A Quiet Death (20 page)

'No, that was my stepson, Dr Laurie,' said Faro in a tone of annoyance.

'I see,' said Briggs, a mocking smile indicating that he saw all too clearly. 'Jean hinted that there was love in the air.'

Faro found scant comfort in the knowledge that he had been right about Kathleen's rich protector, apparently common knowledge to everyone but his stepson. Shrewd and intelligent in many ways, honest himself, Vince would never be so unchivalrous as to doubt a lady's word or her virtue.

As Briggs continued to regard him with veiled amusement. Faro cursed Jean McGonagall. 'The fact is,' he began coldly, trying not to sound as angry as he felt, 'my stepson is merely escorting the young lady to the circus.'

And changing to a safer topic: 'The show was excellent, the clowns were particularly fine. Where do you go next?'

'Down to the Borders, then across to Galloway. Willie of course was just here for the one night, especially for the Queen. What a nerve to make up a poem for her like that. Didn't you think so?'

'I thought he did very well. It was very brave of him.'

'I suppose so.'

Faro was relieved to end the conversation as someone called Briggs' name.

Turning on his heel Briggs suddenly swung round to face Faro again. 'They never found why my lassie drowned, those Dundee police.'

'So I understand.'

'I will never rest until I find out why she did it. And if there was a man involved, I'll kill him.' Briggs studied Faro intently as if trying to read his thoughts. 'The police say the case is closed.'

Guiltily, Faro remembered Ramsey's post-mortem, and how the doctor had certain knowledge that Polly had been murdered but was powerless to do anything about it. He hated lying to Briggs but there were too many innocent people involved and he had given his word to Vince.

'I expect they did their best,' he said lamely.

'I doubt that their best is good enough. And it doesn't bring my lassie back. Pity you hadn't been on the case, Inspector. I hear that you always get your man.'

'Well, not always, Briggs. Just sometimes,' he added sadly.

There was no more to be said and with a brief salute Briggs went back to the circus tent.

Faro watched him for a moment, noting the weary defeat of his shoulders. Briggs looked stooped and old and Faro felt suddenly ashamed that he had been angry with him. Angry with himself, too, and wishing that he had been asked by the Dundee police to help find Polly's murderer, who was probably still at large.

As was the murderer of Rachel Deane. There was not the least doubt in his mind about that.

Vince was at breakfast next morning, reading
The Scotsman
, when Faro put in an appearance. He had slept badly.

That was a splendid party afterwards, Stepfather. Pity you missed it, you should have been there. All this chasing of criminals is very well, but not when it seriously interferes with a chap's social life.'

And pointing to the newspaper: 'Willie got a mention here for his performance. He'll be pleased about that.'

Faro said nothing, pouring himself a cup of tea. He didn't feel particularly hungry.

Vince smiled across at him. 'What, no breakfast? Anyone would think you had had a high old time, wining and dining last night. Is there something you aren't telling me about? A secret assignation?'

Faro grimaced. Obviously Vince was back again in his old teasing manner. He should be grateful for that.

Vince had returned to his newspaper. 'Good Lord. Good Lord. Sir Arnold is dead. Here it is. Late notice. Died in the early hours of this morning.' He looked across at Faro. 'He's been very poor ever—ever since—' He still found difficulty in alluding to Rachel's death. 'A bit wandered, poor old man.'

He sighed. 'Wilf will be in full charge now. I don't suppose it'll make any difference to me, but I'm sorry. I shall miss Sir Arnold. He's been good to me.'

Faro dreaded that Sir Arnold's funeral, coining so soon after Rachel's, would reopen that well of sadness for Vince, only now healing.

Chapter Seventeen

Vince returned two weeks later, full of information about Sir Arnold's funeral, one of the largest Dundee had ever seen.

'Brought it all back to me, so soon after Rachel. The graveside, the vault. All that sort of thing,' he said sadly.

