Murder by Appointment

141 Pages·2012·0.67 MB·English

by  Knight Alanna

Murder By Appointment
An Inspector Faro Mystery
by
Alanna Knight
ALANNA KNIGHT has written more than fifty novels, (including fifteen in
the successful Inspector Faro series), four works of non-fiction, numerous short
stories and two plays since the publication of her first book in 1969. Born and
educated in Tyneside, she now lives in Edinburgh. She is a founding member of
the Scottish Association of Writers and Honorary President of the Edinburgh
Writers’ Club.
Chapter 1
Detective Inspector Faro extracted himself with difficulty from the crowd of
Edinburgh concertgoers leaving the Assembly Rooms that evening.
His air of preoccupation had less to do with the splendid rendering of the
Beethoven sonatas he had just heard, than with the identity of their performer,
Lachlan Brown, the talented young Highlander who had sprung to fame and
international acclaim during the last three years.
Still deep in thought Faro negotiated Princes Street with its thin line of
carriages, some carrying prosperous families homeward, some with curtained
windows discreetly drawn against the curious. The occupants he guessed would
be heading towards Leith Row's notorious howffs where their night's
entertainment and revelry was about to begin. Other carriages were driven at
reckless pace by arrogant young students with too much wealth and too few
manners, as they hurled abuse at those pedestrians who tried in vain to cross the
busy thoroughfare.
Stepping aside in the nick of time, Faro regarded his narrow escape in disgust.
He would have liked to snatch down some of those grinning youngsters and give
them a good shaking. However, dignity prevailed. Decorum must be maintained
by senior policemen.
Vaguely declining the offer of a lift from one of his stepson's medical
colleagues, he headed up the Mound and away from the main traffic, walked
rapidly homeward in the direction of Newington.
At last his pace slowed and, taking stock of his surroundings, he sighed
deeply. Late spring with its burgeoning of new life in every garden and
hedgerow was his favourite season.
The evening was perfect with the promise of longer sunny days in store and,
as he climbed the hill, moonlight outlined the castle far above him touching its
windows with uneasy life, as if Queen Mary and those sad apparitions of her
short and tragic reign still stalked its corridors.
But it was the spectre of a time nearer to his own that haunted Faro. For once
his thoughts had nothing to do with crimes, ancient or modern. Guilt perhaps,
but definitely not crime as the Edinburgh City Police understood it.
As he walked his footsteps echoed the final chords and the rapturous applause
of Lachlan Brown's recital, the two encores before the audience would release
him.
Faro had observed it all closely from the most expensive seats. A vantage
point from which not only the piano and the pianist's hands were clearly visible
but, what concerned him more, the young man's face. The young Highlander had
outstanding good looks, black hair, olive skin, full mouth and wide dark eyes.
And listening to the brilliant performance Faro continually scanned that
countenance, minutely searching for some resemblance to a well-known face,
other than the one he had last glimpsed in Ballater several years earlier.
He remembered the rumours concerning Lachlan Brown. In addition to
undeniable talent, his spectacular rise to fame was the hint that he was 'an
intimate relative of John Brown, the Queen's favourite ghillie and protector'. The
bolder ones took it further, with hints that Brown was Her Majesty's unofficial
husband whose public acknowledgement would sweep her from the throne and
that Lachlan was Brown's illegitimate son from a youthful indiscretion the
Queen was prepared to overlook.
Faro knew that to be untrue. He had it from the lips of the boy's mother.
Lachlan's paternity might be in doubt but John Brown was definitely not his
father.
He had almost reached the top of the Mound when, with the suddenness that
characterised Edinburgh weather, the moon was obliterated by fast-moving
clouds.
'Stepfather!' The brougham stopped by him and Dr Vince Laurie leaned out.
'Jump in!'
Olivia, Vince's wife, looked pleased as she made room for him. 'We usually
go via the Pleasance, but we've just set down brother Owen in Heriot Row. He's
staying with friends —'
'I do really enjoy the walk, my dear,' Faro protested weakly.
How to explain that the evening solitude of quiet streets was his favourite
time of the day and walking was his own special way of solving problems,
criminal or personal, or that a wealth of experience had produced nothing better
for clearing the head than a brisk Edinburgh wind.
'Are you sure?' said Olivia anxiously, regarding the sky. 'It's going to rain.'
In two years of marriage, the young woman, who never took a step in town if
it could be avoided or a carriage was at hand, continued to be baffled by her
stepfather-in-law's eccentricities.
'And why a policeman who walks considerable distances each day in pursuit
of criminals can possibly claim to enjoy walking for pleasure is quite beyond
