[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

to the new breed of independent and enlightened women. And Faro was one man who didn't feel threatened by them. In many of his cases, he had learned to deal with women who were the equal of any man, and infinitely more ruthless. He had his own personal reasons, and carried some indelible scars, for regarding the fair sex not as the weaker, but in many instances, the stronger.

This one, he thought, was far too bright to be wasted in a stultifying existence as a mere lady-in-waiting to an impulsive headstrong royal duchess, with her talents limited to plying an embroidery needle, playing the pianoforte and playing up to her mistress's constant demand for entertainment.

Afterwards, when he tried to do so, he could never clearly remember details of their conversation, only her ready flashes of wit and humour.

As she cleared the table and carried the dishes to the sink, refusing his help, she sighed happily. 'This is my dream come true. I get so little chance to do this sort of thing. I am not even allowed to set foot in the kitchens.' She paused and looked at him solemnly. 'Shall I tell you what my favourite book is?'

'Please do,' he said, expecting some learned philosophical treatise.

'Promise you won't laugh?'

'I promise.'

'Mrs Beeton's All About Cookery book.' She looked at him suspiciously. 'You don't find that amusing?'

'On the contrary, I find it very worthy.'

She looked around and smiled. 'A kitchen, warm - and small. A cosy fire and a table full of baking materials. Half a dozen menus to prepare - that is my idea of bliss.'

'And a husband perhaps to appreciate your culinary efforts,' he added teasingly.

Her face darkened. 'Perhaps.' Then the shadow lifted and she regarded him intently, with a look that flattered him. 'Or a kind friend. That would do perfectly.'

Faro wondered why, past thirty, she was still unmarried. He suspected a sad love story, some hidden grief. Pretty, charming, attractive - were Luxorian men daunted by such qualities and by this clever Scotswoman? Scots? No. She wasn't really, he thought, she was quite foreign sometimes, in turns of phrase, a word sought after vainly - in the manner of British subjects who spend most of their lives in other countries and are more at home in another language.

He was delighted to find that Miss Fortescue was extremely well-read. She shared his own passion for Shakespeare's plays, her early years as companion to her English-educated royal mistress had obviously served her well. He was agreeably surprised to hear that she also enjoyed Sir Walter Scott's novels.

'And we had all Mr Dickens' latest books sent out specially to Luxoria.'

Music too, Faro discovered, was something they shared. Mr Mendelssohn and Mr Liszt had been welcome visitors to Luxoria.

In no great hurry to bring the evening to a close, they talked and laughed together. Meanwhile the storm continued to rage outside, but they were oblivious of wind lashing the windows, of doors creaking in the gale.

At one stage, pouring more wine, Faro looked at his companion and saw her for the first time as a woman to be desired. He realised wistfully that this cosy domestic scene, this simple meal in a warm kitchen, was one being repeated in houses all over Edinburgh.

How long had it been since he spent an evening at home with a woman he loved, he thought wistfully, his hand shaking a little as he picked up his wineglass? It had been so long since Lizzie had died. His skirmishes into love had been transient, wounding, disastrous.

As Miss Fortescue looked at him he felt embarrassed by the pain in his eyes. Was she lonely too? Did this kitchen scene remind her of the years that were gone, of sad days and glad days and lost love?

Faro sighed. The Wagnerian storm outside with its lightning flashes and thunder-claps that shook the walls and guttered the lamps was all the passion this particular house would know tonight.

Midnight was past. Where had the hours gone? He wanted to call them all back again, to relive each minute, suddenly precious, each sentence, each burst of laughter in a perpetual motion of happy hours. Eternity should be such a night as this. Eternal bliss -

And now it was almost over. Miss Fortescue stood up, yawned. He regarded the dregs of his empty wineglass.

'Of course, you must be tired.'

She sighed. 'A little, yes. It has been such a day.'

He poured warm water into a ewer for her washing and took the candle off the table. 'I'll see you to your room.'

He followed her upstairs, opened the door of his daughters' room for Miss Fortescue. Turning, she smiled. 'Such a lovely day. A tremendous adventure.'

'I'll bid you goodnight, miss. Sleep well.'

'You too, Inspector. And thank you once again.'

Here today, gone tomorrow, a bird of passage, with plumage strange and rare. Only a fool would fall in love, Faro thought, closing the door on her.

His dreams were wild and strange, full of erotic images. The Crusader came from his tomb, stalking him across the years and thrusting the Luck o' Lethie into his hands. It turned into a snake becoming part of his own body.

He was awake. It was that strange hour twixt wolf and dog when familiar shapes of furniture become gross and ghostly aliens of nightmare and all the world holds its breath.

Someone was shaking him.

'Wake up - please, wake up.'

It was Miss Fortescue.

'Someone - someone is trying to break into the house,' she whispered. 'In the kitchen -'

Faro leaped out of bed and threw on his dressing-robe. An attempted break-in. There could be only one purpose. He felt sickened and confused by the knowledge that someone had followed Miss Fortescue and knew she was here. The assassin -

'You stay here,' he said, and ran lightly downstairs.

The kitchen was filled with grey uneasy dawn. But the door was still locked, bolted.

'They must have run away,' Miss Fortescue whispered. She was brave, he thought, she had followed him.

'What made you think - ?'

'I heard