'Drownings in the Forth, sir? Nothing reported. Weather's been good since the storm,' McQuinn added.
'Try further afield, McQuinn. Bodies can be carried right across the estuary to the coast of Fife or down the East Lothian coast.'
'What sort of a corpse are we looking for, sir?'
'A coachman, possibly in some sort of livery.'
'I take it he was driving the lady's carriage.'
'Yes.'
McQuinn thought for a moment. 'As both are missing, could there be some connection? I mean, like kidnapping, holding her to ransom.'
'I've thought of that.'
'The newspaper might have a photograph of her, sir. Dare say Miss Fortescue will oblige with a description of the coachman. Servants usually know one another uncommonly well.'
Faro watched as McQuinn pocketed his notebook, thankful that he could be relied on.
'I'll check with the North Berwick harbour authorities. With luck I might find someone who knew - or saw - this coachman. Shall I go to Aberlethie, talk to Miss Fortescue?'
'No. Leave that to me,' said Faro.
But first, the Wizard's House.
Faro's route to the West Bow took him close by the Grassmarket, a part of Edinburgh which had witnessed many grisly executions in Scotland's history. And here, he thought, he stood on the threshold of what might prove to be yet another sensational case in the annals of that country's crime.
But as his footsteps led him through the Lawnmarket past his cousin's lodging, he was guiltily aware that he was sorely neglecting Leslie Faro Godwin. The temptation to do something normal again, to see a pleasant smiling face, to talk to a man whose only interest in crime was its value as a news item, was overwhelming.
As Faro walked along the narrow wynd, his nostrils were assailed by increasingly unpleasant odours of cooking, cats and human excrement.
Looking up at the bleak lodging, once more his mind flew in vivid contrast to his own comfortable but mainly empty house in Sheridan Place. Doubtless it would be useless to try and persuade his cousin to change his mind. Too much time had been lost, the indication had been that Leslie Faro Godwin intended his stay in Edinburgh to be brief.
Faro smiled wryly. What would his mother make of all this? It was some time since he had written to her in Orkney and his conscience smote him regularly on his neglect of his daughters, Rose and Emily, who were fortunate indeed to receive even a postcard from him on rare occasions.
He could almost hear his mother's reproachful sigh when she heard about Leslie Faro Godwin. A firm believer in ‘There's no one like your own flesh and blood', she would have been horrified at his treatment of a close relative, despite any reminders that the Godwins had abandoned her after her husband was killed. 'That was a long time ago,' she would say, 'you've both come a long way since then. Thank God.'
There was no response to his rap at the front door. It was unlocked and he entered a dank dim corridor where doors on either side indicated other apartments. Following a narrow, evil-smelling stair twisting upwards, he found himself outside the first-floor apartment which Leslie had indicated from the street. Here was a more promising door, and Faro tapped on it. As he awaited a response, he heard voices within. His cousin was at home.
The door was opened by a tall, dark and swarthy man of villainous aspect. A pock-marked countenance was not helped by a huge scar which puckered one side of his face. He looked like an old soldier who had seen many campaigns, and even as Faro awaited his reply as to whether his cousin Mr Leslie Faro Godwin was at home, he decided that, used as he was to dealing with violent men, this one belonged in the category he would have avoided encountering on a dark night.
'Someone to see you, master.' Faro recognised the voice as one of the two he had heard.
'Who is it, Batey?'
So this was Sergeant Batey. A man with the cold dead eyes of a killer. No doubt he was loyal to his master. Certainly, Leslie Godwin would be safe wherever he went with this man to look after him.
'Sez he's yer cousin.'
'Jeremy? Do come in -'
Godwin was alone, seated near the window. He rose to greet Faro, book in hand. The window was tiny, and the dim light revealed a room furnished with only the meagre essentials. There were two other doors, which might lead either into more rooms or into cupboards.
Godwin's greeting was cheerful. He cut short Faro's apologies.
'No need for that, Jeremy. I'm always full of good intentions and promises that I never manage to fulfil. With the best will in the world, time just runs away with me.'
He paused, giving Faro a curious look. 'Any developments with your West Bow vagrant?' he asked eagerly.
Faro hesitated then shook his head, anxious that the fewer who knew about the missing woman, the better for all concerned. Particularly himself. So he decided against mentioning Miss Fortescue, realising that however loyal a cousin, the newsman who was also Godwin might find the temptation of pursuing such a story irresistible, thereby making it public property with results that would be nothing short of disastrous.
Leslie had observed his hesitation, for he smiled. 'I scent a story somewhere.'
'I'm afraid we didn't get very far with our enquiries.'
'I've seen that lad who found her a few times, by the way. Sandy, wasn't that his name? Batey caught him with his hand in my pocket the other day. He lives just round the corner in one of the tall lands, Bowheads Wynd, they call it.'
This was an unexpected stroke of luck. 'There are a few questions I'd like to ask him about that night.'
Godwin looked at him. 'D'you know, I had the same feeling. That he knew a lot more than he was telling us.
