Now that Dave Claydon had been buried, how could he hope to satisfy Macfie’s anxiety about whether his drowning was an accident? The sinister question remained – did he fall or was he pushed? As for that leather bag he was carrying, had he handed it to the man at the top of the ladder or had it gone down with him, as Amos surmised?
He decided to write to Macfie, conveying all the information he had gained so far, although most was in the uncertain realm of theory only. Considering all Macfie’s connections, perhaps he could find out from the Edinburgh Museum what they were expecting to receive, since some correspondence must have been exchanged.
For the immediate moment, however, he was happy to thrust aside all else but the delightful prospect of seeing Inga again.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Faro walked towards the market stalls keeping a lookout for Inga, he realised his talk with Amos had raised some questions that urgently needed answers. Time was not on his side, so where did his enquiries begin?
There seemed little point in talking to his mate Rob, who had left the scene before the incident. As for the ship in question, even equipped to interview the entire crew, he knew the impossibility of discovering the identity of the man at the top of the ladder. Aware of the captain’s wrath falling upon their heads – each and all would deny anything to do with the illegal boarding incident.
Macfie’s copy of the police report had been brief and to the point. Hopefully, The Orcadian might give a more personal slant, a mention of Claydon’s body recovered and the funeral, in the absence of sensational news of which there was little in Kirkwall: troop movements in war-torn India or crimes in the far-off mainland alike did not merit more than an occasional sentence, unless there happened to be a local link.
The print run was limited and newspapers were a precious commodity, passed down from hand to hand, eagerly awaited reading matter in a place where the only essential was to be able to count, and reading for pleasure was not considered one of life’s necessities. Books were scarce even for those who could read and afford to buy them. Unlike big cities such as Edinburgh and Glasgow, lending libraries for avid readers were rare, and most folks’ interest was confined to events in their surrounding area. Certainly the drowning of a local man was guaranteed sensational headlines.
Faro’s road to the newspaper office lay in the general direction of the police station and on an impulse he decided to acquaint himself with the Orkney Constabulary, with some faint idea based on a conversation with Macfie that it might prove useful.
He was in luck. Introducing himself at the counter, a mid-fortyish uniformed officer appeared from the inner office. Tall, well-muscled, with a healthy-looking complexion, a flourishing moustache and wiry dark hair, he introduced himself.
‘Sergeant Bill Stavely. Young Jeremy Faro! Knew your father, Magnus. Come on in,’ he said, and to the counter clerk, ‘Organise some refreshment, will you?’
Invited to take a seat, Stavely sat opposite, and subjecting Faro to a careful scrutiny said, with an air of approval, ‘Well now, small world. So you took after Magnus, in more than looks.’ He shook his head. ‘I was right sorry to hear about his accident – we were on the Leith beat together. I’m a Yorkshireman by birth, came to Edinburgh when I was a lad, and after joining the police I would happily have stayed there, but the wife was from Stromness. Eight years ago, her ma took seriously ill. They were close and Lily wanted to come home again, especially as there was a much younger brother, Halcro, to take care of. We didn’t take to being parted, travelling up and down here wasn’t easy, so I decided to follow her.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Although I might have got higher on the ladder had I stayed in the big city, I’ve never regretted that decision. Bairns grew up here, three lasses and one lad – sixteen he is.’ A sudden pause suggested pride mixed with perplexity. Faro asked the obvious. ‘Does he want to follow you into the police?’
‘I’d like that fine, but he has to make up his own mind.’ Stavely’s face darkened remembering the frequent disruption of domestic bliss and Lily’s tears at Ed’s rebellious behaviour, particularly his fondness for drink and what his father decided were undesirable associates, the lowest elements of young males in Kirkwall. That was bad enough, but lasses had also loomed on the scene and both parents decided he was far too young, which he considered unfair since they had married before they were twenty.
These thoughts remained unspoken and after a few general remarks Faro mentioned Macfie. Stavely beamed. ‘Knew the old fellow well. How is he?’
And that led right to Faro’s mission regarding Dave Claydon.
