* * *
Miss Halliday sighed. 'Thank you, sir. I do love to hear a man's voice read that letter, although I know every word of it. And you did it so nicely.' And rehanging it, she added: 'I like to think that perhaps he found his inspiration as a great author while staying in this house. I have been very fortunate today.' She smiled.
'Indeed?'
'Yes, I must confess that you are the second person who has so indulged me. A young lady, Miss Crowe.' She shook her head. 'A young lady of mystery, I might add. She comes and she goes. Perhaps you have met her? She lives at the Castle lodge.'
'She occasionally takes meals at the inn where I am staying.'
'Does she really?' said Miss Halliday eagerly. 'And what do you think of her?'
'I really haven't paid her much attention, to be honest.'
As Miss Halliday refilled the teapot, Faro sensed that she was disappointed with his answer, and that she would have very much enjoyed a little speculative gossip about the mysterious Miss Crowe.
Faro, however, was more keenly interested in the treasures that surrounded him, the walls with their watercolours. Photographs too, for this new fashion had obviously seized Miss Halliday's enthusiasm.
There were several paintings of pretty young children and in place of honour an outstanding watercolour portrait of a handsome young boy who stared out at them with large enquiring eyes and a slight shy smile. He seemed ready to speak, his expression reminding Faro of someone he had met recently.
'One of your paintings, Miss Halliday?'
She clasped her hands in delight. 'Indeed yes, I'm glad you approve of my little painting.'
'A relation perhaps?'
He expected to be told that this was indeed a favourite nephew but instead she shook her head sadly.
'Merely a favourite pupil.' She sighed. 'Poor dear little Eric, he was at school a few years ago, and I must confess that he was exactly like the son I would have wished for had I ever married.'
She paused and Faro asked; 'Where is he now? Grown up and away, I expect.'
'If only that were so.' She bit her lip and turned away, near to tears and Faro guessed the answer before she spoke.
'He is dead, sir. Killed on the estate here, a most tragic accident. He was with the young beaters, when a gun that one of the party was loading misfired.'
She shook her head, her eyes tragic. 'We could hardly believe such a thing could happen. You can imagine how everyone felt, we were heartbroken - guilty even, for the boy was only a visitor but we were all fond of him, he had made so many friends. And, of course, we all blamed ourselves for not taking better care of him.'
Faro looked at her. Loyalty obviously demanded discretion and according to Hector Elrigg, the gun had been in the hands of Sir Archie who had been drunk at the time.
As he was leaving, he realised sadly that this handsome young boy who had won his way into her spinsterly heart and tragically died had been Miss Halliday's nearest encounter with motherhood.
But the person the boy reminded him of remained stubbornly obscure.
Chapter 19
Six o'clock was wheezing from the inn's ancient clock as Faro sat down to his supper. The dining room was empty and he was pleased that he had the table to himself for his meeting with Duffy. He would put a pint of ale in front of the poacher just to loosen his tongue a little, with hopes that this eagerness for a meeting signalled enlightenment on the mystery of Sir Archie's last hours.
But his meal was finished, seven had struck with no sign of Duffy, and Faro returned to the bar where Bowden, polishing the counter with his usual eagerness, did not share his anxiety.
'Not the most reliable of chaps,' he said. 'If something better comes along, isn't that so, Sergeant?' he asked Yarrow who was seated at the far end of the counter.
Yarrow's smile indicated that Duffy was not one of his favourites. 'Care to join me, Mr Faro?'
Faro did so but with some diffidence since the bar was directly overlooked by a window. If Duffy chanced to look in and saw the insurance mannie chatting to the law in the shape of Yarrow, this might well scare him off.
As time passed in desultory talk with the Sergeant, Faro was certain this must have happened, despite his efforts to keep a watchful eye on the door.
At last Yarrow buttoned up his tunic and announced that he was back on duty. Faro was relieved to see him depart and with a final word to Bowden to let him know when Duffy arrived, he prepared to go up to his room.
