The Missing Duchess (13 page)

Like the Grand Duchess, Faro thought grimly as they left the carriage and set off on foot up the steep bank which overlooked Holyroodhouse. The Palace's extensive gardens were now grey and empty, the trees stripped bare. A melancholy wind came from the sea beyond Salisbury Crags, hurling before it heavy clouds, towards a skyline dominated by Edinburgh Castle and the High Street's tall houses.

Ahead of them lay the ruins of St Anthony's Chapel. There, according to tradition, a hermit had once tended the chapel altar and kept a light burning in the tower, to guide mariners safely up the River Forth. Built in the fifteenth century, i hospice for those afflicted with 'St Anthony's Fire' - epilepsy -the chapel guarded the Holy Well whose pagan origins predate J the Abbey of Holy Rood, site of King David I's encounter with a magical stag bearing a cross between its antlers.

Faro paused to look back at the loch gleaming far below. A peaceful scene of swans gliding in majestic serenity untroubled by the follies of men, he thought, staring at the group of tiny figures who bustled back and forth high above.

The corpse was half-hidden by shrubbery. Dr Cranley, Sergeant McQuinn and Constable Reid hovered nearby. And at a sale distance, looking rather green, was the man who had made the discovery.

Introduced as Mr Innes, Faro recognised him as a Newington shopkeeper. Middle-aged, well-to-do, Innes was clearly unused to such dramas threatening the sanctity of his early-mornirg constitutional. He wore a look of outraged respectability that he should have found himself in the undignified predicament of discovering a body and having to associate with the police.

'It was Daisy found him,' Innes pointed accusingly towards a small bright-eyed Skye terrier. Possessor of the only nose quire unoffended by the stench of decomposition, Daisy looked proud enough to burst. Overcome by a fury of tail-wagging and seizing every opportunity to dash forward, she whined softly, eyeing the body with the proprietary and almost predatory relish of a dog prevented from demolishing a particularly succulent bone.

Mr Innes was much embarrassed by such ill-bred behaviour and Daisy was frequently called to heel, rewarding her master with a gentle-eyed reproach. When she was finally put on her chain she continued to whine in protest, deprived and ill-treated and looking as down in the mouth as a canine could manage.

Mr Innes wasn't looking particularly happy either.

'When will I be allowed to return home?' he asked.

'I requested that he remain here until you arrived,' Dr Cranley called across to Faro, neatly side-stepping the responsibility.

'My wife will be anxious,' Mr Innes consulted his watch. 'I have already missed breakfast and we have a business to run.'

McQuinn came over and said to Faro: 'Constable Burns came for me. I've taken a statement from the gentleman.'

'In that case, sir, we need detain you no longer,' said Faro.

Innes turned to leave, took a few steps and changed his mind. Pointing to the body, he said to Faro, 'However long that - that - has been here, it certainly wasn't there last night.'

'Are you sure?' asked Faro.

'Certain sure. This is our evening walk, regular as clockwork and in most weathers too. It's Daisy's favourite. She's a great ratter and is always in that shrubbery after them, sniffing around. I can vouch for that, if necessary.'

Faro took the card Innes handed him, and thanking him for his help, he watched them depart, the man relieved, the dog dragged reluctantly from her scene of triumph. Her reproachful whimpers indicated that this was what a dog's life was all about.

Dr Cranley, who had been bending over the corpse, strode towards Faro. Removing the handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, he said: 'Thought you'd better have a look before we move him.' He shook his head. 'This was no heart attack. Can't tell until we do the post-mortem but, at a rough guess, I'd say he most likely drowned.'

'Drowned?'

'Yes, drowned.'

'When?' Faro demanded sharply.

'More than a week ago, I'd estimate.'

'Which fits in with what Mr Innes suggested,' said McQuinn. That the body wasn't here last night. Probably dumped a few hours ago.'

