The Missing Duchess (14 page)

As they stumbled through the bracken, the short cut to the road far below, Faro turned and asked with sudden hope: 'Did you by any chance see any photographs of her?'

Leslie thought for a moment. 'I was only there very briefly, a few days. Hardly enough to do more than take a passing interest in my surroundings. There were some family paintings on the walls, sentimental reminders of the Royal Family in their heyday. But seventeen-year-old girls can change quite a bit with the passing years - not to mention an unhappy marriage.'

'But there is a possibility you might recognise her again?'

Leslie laughed. 'I don't know what you're getting at, but yes. I've got quite a good memory for faces, and if the setting was right, I suppose.' He paused, then added, 'There's a strong family resemblance to the House of Hanover and the Saxe-Coburgs. Hardly surprising since they're all related. And let's not forget that artists who know when they're on to a good thing tend to err on the side of flattery.'

He looked hard at Faro. 'What are you getting at, Jeremy?' And when his cousin didn't answer, he indicated a large boulder and, sitting down on it, made a place for Faro. Then smiling encouragingly, he said gently: 'Why not start at the beginning? Who was the last person to see the Grand Duchess?'

'Her lady-in-waiting, Miss Fortescue - '

'And where is she now?'

'At Lethie Castle - '

Leslie listened carefully, frowning occasionally as Faro told him the events of the disastrous landing at North Berwick and Miss Fortescue's flight to Solomon's Tower.

At the end, Leslie sighed, his only comment: 'Vanished into thin air. Just like that.'

Before replying, Faro said a silent prayer that his fears were groundless. 'I take it that the corpse in the West Bow that night didn't strike you in any way as familiar?'

'Familiar?' Leslie stared at him. Then as realisation dawned, he whispered: 'You mean - you think - '

'Well, could it?'

'Oh lord, Jeremy. I don't know. I haven't the foggiest. I didn't look at her very closely. You know how it is.' He looked thoughtful. 'Have you considered that another talk with the lad Sandy might be useful? It could well be that he's hiding something.'

And studying Faro, he shrugged. 'I'm no detective, you know, but right from the start the lad's manner struck me as suspicious.'

'That he was plain scared, you mean.' Faro smiled. 'It isn't every day that a twelve-year-old lad stumbles on a corpse. Or finds himself surrounded by the police.'

'I agree. It could be that the scent of the law so near home put him off. Most of these lads live by dubious activities, and as you know Batey grabbed him by the ear, with his hand in my pocket.' He laughed. 'Quite brazen about it, he was too. Yes, I think you would be well-advised to have a talk. And it would help if you had a coin or two in hand. Nothing like the sight of money for lubricating information.'

'I have tried,' said Faro. 'Called at the house when I left you the other day.'

'Well?'

'He wasn't at home, but I left a message with his mother and the promise of two shillings.'

Leslie nodded eagerly. That should bring him running to your door.'

They got up and walked in silence for a few moments before Leslie turned and added: 'If in doubt, you could have the corpse exhumed.'

'I'm afraid not. There is no resurrection for this particular corpse. All unknown and unclaimed bodies become the property of Dr Cranley and his students.'

'Dear God. You mean -' And Leslie made a grisly gesture of using a knife.

'Precisely.'

'How awful.'

And as if in accompaniment to grim realisation, they reached the park pursued by rain sheets that crept steadily over the hill, shrouding Arthur's Seat in thunderheads. The sky rumbled ominously in the grip of an approaching storm, reminding Faro that this swiftly changing weather signalled golden autumn would soon be replaced by dark November. Cold winter days, where early darkness made petty crime more profitable and detection a hundred times more difficult and uncomfortable.

On the road, Sergeant Batey was waiting. He helped his master to mount, looking neither to left nor to right. Faro might not have existed, nor McQuinn standing a few yards away.

Batey's behaviour made Faro uneasy. There was something unhuman about him, an attitude he had only ever met in the most hardened criminals, killers by inclination rather than by the circumstances that make men into soldiers.

He looked at his cousin Leslie, so open-faced and frank, then at the handsome Irish McQuinn, and was struck by the comparison. Batey might be a good servant perhaps, but not one Faro would have cared to keep under his roof.

Leslie waved a cheerful farewell with a promise to meet again soon. Winking broadly at his cousin, he called: 'You've given me plenty to think about. I'll let you know if I come up with any brilliant ideas.'

Faro watched the two men, so completely dissimilar, gallop back towards the Canongate. Then turning, he surveyed the ruined chapel thoughtfully. The sloping foothills of Arthur's Seat were almost deserted, except for one other domestic building, almost as ancient as the chapel itself.

Solomon's Tower. Not very far away, in fact quite conveniently accessible and offering splendid opportunities for hiding a body. With or without the Mad Bart's knowledge or consent, he thought grimly.

Narrowing his eyes, he remembered Miss Fortescue half-alive, staggering into the Tower, her story not quite the same as the one the Mad Bart had produced. And on the off-chance of finding him at home, he decided to call and direct a few searching questions on what had really happened that night.

He was unlucky. There was no human response to the clanging bell which, however, alerted the feline inhabitants. As he opened the door, he was engulfed in a purring tide of cats, all intent on insinuating themselves about his ankles. Faro no longer had any worries that Sir Hedley might be lying dead in his cat-haunted tower. So, restraining them from escaping into the garden, and having endured enough strong and unpleasant odours for one day, he beat a hasty retreat.

Before going out to Aberlethie to see if Miss Fortescue could shed any light on the identity of the corpse in St Anthony's Chapel, Faro had decided to make certain that the dead man was not already on the Edinburgh City Police's missing persons list.

At the Central Office, Sergeant McQuinn had forestalled him. He shook his head. 'No one even resembling him, sir.'