Stavely shook his head. ‘Poor Claydon. That was bad luck. Buried only a few days ago,’ he added grimly. ‘Enough to give a widow nightmares; Thora was in a state of collapse, completely distraught.’
He sighed. ‘The ferryman, Amos Flett, last person to see him before he drowned, identified the body and spared her that final ordeal.’
The counter clerk came in with a written message and Stavely sighed, ‘Have to go. Business calls.’ He stood up, shook hands. ‘Enjoyed meeting you. Anytime you’re hereabouts, look in for a chat.’
Faro left heading for the newspaper office and wishing there had been more time to find out Stavely’s thoughts on Dave’s bad luck and any speculation on what that leather bag might have contained.
Hopefully The Orcadian would have something vital to his enquiry on offer, with the chance that there would still be a back copy with more information on the accident than he had received from Macfie and that someone could give him the widow Claydon’s whereabouts.
At the desk he announced that he was on holiday and had promised that he would look in on Mrs Claydon and offer condolences from her Edinburgh relatives. The clerk regarded him bleakly, but perhaps consoled by the Orkney dialect into which Faro had lapsed, he said, ‘Aye, sad case it was. Jimmy wrote it up – he was at the funeral and, right enough, he’ll know her address. I’ll see if I can find him.’
At that moment the door was flung open and a large, untidy man dashed in. He had a mop of wild, greying hair, a bewildered look of frantic purpose and his general appearance suggested that all his clothes had been flung on in a great hurry.
‘Jimmy!’ shouted the clerk. ‘A mannie tae see ye.’
Jimmy slithered to a halt and regarded Faro breathlessly. ‘What is it? A fire somewhere – any casualties?’ he added hopefully, already conjuring up the next edition’s headline.
‘Yes … I mean, no.’ And to the man’s ill-concealed disappointment Faro retold the Edinburgh family connection with the drowned man.
‘Aye, aye – Dave Claydon, body washed up; he’s been buried already. One of my best features,’ said Jimmy puffing out his chest with evident pride since it was, in fact, his only important feature since his arrival on the newspaper five years earlier. Reluctant to relinquish his moment of importance, he obtained the best possible mileage by frequent reports, keeping readers in mind that the search for the drowned man continued without success.
‘Such a scoop,’ said Jimmy. ‘Body washed up on the shore. Sensational. Especially as the only other item of any interest to the locals was that Josh, Amos Flett’s invalid brother, was dying.’ He shook his head. ‘However, as everyone had been expecting that for years, it wasn’t exactly headline news.’
Meeting Faro had brought a momentary cheer to Jimmy’s dismal expression. In a dire lack of news apart from the market day scenes in Kirkwall and the farming prices for various animals, an Edinburgh relative’s distress would stretch into another reasonably sensational headline, and rubbing his unshaven chin thoughtfully he said, ‘The widow Claydon bides up the road yonder.’
At Faro’s request Jimmy was delighted to produce copies of the last two editions. The first, containing the story of a Belfast man on holiday walking along the shore near Spanish Cove and his dismay at finding Dave Claydon’s mortal remains, and the second, an account of the funeral.
Thanking him with several pressing questions unanswer
ed, Faro hurried back along the street to the address he had been given – a neat stone house about a hundred years old with a pretty garden, but Mrs Claydon was clearly not at home. About to leave, a curtain twitched on the house next door and an elderly woman emerged and looked Faro up and down suspiciously as if assessing his respectability.
Obviously, gentleman callers were of great interest to Mrs Claydon’s neighbours, Faro decided as he explained the reason for his visit once again. He wasn’t sure by her expression if she believed a word of it or not, but with a shrug of dismissal, she said, ‘Helps out in the bakery in Main Street, they’re like to have a market stall today.’
The idea of approaching Mrs Claydon at such a scene with the sort of questions he had in mind had little appeal and, walking towards Kirk Green, he was considering a visit to the local minister who had conducted the funeral service and whether it would be advantageous to introduce himself, explaining Macfie’s connection.
‘What are you doing here, Jeremy Faro, looking so grumpy?’
The voice and the laugh belonged to Inga.