The barman shook his head and looked at the clock. 'You'll not see him tonight, sir, he'll be busy about his own business by now. He'll have forgotten all about your arrangement and he'll be in as usual for his pint of ale at opening time tomorrow morning. If he's sober enough to walk, that is.'
* * *
Faro spent the rest of the evening making notes, bringing his log of the case up to date, carefully writing in dossiers of what he knew of the suspects, and of their movements.
Conscious that such an investigation had never been his responsibility and that he had no legal right to interfere, he threw down his pen at last.
The time had come to reveal his identity and confide his suspicions to Sergeant Yarrow. The rest was up to the Northumberland Constabulary who might well consider his observations of merely academic interest. If they felt there was not enough at this late date to follow his leads and reopen an inquiry into Sir Archie's death, he had done what he considered his moral duty.
When he undertook the Queen's Command regarding the future King of England, he had not expected to be landed with a murder case. In fact, the only conclusion he had reached was that the person least likely to have murdered Sir Archie was the Prince of Wales, despite his suspiciously hurried departure from Elrigg Castle.
Whether he had been guilty of that gravest of British sins, cowardice, could, however, be settled only by that most unsatisfactory of Scottish verdicts: 'Not proven'.
Faro slept badly that night, haunted by his old nightmare. Pursued by Highland cattle, the bull's hot breath on his heels as he ran, screaming...
He awoke screaming, but the bull's bellowing was merely the gentle lowing of the dairy cows on their way to milking.
Now fully awake, he was aware of sweeter sounds of birdsong that filled his open window. Shaking free from the web of nightmare, he washed and dressed for the day, aware that the weather beyond the window looked promising. He might as well make the most of this good fresh air before returning to the grime of Edinburgh's smoke-laden High Street and the Central Office of the City Police.
Concluding that dreams were contrary things signifying nothing, he tackled with promptitude the hearty breakfast set before him and contemplated Vince's imminent arrival.
Not for his stepson the train to Bedford and an undignified scramble for the only hiring carriage. Vince would arrive in style in the comfort of the Gilchrists' own carriage, since their family coachbuilding business had accommodated Midlothian's gentry for two generations.
In a decidedly cheerful frame of mind, Faro checked with Bowden that there was a vacant bedroom should Dr Vincent Laurie require it. Then he set off into the village in search of Sergeant Yarrow and a vague hope of buying a suitable birthday gift for the twins' great-aunt Gilchrist.
He had noted that the local shop, in addition to supplying everything from food to farming implements, also displayed in its window pretty lace caps with ribbon streamers, a fashion that the Queen had initiated and that widows and old ladies everywhere had eagerly adopted.
He was hesitating, undecided over the merits of a bewildering selection, when a voice at his elbow said: 'The one with more lace and less streamers, if it's for your mother. Sure, she'll like that, now.'
The Irish accent, the smiling face, was that of Imogen Crowe.
As he mumbled his thanks and handed the cap to the shopkeeper, she said: 'You'll not regret it. That's the one I'd have bought for my own mother. She'll be pleased too that it's good value. The rest are somewhat expensive,' she ad
ded in a whisper. 'And they won't launder as well.'
'I'm most grateful to you...'
But turning, he saw she had paid for her own purchases, which looked like a bag of groceries, and was leaving the shop.
What miracle had caused such a change of heart in this chilly lady, he wondered as, with his purchase pocketed, it remained only to hand over his notes to Sergeant Yarrow.
* * *
The station door was locked and bore a well-worn notice that anyone in need of the police should apply across the road. A printed hand helpfully pointed in the direction of the Dewars' cottage.
The door was opened very promptly. Mrs Dewar beamed on him. 'Do come in, sir.'
As he followed her into the kitchen, she said: 'Sandy isn't here at the moment, but I have a visitor I'm sure you'd like to meet.'
Seeing Imogen Crowe seated at the table, Faro hesitated. 'I don't wish to disturb you.'
