know the reason why she had pretended to discover the broken window when it was Bess Tracy who had done so and notified Constable Muir. This question raised several possibilities, the most interesting being that Mrs Lunn had her own reasons for perhaps wishing to conceal the break-in.

Standing back from the house, he noticed it had a deserted air. As he walked around the outside, whatever he was hoping to find, there was no evidence in the garden. He did notice a succession of neatly trimmed, tall hedges which would in time totally conceal Boone’s offending cottage.

His thoughts turned again to those gardeners at Red House. Did all large houses employ their own outdoor staff or did any of those he had seen at Red House also work at Brettle Manor? If so, he would have liked a word with the one Mrs Tracy had told him was keeping company with Bess.

It was now late afternoon, the mellow sunshine casting a deep golden glow over the landscape and, again hearing the distant vibration of a railway engine and a plume of smoke heading northwards, he wished he was a passenger on that train destined for Edinburgh. The fine adventure, the enforced holiday, had lost all taste for him since the revelations concerning Erland and his bride-to-be.

If only Erland had not spotted him on his arrival in Upton. A few moments later and there would have been no accidental meeting and Faro would never have known what became of Madeleine Smith after she left Scotland, or the nightmare situation his knowledge of her identity – and the lies she had told Erland – placed him in.

His spirit shrank from destroying Erland but was all really lost? Could he take a chance on a reformed Madeleine who had reinvented herself and was prepared for a happy future, forgetting all that was past, as Erland Flett’s wife, ‘until death do us part’?

He hoped so but the shadow of Emile L’Angelier refused to be banished. She had killed one lover and, given the right circumstances, the hand of fate in dealing a new card, he suspected she might just as readily destroy another.

Erland caught up with him as he reached the house, an excited, exhilarated Erland who had been to the local parish church about ‘matters regarding the wedding. Lena and the ladies, Georgie and Janey, will be decorating the church with flower garlands’.

He gave Faro an impish sideways glance. ‘How did you enjoy being among the roses with Miss Poppy?’

‘A charming girl,’ said Faro.

Erland rubbed his hands delightedly. ‘That is good – very good indeed. A man in love can easily recognise the symptoms in his best friends. And I gather Miss Poppy is very taken with a certain gentleman from Scotland.’

‘Who told you that?’ Faro demanded sharply.

Erland laughed. ‘As if you didn’t know. Girls who are best friends also exchange confidences. It appears that one of her grandparents, Lena tells me, is from Edinburgh and she has always wanted to return, to track down her roots.’

She had omitted this information from their conversation, but it would probably come out at their next meeting as Erland paused, obviously expecting a response. ‘How about you, Jeremy?’

‘What do you mean – how about me?’

Erland shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Don’t be difficult – you know what I’m getting at.’ And taking a deep breath, ‘I mean, do you fancy her? She is an absolute stunner. Nearly as lovely as my Lena.’

Another pause and Faro, determined not to be helpful, murmured, ‘So?’

‘Listen to me, Jeremy, I’m saying this in all sincerity and for your own good. You don’t have to marry this young woman in Edinburgh, do you? What I mean is, things haven’t progressed to the stage where you feel obliged – well, to do the honourable thing by her?’

Faro stopped in his tracks and stared at Erland, who went on hastily, ‘What I’m trying to say is she is only someone you are keeping company with and there is nothing binding in that, should you meet someone else, that is.’

Faro seized his arm. ‘Erland – hold on! I’ve just met Poppy. She seems a nice enough girl, but I’m not the type to fall in love at first sight—’

‘Like me,’ whispered Erland.

‘Like you then. I need to get to know someone, spend some time with them, find out what we have in common, what we both like and so forth before I commit myself.’

In truth he felt guilty now for he had thought little about Lizzie since his arrival in Upton. They did not have any arrangement for regular meetings, in the way of courting couples. He had not even written to her, telling himself that he would be back in Edinburgh in a day or two.

‘But, Jeremy, dear fellow,’ Erland was saying. ‘Time isn’t on your side with Poppy. This is a perfect opportunity. You might have to go back to Scotland any day now and then you’ll never meet her or anyone like her ever again. But if you think you could fall in love, given time, that she might be the right one for you, then you could get married with us – a double wedding—’

Pausing, he beamed at Faro and continued excitedly, ‘I’m sure that could be arranged; the vicar is a nice man, so understanding. And it would make us both so happy, Lena and me. She would be your cousin-in-law and we would be friends for always. Think of that.’

