The Seal King Murders

by Alanna Knight

  Inga smiled. ‘This is Baubie Finn – my friend, Jeremy Faro.’

  The woman, who sat concealed by the chair, turned to greet him.

  She was a further surprise. Expecting an old crone, a wise woman bent by the years, this Baubie Finn at first glance in the faint light appeared just a little older than Inga. Small, slim and, far from the shawls and crude rags, an eccentricity imagination readily painted in a selkie, she was exceptionally neat, so conventionally dressed that she would not have raised a single eyebrow in the congregation at the kirk that morning.

  In fact she was so ordinary, with black hair sleekly pulled back, a pleasant, round face with fresh colouring, he felt almost cross, cheated even, when she stretched out a mittened hand. He had expected Baubie Finn to be interesting, vaguely intimidating, himself in awe since childhood of a supernatural being, from what he had heard of selkies. He had never met one – until now.

  And as they talked, her conversation was quite normal and ordinary, only the round, luminous grey-blue eyes in that pleasant but oddly contourless face conjured up memories of the seals gathering around the ship as it docked.

  He suppressed a faint shudder, pushing that irreverent likeness aside. She had a lovely voice: gentle, hardly much above a whisper. For the imaginative, the inevitable hint was of mermaids’ siren songs. That almost convinced him, and he had a strange feeling that there was some magic about her after all.

  Then a new idea: if she was as old as Inga had told him, then perhaps she had known his grandmother who, had she lived, would have been roughly sixty now. But then he changed his mind; perhaps the business of age might offend a lady – one mentioned age at one’s peril in Edinburgh fine society, where all ladies tried to be at least a decade younger than nature and nurture intended.

  ‘You’ll have tea with us?’ Inga said. He accepted, and as she brought down from the oak dresser another fine flowered china cup and saucer, he took in his surroundings. Cosy and warm, comfortable armchairs. Nothing spoke of wealth or ostentation. It was all – he fought for a word – just homely, the kind of room a man could stretch out his legs on that home-made rag mat by the fire after a long day’s work and feel that good food and love would soon be on the menu.

  ‘Jeremy,’ Inga was laughing. ‘What a daydreamer you are. Come back, I’ve had to ask you twice already – had you any success with Thora Claydon?’

  Embarrassed, for Inga had been the subject of those dreams, he said he had delivered Macfie’s message. ‘I found her very friendly, not at all what I had been led to expect,’ he added reproachfully.

  Inga put her hands on her hips, stood back regarding him and laughed again. ‘Dear Jeremy, you are so naive. Look at him, Baubie – he hasn’t the least idea that all women find a good-looking young man irresistible. They all long to be your friend,’ she added sarcastically.

  Baubie was watching him, a slight smile playing about her lips making him feel foolish and self-conscious.

  ‘Well, she didn’t seem odd or strange at all,’ he said defensively.

  Inga turned to Baubie, who was listening intently. ‘You remember Thora, the seal king’s bride.’

  Baubie smiled. ‘That old story, of course, everyone knew about it. Best bit of gossip in years. One of the island’s great unsolved mysteries.’

  Inga, busy refilling teacups, turned to Faro who asked eagerly, ‘You were there … er … Mrs Finn. You knew her as a girl?’

  ‘I did, indeed, and I was here on the island the very night she walked into the sea and the day she reappeared a year and a day later – almost to the minute – on the very same spot.’

  ‘What did you think?’ Faro asked.

  Bauble shook her head. ‘I didn’t believe a word of it, then or now, never will. No mortal girl could live under the sea, or in an undersea cave – the seal king’s alleged “kingdom beneath the waves” – and survive the tides, the fierce seas hereabouts, for one day, much less a year.’

  ‘Then where had she been?’

  Bauble gave a wry smile. ‘That’s what everyone is curious to know, even to this day.’ And subjecting him to an intense scrutiny she said, ‘Inga tells me that you are a policeman.’

  Faro darted Inga a sharp look of reproach, as Baubie turned to him again, ‘A detective – isn’t that the kind of mystery your kind sort out?’