'Not at all, not at all. Miss Crowe came for a recipe and we're just having a cup of tea. Perhaps you'll join us.'
Despite their recent encounter, amiable as it was, Miss Crowe was the last person Faro wished to see at that moment, and in this setting. He felt his dismay was shared by Miss Crowe, since the glint in Mrs Dewar's eye, as she looked from one to the other with considerable sly satisfaction, unmistakably proclaimed the matchmaker at work.
Faro remained standing, while he and Miss Crowe eyed each other warily. Yes, they said, they had met before. A bow from him, a sharp nod from her.
'Sandy went up the road in the pony cart. Sergeant Yarrow's still abed.' Mrs Dewar raised her eyes in the direction of the ceiling. 'He was late in last night. It's his morning off and I always take his breakfast up and put it outside his door,' she added reverently. 'A gentleman like him needs a bit of spoiling.
'If you take a walk up the road to the hillfort you'll meet Sandy on the way back. Perhaps you'd like to come to supper -' she darted a look at Miss Crowe's glum face, 'both of you -on Sunday evening. I do a nice beef roast, too big for us now that our lads are away.'
Miss Crowe frowned, shook her head, glancing at Faro. He smiled and said: 'You are very kind, but my stepson is arriving this afternoon and I shall be leaving Elrigg.'
'You are leaving us - so soon.' Mrs Dewar darted an anxious look at Miss Crowe. 'That is such a pity. We are just getting to know you, isn't that so, miss?'
Her beaming smile in that lady's direction was rewarded by a polite but chilly inclination of the head enough to convince anyone less determined than Mrs Dewar that her romantic intentions were doomed to dismal failure.
‘I’m sorry you must go, sir. I am sure you and this young lady would find much in common...'
Faro avoided Miss Crowe's eyes as he took his departure with more haste than good manners dictated, Mrs Dewar's well-meaning compliments soaring after him.
He had been through this ritual so many times, with so many mothers with daughters.
As he walked briskly up the road, he was a little astonished that a man past forty should still be a potential victim of the matchmaker's art. Would it never end, he thought? Would they never give up and accept him for what he was, a widower with growing daughters?
* * *
Having decided to put his notes into Yarrow's hands personally, he planned to enjoy the end of his stay in Elrigg with a pleasant stroll on a warm sunny morning. As he walked happily up the road whistling under his breath he mentally shed 'Mr Faro: Insurance Investigator' and returned to his own identity.
He decided this would be a good opportunity to take another look at the hillfort on the excuse that Vince would want to know all about it. He had another stronger reason: to meet Hector Elrigg once more.
As he reached the pastureland, with the hillfort in sight, his nightmare returned and he approached with extreme caution.
No wild bulls roared down on him, the cattle were grazing nearer to the road than on his last visit, but still safely enclosed behind a sturdy-looking fence.
There was no sign of Hector Elrigg at the excavations and having come this far Faro decided to try his cottage. There was no response but, finding the door partially open, he gazed inside. A fire glowed, the table was set for a perfunctory meal. The atmosphere was elegant, with chairs and tables that would have been equally at home in the Castle; furnishings more opulent than he would have expected from a bachelor archaeologist's estate cottage.
He closed the door, thinking that Hector's good taste would not have gone amiss in Elrigg.
* * *
Hurrying back across the pastureland he was sure that the cattle had moved still nearer.
Although they appeared to be peacefully grazing, he also observed that once again all faces had turned in his direction. They were watching him with unnerving stillness and intensity. Quickening his footsteps and resisting the almost unconquerable urge to run, he was thankful to bypass the hillfort and reach the safety of the road.
From beyond the fence, he looked at them in wonder. So little was left of early man's presence, but these beasts, who should rightly have been extinct long ago, continued to thrive, their survival dictated by some secret knowledge of the universe and obedience to the natural laws obliterated by layer upon layer of man's sophistication down the ages.
On the hilltop with the sun behind them, the standing stones looked more than ever like five headless women. What was their secret older than recorded time, what long-forgotten rituals linked them with the hillfort and the wild cattle?
