'Fortunately, no. My stepson Vince Laurie is a doctor and we share a house on the south side of the town. An agreeable arrangement - for the present - until he decides to take a wife.'
As they studied each other, Faro was unaware of a common bond, a sense of identification running through both their lives. His desire to hear more of Leslie Godwin's early life was frustrated by the arrival of the carriages.
'Share mine,' he said. 'We'll set you down at your lodging.'
As they stepped forward another guest emerged from shelter. Staggering wildly towards the carriage, waving his arms frantically, it was obvious that he was heavily intoxicated.
'Shall we...?' Godwin whispered. Faro nodded and the man gratefully accepted their offer of a lift.
As they bundled him inside, he hiccupped his name at them three times without leaving them any the wiser, while his rendering of a sentimental ballad threatened any attempts at conversation.
'Thank heaven the rain's stopped,' said Godwin, opening the window in an effort to disperse the whisky fumes from their now inert companion.
'That's much better.' Faro smiled.
'It is indeed. We must meet again soon, cousin.'
'Of course. Here's my card.'
Godwin pocketed it and sighed. 'I don't have one, I'm afraid. I'm never long enough in one place to indulge in the niceties of polite society.'
'Where is your permanent home?'
Godwin looked at him and laughed. 'My dear fellow, I haven't enjoyed the luxury of a permanent residence for more years than I care to remember. A poste-restante address, the most comfortable hotel, friends... such have been my homes.'
An idea was taking shape in Faro's head as he asked: 'How long are you to be in Edinburgh, then?'
Godwin shook his head. 'Haven't the least idea. All depends on what assignments come up. Meanwhile, I am working on my war memoirs.'
Faro looked suitably impressed and Godwin smiled. 'I have been trying to compile them for a very patient publisher for more than ten years now. I thought that coming back to Edinburgh might offer opportunity and inspiration... What the devil - '
Their carriage lurched to a halt precipitating the drunken man across their knees.
They stared out of the window. They were in the West Bow, the main thoroughfare whose zigzag steep descent from Castle Hill to Grassmarket marked one of the most ancient and characteristic streets in the Old Town. Hazardous for vehicles in almost any weather, their progress was halted by a small crowd that had gathered in the middle of the road, where they harangued a harassed-looking policeman who was holding a young lad in a firm grip.
Faro leaned out of the carriage door and the constable, recognising him, saluted smartly. 'Good evening, sir. Constable Reid, sir.'
'What's the trouble?'
'Laddie here taking shelter from the storm found a woman's body in the Wizard's House.'
'The Wizard's House.' Godwin nudged Faro. 'How appropriate for a sinister discovery.'
'I've sent for the police doctor. Glad you're here, sir,' he added gratefully. 'Perhaps you would care -'
'Very well, Constable,' said Faro. 'Don't wait,' he added to Godwin. 'This may take some time.'
Faro stepped out of the carriage reluctantly. He had his own personal reasons for hating the West Bow. It was just yards away, where the West Bow joined the High Street, that his policemen father had been killed by a runaway carriage forty years ago.
Now stumbling into the unlit house on the heels of the Constable and the lad, whose name was Sandy, Faro's scalp prickled with that primeval sense of unease, of being in the presence of death.
The Wizard's House, as Weir's Land was commonly known, had a bad reputation. Empty for years, the passage of two centuries had failed to dispel the aura of evil left by its one-time owner Major Weir, warlock extraordinary, burnt at the stake in 1670.
Inside the house, along a narrow passage, a high-windowed room provided enough light to reveal what looked like a bundle of rags but was in fact a woman lying as if asleep on the floor.
'Let's have some light,' Faro said irritably. 'Turn up the lantern. Are there no candles?' he added desperately.
Constable Reid smiled wryly as he held the lantern higher.
'Doesn't seem to make much difference, sir. And we can't get candles to stay alight.'
'What do you mean?'
'They keep blowing out, Inspector, that's what.' He looked round anxiously. 'As if someone was standing right behind them,' he added, managing, at Faro's stern glance, to turn an uneasy laugh into a cough of embarrassment.
'You shouldn't believe everything you read, Constable.'
'It's a gey uncanny place though, Inspector. And I'm not given to being fanciful.'
Faro could believe that. Constable Reid was a new recruit from Glasgow, nineteen and tough as old boots.
He bent over the body. A beggar-woman in a sour ragged gown. He wasn't very good at guessing women's ages, but she looked youngish, not much past thirty. At least there was no blood, no signs of violence.
'Any means of identification?'
'Nothing obvious, sir. Except that life is extinct. I know that is all I have to establish - before the doctor comes - ’
'Quite right, quite right, Constable,' said Faro.
He found himself wishing that Vince had been with him, that he didn't have to touch the corpse himself. He pushed aside a quantity of soft fair hair and laid his hand on the cold flesh of her neck. There was no pulse.
'Some poor unfortunate by the look of her. May I join you?'
Turning, Faro found Godwin looking over his shoulder. His surprise at the request must have shown, for his cousin sighed.
'You never get used to it, do you?'
Faro shook his head, grateful for his understanding. If there was one thing more distasteful than the discovery of a corpse it was one without any means of identification. In his book, that always spelt trouble.
'Wait until you've seen as many as I have, Jeremy, and not
