The Evil That Men Do.(Inspector Faro Mystery No.11) (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

A pity that the secret room at Priorsfield could not have remained where it belonged, in the bitter past, Faro thought afterwards, regretting that he had added his enthusiasm to what had begun like a boy’s adventure story search for buried treasure.

He began to have his first qualms, the first tingling feelings of disaster as he watched the wallpaper, that too-modern wallpaper, being stripped and the padding removed from underneath.

There were cries of triumph, excited laughter, when it was realised that this was not the broom cupboard Theodore had suggested. Instead it was the entrance to a lost room in the house of Priorsfield.

And at the last moment Adrian held the lantern high and Grace shouted: ‘Come on. What are we waiting for? This is marvellous.’

Afraid of what they might find, Faro wished that Vince had not been allowed to bring Grace along. Unfortunately when Vince had made the arrangement to meet Adrian and Faro, he had entirely forgotten that he was taking his fiancee to dine at the Cafe Royal that same evening.

What could be more natural when he confessed the nature of this other so-important engagement to save himself from Grace’s sulks, than for her to insist on accompanying him?

As for Faro, all he felt at that moment was an ominous dread at Grace’s excitement and the suppressed high spirits of Adrian and Vince as all three men threw their weight against the door.

‘Don’t say after all this that it’s locked. We’ll never find the key,’ wailed Grace. ‘It’ll have vanished hundreds of years ago.’

‘They don’t usually lock broom cupboards,’ said Vince consolingly.

‘Nevertheless, there is a keyhole in this one,’ said Faro.

For a moment, they stared at each other, frustrated, baffled. Then Adrian turned the handle.

‘It moved,’ said Vince. ‘I think it’s just jammed. All this padding—’

Adrian produced a knife, which was then run round the door’s edge. Again they put their shoulders to it. This time it yielded.

‘Great! Great! It isn’t locked.’

The door opened slowly, reluctantly, creaking against the dust and cobwebs that draped like a curtain or a shroud before them concealing its dark interior.

Adrian went in first, held the lantern high. They were in a tiny dark panelled room, windowless. All light had once filtered through a small skylight, now similarly encrusted with the insect debris and cobwebs of ages.

Vince, with Grace holding his hand tightly, came behind Faro, who was carrying a candelabra.

Blinking until at last their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Adrian’s lantern revealed other things. That this room had been inhabited. There was a table with a plate on it, a chair. Even a small fireplace in one corner.

‘Open the door as wide as you can,’ said Adrian, gasping, seized by a fit of coughing.

‘You can hardly breathe in here,’ said Vince.

‘Light,’ said Adrian. ‘We need more light.’

‘I expect it was a priest’s hole,’ said Grace. ‘I can’t imagine anyone else living in such a wretched room.’

That was true, for everything was mouldered over with dust
and insects, and the ancient odours of decay. ‘Smells like an old crypt, doesn’t it?’

Grace gave a little scream for there was another sound now.
Rats. Rats scuttling, secret-moving, disturbed by this human
invasion of what had long been their undisputed territory.

‘And what have we here?’ Against one wall was a chest. Adrian
wiped the top with his sleeve. Once the dust settled and the
cobwebs faltered, it was revealed as a very large and ancient oak chest, about six feet long, carved with symbols from another age.
The four stared doubtfully at this elaborate addition to the
shabby rickety furnishings of the room. ‘Open it,’ said Grace. ‘Go on.’

‘Let’s hope it contains the Frenchman’s treasure,’ said Adrian.
‘Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful?’

At first the lid would not yield. Again came the question of it
being locked. In the lantern, the candle was burning low.
‘No, I think the hinges are rusty—’

The three men, with some considerable difficulty, succeeded
in raising the heavy lid.

The lantern was set on the floor and Grace, who had been
given the candelabra to hold, held it high. Then her screams rang
out as she almost dropped it, the hot wax hissing on to the floor.
There was no treasure. Only a decomposed body.

For a moment, Faro hoped that this was the legendary French
man who had disappeared in mysterious circumstances after a rendezvous he had failed to keep with Prince Charles Edward
Stuart.

But the sweet smell of decay belonged to a later age and the mummified atmosphere of the casket had kept most of the dead man’s clothes intact. Modern clothes they were, and there was enough hair remaining on the skull, enough withered flesh to be
still recognisable as the Langweil strain.

The mystery of Justin Langweil’s disappearance was solved at
last.

The grim discovery pointed again to murder. But this time there
were no suspects, for the answer was all too obvious.

Theodore Langweil had lied. There had never been a letter from San Francisco telling him that his brother had been killed by renegade Indians. For Theodore had undoubtedly murdered
his elder brother, with or without the help of Cedric.

And Faro found himself remembering that fatal evening when
Cedric was poisoned, how he had overheard a conversation
between the two brothers. Theodore adamant against Piers Strong’s plans for a bathroom, and the atmosphere of menace he interrupted.

He never quite remembered how they quitted the room, Vince
clutching the sobbing, frightened Grace. Or how they raced
downstairs as if the murdered man might rise from the tomb and point a withered finger— But at whom?

