[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  'What was all hushed up, Livvy?' asked Vice patiently, knowing her weakness for going off on a tangent.

  'Protecting the younger girls from scandal, of course.'

  'What sort of scandal?'

  Olivia regarded the two men, biting her lip. 'You know, I don't even care to discuss it.'

  'Oh, come along, now that you've told us this much, we're intrigued. Don't be mean, Olivia,' said Vince as she glanced uncomfortably in Faro's direction.

  'Well - I don't know.'

  'Oh, don't be a goose, you can tell Stepfather anything. I do.' Vince chided her gently.

  'Yes, but you're different. You're a man.'

  'So I've heard,' Vince laughed. 'So is Stepfather. And he has seen and heard of most of the frailties of human nature, haven't you?

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Well, what was it? Don't tell me she cheated at exams?' said Vince.

  Olivia shuddered. 'Oh no, that was quite common.'

  'Games, then?'

  'We all cheated at games. No. It was much worse than that.'

  'I know,' said Vince triumphantly. 'She flirted with the gardener's boy and was seen kissing him behind the garden shed.'

  Olivia pushed him, laughing, then, suddenly serious, 'If only it was just that.'

  'Surely you can't get anything more serious in a girls' boarding school than an illicit kiss with the gardener's boy -'

  'Vince, listen to me, please. It was nothing like this. I mean, normal.' She stopped and then went on rapidly. 'She was expelled and the music teacher dismissed.'

  That bad,' Vince whistled. 'Pupils do fall in love with their teachers, especially in girls' schools.'

  'You still don't understand. We didn't have men teachers at St Grace's.'

  'Oh?'

  'This was a woman teacher.' Olivia gulped and blushed. 'They were caught - together - in bed,' she whispered.

  Faro, listening to the conversation in mild amusement, did not take in the immediate significance. Girls in schools frequently slept in the same bed and his first thought was that it was the fact of a schoolgirl sleeping next to one of the teachers.

  But the emphasis 'together' and Olivia's accompanying blushing discomfort removed all doubts. Although he had encountered the homosexual's forbidden world during his years with the Edinburgh City Police, he found it difficult to understand - as did many of his fellow men, Vince included - that women were capable of a deep physical relationship.

  Indeed, although there was a criminal law against male homosexuals, there existed no such law against lesbians, simply because Her Majesty, outraged at such a suggestion, refused to believe her sex capable of such depravity.

  Faro sighed. Olivia's revelations gave an added motive for murder. Two women who loved passionately and between them the unwanted husband.

  'It is also one possibility,' said Vince later, 'why there were no children. Sir Archie was known as a collector of beautiful objects. Presumably he regarded his lovely wife in the same light. I wonder if he knew about Miss Kent when he married her.'

  'I doubt whether he would have considered it of any significance, since most rich women have companions,' said Faro.

  'Perhaps he was impotent. That would account for no children by his first marriage and the adoption of his stepson as the future heir of Elrigg,' said Vince.

  How ironic, thought Faro. A castle with splendid estates, a life, to the outside world, that had every material blessing and yet Sir Archie had every reason to envy the poorest tenants on his estate their quivers of children, many unwanted but undoubted evidence of their boundless unrestrained fertility, while his legendary sexual prowess was a lie.

  ‘I’d like to know a great deal more about Mark's relationship with Sir Archie. From hints dropped by Aunt Molly to Olivia, which she has now confided in me, I suspect that he may well have been illused by him. She didn't call it that, of course, and I doubt whether he ever spelled it out even to her. But there was certainly a curious relationship between them.'

  If that was so, it was indeed a motive for murder, Faro decided gloomily.

  Chapter 25

  Vince was to leave for Branxton with the twins and Miss Gilchrist. The latter, enchanted to learn that Miss Crowe was an authoress, had included her in the party.

  Two extra passengers plus the luggage that had accompanied the twins from Edinburgh created a difficulty for the carriage, which comfortably accommodated only four people.

