Murder in Paradise Read Free Page A

the wild haunt of footpads.
    ‘Red House stands on what was the pilgrims’ road to Canterbury, a fact dear to Topsy’s heart, a devoted Chaucerian. Such a romantic, he fell in love with the medieval ruins of Lesnes Abbey and Hall Place, the old Tudor mansion over yonder.’ And a confidential whisper, ‘Built a couple of years ago and cost a small fortune, don’t you know, £4000—’
    A fortune indeed and an almost unimaginable amount of money to an Edinburgh policeman, thought Faro, as Erland went on:
    ‘Morris is rich, of course, but he couldn’t afford a country estate and Red House was over five times his annual income from his father’s legacy. But newly married, you know, he wanted a new house. Ah, we are nearly there.’ He laughed. ‘And his great friend, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was delighted to hear that his friend Topsy had chosen to build on a place known as Hog’s Hole.’
    Suddenly the wagonette swung and swayed through the gate of a high wall.
    ‘Home at last!’ said Erland. ‘Welcome to Morris’s “Earthly Paradise”!’

C HAPTER T WO
    The first sight of Red House gave Faro a feeling of astonished pleasure to see a building so vividly picturesque and uniquely original, startling in red brick, an unusual colour for one used to the grey stones of Scotland. An immense, red-tiled, steep roof, a gable shaped like a giant pepper pot and high, small-paned medieval windows suggested the house of a religious community rather than an artist’s domestic residence.
    As they approached the low, wide porch with its massive oak door, Erland chuckled. ‘This is called the Pilgrim’s Rest. Appropriate, don’t you think?’
    Stepping out of the wagonette Faro paused, breathing in the thin fresh air, welcomed by sweet garden smells of apples from the gnarled old fruit trees glimpsed over the orchard walls.
    The tall figure of a girl standing in the porch disappeared inside.
    ‘That’s Janey, Topsy’s wife,’ Erland whispered. ‘I’ll introduce you and she’ll soon find a room for you.’
    Already somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of encountering professional and famous artists, a strata of society of which his life in Edinburgh and Orkney had offered no experience, Jeremy, following Erland into the now empty hall, put a hand on his arm and whispered:
    ‘I have only one request. No word that I’m a policeman. Keep that to yourself, if you please.’
    Erland laughed. ‘Your secret is safe with me. I have no intention of giving the game away, old chap. A policeman in their midst would cast a definite blight on their behaviour – that is, of course, until they get to know you,’ he added hastily. And with an apologetic cough, ‘You will have to get used to it, ignoring things, I mean. Some of them behave a little odd. A law unto themselves, as we say. Use laudanum and chloral, as well as opium, not just for health reasons, to keep minor aches and pains at bay, but just to keep their spirits up.’
    ‘Do you?’ Faro demanded.
    In answer, Erland shrugged and then, looking anxiously at Faro’s expression, he said: ‘You know what I mean, I’m sure. After all, artists often need this sort of stimulant, Rossetti in particular. And of course the wine flows continually. I’m sure you won’t judge them. They mean no harm, they’re decent, good souls.’
    Harm or no, and with hopes of a dram of whisky after his travels fast disappearing, Faro decided it was none of his business. He must temporarily forget his Calvinist upbringing and the law’s rulings on illegal drugs, and assuring Erland he understood perfectly, he cut short his own misgivings.
    As well as being a splendid location and certainly more comfortable than the brief glimpse suggested the local alehouse might have on offer, whatever went on in Red House, he was prepared to ignore. This impromptu visit was only for a few days. An interesting experience for the beginning of his investigation, an investigation which he was under orders