Dr Cranley nodded. 'I'd say he was right about that.' He jerked his head in the direction of the loch far below. 'Probably down there.'

'So where has he been all this time?' Faro demanded. 'He certainly didn't get up here unaided.'

The doctor shrugged. 'That's your business, Faro. Mine is restricted to the facts regarding the cause of death, not his whereabouts since death occurred.'

Faro hardly listened. He was a very worried man. The significance of the time-lapse was ominous, it slotted almost too neatly into the grim discovery in the West Bow.

The two fatalities, he felt sure, were unlikely to have been coincidental.

'Any identification?'

'None. Pockets empty.'

Faro sighed like a man whose worst fears have come to pass as he followed Cranley, who said: 'You'll need to cover up.'

And as Faro withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, Dr Cranley continued: 'it's not a pleasant sight. Damn rum business, I'd say, in more ways than meets the eye.'

The doctor was strongly addicted to rum and cliches and Faro would have appreciated a less sensitive nose as well as a fortifying strong drink as he looked down on the remains of a middle-aged man. Of middle height and middle build, no longer with any features of distinction except for thinning ginger hair, his clothes worn but respectable, his description when circulated, Faro decided wearily, might fit one-quarter of the male population of Scotland.

McQuinn had been listening attentively to the conversation between the doctor and Faro. 'If he drowned down there, sir, why carry him all this way uphill to leave him in the shrubbery? It doesn't make sense.'

Faro sighed. 'His body was obviously concealed somewhere.'

'Not in the open air, that's for sure,' said the doctor. 'Animals would have got at him and there would have been maggot infestation by now.'

'There's been a lot of rain and his clothes would have been ruined too,' said Faro, examining the man's hands. Smooth, with no callouses, not the hands of a labouring man. And whatever his occupation, the dead man had not been a professional coachman with palms hardened by daily contact with horses' reins.

Watching Faro, Cranley said: 'He wasn't in the water long. Was that what you're looking for?'

Faro nodded. Within a few hours of being immersed in water the skin on the hands and feet of a dead body takes on a characteristic bleached and wrinkled appearance, commonly known as 'washerwoman's hands'.

'We'll see what the post-mortem reveals. But I can tell you one thing. I'd be prepared to swear that he's been kept in a closed dry place since he died.'

'Such as?'

Cranley shrugged. 'A trunk, or a closet,' he said grimly. 'Or some airless space, like a cupboard. Well, well, here's another little mystery for you to work on, Faro. If you want my opinion on this one - although I don't suppose we'll find any marks of violence - I won't be surprised if there was foul play involved somewhere.'

When Faro managed a wry smile, 'Not as much use to our students as the last one we had from you,' he added appreciatively, as if Faro was somehow responsible for the personal freshness of the corpses supplied to his medical students.

Faro had an unhappy feeling that they would get no further with the dead man in St Anthony's Chapel than they had with the mystery woman in the West Bow. But he would very much have liked an answer to one vital question.

According to Miss Fortescue's account of the events, the coachman who drove the Duchess from North Berwick had probably drowned when the carriage went into the river. Had the accident been prearranged and the coachman murdered, his body concealed for nearly two weeks to be resurrected and left at St Anthony's Chapel on the slopes of Arthur's Seat?

But why, when there were so many less tortuous ways a corpse could be disposed of? With plenty of water around, the River Forth was an obvious choice. Hopefully the body might drift out with the tide and never be seen again.

What was the purpose behind this sudden resurrection? He asked himself this as he watched the body being bundled on to a stretcher and carried down the hill by the two constables in the wake of Dr Cranley.

McQuinn remained with him, and now that the corpse had been removed, there was further evidence that its sojourn in the shrubbery had been brief. The leaves and grass where the body had lain were flattened but there was none of the yellow discolouration and decay that would have occurred had the vegetation been covered for several days.

'I had a walk round, sir, nothing to be seen out of the ordinary,' McQuinn added.