  Heads were shaken but the problem was not insurmountable. Vince, who was required to drive the carriage, should take the twins and Miss Gilchrist. Lady Elrigg would be delighted to put the governess cart at Mr Faro's disposal if he would be good enough to take Miss Crowe with him.

  Faro concealed his emotions carefully. But his sharp look in Vince's direction asked clearly as any words: if this is yet another plot to throw us together then they are in for a disappointment. He had already decided that Hector was enamoured with Miss Crowe and she had shown no evidence that she resented his attentions. In fact, through dinner at the castle, she appeared to be encouraging him.

  Faro was happy to keep such observations to himself and wished the pair good fortune since it would seem to be a very suitable match - if any man were found brave enough to take on the formidable Miss Crowe.

  And so the two set off for Branxton with Faro determined to be agreeable and cautious in his conversation, risking nothing that would ignite the temper that seemed to match the lady's flaming hair.

  The weather was in their favour, sunny and pleasantly warm, a day to loiter in the grandeur of hill and dale. Just clear of Elrigg village, they had to pull into the side of the road to allow a troupe of gypsy caravans passage.

  'On their way to Kirk Yetholm,' said Imogen, who seemed pleased at the sight of them and greeted the leading caravan in their own language.

  Faro was surprised at that and she laughed. 'The Irish tongue has its uses. Besides I was brought up among their kind in Kerry. My grandmother was one of them.'

  The caravans had stopped while she was speaking. A withered old woman, her hair in long white braids, leaned across so that she was level with Imogen. Toothless, she smiled, obviously demanding her hand.

  Imogen gave it to her reluctantly and Faro watched that dark hand holding the white long-fingered one. The gypsy said some words and Imogen gave an anxious cry and tried to withdraw her hand.

  When she succeeded, the old woman shrugged and, turning eyes milky pale in that dark heavily seamed face upon Faro, she held out her hand in a demanding way.

  Misreading the gesture he took out a coin from his pocket and gave it to her. With an indignant cry, angrily she hurled it to the ground.

  'What on earth -

  'You have insulted her,' said Imogen Crowe quietly. 'She wanted to tell you something important - something written in your hand.'

  'My apologies, please give her my apologies...'

  'Oh, she understands English quite well, they just don't care to speak it if Romany will do.'

  Faro turned to the old woman. 'I am sorry, I did not mean to insult you.' And, although he also didn't believe in such nonsense as fortune-telling, he gallantly held out his hand and smiled at her.

  The smile won the old woman. She shrugged and took his hand, stroking it, her eyes closed, her palms surprisingly soft and warm for one so old, he thought. The soothing hands of a healer.

  But he knew when she looked up at him that healing was not what she saw. Her eyes were sad, full of tears. And he knew without any explanation or translation from Imogen that the cold feeling filling his bones was the presence of death.

  His own. The silence and the stillness of that moment seemed to last for an eternity.

  'No,' said Imogen sharply, as the old woman murmured. 'No,' she repeated. Then, realising that Faro did not understand the words, she spoke to the gypsy in her own language, very gently, pleadingly.

  It was enough. The cloud that had been hiding the sun vanished, the road was again filled with the
noise of rattling carts, of jingling pots and pans, the smell of horses, dogs barking and children's laughter. The shadow of death had passed by and he and Imogen Crowe continued on their way as if their journey had never been interrupted.

  But Faro was conscious of Imogen Crowe watching him intently, speculatively. Catching her eye, he turned away sharply.

  'What was the old woman babbling on about?' he asked lightly. 'What did she want to tell me?'

  'Nothing.'

  'It didn't sound like nothing. Tell me what she said, I want to know, Imogen.'

  She looked startled. It was the first time he had used her given name. She shook her head.

  'She said I was going to die, didn't she?'

  'No. No. Just that you were in terrible danger. But I could have told you that,' she added.

  Faro laughed. 'Could you indeed?'

  She shrugged. 'I have the sight.'

  'Have you now?' Faro asked with a lightness he was far from feeling. 'Then let me tell you, young lady, there is nothing in the least remarkable about such an observation. I am a policeman and I've been in some kind of danger practically every working day of my life and I will continue to be so until death puts an end to it.'

