Cutting short his apologies: 'My fault. I didn't ask. I came downstairs. And I saw a shadow - a man - at the window. Look -' She pointed.
Faro went to the window above the sink. A small pane of glass was broken. He opened the back door cautiously, walked the few steps to the window, saw the slivers of glass on the ground.
She watched him relocking the door.
'Well, you must have scared him off,' he said. 'I think you'd better go back to bed.'
'Are you sure he won't come back?' she said, pointing to the window.
'No. No one could climb in through that tiny space. I think we're safe enough now.'
She walked ahead of him up the stairs. She was wearing a light petticoat, prettily frilled with ribboned lace, and he realised that she must have slept in it in the absence of a nightgown.
He opened her bedroom door. 'You'll be quite safe now.'
'But - how -'
He shook his head, gently closed the door on her protests and went back to his own bed.
There he lay awake, his hands behind his head, pondering the night's strange events. In a little while he dozed, and opening his eyes, he thought he dreamed again, for she stood at his bedside.
'I'm so frightened. And I'm so cold. I've never been so cold.'
She held out her hands. He smiled and pulled back the covers, taking her into his arms. She was as passionate as she was clever, as tender as she was sweet.
At last the storm rolled away, and the golden light of early morning sunlight touched the bed where they lay still entwined.
Faro sighed, looking at her sleeping face. Soon it would be all over. The wild sweetness of one stolen night about to be obliterated by another day when dreams are quenched by the solemnity of duty.
She stirred in his arms. He kissed her hair and left her.
When she came down to the kitchen where he was stirring the embers of the fire, she looked towards the broken pane of glass.
'I can't believe it really happened,' she whispered.
'It didn't.'
'You mean - the break-in?'
'Exactly. It didn't happen. There was never a burglar.' He put an arm around her and laughed. 'So much trouble to come into my bed,' he whispered.
She understood. Laughing lightly, standing on tiptoe, she kissed him.
Chapter 15
Sergeant McQuinn arrived as they were leaving the house together. He managed to conceal well both his surprise and his curiosity at the presence of a young woman in Inspector Faro's hall at eight thirty in the morning.
Saluting smartly, for the lady's benefit, he said: 'Superintendent McIntosh's compliments, sir. He needs to see you urgently.'
'I was about to escort Miss Fortescue back to Aberlethie.'
McQuinn looked at Miss Fortescue. 'Perhaps I can do that for you, sir.' He pointed to the street. The carriage is there.'
McQuinn did not miss the lady's frantic look in Faro's direction, nor how completely the Inspector chose to ignore it.
'You will be quite safe with Sergeant McQuinn, miss. Er - I'll call on you later.'
Bowing to her, he felt that he failed completely to convey the emotion concealed within those few words. She darted him a frantic look as McQuinn reached out a hand for her bag. But refusing to be parted from it, she allowed him to hand her into the carriage.
Again Faro wondered what shopping had been so precious or heavy and, more important, where the money had come from. Obviously Lady Lethie had been generous with more than her wardrobe.
Helplessly he watched them go, lifting a hand in farewell, angry at Mcintosh's ill-timed command and with a shaft of jealousy for the young Irishman.
Would McQuinn exert all his ready charm on Miss Fortescue, Faro thought, remembering how successful McQuinn was with the ladies? All ages too, even his own young daughter Rose had lost her heart to him.
But in another part of his mind, Faro was secretly relieved that McQuinn's arrival had been so opportune. No words of love had been spoken between Roma Fortescue and himself. They had been two lonely people hungry for comfort. Of greater embarrassment would have been an explanation of why she had felt it necessary to pretend there was a burglar lurking on the premises.
That failed to make any sense at all.
In the Central Office, he found Superintendent Mcintosh pacing the floor anxiously.
'Where do you think you've been, Faro? I've been waiting for you here since eight o'clock.'
Faro did not feel up to explaining that his arrival had been delayed by Miss Fortescue's departure on the nine o'clock train for North Berwick. Superintendent McIntosh would doubtless have asked the question he was most anxious to avoid: What was she doing at his house and where had she spent the night?
There's a couple of lads downstairs. Claim that the man you found in St Anthony's Chapel is their father. They're with Dr Cranley now. He wants you to talk to them.'
The downstairs room was stark and bare with whitewashed brick walls and a disagreeable smell. Used for the questioning of criminals, its intimidating atmosphere offered little by way of consolation in breaking bad news to bereaved relatives.
Constable Reid was in attendance and Dr Cranley indicated a seat at the table. As he sat down opposite the pair, the doctor said: This is Inspector Faro.'
Introductions were unnecessary, the Hogan brothers knew him well already. Their paths had crossed many times before, and as far as Faro could see the only thing they had in common with the dead man was ginger hair.
'... They have identified the body as that of their father, Joshua Hogan, aged fifty-five, who went missing from home two weeks ago. I have explained the circumstances of his discovery to them and they have made a statement...'
As Cranley spoke, Faro studied the two men. The elder, Joe, was a petty criminal, a fence for stolen
