'But there is a possibility you might recognise her again?'
Leslie laughed. 'I don't know what you're getting at, but yes. I've got quite a good memory for faces, and if the setting was right, I suppose.' He paused, then added, 'There's a strong family resemblance to the House of Hanover and the Saxe-Coburgs. Hardly surprising since they're all related. And let's not forget that artists who know when they're on to a good thing tend to err on the side of flattery.'
He looked hard at Faro. 'What are you getting at, Jeremy?' And when his cousin didn't answer, he indicated a large boulder and, sitting down on it, made a place for Faro. Then smiling encouragingly, he said gently: 'Why not start at the beginning? Who was the last person to see the Grand Duchess?'
'Her lady-in-waiting, Miss Fortescue - '
'And where is she now?'
'At Lethie Castle - '
Leslie listened carefully, frowning occasionally as Faro told him the events of the disastrous landing at North Berwick and Miss Fortescue's flight to Solomon's Tower.
At the end, Leslie sighed, his only comment: 'Vanished into thin air. Just like that.'
Before replying, Faro said a silent prayer that his fears were groundless. 'I take it that the corpse in the West Bow that night didn't strike you in any way as familiar?'
'Familiar?' Leslie stared at him. Then as realisation dawned, he whispered: 'You mean - you think - '
'Well, could it?'
'Oh lord, Jeremy. I don't know. I haven't the foggiest. I didn't look at her very closely. You know how it is.' He looked thoughtful. 'Have you considered that another talk with the lad Sandy might be useful? It could well be that he's hiding something.'
And studying Faro, he shrugged. 'I'm no detective, you know, but right from the start the lad's manner struck me as suspicious.'
'That he was plain scared, you mean.' Faro smiled. 'It isn't every day that a twelve-year-old lad stumbles on a corpse. Or finds himself surrounded by the police.'
'I agree. It could be that the scent of the law so near home put him off. Most of these lads live by dubious activities, and as you know Batey grabbed him by the ear, with his hand in my pocket.' He laughed. 'Quite brazen about it, he was too. Yes, I think you would be well-advised to have a talk. And it would help if you had a coin or two in hand. Nothing like the sight of money for lubricating information.'
'I have tried,' said Faro. 'Called at the house when I left you the other day.'
'Well?'
'He wasn't at home, but I left a message with his mother and the promise of two shillings.'
Leslie nodded eagerly. That should bring him running to your door.'
They got up and walked in silence for a few moments before Leslie turned and added: 'If in doubt, you could have the corpse exhumed.'
'I'm afraid not. There is no resurrection for this particular corpse. All unknown and unclaimed bodies become the property of Dr Cranley and his students.'
'Dear God. You mean -' And Leslie made a grisly gesture of using a knife.
'Precisely.'
'How awful.'
And as if in accompaniment to grim realisation, they reached the park pursued by rain sheets that crept steadily over the hill, shrouding Arthur's Seat in thunderheads. The sky rumbled ominously in the grip of an approaching storm, reminding Faro that this swiftly changing weather signalled golden autumn would soon be replaced by dark November. Cold winter days, where early darkness made petty crime more profitable and detection a hundred times more difficult and uncomfortable.
On the road, Sergeant Batey was waiting. He helped his master to mount, looking neither to left nor to right. Faro might not have existed, nor McQuinn standing a few yards away.
Batey's behaviour made Faro uneasy. There was something unhuman about him, an attitude he had only ever met in the most hardened criminals, killers by inclination rather than by the circumstances that make men into soldiers.
He looked at his cousin Leslie, so open-faced and frank, then at the handsome Irish McQuinn, and was struck by the comparison. Batey might be a good servant perhaps, but not one Faro would have cared to keep under his roof.
Leslie waved a cheerful farewell with a promise to meet again soon. Winking broadly at his cousin, he called: 'You've given me plenty to think about. I'll let you know if I come up with any brilliant ideas.'
Faro watched the two men, so completely dissimilar, gallop back towards the Canongate. Then turning, he surveyed the ruined chapel thoughtfully. The sloping foothills of Arthur's Seat were almost deserted, except for one other domestic building, almost as ancient as the chapel itself.
Solomon's Tower. Not very far away, in fact quite conveniently accessible and offering splendid opportunities for hiding a body. With or without the Mad Bart's knowledge or consent, he thought grimly.
Narrowing his eyes, he remembered Miss Fortescue half-alive, staggering into the Tower, her story not quite the same as the one the Mad Bart had produced. And on the off-chance of finding him at home, he decided to call and direct a few searching questions on what had really happened that night.
He was unlucky. There was no human response to the clanging bell which, however, alerted the feline inhabitants. As he opened the door, he was engulfed in a purring tide of cats, all intent on insinuating themselves about his ankles. Faro no longer had any worries that Sir Hedley might be lying dead in his cat-haunted tower. So, restraining them from escaping into the garden, and having endured enough strong and unpleasant odours for one day, he beat a hasty retreat.
Before going out to Aberlethie to see if Miss Fortescue could shed any light on the identity of the corpse in St Anthony's Chapel, Faro had decided to make certain that the dead man was not already on the Edinburgh City Police's missing persons list.
At the Central Office, Sergeant McQuinn had