They ran like frightened fugitives into the night where in the
darkness of the drive the carriage waited to carry them back to safe surroundings, to normal life where such things as they had just witnessed belonged in the realms of fantasy, in the night
mares of Edgar Allan Poe.

Faro had not yet retired when Vince, having seen Grace and
Adrian home, arrived back at Sheridan Place.

‘It did happen - tonight, I mean, Stepfather. All the way back I’ve wondered if I dreamed it. Of all the awful things that have happened to the Langweil family, this is undoubtedly the worst.
My poor Grace. She knows, must know, that her father was
involved in her Uncle Justin’s murder.’

‘With both men dead, we may never know the whole truth,’
said Faro. ‘However, I’ve been thinking about that, realising that Barbara gave us the answer. Don’t you remember what I told you? She said that Cedric had promised to betray a family secret that could destroy them all, if Theodore couldn’t persuade her—’

‘I’m glad they are beyond the reach of the law, Stepfather, and that the family can be spared this additional horror. I presume it does not need to be made public,’ Vince added anxiously.

‘The skeleton of an unknown man was found behind a blocked-up door in Priorsfield,’ said Faro. ‘Is that what you have in mind?’

Vince sighed. ‘It doesn’t sound very convincing, but surely you agree that the family have suffered enough?’

Faro’s comment was: ‘We know only that a murder was committed, twenty years ago, by person or persons unknown. Information to be filed away as another of Edinburgh’s unsolved crimes.’

‘Personally, I am more than happy for it to remain so,’ said Vince. ‘I think this is one time when we might let the past bury its dead in decorous silence.’

And so it might have done, had not Wailes, the lawyer Moulton’s clerk, returned to Edinburgh after a prolonged absence. A mercy call on a sick elderly aunt in Yorkshire had extended into weeks instead of days. He had just returned to his lodgings to have an irate landlady report that besides owing her rent, the police were investigating his ‘disappearance’.

Settling his debts with some alacrity, he presented himself in Faro’s office, very anxious not to be regarded as a criminal. Distressed to hear of Theodore Langweil’s death he announced that there were various family documents for Adrian as next of kin.

‘Surely his widow is next of kin.’

Wailes shook his head. ‘The document I have in mind predates his second marriage. Since there have been certain, er, difficulties I gather, perhaps you would care to be present—’

They met in the doctors’ consulting rooms, where Wailes handed over a large envelope that Faro had seen before.

‘To be opened by Adrian Langweil in the event of the death of his brothers, Theodore and Cedric.’ It held their two signatures and the date 1855.

Adrian had also requested Faro’s presence, for he was even more eager than Vince to keep quiet any further family scandal.

The letter began:

This is to confirm that Justin Langweil, our eldest brother, died by our hand on the 26th day of February, 1855.

There was a horrified gasp from Vince and Wailes. Adrian paused before continuing.

Mr Moulton will confirm that Justin was unstable and suffered from moods of extreme violence which necessitated keeping him under restraint—

‘A pity that Mr Moulton isn’t here any longer,’ Wailes interrupted briefly.

We had long suspected that he was insane and getting steadily worse. We were at our wits’ end what to do, not caring to face the publicity and scandal of having a madman as head of our long-respected family. The effect on our thriving business would have been disastrous. When he was sane he was genial and helpful, but these lucid bouts were becoming rarer. So we put it about that he was an invalid, which meant that his occasional withdrawals from society (locked in an upstairs room) could be accounted for. Although on such occasions we were careful not to entertain or have any other
than family visitors who knew and understood our problem.

Then during one of his better periods he escaped our vigilance and disappeared - we later learned to Glasgow. He had often stated that he wished to leave Scotland and go to America, certain that the climate of California would improve his health.

When several months passed by, we imagined that he had left the country. Imagine our surprise when one day he walked in, with a wife. A pretty young servant lass from Hamilton who he had met during his wanderings in the Highlands.

We rejoiced to see him looking so fit and well. Obviously marriage was the answer to his problems, we told each other. But not for long. Suddenly the violent attacks were renewed. This time they were directed against his helpless wife. In one of these rages, for he was very strong, he struck her and she fell from the balcony on to the terrace.

She could never have survived such a fall. She was dead and he had murdered her. But he was without remorse. With some considerable difficulty we locked him in the small room, once the withdrawing room of the master bedroom. With its skylight roof, we felt he was safe and could do himself no harm.

And there we proceeded to look after him, keeping his presence secret from the outside world. Sarah’s death was dismissed as suicide, and we maintained Justin was too grief-stricken and dangerously ill himself to appear at the family funeral. When it was over we were faced with the terrible decision, whether or not to have him committed to an asylum. Obviously we could not minister to his needs indefinitely or keep the servants in ignorance of what was going on.

Once we went in and found him semiconscious. He had been beating his head against the stone wall. We do not know to this day which of us spoke the words which had been growing in our minds, the monstrous decision that had to be made.

He had murdered his young wife. He was guilty and for the sake of the family and the continuance of our good name, we must be his executioners.

The sentence once pronounced, we realised it must be carried out quickly before we could suffer any change of mind. So that night when he was abed we took in a pillow and both of us smothered him while he slept. Then we put his body in the chest where you will find it behind the door in the wall of the upstairs parlour.