A quick explanation followed regarding Faro’s presence, a beam in his direction. 'An excellent lecture on crime in our society, Inspector Crane. It would have interested you. Nothing to do with the unfortunate accident that brings you here,' the Headmaster added flippantly.
'Indeed no, sir. I'm sure such wicked deeds never occurred to your boys,' said Crane and Faro noted a touch, the merest flicker, of sarcasm in his tone. 'Anyway, we mustn't delay you, sir, this is a purely routine matter.'
Indeed, did it happen often? was Faro's unspoken question as he contemplated the prospect of more than a hundred normal specimens of boyhood, of mixed temperaments and nationalities, all bored with respectability and hell-bent on mischief. Such activities tolerated by indulgent parents as the necessity of sowing their wild oats before taking their rightful place in society.
'We must let you get on with your retirement, sir,' Crane added heartily. 'No need to worry. We're pretty smart here in Perth Police, we know what we're about.'
And Faro had to leave. In a mood of sudden exasperation, he acknowledged that there was no way he could follow Inspector Crane and sit in on the inquiry. It might have ended there had he not witnessed a scene as the carriage halted at a corner of the drive.
George was running ahead, with Anton trying to console him, for he was clearly upset. Behind them, panting in the rear, one of the bodyguards. Only one.
As the carriage swept past, Faro heard the bodyguard shout, and even with his inadequate German Faro knew what 'verboten' meant.
And where was the other bodyguard? The one who was in such distress but had failed to visit him after the lecture?
Suddenly he knew the answer. The foreign bodyguard who had wanted to talk to him so urgently was not an admirer of the reported exploits of Inspector Faro, not someone with a domestic problem, or there to request the autograph of a famous policeman. It had been, as the man said, a matter of life or - in his case - death.
And Faro knew now he would never forgive himself for not delaying, and being five minutes late in taking his place before the college audience. What had happened in this instance to his much-vaunted intuition, his awareness of danger?
Tragic future events were to confirm his regrets.
If only he had listened, danger might have been averted, an assassin apprehended. His target a boy, a pupil at Glenatholl and a foreign royal, was in the deadliest of danger, his mother shot - perhaps fatally - and his kingdom in peril.
And Faro himself would not be spared.
Chapter 5
Arles Castle was considerably older than Balmoral, somewhat worn and down-at-heel, its arrow-slitted exterior walls scarred by the bullets of Scotland's turbulent history. The turrets were no nineteenth-century architect's fairy-tale fantasy but had been built long ago with the practical purposes of defence in mind, including such niceties as pouring boiling oil on troublesome enemies.
Faro followed a footman to the upper apartments, pleasantly surprised that the occupants were untroubled by modernisation and the present craze for ornate ceilings and cornices. Instead the untreated stone was covered here and there by ancient tapestries and ragged old battle flags hung from the rafters. No handsome swirling oak staircase either, just a winding spiral stair, narrow for defence.
Sir Julian was waiting to make him warmly welcome with a hearty dram of excellent whisky pressed into his hand. As they talked, Faro considered his host. Approaching sixty, he retained the virile air of the distinguished diplomat.
An attractive, well-set-up fellow with handsome features, a head of thick white hair and a military moustache, the eligible and wealthy widower had disappointed many eager county ladies by marrying, three years ago, the pretty young woman who had nursed his first wife in her last illness. To his delight and the crowning glory of their domestic bliss, Molly had promptly presented him with a son and heir.
Julian's study was small, and warmly heated by a large fireplace. Beyond it was the Arles tartan-carpeted dining-room with massive refectory table, tall Jacobean chairs and tartan-covered footstools to elevate guests' feet above inhospitable icy draughts seeping under ancient ill-fitting oak doors.
After some polite interest in Faro's family - both daughters married, Rose in America and Emily in Orkney, Vince a successful Edinburgh doctor - Arles shook his head and said, "Bad business about Luxoria.'
‘Indeed,’ agreed Faro, for this was the very topic he wished to discuss. ‘Any news about the Grand Duchess?'
Julian paused to refresh the drams. 'There was never any mention of the extent of her injuries in the spray of bullets that killed the two servants. I gather the assassins had been lurking in wait for the shooting-party to return to the Kaiser's hunting-lodge. The ladies were riding in a carriage so it would seem that the Grand Duchess was their target.' He shrugged. 'Since there is no further bulletin, one can safely presume, I hope, that she has survived - so far. From my slight acquaintance with the lady, I fear she will be terribly distressed about those two servants who died.'
This was even better than Faro had hoped for. 'Your diplomatic career took in Luxoria?'
'Indeed it did. I was there fifteen years ago when the President was turning it into a military dictatorship, run by the generals under his command.'
'What was he like?'
Julian frowned. 'He was not a pleasant man. God knows how Amelie put up with him. She has held Luxoria together for twenty years since her father died, a fearful responsibility for a girl hardly out of her teens. Even then it had long been a melting pot for potential disaster, situated as it is on three frontiers. President Gustav, like some latter-day Hannibal or Attila the Hun, seized power by a military coup and forced a political marriage on Amelie. She had no choice but to marry him. It was either that or exile.'
He sighed. 'Then the marriage