He grinned. ‘Not grumpy, just thoughtful – and delighted to see you. Such an unexpected treat.’
‘Not quite so unexpected. I did mention market day with the hope that you would take the hint. And so you did.’
‘And what brings you here?’
She shrugged. ‘Material, odds and ends. I’m a seamstress; I sew fine petticoats and underwear for the gentry ladies, and in my spare time I knit jerseys and stockings for the fishermen.’
Faro smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you were so domestic.’
‘Are you being sarcastic, Jeremy?’ she asked indignantly. ‘I can cook too, you know. Anyway, I’m finished for the moment,’ she added, indicating the basket over her arm. ‘A few more items to collect and a customer to see this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘However, if you would like my company for a while …’ She added with an arch glance, ‘I’m good at company too, if you can remember.’
He laughed. ‘A long time ago, that was.’
‘Very well. Let’s walk for a while, down to the shore. There’s less folk about and we can throw stones at the seals.’
‘Do we have to be so drastic?’
‘Only if you cannot think of interesting chat to keep me from dying of boredom.’ And with a complete change of subject, the question he dreaded. ‘What brings you here, anyway? I saw you lingering outside the police station a while back, I was in a shop.’ Pausing she smiled. ‘Thought you were having a holiday from being a policeman and chasing criminals.’
‘And so I am. Seeing Mamma again.’
And clinging to his arm, with another disconcerting change of subject she demanded, ‘Found yourself a wife yet?’
‘Of course not.’ Instantly regretting that emphasis, he added cautiously, ‘I do have a young lady.’
‘A young lady, eh?’ Inga repeated. ‘How nice. Any thoughts about a wedding emerging?’ She stopped and pointed to a bench. ‘Do let’s sit down. I’m exhausted. Your legs are far too long, I can’t keep up with you.’ Sitting close to his side, she looked up at him, chin on hand. ‘All right, Jeremy. Tell me all about her.’
And so he told her about Lizzie and Vince.
‘What a horrible small boy. Can’t she have him adopted or something?’
Faro explained that Lizzie loved Vince and was determined to keep him with her. She had made great sacrifices, was prepared to work hard on menial tasks, and accepted her role as an outcast in decent Edinburgh society.
‘As for me, I am certainly not going to part them, that has never been my intention.’ At Inga’s rather cynical laugh, he went on, ‘As a matter of fact I have hopes of winning over that obnoxious brat some day. He’s a clever little lad, right enough. Wants to be a doctor.’
‘A doctor,’ Inga repeated. ‘Eleven years old – what a weird ambition.’ She added seriously, ‘It’s a long time for you to wait for your Lizzie and if you want my opinion, you’re wasting your time there, Jeremy.’
Despite Inga’s negative advice, Faro found it a great comfort talking to her, sitting there in the sunshine, with a chorus of seabirds and seals barking like excited dogs from the rocks.
‘What else do you do, besides sewing?’
‘I work in the bakery over yonder, occasionally – feast days and so forth.’
‘Doesn’t look as if you eat much of the profits,’ he chuckled with an admiring glance at her trim figure. But mention of the bakery reminded him of his quest.
‘Do you by any chance know a Mrs Claydon?’
‘Thora Claydon. Certainly do. Comes in part-time as well. What’s your business with her?’ Inga demanded suspiciously.
‘Just a promise to an Edinburgh colleague. Her late husband was a relative. Said I’d call in and give her greetings and their condolences.’
‘Make sure that’s all you give her,’ Inga murmured and added, ‘I doubt you’ll make much progress there. She’ll be quite resistant to your charms. Keeps herself very much to herself since Dave died. Nobody gets to know anything about her. Never were what you’d call a sociable couple. Dave was popular, though – there was a large turnout for his funeral.’
Faro remembered the newspaper’s long list of mourners as, pausing, Inga looked across at the seals with a faint shudder. ‘Just listen to them barking! It’s that time of year!’
Her remark recalled for them both that August was also Lammastide.
‘Remember the seal king legend?’ she said. ‘Being a girl it used to terrify me. However, he never came and snatched me up. Thora, however, had a very interesting experience, a past that everyone, including herself, hopes to forget. Never talks about it, but it was quite a sensation that will go down in history as one of our island myths.’