  ‘Not really, Mrs Finn.’

  She held out a hand, smiled. ‘Baubie please, I am not a “Mrs”.’

  Faro felt his face redden. ‘I beg pardon. As I was saying, detectives only sort out mysteries where there is a crime or some illegal activity involved.’

  ‘Deception does not count then?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ But even as he said the words, he knew this was one mystery that would intrigue him and never let him go until he had found an acceptable answer that did not lie in the supernatural.

  As they shook hands and as Baubie showed no signs of taking her leave, he politely took his. As he returned along the brisk walk to Scarthbreck, his disappointment at not having a romantic dalliance with Inga was somewhat abated by thoughts about Baubie Finn.

  A strange encounter indeed, with a woman quite different from what tradition and superstition had led him to expect. A wise woman she might be by repute, although nothing in her bearing or her conversation had hinted at anything more than a conventional, pleasant, well-preserved woman of mature years who would not have been out of place in the salons of Edinburgh society.

  Quite ordinary and in a strange way disappointing, he thought. Not quite what he had expected from meeting a selkie. Indeed, he had felt so much at ease in her company that it was difficult to realise that this was their first meeting and that, until this afternoon, they had been strangers.

  Normally so observant, it was not until later that Inga whispered the reason for those mittened hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On his return to Scarthbreck, Faro was met by his mother. Hoping he would not have to evade her curiosity regarding where he had spent the afternoon, he found instead an air of excitement about her and a bustle of servants rushing about far more than he would have expected on a Sunday.

  Had the owners returned unexpectedly from their holiday abroad? In reply to his question Mary said, ‘No. But you’ll never guess what has happened. The daughter of the house walked in an hour ago. What a to-do, the house in turmoil. Nothing prepared, no beds aired.’

  She shook her head in bewilderment at such a flurry, such an indulgence in unwarranted activity, having to organise things properly instead of her usual peaceful Sunday afternoon rest before tea with the maids.

  ‘Miss Celia was full of apologies at arriving ahead of her parents and insisted that she would take tea with the staff, if that would be alright, as she was well acquainted with their Sunday routine and did not want to spoil it. She hinted that they had so few things to look forward to.’

  Pausing, Mary shook her head. ‘There are rumours among the maids that she’s one of those ladies who have strong feelings about women’s rights, modern things her parents would never approve of or understand.’

  A little bemused by the outrage such behaviour suggested in a young lady, she went on, ‘She’s like that, Miss Celia, quite at home with the servants. Her nanny could have told you some stories, and her last governess went off in a huff shouting that no one spoke to her like that. All the servants heard her as well.’

  Mary strongly disapproved. The upper class should know their place too, or she believed the whole world would crumble away and fall to pieces. The word ‘equality’ made her tremble if she awoke in the middle of the night and considered its implications.

  ‘I hope you’ll have a chance to meet her,’ she added hopefully, although she could not quite envisage this encounter leading to a romance which would end in matrimony. Her handsome son was only a policeman after all, with few expectations, while Miss Celia was an heiress and a real lady. A romantic ending quite beyond even her aspirations, although Miss Celia’s advent had put a
ll thoughts of those pretty maids out of her mind, for the moment.

  Jeremy regarded her sternly as she added while setting the table, ‘You just missed Miss Celia. What a shame. I’m sure she would have loved to hear all about Edinburgh.’

  They were to meet, however, and Mary was to learn soon enough the dire consequences that encounter was to bring about. After a supper of steak pie and apple pudding, Jeremy knew that he must walk some of it off with a little brisk exercise, or he would never sleep that night. A lovely evening glowed beyond the windows, with the promise of a sunset and a wine-red sea.

  His mother declined the invitation to accompany him. Her feet were sore and she was quite worn out with all this extra activity of overseeing the maids and the hasty preparations for Miss Celia.

  ‘I’ll take an early night as I have to be up at six,’ he was reminded.