The idea of being related to Madeleine Smith, murderess, made Faro shudder but he managed a laugh. ‘Not a chance, Erland. How you do race along. I need more than a pretty face and an hour’s acquaintance—’

‘You refuse to be convinced that I’m right.’ Erland frowned.

‘I do.’

‘Let’s hope you never regret it—’

Mercifully their conversation was cut short as the door behind them opened and Lena appeared.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, dearest.’ And as if noticing Faro for the first time, ‘Will you excuse us, Jeremy?’ And with a smile, ‘Could you do me the greatest favour?’ A shiver and she added, ‘I left my shawl in Gabriel’s studio. Do you think you could get it for me? I need to talk urgently to Erland.’

Faro could hardly refuse. His wanderings on the upper floor, looked down upon by murals of King Arthur and his Knights and their ladies, made him decide he must find out more, read Tennyson’s
Morte d’Artur
since his only acquaintance with Britain’s legendary ruler was from Edinburgh’s Arthur’s Seat. The Gaelic ‘Ard na said’ claimed to be one of his many resting places. According to the local story, the King and his Knights slept within a secret cave deep inside the mountain, seated at a round table, horns at the ready, deerhounds at their feet, all awaiting the call, ready to ride out and fight Britain’s foes, as yet unspecified.

A pretty romantic legend, but not one in which the practical Jeremy Faro could place any belief.

Unsure of where to find Rossetti’s studio, he found his way by accident into that occupied by Morris, whose curly head was down low over the drawing board, deep in concentration, the floor strewn with crumpled papers, obviously rejections. As Faro entered, another landed at his feet, followed by an angry expletive.

Faro coughed apologetically. Without looking up, Morris gestured with his paintbrush towards a chair.

‘Hand me that, will you.’

‘That’ was a lump of stale bread that occupied the seat. Faro did as he was bid. Snatching it from him, Morris said, ‘Best possible thing for erasing. Try it, you’ll see.’

Faro apologised for interrupting, explained that he was looking for Gabriel’s studio and was told it was down the corridor, on the left.

He found the door slightly open. On a raised dais, a girl lay on a couch, her naked back towards the artist. A beautiful body indeed, with long slender legs. As he entered, she lifted her head and winked at him.

The nude was Poppy, and Faro found his heart pounding.

Rossetti seemed unaware of his presence, frowning, concentrating on his painting.

Faro stammered an excuse. Lena’s shawl.

Rossetti barely glanced around. ‘Well, did you see her leave it, Poppy? Don’t move, for heaven’s sake, keep that pose,’ he added anxiously.

Poppy squinted up at Faro. ‘She didn’t leave it here, but she can have mine. It’s over there. I have a jacket—’

Gabriel looked round wildly, paintbrush in hand and pointed.

Faro had to go behind the easel and the artist smiled at him. ‘I’m making this pretty lady into one of Rome’s tragic heroines. A new departure from Morte d’Artur.’

Faro looked at the canvas. There wasn’t much to see yet in those preliminary splashes of paint, which would in due course hang in a London gallery, immortalised as one of Rossetti’s great masterpieces.

‘Lucrece was raped by wicked Sextus Tarquinius. I’ll be summoning up the rest of the cast, once I get her finished.’ Pausing, he regarded Faro thoughtfully. ‘How do you fancy the role of the wicked rapist,’ and narrowing his eyes, ‘I can see you – perfectly splendid in a suit of gleaming armour I’m sure Topsy will provide. What do you say? Just a few sittings, that’s all.’

Muttering that he would think about it, his face now scarlet at Gabriel’s suggestion of his role in the painting, Faro seized Poppy’s shawl and fled.

He was halfway downstairs when embarrassment turned to anger. Opening the front door, he heard sounds of laughter from Erland and Lena seated in the courtyard and it took little imagination to be certain that Lena had never left her shawl in Rossetti’s studio.

She – and doubtless Erland too – had arranged this little episode so that he should see Poppy at her most seductive.