Free Murder in Paradise by Alanna Knight Page B

comparison.
    Poppy greeted him with a polite good day but, almost embarrassed by this encounter, Morris merely stared at her and at Faro as if he had never seen either of them before. With a bow, a puzzled frown and mumbled response, head down, he darted towards the courtyard.
    Faro decided that he was not the only one who suffered from preoccupation as Poppy whispered, ‘He’s like that. Totally absorbed in whatever he is doing at the moment—’
    The sound of a gong nearby erupted into the silence, frightening birds enjoying a quiet siesta on their various tree perches, into noisy squawking flight.
    ‘What on earth is that?’ Faro demanded.
    Poppy leapt to her feet. ‘That’s for me. I must go.’
    ‘Have they no clocks in the house?’
    Poppy smiled. ‘Gabriel needs me again. The gardens are so large, we are all apt to get lost. He is sure we will wander away and this is his way to summon back to the studio any models out for a breath of air. I enjoy sitting for him, it’s easy work and I earn a lot more than I did in the kitchens,’ she added candidly, her sigh and wistful glance indicating that she would have much preferred to stay with her new companion.
    A house without clocks, a medieval garden with gardeners to match. Faro felt as if he had stepped back in time. Only the chug-chug of an engine and a puff of smoke from the nearby railway line as a train headed towards London reassured him that this was indeed the year 1860.
    Now that Mr Morris had departed, the hooded figures were taking an early break from their labours, talking and laughing together as they did justice to pies and mugs of ale brought over by two of the kitchen maids, who received plenty of flirtatious comments in recompense. One of the men might well be the missing Bess’s suitor, Faro decided. But as he walked purposefully towards them, they all looked round, sprang to their feet and stared at him, not in an unfriendly manner but just polite and curious.
    ‘Is there something the matter, sir?’ one asked.
    How could he respond? It was impossible to ask that question, it sounded too banal – and embarrassing. Yet the question must be asked.
    ‘I was looking for a young lady. Bess Tracy – do any of you know her?’
    Knowing looks were exchanged, a nudge, a giggle suppressed. Obviously Muir was right about Bess Tracy’s reputation, a suspicion that had been reinforced by Poppy’s hints. And now those arch glances from the gardeners, surveying this well-dressed man, this toff, shouted louder than any words the truth of the matter; they clearly thought rumours had reached him regarding the remarkable abilities of the local whore, and they could guess his intentions.
    As heads were shaken, Faro realised that he lacked the courage to turn his back and walk swiftly away. Instead he lingered, expressing a sudden interest in the variety of apples, enquiring which of them were mostly used for cooking.
    This brought an unexpected bout of enthusiasm and it was with some difficulty that he managed to extract himself from the merits of the varieties the names of which he would never remember.
    Making his escape at last, he took out his pocket watch. Time for his dismal routine visit to the police office. How long would this continue, the daily telegraph to Noble that no progress had been made? The same wording: ‘No sighting to report. Await your further instructions.’ And an hour later the inevitable response. ‘Continue your search. Remain vigilant.’
    The whole situation was ludicrous. For one thing, although he had seen Macheath’s face at close quarters as they fought on that lonely stretch of beach at Portobello, his quarry – who was of medium height, strong and athletically built in his late thirties or early forties – had a dark beard which concealed any distinctive features. And a beard was an excellent disguise. Facial hair was the current fashion and all that was required was for him to shave it off and dye his hair for a