Mr Innes was much embarrassed by such ill-bred behaviour and Daisy was frequently called to heel, rewarding her master with a gentle-eyed reproach. When she was finally put on her chain she continued to whine in protest, deprived and ill-treated and looking as down in the mouth as a canine could manage.
Mr Innes wasn't looking particularly happy either.
'When will I be allowed to return home?' he asked.
'I requested that he remain here until you arrived,' Dr Cranley called across to Faro, neatly side-stepping the responsibility.
'My wife will be anxious,' Mr Innes consulted his watch. 'I have already missed breakfast and we have a business to run.'
McQuinn came over and said to Faro: 'Constable Burns came for me. I've taken a statement from the gentleman.'
'In that case, sir, we need detain you no longer,' said Faro.
Innes turned to leave, took a few steps and changed his mind. Pointing to the body, he said to Faro, 'However long that - that - has been here, it certainly wasn't there last night.'
'Are you sure?' asked Faro.
'Certain sure. This is our evening walk, regular as clockwork and in most weathers too. It's Daisy's favourite. She's a great ratter and is always in that shrubbery after them, sniffing around. I can vouch for that, if necessary.'
Faro took the card Innes handed him, and thanking him for his help, he watched them depart, the man relieved, the dog dragged reluctantly from her scene of triumph. Her reproachful whimpers indicated that this was what a dog's life was all about.
Dr Cranley, who had been bending over the corpse, strode towards Faro. Removing the handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, he said: 'Thought you'd better have a look before we move him.' He shook his head. 'This was no heart attack. Can't tell until we do the post-mortem but, at a rough guess, I'd say he most likely drowned.'
'Drowned?'
'Yes, drowned.'
'When?' Faro demanded sharply.
'More than a week ago, I'd estimate.'
'Which fits in with what Mr Innes suggested,' said McQuinn. That the body wasn't here last night. Probably dumped a few hours ago.'
Dr Cranley nodded. 'I'd say he was right about that.' He jerked his head in the direction of the loch far below. 'Probably down there.'
'So where has he been all this time?' Faro demanded. 'He certainly didn't get up here unaided.'
The doctor shrugged. 'That's your business, Faro. Mine is restricted to the facts regarding the cause of death, not his whereabouts since death occurred.'
Faro hardly listened. He was a very worried man. The significance of the time-lapse was ominous, it slotted almost too neatly into the grim discovery in the West Bow.
The two fatalities, he felt sure, were unlikely to have been coincidental.
'Any identification?'
'None. Pockets empty.'
Faro sighed like a man whose worst fears have come to pass as he followed Cranley, who said: 'You'll need to cover up.'
And as Faro withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, Dr Cranley continued: 'it's not a pleasant sight. Damn rum business, I'd say, in more ways than meets the eye.'
The doctor was strongly addicted to rum and cliches and Faro would have appreciated a less sensitive nose as well as a fortifying strong drink as he looked down on the remains of a middle-aged man. Of middle height and middle build, no longer with any features of distinction except for thinning ginger hair, his clothes worn but respectable, his description when circulated, Faro decided wearily, might fit one-quarter of the male population of Scotland.
McQuinn had been listening attentively to the conversation between the doctor and Faro. 'If he drowned down there, sir, why carry him all this way uphill to leave him in the shrubbery? It doesn't make sense.'
Faro sighed. 'His body was obviously concealed somewhere.'
'Not in the open air, that's for sure,' said the doctor. 'Animals would have got at him and there would have been maggot infestation by now.'
'There's been a lot of rain and his clothes would have been ruined too,' said Faro, examining the man's hands. Smooth, with no callouses, not the hands of a labouring man. And whatever his occupation, the dead man had not been a professional coachman with palms hardened by daily contact with horses' reins.
Watching Faro, Cranley said: 'He wasn't in the water long. Was that what you're looking for?'
Faro nodded. Within a few hours of being immersed in water the skin on the hands and feet of a dead body takes on a characteristic bleached and wrinkled appearance, commonly known as 'washerwoman's hands'.
'We'll see what the post-mortem reveals. But I can tell you one thing. I'd be prepared to swear that he's been kept in a closed dry place since he died.'
'Such as?'
Cranley shrugged. 'A trunk, or a closet,' he said grimly. 'Or some airless space, like a cupboard. Well, well, here's another little mystery for you to work on, Faro. If you want my opinion on this one - although I don't suppose we'll find any marks of violence - I won't be surprised if there was foul play involved somewhere.'
When Faro managed a wry smile, 'Not as much use to our students as the last one we had from you,' he added appreciatively, as if Faro was somehow responsible for the personal freshness of the corpses supplied to his medical students.
Faro had an unhappy feeling that they would get no further with the dead man in St Anthony's Chapel than they had with the mystery woman in the West Bow. But he would very much have liked an answer to one vital question.
According to Miss Fortescue's account of the events, the coachman who drove the Duchess from North Berwick had probably drowned when the carriage went into
