[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  The question was, did Lady Elrigg respond to Mark? If so, then she had the perfect reason for wishing to be rid of an elderly husband whose charm was limited to his bank account, especially when there was a fortune and a handsome, young and virile man to inherit it. If Poppy Lynne had married Elrigg only for his fortune and with his stepson conspired in his murder, then Faro would feel no sympathy for either of them.

  Was she morally responsible for Gray's death too, enticing men to kill for her love? The more facts Faro unearthed, the less he liked the unpleasant picture that his imagination created. One did not have to dig too deeply below the surface to discover that Elrigg was a man who made many enemies. Known as well as unknown - as yet!

  Of the known enemies, Hector Elrigg had the best reason of all. Over the years, a festering rage and resentment that he was morally the rightful heir. He also had the best vantage point for murder: witnessing the accident from the hillfort, seeing the Prince ride off and finding his hated uncle helpless, had he seized the chance for revenge?

  With the bull's horn?

  Faro shook his head. No, it wouldn't do. Hector might have stolen the horns, but it was unlikely he could have secreted them away for such a possibility. If they had been taken from the inn with such a plot in mind, then Sir Archie would have been lured to his death.

  And it seemed highly unlikely that the future King of England could have dreamed up anything as subtle as the method used of diverting attention from his equerry's murder. Unless he had been the willing accomplice of Lady Elrigg. Would such a theory fit the Prince's panic-stricken retreat from the copse and his speedy departure from the Castle?

  Faro doubted that. Bertie's constant fear of blackmail and his ready supply of mistresses made Poppy Elrigg in no way special or permanent. Merely one more dalliance, that was all.

  Dismissing the Prince's role in his equerry's murder, Faro realised that anyone besides the poacher Duffy might have stolen the horns, hidden them away in the copse where they had been accidentally found by someone from the village with murder in mind - that local tenant with reason to hate the laird?

  Someone like Dr Brand who blamed his daughter's death on the Elriggs. (What had happened? Constable Dewar would no doubt reveal the circumstances if asked.)

  Recalling the earlier part of his conversation with the doctor, all Faro now knew for certain was that Elrigg had been unconscious but not fatally injured when the Prince - and his horse - bolted.

  And that brought him sharply back to the reason for his presence at Elrigg. His main purpose was to obey the Royal Command and report back to Her Majesty that the Prince of Wales was innocent of cowardice. This he could do with confidence, for if the hidden bull's horn was the weapon used to end Sir Archie's life, then it was unlikely indeed that the Prince had been the murderer.

  But instead of being satisfied that he had completed his mission and returning to Edinburgh, he realised he was following the habit of a lifetime of police investigation and allowing himself to be drawn into a mystery that it was not even his right to solve. If the entire population of Elrigg decided to kill each other off, or their laird, this was the business of the Northumberland Constabulary to assist Sergeant Yarrow and Constable Dewar by the appointment of a detective experienced in murder investigations.

  The evidence of his own eyes was, apart from finding the probable murder weapon, only circumstantial. But he wished he could have known the exact location of the possible suspects at the time of Sir Archie's death.

  Replacing the horn reluctantly, as if by holding it in his hands he might extract by supernatural means the identity of the murderer, he made a mental note to be firm with himself and concentrate on the history of Elrigg while he awaited Vince's arrival, meanwhile ignoring any grisly secrets of the past that were none of his business.

  He would begin by having another look at the hillfort.

  Chapter 12

  Hector Elrigg's greeting was cordial. In more leisurely circumstances than their first encounter in the police station, Faro saw that generations of Elrigg warriors had created the young man's strong physique and vital personality. A fighting man in the tradition of Harry Hotspur. Leaning on his spade, Hector said: 'Good day to you, sir. Interested in our old hillfort, are you?'

  Faro murmured that he was and Hector nodded eagerly. Tapping the ground with his foot, he said: 'You're standing on the oldest part of Elrigg, it's been here since the dawn of history, when this entire area was covered with a vast forest and the inhabitants had just left their nomadic ways and decided to make places of settlement where they could trade, chat, make marriage contracts, worship - become a community.'