  She looked at him sadly. 'This time it is different. This danger is from within - from where you least expect it. Oh - look, over there.' She pointed to a handsome castle on the hillside.

  'That's Ford.' And obviously glad to change the subject, 'King James the Fourth spent the night before Flodden there.'

  'Not, I suspect, as it looks now.'

  'Well, the old tower still remains, they tell me. His room with its secret staircase leading down into Lady Heron's. They were enemies; her husband and their sons were prisoners of James. Rumour has it that she was more than hospitable to the King. She wanted to get on his good side, so she used woman's only weapon. She seduced him with her charm and he was so captivated by her that, before they made love, he removed the chain of penitence that he had sworn to wear about his body until his death. True or not, it was a fatal decision.

  'We don't know what happened afterwards. Perhaps he fell in love with her and she rejected him. But when he left there was ill-will between them, a sense of betrayal - so much so that he gave orders to set her castle to the torch, a poor thanks for all her kindness. Fortunately it wasn't destroyed.'

  She was silent, watching the road ahead. 'But enemies they were.' And turning to him, 'You can't really ever love your enemy, despite the Sermon on the Mount, can you?'

  'Why are you telling me all this? Was this part of your gypsy woman's warning?' he asked.

  She smiled. 'No, I am telling you a story, that is all.'

  Suddenly he remembered her book with its revealing flyleaf and that he must return it to her. He did not feel like mentioning it at that moment and he urged on the horse. She spoke no more until they climbed down the steep hill to where Miss Gilchrist's house looked down on the village of Branxton with its smoking chimneys.

  To their right lay the battlefield of Flodden. Its closeness made Faro uneasy, as if the carnage of that September day lingered still, never to be obliterated by even the rains of three hundred years. Nor could the blood spilt and the weeping be healed by a million larks and their rapturous song of hope and joy.

  He looked down and thought that the screaming ghosts of dead and dying must forever haunt the rafters where the first swallows swooped, filling the air with their gentle excited cries. And that the pale wild flowers opening in the hedgerows must be forever crimson, blood-tainted.

  As they approached the house, there were voices in the garden. Miss Gilchrist, the twins and Vince were seated under a shady tree. There was the rattle of teacups, sounds of laughter.

  Imogen Crowe looked at Faro, frowning. She understood. Neither were ready to exchange this sombre past for the jollity and the light-hearted banter of the present occupants of that sunny garden.

  'Come with me.' Faro led the way down the hill towards the site of the battle. 'Here ten thousand men - fathers, sons, brothers - entire families - the flower of Scottish nobility - fell, wiped out in a few hours.'

  At his side she said: 'Can you take it so calmly, you a Scot?'

  Faro smiled. 'I'm no more Scottish that you are. I've told you that. I'm Orcadian by birth.'

  She looked at him sharply. 'Of course, that's why you're so different from the rest.'

  'Am I? In what way?'

  She jabbed a finger at him. 'You are Viking - pure Viking. I thought that the very first day I saw you. Put a horned helmet on him, I said, and every woman within miles would run screaming -'

  'I didn't realise I was such a monster as all that,' Faro interrupted in wounded tones.

  'You didn't let me finish - I hadn't said in which direction they were running,' she ended impishly with a mocking coquettish glance that left him feeling not only contrite but highly vulnerable.

  Chapter 26

  Their arrival in the garden was greeted warmly and their long absence commented on, but as the maid brought out refreshments the weather was changing, grey skies, like an army of vengeful ghosts, creeping over the battlefield.

  Miss Gilchrist shivered and said they had better go indoors.

  The house was welcoming, alive with flowers, the smells of ancient wood well waxed and polished. Everything gleamed with a lifetime's devotion to crystal, pictures and furniture.

  But as Faro sat in that cosy atmosphere, his eyes strayed constantly to the window overlooking the battlefield, astonished that such peace and tranquillity could exist alongside such memories of bloody carnage. A few hours that with the death of King James and his nobles altered the course of Scotland's history for ever.