  Walking along the shore in the mysterious twilight, the lace frill of waves at his feet, even the seabirds were mute. The silence was broken only by the whisper of his footsteps on the sand and nature’s evening benediction, the susurrus of a gentle sea. The only occasional disturbance as a seal’s head broke the calm water, looked around and promptly disappeared again.

  He breathed deeply, at harmony with the world. For the first time since he got off the ship, he was enjoying the moment. Wanting the peace of it all to last, he sat on a large rock nearby and took out the pocket telescope Lizzie had given him – as a joke she had said, ‘You would be better off with a magnifying glass, but it might come in handy on your travels. Searching the horizon for clues.’

  Dear Lizzie. He felt sudden guilt. That promised letter on arrival had not yet been written beyond the first line. He must finish it immediately. But what to say beyond the conventional holiday phrases and wishing he had a poet’s ability to convey this moment of magic?

  There was the inquisitive seal again, closer now, staring up at him. He laughed out loud. Was the seal a vanguard ready to tell his majestic master that the coast was clear? An absurd thought, but one could imagine anything on this, a perfect night for Lammastide, where a sinister legend might come alive before the sun, sinking slowly, vanished beyond the horizon.

  Suddenly he realised he was not alone. A prickling sensation at the back of his neck warned that he was under observation.

  Turning his head swiftly, he saw a girl watching him from the sand dunes. Tall and pretty, even at a distance, beautifully dressed in a voluminous, fur-hooded blue velvet cloak that even Faro realised, from his beat along past Edinburgh shop windows, was the finest city fashion.

  Curious wear for a warm August evening, he thought, but doubtless a visitor who did not trust the vagaries of Orkney weather.

  As she smiled and waved a greeting, he did not require much imagination to guess as she called, ‘Hello there!’ that this was Miss Celia Prentiss-Grant also enjoying an evening stroll.

  She ran lightly down to his side. ‘You’re Faro’s son,’ she said. ‘She talks about you all the time.’ Faro felt a blush of shame and embarrassment. Laying aside the telescope, he bowed and took her outstretched hand. ‘Your name’s Jeremy, isn’t it?’ she added softly. ‘I’m Celia.’

  He bowed again and she said, ‘When I saw you sitting on that rock I wondered if you were the seal king waiting to gather up an unsuspecting bride.’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘Not in the least.’ And looking him over candidly, her expression said that she was pleased by what she saw.

  ‘Obviously that legend doesn’t worry you, walking alone on such a night of local drama.’

  She laughed. ‘I can’t imagine how awful it must be – the bride of such a creature. But it is a lovely haunting legend and this is the right time of year. At least the last seal king’s bride – I expect you know the story, everyone still talks about it, I heard it when I was a little girl – didn’t have to submit to a long and painful examination by her parents. Every hour has to be accounted for, so what would it be like – a whole year and a day to explain away?’

  She obviously found no humour in the thought, and a shadow crossed her face. Silent for a moment biting her lip, frowning and deep in thought, then she laughed. ‘I wonder why her distraught parents never ran to the police about their missing daughter.’

  ‘I gather that they were too terrified.’

  ‘Terrified?’

  ‘Afraid all their family would be cursed. According to legend, defying the seal king’s rule meant death. Their men out fishing would have their boats wrecked. They’d be snatched up by him and drowned in revenge.’

  ‘How horrible. But one can’t honestly imagine parents being taken in by such superstitious nonsense these days.’

  Faro could have told her lots of even sillier superstitions that bound the lives of ordinary folk in Orkney. ‘Are you staying at home for a while?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Just a few matters to attend to and then I’m off again.’ He waited but was not to be enlightened. ‘Shall we walk?’ she asked.

  She talked about London, their other home and how she loved the theatre and the museums and art galleries. Small wonder, thought he, that she was soon bored in Orkney, this rich eighteen-year-old whose only role in life was to be shown off to various suitors and make the best possible marriage arranged by her parents. He guessed she would be extremely fortunate if love was ever considered a necessary ingredient.

  As they progressed slowly along the water’s edge, he realised there were others on the beach that night, drawn out by the mild sunshine and the possibility of seeing the Northern Lights, that strange phenomenon of these islands.