As Faro poked round the shrubbery with a stick and without much hope of finding anything significant, he smelt murder as well as decomposition in the air.

McQuinn frowned. 'It's only a thought, sir, but the fact that the man was drowned - well, do you think there could be a link with the missing Duchess?'

'I think there's a very strong possibility that they are connected.'

McQuinn nodded. 'Pity the newspapers couldn't produce a photograph of her. That would have been a great help. One thing I don't understand though, why keep the body - for a week?'

Faro would early have loved the answer to that question. All it indicated to him was that the assassin was getting nervous.

Of the Grand Duchess's entourage, only Miss Fortescue now remained alive.

But for how long?

Chapter 12

As Faro and McQuinn emerged from the shelter of the ruined chapel and prepared to rejoin the police carriage, they were hailed by a figure toiling up the hill.

It was Leslie Godwin, leading a horse, and on the path below, Sergeant Batey.

'Shall I wait, sir?' said McQuinn.

'No. You head back.'

Leslie approached Faro eagerly. 'I'm out later than usual. Missed my early-morning ride.' He gave his cousin a quizzical glance. 'I expect Vince will have told you. We had a somewhat convivial evening at the Spec.'

Faro smiled. No doubt Leslie's tough and dangerous existence though the years made him impervious to the excesses of high living. Although considerably older than Vince, Faro decided that his cousin was also in better shape than either of them.

As they watched the forlorn cavalcade descending the hill with their stretcher, Leslie explained: 'Saw your policemen gathered and - ' He grinned. 'You know me - I decided there must be a story. As soon as I spotted you, I knew I was right. So here I am.' He sat down on a nearby rock, anchoring his horse's reins.

'Well, what have you got to tell me?' At Faro's stern expression, he laughed. 'Not another mysterious corpse, I trust.'

When Faro frowned, his cousin's eyes widened. 'That was meant as a joke - not in the best of taste, I realise.'

Faro received this observation in silence and Leslie whistled. 'Some connection between the two, eh? Well now.'

Faro couldn't think of a reply and Leslie continued sternly. 'Come now, Jeremy, don't you think it's time you brought me into this? You know I want to help and, who knows, maybe I can -'

There isn't anything - ' Faro began hastily.

Leslie made a dismissive gesture. 'Please don't try to fob me off, I'm an old hand at the game,' he added in wounded tones. 'Besides, I know that you are involved in what might turn out to be a scandalous piece of international intrigue.'

Faro felt suddenly chilled. 'And what makes you think that?'

Leslie smiled. 'From hints dropped - confidentially, of course - at the Spec last night,' he added with an impish smile, 'I gathered that none other than the Grand Duchess of Luxoria had gone a missing.'

Damn Vince. Drink loosened his tongue. He had never learned to control that particular student weakness. Damn him, Faro thought angrily as Leslie continued: 'And I suddenly realised that this is where I might be able to help you.'

'In what way?'

'The best possible,' Leslie regarded him triumphantly. 'You see, I've been to Luxoria. A couple of years ago when I was travelling across Europe, I had the honour to be received by members of the Royal family - '

This was an unexpected piece of luck. Faro looked at him gratefully. 'You met the Grand Duchess?'

Leslie shook his head. 'Alas, no, she was absent, if you please, with her husband, the odious President. As nasty a situation as anyone could imagine, a piece of emotional blackmail worthy of any grand opera.'

'How so?'

'I got the general drift, that her family had literally sold her to save their skins, whatever they were pretending. You don't know the story?'

Faro did but he wanted to hear his cousin's version, which confirmed exactly what Miss Fortescue had confided in him. Then he added: 'He'd like to divorce Amelie and marry his mistress - if that wouldn't mean the end of his power.'

It was even worse that Faro had thought. The President had very good reason for disposing of the Grand Duchess, and a professional assassin could easily be bought for the kind of money the ruthless President was prepared to pay.