  After luncheon, they played at cards and, losing as he invariably did, Faro retired somewhat aggrieved to examine the well-filled bookshelves. Laughter and teasing comments echoed from the card table and he looked at the old lady so sensitive and charming, marvelling that she had lived here alone all her life. That for her each day and night would pass untroubled by the scenes the very stones on her doorstep had witnessed and remembered.

  'Lucky at cards, my dear,' she said consolingly, as she also retired from the fray. 'You know what they say.'

  'I don't seem to be lucky in either,' said Faro.

  But Miss Gilchrist didn't hear, her eyes on Imogen Crowe who frowned intently over her hand and then, with a whoop of triumph, threw them down, fanned wide and called: 'Game - to me!'

  'Imagine Miss Crowe being an authoress,' said Miss Gilchrist admiringly.

  'Depends on what - or who - she writes about,' Faro said drily. Writers made him nervous. He did not want to find himself pilloried in her next romance. A Viking indeed.

  'I am sure she will be very kind to her friends. And discreet too. Perhaps she'll marry Hector.'

  'You think so?'

  'Yes, of course. Everyone notices that he is quite captivated by her. And she seems to encourage him. He is a fine young man and he deserves a good wife. Mark and Poppy would be pleased too. Sir Archie treated him badly.' Pausing, she studied Imogen critically. 'And she seems such a lady - for an Irishwoman.'

  That made Faro laugh out loud. It was so totally out of character with his hostess. 'Are there no Irish ladies then?'

  Miss Gilchrist frowned. 'There must be, I'm sure - a few. But most of the ones I've met have been gypsies or vagrants. Not very clean. And there were occasional Irish servants at the Castle in my time. Not very clean or very honest either. Twice I had coins stolen and a brooch I was fond of.'

  'Perhaps poor immigrants faced with the necessity of survival cannot afford high principles,' Faro said gently. 'Famine recognises only the fight for survival.'

  When he first came to Edinburgh as a policeman in 1849, the potato famine was it its height and every boat to Glasgow and Leith was packed with Irishmen and women and their vast families, ragged, desperate, starving. A terrible sight, his mother used to weep for them and although the Faros had little, she gave them money a
nd food - and clothes too when they came to her door.

  'God bless you - and yours,' they'd say.

  That was enough for Mrs Faro. For her, money and goods had nothing to do with it. There were only good people and bad people and the good ones were welcome to her last crust.

  Other than Sergeant Danny McQuinn, the only Irishmen Faro had encountered as a policeman had bombs in their pockets and were a constant threat to Her Majesty and a menace to Edinburgh's law and order. But he felt obliged, as one who also belonged to a vanquished race, to say a word or two in defence of another nation similarly and more cruelly affected.

  'There have been noble Irish ladies,' he said, 'Like Deirdre of the Sorrows.'

  'Yes, indeed. Such a sad story. And so depressing, like all their legends. Never a happy ending anywhere. Indeed, when they are honest they are so mournful.'

  Faro was not to be defeated. He pressed on. 'There were saints among them too. Patrick and Columba who brought Christianity from Ireland when the rest of Britain were all heathens.'

  Miss Gilchrist stiffened. She was not convinced. 'But our St George was a knight,' she said proudly. 'And he slew dragons.'

  * * *

  They went down to the little church at Evensong. For his own reasons Faro would have preferred to remain where he was but politeness demanded that he accompany them.

  The vicar, recognising Miss Gilchrist had brought strangers who swelled out his tiny congregation, was eager to give a good report of his church. Proudly he welcomed the visitors from the pulpit: 'These walls sheltered the dead of both warring nations after Flodden. There are no enemies once death has ruled the line. Then men are all equal, all differences forgiven in the blood of Christ.'

  When they trooped out afterwards, Faro, always a practical man, considered that frenzied burial, with a nightmare vision of what ten thousand corpses heaped together looked like to the men whose task it was to bury them.