  'Does your hillfort predate the wild cattle?'

  Hector shook his head. 'Who can tell? Certainly the ancestors of our cattle would have provided meat for their spears. Come, walk round with me.'

  As Faro followed him across the grassy mound, which was the size of a small field, only piles of stones and a few broken walls marked the spot that Hector told him lay within a circle of byroads.

  'Once it rose to about five hundred feet, crowned with a camp for whoever made himself chief. Even in those days, there were men who had more physical strength, cunning and insight to come out on top as leaders.'

  As they climbed up the slope, Hector said, 'Look back. This is a good time to be here, when the sun is sinking. See how it lights up the contours. Those parallel lines you see under the turf are cultivation terraces.'

  And walking quickly ahead, he jumped on a large boulder and pointed back the way they had come.

  'Those humps in the ground are the remains of hut circles, folds for cattle, and burial cairns.'

  'Have you found anything interesting?'

  'A few urn burials, amber necklaces, silver rings, and so forth.' He smiled. 'A liking for luxury and personal vanity is not news; the powerful and rich had jewellery and other ornaments, superior pottery and weapons. Power takes many forms but the display of one's riches was necessary and popular then, as a fine house, a carriage and horses are today. The secret of power for early man was their ability to use the landscape not only to survive but to produce a surplus that they could use to bargain and trade with, to buy slaves and most important to buy allegiance from chiefs to serve them.

  'Of course, like everyone then and now, they mislaid and lost things, broke them or threw them away. Except that, as they didn't have much to lose, they left us enough to give us some idea of their lives. Their technology depended largely on flint - flint that could be smashed up, flaked and worked into tools of every variety - blades, scrapers and arrowheads. With the discovery of flint animals could be killed, eaten and their hides used for clothes, tents, waterbags.'

  Hector paused and pointed to the skyline. 'You get the best view from the top of the hill yonder, worth the climb. The headless women. If you aren't afraid to go there.'

  'The cattle, you mean.'

  'No. Even the cattle are scared of them. It's the noise they make that scares them off. The presence of the old gods.'

  Faro smiled.

  'An unbeliever, eh? Well, take it from me, whatever you want to call that primeval force, it's worthy of respect. And fear. It can be very unnerving if you're up there in a rising wind. First it sounds as if the stones are sighing, then crying - that's when you want to run...'

  'Has anyone tried to find the cause?'

  'Oh, I know the cause,' said Hector cheerfully. 'Natural erosion has resulted in fluting and gulleys on the stones. The wind rushes through them rather like organ pipes. That's the scientific explanation, but try to persuade generations of the ignorant and superstitious that they are not the cries of Celtic princesses turned to stone. And when they scream then disaster will strike Elrigg.'

  'Have you ever excavated the site?'

  Hector's face darkened. ‘I’ve tried to. I'm certain there is evidence to link the date of the stones with the hillfort, perhaps they were part of a religious ceremonial or the burial site of some important t
ribal chief. But I've been denied that right.'

  He paused and regarded Faro suspiciously for the first time. 'Wait a moment. I have seen you before. At the police station.'

  'That is so.'

  When Faro did not offer any further explanation, Hector continued: 'Are you here to register for the archery contest?'

  'Alas, no.'

  'A pity. You have the look of a man who might be handy with weapons,' he said, surveying him candidly.

  But Faro refused to be drawn.

  Hector continued to regard him curiously. 'You seem remarkably well informed, sir. What exactly brings you to these parts?'

  'Insurance business, alas.' Faro tried to sound casual. 'All rather boring, I'm afraid.'

  'Connected with my late uncle, I presume.'

  'Yes.'

  'He was a bastard and he deserved to die. A few acres of his precious ground, a chance to discover the secret of the stones. That's all I've ever wanted, all I ever asked him for. He owed me a lot more than that - a damned lot more.'

