Faro watched them depart, and taking his companion's arm, he walked down the platform in search of an empty carriage. Many with the same idea had been there before them and they had to share a compartment, fortunate to get the two remaining seats.
'The train is unusually full,' said Faro to the four other occupants.
'The golf tournament, I expect. It's always very popular.'
Faro leaned out of the window. Among those hurrying along the platform were Vince and Leslie Godwin, with Batey in tow.
'Didn't know you were to be on this train, Stepfather. We have seats booked further along.'
Leslie hovered, smiling, waiting to be introduced to Miss Fortescue. Faro, observing his cousin's admiring expression, did not miss his arch glance as he said: 'Never expected to find myself on a golfing expedition. Vince persuaded me to come along. All very mysterious, said there might be a story in it somewhere.' He grinned. 'A duel to the death on the greensward, or something of the sort, perhaps.'
As the trio prepared to move on, an elderly man puffed his way along the platform.
Sir Hedley Marsh. He did not look particularly surprised to see Miss Fortescue. Embarrassed perhaps, but not surprised.
'Are you going to the golf too, sir?' Faro asked, guessing that was highly improbable.
'Nothing like that. Off to see one of my relatives. Family crisis and all that sort of thing.'
At the advent of Sir Hedley, Vince had seized Leslie's arm and with a despairing heavenward glance retreated down the train, with the Mad Bart in hot pursuit, much to Faro's amusement.
As the journey began, Faro stared out of the window. He had a great deal to think about and he found his companion had little to contribute. Immediately the train moved out of the station, she took out a book and held it firmly on her knee. However, each time Faro glanced in her direction, she was in fact staring bleakly out of the window. And when their eyes met, she deliberately turned a page with a frown of deep concentration.
Faro had long since decided that the book was merely a protective device against any attempt at conversation - or more important, explanations.
He was relieved when the train drew into Errol halt.
If only he could communicate with Vince. Then Faro's prayers were answered. A window opened further down the train and Vince leaned out and shouted a greeting.
The words Faro was mouthing in reply were cut short when Leslie also leaned out and waved to them, and Vince, making room for him, ducked back into the carriage.
Faro picked up Miss Fortescue's bag and regarded the departing train with considerable misgivings. He now had sufficient evidence to believe he was walking into a trap, but there was no other way of bringing the assassin into the open.
'No train times?'
Miss Fortescue found the absence of this information less disturbing than he did. 'Don't concern yourself about that. I expect other arrangements will be made for your return to Edinburgh. Amelie and the Royal party will have arrived by carriage from Balmoral -'
It was a short walk across the grounds to Errol Towers, a handsome Georgian mansion worthy of the name of castle. Sir Piers Strathaird was famous as a racing enthusiast, and grazing in a field bordering the drive, several splendid horses from his stables trotted over to inspect these strangers and give them a friendly welcome.
Roma Fortescue stopped to stroke the boldest. 'Aren't they simply beautiful?'
But Faro's attention was drawn to the battlements. The flagpole was empty. Odd that this normal indication of the laird in residence was lacking. More significant was the lack of carriages arriving and servants darting to and fro, that characteristic atmosphere of suppressed excitement and activity one would have expected of an imminent visit from Her Majesty.
Even more curious and disquieting, on closer examination, the lower windows were shuttered from the inside and the house looked deserted. He was relieved, however, to find the door promptly opened by the housekeeper, Mrs Ashley.
Inviting them to step into the hall, she announced that Sir Piers was at present with Her Majesty at Balmoral.
'The house itself,' she said, glancing over her shoulder towards open doors revealing shrouded shapes of furniture, 'is closed. The rest of the family are abroad. But the dower house across the gardens has been prepared for your visit. If you would care to follow me -'
Across rambling gardens and twisting paths, the dower house was invisible from the main house. A Scottish castle in miniature, complete with turrets, ivy-covered walls and a rustic porch. It was also very small. Faro decided uneasily that Her Majesty was keeping strictly to her word of secrecy and informality as Mrs Ashley's tour of the premises revealed only four small bedrooms.
Leaving his still-silent companion in one of them, he asked the housekeeper when the visitors from Balmoral were expected.
Mrs Ashley gave him an odd look. I'm not quite sure what you mean, sir. I had a telegraph telling me to have the dower house in readiness for visitors from Edinburgh - Mr Faro and a lady,' she added pointedly, unable to conceal her curiosity. And when Faro did not respond, she said quickly: 'You will be well looked after, sir. There are always an adequate number of servants -'
Faro went downstairs. The tiny house had been conscientiously prepared for their comfort. The panelled parlour was attractive with its cheerful fire, the walls adorned by antlers and sporting prints, and every available space held by stuffed animals and gamebirds in glass cases. He sniffed the air. The familiar smell of Mrs Brook's favourite beeswax was greatly in evidence, and on the highly polished floorboards, a large and ferocious-looking polar bearskin rug was further proof of Sir Piers's marksmanship.
From the direction of the kitchen, a young and nervous maid appeared to spread the table for their luncheon.
Cock-a-leekie soup, salmon en croute, dessert and an excellent wine.
It was