As usual he spent the entire weekend with Kathleen. After the first rather uncomfortable evening, Faro had not renewed his invitation for her to dine with them at Sheridan Place, although he realised guiltily that he must do so soon.

However, it was a very subdued Vince who returned from taking Kathleen out to dinner on the Sunday evening.

'I will be taking the 6.25 train tomorrow morning, Stepfather,' he said, looking in to say goodnight. And opening his bedroom door: 'By the way, I might not be home again for a little while.'

At Faro's questioning look, he said: 'I made up my mind tonight to ask Kathleen to marry me.'

'And—?'

'She declined my proposal.'

Faro felt a curious sense of relief as Vince continued:

'Everything seemed so right and it would have made the McGonagalls very happy—'

'You don't marry someone to make their relatives happy, dammit,' Faro said sharply.

'I know that. But I am rather disappointed.'

Disappointed he might be, thought Faro shrewdly, but hardly heartbroken. There was nothing here to resemble his grief at losing Rachel.

'Did she give any reason?' Faro asked.

'The best. She has a lover already. That explains so many things, doesn't it? Seems to have been going on for quite some time. In fact, he set her up in the milliner's shop.'

Here then were Faro's own suspicions of the rich protector confirmed, first by Briggs and now by Kathleen's own admission, which he felt considering the ardour of Vince's courtship was somewhat overdue.

Mistaking his stepfather's expression, Vince said: 'It isn't as immoral as it sounds.'

'I didn't say it was. You should know by now, lad, that I'm quite unshockable.'

Vince nodded. 'She says he loves her and in her own words, once his present circumstances leave him free to propose, and he gets his life sorted out, they intend to marry.'

'Is there a wife already?'

'Sounds like it, although she was very reserved about discussing his affairs. Said she had promised him never to tell anyone and she was only telling me because she knew she could rely on my discretion.'

His glance invited affirmation and when Faro was silent, he went on: 'Apparently he's quite high up—her words—and it would be disastrous for his position in society if all this was made public. At least it explains her "touch me not" attitude. She confessed that she was very attached to me and that in normal circumstances, she would have been honoured to be my wife, etc., etc'

Pausing he added bleakly, 'Or so she said last night.'

Faro put a hand on his arm. 'I'm sorry, lad. You seemed quite smitten.'

'Not to mind, Stepfather. There are more fish in the sea, as you once reminded me,' was the pseudo-cheerful reply. 'Actually we didn't have a lot in common, you know, I see that now. Not enough for a lifetime, at any rate.'

And as an afterthought: 'Perhaps the real reason I was attracted to her in the first place was that I was looking for another Rachel. And she did remind me of her, at first sight. But that wore off after the first meeting.'

And observing his stepfather's anxious look, he smiled. 'Not to worry, I'll be all right this time, I promise. Who knows, two rejections, maybe it'll be third time lucky.'

'I hope so, lad.'

Vince was silent, studying the doorknob gravely. 'Oh by the way, talking of proposals and so forth, I have another bit of news that will surprise you. Now that Wilf has inherited, his engagement to Lady Clara Wilkes will be announced shortly.'

He smiled. 'He told me very confidentially as we drove down together, but I'm sure he won't mind you knowing, since you are the soul of discretion. Lady Clara is an heiress of ancient family whose estates are in Fife.'

'This is all very sudden.'

'Oh yes, totally unexpected, Stepfather. She's a remote cousin. Her husband ran off with another woman, an Italian princess, I understand. Wilf and she were childhood sweethearts and have been secretly engaged for some while, with Sir Arnold's blessing. Now that her divorce has come through they are to marry quietly, without any fuss, since the Deanes are officially in mourning.'

'A very well-kept secret.'

'Oh indeed. And it explains what I could never understand. Why someone as eligible as Wilfred hadn't married long ago. Even for dynastic purposes.'

But Wilfred Deane's newfound happiness was not destined to last.

Two days after the announcement in
The Scotsman
Faro was summoned to the Royal British Hotel where a man had been found dead in his room.