Intrigued by that insoluble mystery and having come this far on a fruitless errand, Faro decided to inspect them more carefully than the advent of the tiresome Miss Crowe had made possible the last time.
Clambering along the margins of the farmer's field with its newly sown crops, he reached the summit of the circle, once more captivated by the views from this vantage point across two countries.
Taking a seat on a large stone, he looked down towards the now distant road. The outlines of the prehistoric fort were more clearly visible from this height, the sunlight casting shadows on the contours which had once sheltered the earliest inhabitants of Elrigg, the nomads who had settled here and given this place its first history.
There was a newer race of nomads now. And he saw a line of brightly coloured caravans trotting down the road; the sound of the horses, the tinkling of the pots and pans, dogs barking and children shouting, echoed through the air. A cheerful sound of bustling humanity, though he doubted whether the gypsies' return would be any more welcome here than it was on the meadows around Edinburgh.
They made careful circuit of the forbidden and dangerous pastureland and headed towards the riverbank where they would make temporary camp.
Far beyond the road twisting away below him, smoke rose into the still air indicating the village of Elrigg, an oasis nestling peacefully among undulating hills, lost in a fold of this wild barbaric land with its blood-soaked history. Beyond the parkland the Castle's towers rose through the trees which hid the drive and the lodge gates.
Shading his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Miss Halliday's cottage and wondered if the twenty-year-old Walter Scott had also been intrigued by the riddle of Elrigg as he walked these roads and touched these stones. It pleased Faro to think that, with his famous novels still in the future, perhaps young Scott had conceived his love of the Borders which was to inspire Marmion and The Bride of Lammermoor in the Hallidays' farmhouse.
From the distant church he heard the sound of bells. Eleven o'clock, and reluctantly he made his way back downhill and, heading in the direction of the inn, he indulged in the pleasant fancy that on this very spot, echoing his own footsteps, his hero had found inspiration or, in the years of his fame, wrestled with some particularly difficult passage of prose...
'Hey - mister...'
His reverie was interrupted by two young lads who erupted from the field and ran towards him waving their fishing rods.
'Mister, mister. Come quick!'
'Old Duffy's lying with his face i
n the burn...'
Chapter 20
Faro sprang over the fence and followed the two lads down the slope to swift-flowing water.
Half hidden by the overgrowing banks, Duffy lay motionless.
'He looks bad, doesn't he, mister?'
He did. Turning Duffy over, Faro said to the younger of the two who had the look of brothers: 'Go and keep a sharp look out for Constable Dewar. He's on the road somewhere. Send him over.' And to the other: 'Run and get Sergeant Yarrow. Fast as you can.'
'Will he be all right, mister?'
‘I don't know.'
'Shall I get me father, sir? He's the vicar.'
'Yes, tell him. But get the Sergeant first.'
Obviously the Cairncross lad recognised the signs of death. And, left alone, Faro knew Duffy was dead. Drowned.
The signs were unmistakable, as was the smell of whisky about him.
Faro knelt by the body. Only another unfortunate accident, to be dismissed as one more coincidence, he told himself. And no connection with any information that, according to Bowden, Duffy had been anxious to impart (or sell) to the 'insurance mannie'.
Of course it was an accident, Yarrow and Dewar would say reassuringly. They knew Duffy well, the kind of man he was. Everyone had been expecting something like this. He drank too much, one day he'd keel over, fall into the river.
As Faro looked down at him, he noticed that from one clenched hand a thread hung. As he tugged, what at first glance was a silver coin rolled on the ground.
Faro picked it up, turned it over. If this meant what he thought it did, then Duffy's death was no accident. He had been murdered.
He was still thinking about the implications of his discovery when a horse and rider came into view. It was Yarrow, shortly followed by Dewar, the vicar, his sons and a couple of estate workers.
Reverend Cairncross knelt by the body, took the cold hands in his and murmured a prayer.
[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals Page 12
