Sounds of merriment issuing from the drawing-room dashed any hopes he had entertained of extracting information from Julian. There were other guests for dinner that evening; nice, pleasant country gentry with whom he had not one thing in common and who asked the same questions put to him after his Glenatholl lecture, about burglaries mostly and how they could be prevented. And how thieves who were apprehended might be discouraged from further wrongdoing by a hanging!
Faro was not a sympathetic or patient listener to the problems of the wealthy for whom a few pieces of stolen silver, that did not pivot their world or throw it out of joint, were nevertheless regarded as a catastrophe of fearful proportions. The conversation, or the wine, or both, left him with a giddy feeling that instead of being within a decade of a new century, time had moved backwards and deposited the present company in the age of Hanging Judge Jeffries.
A valiant but useless effort to convince any of them that much of Edinburgh's petty crime was brought about by the necessity of survival proved futile. 'By men who would have qualities as honest as any around this table,' he explained, regarding his companions' shocked countenances, 'if only they had work to do, and money to buy bread for their starving families.'
Julian's applause and 'Well done, Jeremy' averted a dangerous situation as did his call for more wine and change of subject to the price of flour. As for problems with the tenants - 'Impossible to cope with them,' put in another guest, with a final outraged glance in Faro's direction, 'Getting quite above themselves these days.'
Somehow Faro got through it all, retired most gratefully to his waiting bed once more, slept well and, after an excellent breakfast, was sped off for the late morning train.
Watching the carriage disappear down the drive, Julian realised that his wife's entrance yesterday had saved him from a major indiscretion. A scene he had witnessed in the gardens at Balmoral eleven years ago. A scene that he had discreetly kept to himself and, indeed, had tried to put out of his mind.
Walking alongside a tall yew hedge in the gardens, he had paused to light a pipe when he heard voices from a concealed arbour on the other side. Her Majesty and one he recognised as the Grand Duchess Amelie. She was crying. 'But he is so near at hand, could I not see him, just once? Just once, when the train stops in Edinburgh? I long for him to see his son.'
'Never. Never!' said Her Majesty. 'My dearest girl, you must never admit that even to yourself. You must put him from your mind instantly. To try to see him again, even to think of it, would be a disaster not only for yourself. Dear God, if you would be so indiscreet, at least think of the child's future.'
'But I do love him - still, to distraction,' was the agitated reply, ‘I cannot bear it, that we are never to meet again.'
'Dearest girl, I sympathise. I know only too well what you are suffering. I have spent most of my life pining for my lost love, my dearest husband whom I will never see again on this earth. But you are young still and you must be practical and think of the scandal, I implore you. Think of what it could do.'
There was a slight pause followed by a warning. 'And if Gustav ever had an inkling, the faintest idea, that the child is not his, then you would have thrown away your kingdom. Please, my dear, dismiss this madness from your mind.'
Julian had crept away silently and he had never told a living soul. He was often haunted by the poignant scene and a mystery which had intrigued him over the years.
Indeed, he had been very tempted to tell Faro. He was the very man. The detective had lots of secret information concerning members of the royal family, for in his time Faro had had many dealings with Her Majesty. Yes, indeed, he could well be the man to know the identity of the father of Amelie's child.
It could not be Kaiser Wilhelm of course, Julian decided. But it might have been one of the royals Amelie had met during a visit to Edinburgh the year before George was born.
Whoever he was, good luck to him, for the outcome of that love affair had been a child who had saved Amelie's life and given a future to Luxoria.
Faro was still feeling very out of sorts as the Arles carriage trotted briskly through the mists of Perthshire, the dramatic autumn colours having faded with alarming suddenness into the more normal gloom of monotone Highland drizzle. He realised he was paying dearly for allowing himself to be so recklessly indulged by Sir Julian's lavish hospitality, which included, he decided wryly, as much wine as he suspected was consumed over an entire month by Vince and Olivia entertaining dinner guests at Sheridan Place.
Excellent vintage no doubt, but it had shot his powers of clear thought to blazes, completely dulled his wits. And he desperately needed to think.
Now that George's identity had been revealed, he remembered the scene in the drive with the two boys and one bodyguard. The missing bodyguard was in all probability George's, the man who came to his room and wished to tell him something before his speech that evening.
'A matter of life and death.'
He felt sickened with remorse. Doubtless the bodyguard wished to confide some vital matter concerning Luxoria. Luxoria had always meant Amelie, now it also stood for George.
He groaned out loud. Perhaps he could have saved