On Princes Street the church bells were summoning worshippers to morning service, while inside the hotel Sergeant McQuinn was waiting for him and a uniformed constable kept curious hotel guests and alarmed staff at bay in the corridor.

Inside Room 102, the police surgeon Dr Holmes knelt beside the corpse who lay wide-eyed and staring as he had fallen.

'Haven't touched a thing. Inspector. I've just arrived, waiting for you to make your inspection of the room.' He pointed to the body where a tiny red rose of death had bloomed and congealed on the immaculate white shirt-front.

Faro looked around. It was an almost tidy scene of death, no visible bloodstains, only a chair overturned and a broken ornament near the door. The bedcovers had apparently been dragged off in some sort of struggle but the bed itself had not been slept in, for its pristine pillows were undented.

As Holmes began to examine the body, Faro leaned over.

'Anyone found the murder weapon? A knife with a stiletto blade, I would say, since there is so little blood about.'

'Correct, Inspector. Stabbed once, a bull's-eye straight to the heart. Died instantly.'

McQuinn and the constable had followed Faro inside and were methodically searching the room. An easy task since the drawers and wardrobe were empty, the dead man's travelling bag unpacked.

'No evidence of the knife so far, sir. Guess the murderer carried it away with him.'

'How long has he been dead?' Faro asked the police surgeon.

'Oh, by the condition of the body, I would say at least twelve hours. Between ten and midnight last night.'

McQuinn handed Faro a piece of paper. 'According to reception, the deceased is one of their regulars. He had no visitors last night. His wife usually comes with him, but he was alone this time. Just as well for her, perhaps.'

And looking over Faro's shoulder: 'He's a Mr James Burnett, a businessman from Arbroath. That should be easy to check, sir. At least we have an identity for him.'

Faro looked at the body. 'I think you'll find that Mr Burnett isn't his real name.'

McQuinn whistled. 'So it's not going to be a simple case after all.'

Faro smiled wryly. 'After all your years with me, McQuinn, I shouldn't have to tell you that

murder is never simple.'

'Any ideas, Inspector?' asked the police surgeon as he drew a sheet over the body.

'Yes. I know this man. His name is Wilfred Deane.'

'Of the Dundee Deanes?'

'The same.'

'Good Lord. This will cause a sensation.'

'Didn't I read that he was about to be married?' said McQuinn. 'Then I wonder—'

'I think you'll find that the lady calling herself Mrs Burnett was not Lady Clara Wilkes,' said Faro, examining the room.

Apart from the bedcovers on the floor, the lack of a struggle suggested that Deane had been easily overpowered and that death had come to him as a surprise.

'That stiletto stabbing suggests an Italian job to me,' said Sergeant McQuinn. 'There's a lot of them about in Edinburgh these days. Could be a vendetta. Fallen foul of one of their families.'

When word reached Superintendent McIntosh, he was mortified that an illustrious and prominent Dundee citizen should have been murdered in his territory.

'Dundee Police are sending a detective. He's already on his way but you will be in charge of this case, Faro.' A pause. 'Any ideas?'

'Any ideas?' asked Detective Sergeant Elliott. He arrived that evening at Sheridan Place off the same train as Vince who came in his official capacity as Deane's doctor, horrified to hear of his friend and employer's brutal murder.

Both men exchanged grumbles about the atrocious rail journey. Both were in agreement about one thing. 'High time they got that bridge finished.'

'This wasn't a murder for theft,' said Faro in answer to Elliott's question. 'Nothing of value was taken. His pocket case was full of bank notes, his watch and rings intact.'

'Bad business,' said Elliott. 'Any suspects?'

'Just one. Woman calling herself Mrs Burnett, his only regular visitor. As they knew her well, she did not bother to register. But the bellboy met a heavily veiled woman making her way to Deane's room on Saturday evening. When he said: "Good evening, Mrs Burnett," she ignored him. He thought perhaps he had been mistaken.'