'You're quite sure?'

Faro was surprised, having expected several missing men of similar ordinariness whose descriptions might roughly fit the one he now thought of as the missing coachman.

‘
I’ll make the usual routine enquiries, sir, but it looks as if we might be landed with a Mr Nobody.'

The missing persons lists was not, Faro knew, completely reliable. For every person who disappeared and was urgently sought by relatives for reasons of love or loathing or by creditors for lucre, there were dozens more husbands and wives, sons and daughters who disappeared discreetly and whose relatives for their own reasons kept silent. If enquiries had been made, doubtless the police would have found that these same people were grateful to see the last of their missing relative, saying their prayers each night that they might never again be troubled by the sound of that dreaded footfall crossing their threshold.

'We've had the list of the contents of the Duchess's jewel box distributed, sir. None of the pieces have turned up with any of the legitimate dealers.'

'It's early days for that. How about some of the illicit ones?' Even as he spoke, Faro realised the hopelessness of such a task. Fences would be hanging on to them for a month or two until the scent grew cold, or trying to sell them on the Continent for quick disposal.

More than an hour had passed since Faro and McQuinn had left the scene on the road below St Anthony's Chapel.

On the off-chance that Dr Cranley had made a discovery of some importance, they went together to the mortuary where, having just completed his grisly business, the doctor was washing his hands.

Giving Faro a triumphant look, he said: 'I was right, you know, he was drowned. His lungs had ballooned as a result of distension with water. That's how he died, but he wasn't in the water for long -'

As Dr Cranley proceeded to reiterate what Faro knew already, he listened politely, then took his leave.

Outside, McQuinn said, 'Looks as if we have a murder inquiry on our hands, sir.'

Tm afraid so.' Faro looked at his watch. 'Take care of the preliminary business, will you, McQuinn. I'm off to Aberlethie - there's a train to North Berwick in half an hour. I want to talk to Miss Fortescue again.'

'You think she may know something?'

'My thoughts are leading steadily in that direction, McQuinn. Something vital to the case, that she doesn't even realise she knows until she's prompted and it surfaces into her memory again.'

McQuinn looked at him frowning. 'You think the dead man might be the missing coachman?'

'I am fairly certain of that, at least.'

As Faro was leaving the Central Office, Constable Reid came up the steps. 'A burglary inside the Castle, sir.'

'Civilian?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You take care of it -'

The constable looked uncomfortable. 'Colonel Wrightson asked to see you specially, sir. Urgent, he said it was.'

'Very well.' Constable Reid's cape gleamed with rain, and as Faro looked with little enthusiasm upon the downpour, the constable said encouragingly, Til get you a carriage, sir.'

Five minutes later, the police carriage was toiling up the High Street and the Esplanade, transformed into twin rivers of brown water and debris from overflowing gutters.

At the Castle, he was escorted to the Colonel's private apartments. Wrightson was waiting from him. He smiled apologetically.

'Nothing serious, Faro. Nothing to worry about. Do sit down. Have a drink.'

Faro did as he was bid and with a whisky in hand tried to suppress his impatience. He had too much on his mind to be in a mood for the trifling details of a break-in at the Castle that any of his constables could have dealt with efficiently.

'...in this room, but nothing was taken, as far as we can see,' the Colonel went on. 'In fact, we wouldn't have known that there had been a break-in except that the man was spotted leaving the room. He wasn't in uniform and when challenged, took to his heels. It was then my man gave the alert. I came immediately -'

Faro was looking round the room. With trophies on every shelf, every inch of wall space occupied by paintings and army group photographs, it would be extremely difficult at first glance to know if anything was missing. His glance wandered to the massive desk, awash with books and documents.

Wrightson followed his gaze and nodded. ‘I suspect that the desk was the target.'

At Faro's questioning look, he continued, 'Well, there was one drawer - over here.'

Faro saw that the lock bore marks of a sharp instrument being used on it. 'Is there anything missing?'

Wrightson wriggled uncomfortably. 'That I can't honestly say.'

Faro looked at him. 'Surely you know what the drawer contained, sir?' And when the Colonel looked blank, he prompted: 'Documents, for instance, perhaps of a secret or confidential nature?'

The Colonel laughed. 'No. That's what's so odd. I think he must have broken open the wrong drawer. There are such papers - here - and here - ' He indicated several drawers. 'But this one is where I keep my mementoes and stationery. Everything relating to my years serving Her Majesty at Holyrood, I just thrust in there. Not a bit of use to anyone, that I can assure you.'

'Nothing of value, then? You are certain of that?'

The Colonel smiled. 'Only to me. You see, Faro, I'm a bit of a hoarder, can't bear to throw anything away. I kept all the menus, notes from Her Majesty, memos - ribbons off cakes. Everything and all purely sentimental things.'

'You wouldn't by any chance have a list of the contents?' Even as he asked Faro realised that was a forlorn hope.

At his bleak expression, Wrightson shook his head. 'I'm not a list man. I'm sorry, Faro, I've really wasted your time,' he added apologetically.

'Not at all, sir,' said Faro gallantly, as he considered that was precisely what Wrightson had done. 'Who has access to these rooms, sir?'

'None of my men, if that's what you mean. There's tight security about that. Officers' quarters, strictly out of bounds.'

'So none of them could come in here without your knowledge?'

The Colonel shook his head. 'Or without my batman. He accompanies any soldier - or officer - who has reason to seek an interview. And they wouldn't be left alone by him, not for a minute, if that's what you're hinting at.'

'Have there been any such interviews recently?'

'None at all.'

'When was the last time this room was occupied by anyone other than yourself and your batman, sir?'

Wrightson thought for a moment. 'The other evening, at the dinner party, why, you were here, Faro. Remember, we all had drinks before going in.'