  He stopped, shrugged. 'I won't bore you with the details. It's a very long and sordid story. All I can tell you is that they're a rum lot up at the Castle.'

  'In what way?'

  Hector stared at the horizon. 'Oh, you know. The young and beautiful actress who marries an old man for his money. Brings one of her London actress friends with her as companion. Can't blame her insisting on that as part of the deal. Life would be pretty intolerable for her otherwise. But her friend, Miss Kent, I don't know how she sticks it. A far cry from the stage. Poppy must have made it worth her while - Miss Kent was never a great beauty with all the world and the Prince of Wales at her feet.'

  He looked at Faro as he said it. So he knew the identity of the visitor at the time of Sir Archie's fatal accident. And as Faro listened and watched Hector's expression change to one of wistfulness, he realised that the nephew might also have a motive of jealousy, mesmerised by Poppy Elrigg too, although he might qualify only for one of 'all the world'.

  'It would have made more sense for Mark to fall for the companion, wouldn't it?' Hector went on. 'But no, it's the stepma he wants. Miss Kent would have been much safer.'

  'How safer?'

  Hector laughed and, ignoring the question, he said: 'I've nothing against young Mark. Like the boy, I must say. We've always got along splendidly. I even gave him his first archery lessons. He saw me as a kind of latterday Robin Hood. Used to come and watch me dig when he came home from boarding school. He was intrigued by the possibilities of old graves and skeletons, the usual schoolboy preoccupation with buried treasure and that nonsense. I gave him a spade and a bit of encouragement.'

  He smiled at the remembrance before adding: 'He didn't like his stepfather even then and their relationship didn't improve with time. Poppy's arrival was probably the last straw -'

  And Faro wondered how much Mark's young life had been influenced by Hector's grudge against Sir Archie. He could well imagine the impressionable schoolboy with a case of hero worship for this romantic relative who searched ancient ruins for buried treasure.

  Hector was eyeing him candidly. 'Insurance investigator, you say?' Without waiting for Faro's reply, he continued, 'If you'd been a policeman, I'd have said there are one or two who'll be mightily pleased that Uncle Archie got his just deserts. He killed a beater once. Drunk he was, should not have been in charge of a loaded shotgun. An accident, everyone covered up like mad. Young lad about twelve.'

  'From these parts?'

  'No. From Durham somewhere. He was staying with relations, farmers over Flodden way. Can't remember the details, illness in the family, something of the sort. An only child. Went to school here for a while and got on well with young Mark, the two of them used to come to the dig. His aunt and uncle were so upset by the tragedy they couldn't settle afterwards and moved away. Felt guilty, although it was none of their fault, poor souls.

  'And then there's Dr Brand, his daughter drowned herself, suicide. Plenty would say she was driven to it.'

  Faro recalled the doctor's words as Hector went on.

  'She was a bright, clever girl, working for the summer on cataloguing family documents for my uncle. She left in a hurry. Rumour had it that she was pregnant - and the whispers were that it was Uncle Archie's bairn. Later it came out that the factor had been dallying with her. He'd been sacked for embezzlement, bolted for London before he could be arrested, leaving her in the lurch.'

  He sighed. 'She walked into the ornamental lake by the walled garden. My uncle showed some finer feelings - or some remorse, by having the lake drained.'

  'So all this will go to Mark now?'

  Hector did not seem perturbed. 'That is so, since there is no issue, legitimate or otherwise. Mark's mother was ten years older than my uncle, plain but very wealthy. Nice woman, kind too. Coal owner's widow. There were no children. He was out of luck with Poppy too. Five years and no sign of an heir.'

  A childless marriage, a barren wife. How often Faro had heard that. The bane of rich men and noble lairds with much to leave and desperate for a son to leave it to. Kings had murdered their queens and lords abandoned their ladies for just such a reason. In the new society even rich merchants keen to establish a dynasty had been known to be crafty and merciless in ridding themselves of a barren wife.

