'There are always clothes in readiness for guests. Shooting parties are liable to be rained on, or have guests fall into muddy rivers,' the Colonel smiled.
At least he did not mention being subject to assassins, Faro thought, rubbing his chin and conscious that he badly needed a shave. A bath and a change of clothes would be welcome before meeting Imogen again, he decided, thanking the Colonel for his thoughtfulness.
The Colonel bowed. 'You are most welcome. It is a pity you will not have a chance to meet the Kaiser, he is absent at this time on a visit to Potsdam. He will be sorry to have missed you, since you are a devoted and trusted servant of his grandmother.'
How they liked to dwell on that, Faro thought, as he was ushered through the hall with its hunting trophies, stags and wild boar, whose fierce gaze relentlessly followed his progress up the staircase. Inside the guest room they were replaced by walls hung with gilt-framed hunting scenes. Two of Mr Landseer's paintings of dead animals and birds suggested that they had originated from Balmoral, fond birthday gifts from devoted grandmother to favourite grandson.
As he closed the door, Faro once again found it depressing to be surrounded by so much dead and dying. The room was warmed by a closed stove and the huge canopied bed was at least inviting. On it, in readiness for his use, lay clothes and fresh linen. Handsome grey breeches and a jacket trimmed with hunting-green, complete with sportsman's hat, the uniform of the hunting-guest, he thought, appreciating an entire wardrobe of accessories.
He was delighted to find a full tub in the dressing-room, steaming warmly and ready for his use. Thankfully stripping off, he sank into it gratefully and decided that this was luxury indeed, peace and quiet and a hot bath. He closed his eyes.
He awoke with a start to find that beyond the window the sky had darkened. It was now late afternoon. Seizing the voluminous bathrobe, he went back into the bedroom. A footman appeared, followed by a valet with razor and soap, a business-like towel over his arm.
Invited to sit in a chair, Faro enjoyed one of the few occasions a policeman’s life offered. The luxury of what was in middle-class Edinburgh a pleasant daily visit from the barber. However, when a week's growth of beard was removed he felt suddenly naked and vulnerable.
It had also removed his last hope of disguise; in despair, he realised that his likeness to George was there for all the world to see.
He smiled sadly at his reflection as he dressed. A resemblance most fathers would have been proud of, but for him a cruel twist of fate, potentially fatal for himself and others.
Trying to thrust aside such gloomy thoughts, at last attired in his borrowed suit - which fitted very well, apart from being a trifle too short in the sleeves and a trifle too wide in the breeches - he was considering whether or not to wear the hat with its ridiculous feather when a tap on the door announced the Colonel.
'Ah! The new suit indeed becomes you, Mr Faro.' But Faro felt his gaze was more concerned with his now smooth and beardless countenance. If the truth came out on this visit, would the Colonel once again come to his aid?
'Amelie sends greetings. She will dine alone with George this evening.'
That was a relief, Faro thought.
'She is still very frail, you know,' the Colonel continued. 'Wilhelm's physicians have done their best for her, but she may always remain something of an invalid. Our other visitors are expected shortly. My sister and a friend from Heidelberg, as I mentioned to you. It may surprise you to know that Amelie and Melissa have formed a deep friendship, united by the cruel treatment of Gustav. At one time Melissa hated her. It was not reciprocated since if truth were told, and it seldom is, that Amelie was relieved when her husband took a mistress. All that is past now, Anton and George and their respective mothers are now firm friends.’
He bowed. 'Now you must excuse me as I have matters to attend to in Mosheim. Tedious, but there it is. I must apologise for leaving you to dine alone, but you will be well taken care of, I can assure you of that. Perhaps you would care to dine in your room here?'
Faro considered that prospect very agreeable. The thought of being waited upon by an army of servants alone at the huge dining table he had glimpsed across the hall, surrounded on all sides by the reproachful gaze of dead animals, had little appeal. And he recognised, not for the first time, the need for solitude, time to sort out all that had happened since he had left Edinburgh.
Silent-footed servants arrived. The lamps were lit, the stove replenished and it was with a feeling of great comfort that he sat down to the huge platter of food set before him. Roasted meat and vegetables, wine and a rich dessert of chocolate and cream. Delicious! But he was to pay a price for this over-indulgence. His stomach, used to spartan fare, and little of it in the last few days, rebelled. He went to bed, fell asleep and awoke in such agony he was sure he had been poisoned.
His mind raced ahead. That was it! He had been invited to dine alone and someone had taken the opportunity of putting poison in the wine. Someone in President Gustav's pay.
Then common sense took over. He realised these symptoms were those that had haunted him all his working life. Bad eating habits, acquired in long days with the Edinburgh City Police, had resulted in a digestive system that was