  Ahead of them Sergeant Stavely, his wife and a tall youth were enjoying an evening stroll, while three young girls were throwing sticks to a large yellow dog, occasionally diverting their attentions to a competition of skimming stones across the water with shrieks of delight.

  ‘Hello there!’ Greetings were exchanged, the boy introduced as the Stavelys’ son, Edward, while Faro received a rather arch glance from Stavely as he bowed to the girl.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Celia.’ A curtsey from Mrs Stavely. The sergeant knew his place, but his son, painfully shy, did not even glance in the girl’s direction.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Faro, surprised at meeting the Stavelys so far from Kirkwall.

  Stavely laughed. ‘Enjoying a change of scene. Having a couple of days off, visiting Lily’s brother, Hal – he lives a couple of miles up the road.’

  With no desire to linger, polite goodnights, an awkward bow from Edward and the three, gathering the younger children and calling the dog to order, walked swiftly ahead.

  A sudden turbulence in the sea, a head popped up nearby, regarded them with an old man’s face of suspicion and indignation, then disappeared again.

  At Faro’s side, Celia giggled. ‘I do hope that none of those children’s stones hit His Majesty. Do you think that was him out having a look around for a prospective bride?’

  Faro said, ‘Doubtful, very doubtful.’ When she glanced at him frowning, he added, ‘Did you not think him a little elderly for a bridegroom?’

  She shook her head, gave him a wry look. ‘You should see some of the hopefuls I’ve encountered in London salons and you would soon change your mind. Age is no barrier where men – and money – are concerned.’ Then with a laugh, pointing at the sea, ‘I do wish he would appear – I’d love to see him. I wonder, does he wear a crown?’

  It was Mary Faro who appeared, bustling breathless along the sands but remembering a curtsey.

  ‘Well, Faro, anything important? What is it?’ demanded Celia somewhat impatiently.

  Faro looked at her sharply and frowning, having to remember that this was not intended for him, the surname was how servants were addressed by their masters.

  ‘Nothing, Miss Celia.’ Another curtsey. ‘The maids have prepared your room, put a fire on to air it. All is ready for you.’ Her hesitant manner hinted that the curiosity of se
eing her walking with Jeremy, rather than a real interest in the girl’s well-being, had driven her down to the shore, aching feet disregarded, with a message that could have been carried by one of the maids.

  The girl looked at her smiling gently, and exchanged a knowing look with Faro, as if she too had guessed the real reason for this intrusion.

  ‘Splendid, splendid.’ And with that she turned her back on them both and continued her walk. Over her shoulder she called, ‘Good evening, Mr Faro, enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  Faro watched her go regretfully. He had been enjoying her company. Suddenly impatient with his mother’s interruption, he was silent, not listening to her chatter, deprived of an attractive girl’s light conversation.

  Once indoors, the evening changed. The magic vanished with the sudden ferocity of island weather. A faint haze on the horizon heralded not a sunset, but grew into a monstrous white shroud covering what had been a dazzling sunlit sea an hour earlier.

  Faro watched it from the window as Mary Faro said, ‘Good you had your walk earlier, you wouldn’t get far in this. It could last an hour. Let’s hope it doesn’t last a couple of days, though. Makes the place so cold too.’

  Being trapped behind this forlorn blanket worried Faro. It was something people living on the east coast of Scotland also knew only too well. A sudden cold flow of air and the warm sunny day vanished, a scene which Edinburgh’s extinct volcano, Arthur’s Seat, its head in the clouds, saw with unwelcome frequency.

  Restless, he decided that he had better finish his letter to Lizzie. He then discovered that the telescope was not in his pocket, and remembered that he had laid it aside to shake hands with Celia.

  He swore. Expensive, he knew this was a gift Lizzie had saved up for and could ill afford. He couldn’t just leave it there to be swept out to sea on the next tide. Pulling on his boots again, he had reached the door when his mother called, ‘Where are you off to now, Jeremy – in this fog?’