And Faro found himself hearing again of the seal king’s annual rising from the sea and carrying off a girl walking on the shore to be his bride in his kingdom under the waves. But in this case the girl was Thora Harbister, Dave’s fiancée.
‘She returned, just like the legend said, found walking along the shore, lost and bewildered, at the very spot where she had disappeared, a year and a day later. Claimed she couldn’t remember a thing about the experience, no matter how everyone tried to get the truth of what had happened.’
‘What about her parents?’
‘Didn’t have any. She and her sister Elsa were orphaned when they were peedie bairns.’
‘No aunts or uncles?’
‘No one. Anyway, although Dave must have been upset, loyally he stood by her, married her, just as they had planned. That is what most folks called being exceptionally faithful; some were deeply shocked, and to this day it’s still a talking point.’
‘Her memory never came back?’
‘Not a whisper.’
It was an intriguing story, a tale of unswerving devotion and now its sad link with the present.
Faro asked, ‘Did you know Dave?’
Inga shook her head. ‘Not really. Maybe met him a couple of times, but we never had much to say to each other. I thought him rather a dull sort of fellow, intense but dull.’ She laughed.
‘What about Thora’s sister?’
Inga shook her head. ‘No one knows. She never discussed it either. Truth is, they didn’t get on together. But when Thora went missing, she took her place at the bakery, kept her own counsel, and when Thora came back, Elsa left the island, took off to the mainland. Haven’t seen her for years. Don’t think Thora cared. But when Elsa didn’t even come to Dave’s funeral to support her sister, her only relative, there were raised eyebrows in plenty. A real talking point, I can tell you.’
‘What was the trouble between them?’
Inga shrugged. ‘Dave Claydon. Rumour was that Elsa, the older sister, saw him first and Thora stole him. Maybe Elsa couldn’t bear the thought of her marrying Dave.’ She shrugged. ‘No one could blame her for hoping that her little sister had gone for ever and that would give her another chance of hearing wedding bel
ls with Dave.’
‘Were there any children?’
Inga shook her head. ‘No, perhaps just as well. Pity though,’ she added with a laugh. ‘Maybe they would have been mermaids.’
‘Have any other girls had the same experience and come back?’
‘Not that anyone’s heard lately.’ Inga gave him a pitying look and laughed. ‘Surely you don’t believe all that nonsense, Jeremy?’
And Jeremy Faro didn’t. Not then, anyway.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thora Claydon’s disappearance as the seal king’s bride and the forgiving nature of her fiancé, Dave, increased Faro’s determination to meet her. The whole episode was so completely unreal, completely alien to his theory that for everything there had to be a logical explanation.
He decided to try again and reluctantly remove himself from Inga’s congenial company. Even as he toyed with plausible excuses, Inga announced that she must make the most of the rest of her day, as living at Spanish Cove there was little in the way of transport to Kirkwall, apart from the carters on market days. The alternative was horseback, which she didn’t enjoy, or, from the same stable, a gig, a luxury which she couldn’t afford.
‘I hope you will come and visit me in my little house by the sea. It’s on your way to Scarthbreck – you can’t miss it.’
Although Faro received the invitation eagerly, he found it difficult to imagine Inga living in such a dreary place, its exotic name in reality belying any images of sunny Spain.
‘Have you lived there long?’
‘Long enough. I never stay in any place – there’s a lot of world outside to explore.’
And with that enigmatic statement she was gone, and suddenly the prospect of having her near at hand had him deciding that this holiday offered more excitement than a week at Scarthbreck gathering information for Macfie about Dave Claydon’s drowning and his subsequent funeral, although the mystery of his enigmatic wife was an added attraction.
Considering Claydon, the facts gathered so far and the account from the ferryman, Amos, indicated a straightforward accident. Making an illegal attempt to board the Edinburgh-bound ship in a wild sea, he had slipped on the ladder, and although he was an excellent swimmer by all accounts, perhaps he had been injured by the fall between ship and boat, concussed and drowned.
The Seal King Murders Page 4