me,' she told Vince on frequent occasions.
Vince, however, understood a great deal about his stepfather that his wife had
yet to learn.
Now he turned to her and laughed. 'Give up, Livvy, do. You'll never persuade
him.'
Faro glanced at the sky above and shook his head. 'Not unless the heavens
open, and I don't really think that is very likely.'
'Be it on your own head, Stepfather!' said Vince, knowing he would never be
able to convince dear Livvy about Faro's preference for going to concerts alone
when she, fearing that he might be lonely, anxiously begged him to join their
group of friends. Useless to try to explain without giving offence that he wished
to enjoy and appreciate the music with single—minded devotion. And without
the polite distractions offered by the frequent passage of boxes of chocolate and
opera-glasses. Olivia on the other hand regarded such interruptions as a
necessary part of an amiable social occasion.
Saluting the departing carriage, Faro followed in its wake. Quickening his
pace, absorbed by his thoughts, he was hardly aware that gentle moonlight had
been replaced by swift-moving storm clouds.
'Damnation!' he exclaimed as the first heavy raindrops splashed down and,
diving for shelter into the nearest doorway, he watched helplessly as the
cloudburst filled the gutters to overflowing, a channel of water soon flowing past
him.
At last the sound he most wanted to hear. An approaching vehicle! From the
direction of the Mound, the familiar shape of an Edinburgh hiring carriage had
him leaping out of his sheltering doorway.
Signalling it to stop and thankfully about to climb aboard, he heard the sound
of footsteps behind him.
A breathless voice sobbed out, 'Help me, sir. I implore you, please help me.'
Turning, he saw a middle-aged woman, shabbily clad. Her cloak and bonnet
were dripping wet and she carried neither umbrella nor reticule. As she spoke,
she held out trembling hands to him.
Cursing his ill luck at being faced with the predicament of someone with a
need obviously greater than his own, he gallantly stepped aside and with a bow
murmured, 'By all means, madam—'
But instead of accepting his offer and stepping into the carriage, she shook
her head violently and clutched at his arm.
'Please sir—I beg you. I’m in terrible danger—' And, pausing to glance over
her shoulder, 'Please, try to understand. Those men—they're going to kill me—'
Faro followed her pointing finger, squinting against the driving rain. He could
see no one, but the poor woman was clearly overwrought. He decided to humour
her.
'Of course, of course.'
'Thank you, sir, oh, thank you. God bless you, sir.' The accent was familiar
and brought a fleeting sense of recognition.
As he leaned forward to help her into the carriage, two shadows emerged
from the darkness. Two large heavy male shadows, breathing deeply as if they
had run a considerable distance in search of their quarry.
Faro's position with one hand assisting the woman up the step into the
carriage and his back towards the two men, put him at a considerable
disadvantage. The arm he thrust out was an instinctive movement, completely
ineffectual to fend off the stout stick raised high in the air above him.
It descended in vicious contact with his skull.
As he heard the agonizing crack that splintered the night into sickening
blackness, his last thoughts were: 'Now I'll never know the truth about Lachlan
Brown.'
Chapter 2
A nauseous headache told him that he was still alive.
He could take dubious comfort from that but was considerably surprised to
find himself in his own bedroom in 9 Sheridan Place. His first thought was that
the incident on the Mound had been one of the violent nightmares to which he
was prone, paying dearly for something carelessly eaten that disagreed with his
faulty digestion.
The pain as he moved and touched the bandage about his head told him
otherwise.
A movement at the window indicated Vince hovering near by.
'So you're awake. Thank God for that. I thought you might be heavily
concussed.'
When Faro groaned, Vince continued cheerfully, 'I should know something of
the thickness of your skull by now. It's saved you many a time when lesser
mortals would have met with certain death. I suppose it's that old Viking stock
you have to thank—'
'What happened?' Faro demanded weakly.
Vince smiled wanly. Well, I was rather hoping you could give me the answer
to that.'
'I was attacked. I fell for the oldest trick in the book, lad. A woman in distress
pleading with me while her confederates crept up from behind.'
Vince looked at him quickly. Not like you to be fooled by that one,
Stepfather.'
'I thought I'd seen her somewhere before. That was what foxed me.'
Vince was aware of his stepfather's remarkable memory for faces. 'And had
you?'
'Aye, back in the mists of time, the devil knows where.'
But that was not the only reason, he thought If my mind hadn't been wrestling
with Lachlan Brown's identity, my wits would have been sharper. And none of
this would have happened.
As they were speaking the hall clock struck midnight.
'Just an hour ago,' said Faro. 'Seems more like a hundred years. How did I get
here? Who brought me home?'