  It remained one of the best of all possible motives for murder. If Poppy had been the victim instead of her husband.

  Hector squinted up at the sky. 'We'll have rain soon. Must get on with things, unless you'd like a shot with a spade too.' And nodding towards a cottage half hidden by tress, 'I live over there. If you change your mind and feel like some healthy exercise any time.'

  'I'll bear it in mind.' Faro pointed to the standing stones outlined against the sky. 'Meanwhile I think I'll brave the headless women.'

  Hector grinned. 'Walk round the field unless you want an encounter with the farmer - an earful of his bellowing could be more scaring that our stone ladies' vocal qualities.'

  Faro smiled. 'Constable Dewar warned me.'

  Hector regarded him coolly. 'You don't look to me like a man who scares easily. What was it you said you were - an insurance assessor?'

  And his accompanying laugh, with its note of disbelief, reminded Faro how thin his disguise was.

  * * *

  As he climbed the steep hill, the sun beat down straight into his eyes. The stones seemed to shiver in the glowing transparent light. Occasionally he stopped and shaded his eyes. Once or twice he could have sworn he saw a dark shadow move swiftly across his line of vision.

  At last, following the rough path, he reached the perimeter of the circle. His mind far away, he almost leaped from his skin when a woman's face stared down at him.

  Not stone, but flesh and blood with dark red hair and green eyes. A face as cold as the stones, whose response to his friendly greeting was to gather up her papers, tuck them swiftly into her valise and jump down the other side of the circle.

  'Wait,' he called, 'I didn't mean to intrude. Don't let me disturb you.'

  Whether she heard him or not, he couldn't tell, his efforts rewarded by her fleeing back, her hair flowing out like a burning bush behind her as she leaped through the stony field.

  Obviously she feared an irate farmer less than himself, Faro thought. And watching her swift progress, half amused, half exasperated, he realised he had almost forgotten Imogen Crowe's existence.

  About to retrace his steps, he noticed a slim book lying face downward where she had been sitting.

  Glancing at the title, The History of Civilisation, he thrust it into his pocket, only mildly curious about this dramatic change in reading matter or what interesting mission his arrival had interrupted to cause her precipitate flight. He would hand in the book to the lodge sometime. A nuisance, and her own fault if she lost it. He turned his attention to the stones when he heard a cry.

  A human cry...

  Chapter 13

  The cry had issued not from the headless wome
n behind him, but from the stony field.

  Faro stared down from the perimeter of the circle. Imogen Crowe was lying on the ground about thirty yards away. She looked up, saw him and called: 'Help me, will you, please.'

  What an irresistible invitation, he thought grimly and made his way carefully down the rough ground of the field.

  'Are you hurt?' he asked, bending over her.

  She struggled to sit up. 'Of course I'm hurt. I wouldn't call for help otherwise. My ankle, I think I've broken my bloody ankle. No, don't you touch it. Don't dare-'

  And thrusting his hand away she seized her ankle between her hands and began to rub it vigorously, moaning a little as she did so. 'I twisted it on that bracken root. I just shot forward -and here I am.'

  Faro stared down at her. 'You should have come up by the path at the edge of the field.'

  'I did that.'

  'Then why on earth didn't you go back the same way? Racing down the field like that...'

  She shrugged and chose not to answer what was perfectly obvious and equally embarrassing: her eagerness to escape from him.

  With a sigh, Faro looked down at her, held out his hands, still waiting to be thanked for his assistance: 'Can you stand?' he asked gently.

  She stood up, wavered and with a cry would have fallen again but for Faro. She looked indignantly at his steadying hand on her arm as if she'd like to brush it off, given half a chance and a more reliable balance.

  If only her damned ankle wasn't so sore. Now she had to rely on this wretched man. Nodding towards the still-distant road, she said, 'Help me down there, will you.'

  'Of course.' And bending over, he picked her up bodily.

  'What do you think you're doing?' she demanded angrily.