Informing them that he would remain in the vicinity of the servants’ lodge and would be available at any time, Faro left wondering how he could negotiate a meeting with the Hon. Gerald, and in particular how he might delicately phrase a few private words with that gentleman on a possible reason for Miss Celia’s disappearance.
He was in luck. As he walked down the front steps, a tall, thin man, not handsome or even particularly young, but kindly looking, appeared heading in the direction of the stables, leading a handsome chestnut mare.
He bowed and introduced himself as Gerald Binsley. ‘How do. You must be Detective Constable Faro,’ and as they shook hands, he said anxiously, ‘Any news?’
‘Not so far, sir, but it is early days.’ Faro tried to sound reassuring as he added, ‘The posters were only distributed yesterday.’
Binsley shook his head, bit his lip and looked very worried.
‘We had hoped there might be some response already, if only to claim the reward direct from Sir Arnold.’
‘It is more likely any news will come from Kirkwall. Most people who had sightings to report would go to the police station there, and Sergeant Stavely will be arriving with the results so far.’
Binsley smiled wanly and said, ‘This is such a worry for the parents, as you can imagine. Only child and all that.’
Faro was suddenly hopeful. ‘You have a long acquaintance with the family?’
‘I have indeed. Known young Celia all her life. Taught her to ride.’ And patting the mare, ‘Started with ponies, but Blossom here in Orkney is her favourite. Bit wild sometimes.’
Intercepting Faro’s sharp look, Binsley laughed. ‘Yes, both of them suit each other. Celia’s born to the saddle. No horse she can’t break. Rides like a man, hates all that sidesaddle ladies’ rubbish.’
Again he laughed, remembering, then soberly shook his head. ‘Dear God. I hope she is all right, that nothing has happened to her.’
‘We all hope that, sir.’
‘I’ve heard it all from the parents.’
All except the abandoned clothes, Faro thought, wondering what Gerald Binsley would make of that, as he went on, ‘Just like Celia to decide to go for a swim – and to hell with the conventions. She has absolutely no fear at all, never had. Bravest little girl I ever met.’ Suddenly silent, he bit his lip and looked ready to burst into tears.
A moment’s silence, then, aware that Binsley knew considerably more about Celia than her shocked parents would care to recognise, Faro said, ‘We are all close to these distressing circumstances, sir, but as a friend of the family, have you any idea why Miss Celia should have chosen to come to Orkney alone, and then immediately disappear?’
Binsley shook his head sadly. ‘None at all. She loved practical jokes, even as a child, loved to terrify her parents. Should have been a boy, y’know, but this behaviour is beyond a joke.’
A difficult, spoilt, indulgent only child, were the words that Binsley’s remark conjured up as he continued, ‘I thought I knew her very well. She confided in me quite often, when she had rows with her parents, which was often enough. As a little girl, she was always threatening to run away, join a circus. Tried it once before, when she was about fourteen. Left them a note.’
He laughed harshly. ‘Didn’t get far that time. Found her hiding in an old cottage on the edge of the estate.’ He sighed. ‘A crisis all about nothing, just to make her parents sorry they hadn’t given in to some whim – I forget what – possibly some trinket she wanted.’
‘What about tickets, sir? Where did she come by the money to travel, hiring a carriage from their London home down to the docks, to board a ship leaving for Kirkwall?’
‘We don’t know for sure. Parents are a little reticent about that. Seems she had a small monthly allowance, but her father admitted that there were several guineas missing from his desk drawer – he was about to raise ructions and blame a thieving servant. Then, of course, fortunately, he found a note in the drawer from Celia that she would pay him back.’
A less than pleasant picture of the missing girl was emerging, and even the possible reason of pregnancy was fading, with Binsley in the extremely unlikely role of father to her child. Binsley was obviously a very worried man, which, Faro decided, accounted for his manner, eager to be friendly, seeking a stranger’s reassurance.
Taking advantage of gathering useful information, Faro asked, ‘Did she have a wide circle of London friends?’
‘The usual group of young females all presented at court and on the hunt for husbands.’ He shook his head. ‘But not Celia, she had little interest in marriage – as I found out too late.’
‘Too late, sir?’
‘Indeed. We had been friends all her life. She trusted me, even loved me in a way – however, as I would learn, as one would love an uncle.’ With a bitter sigh he added, ‘The parents were getting worried and wished her to settle down, finding highly eligible young men in the prospective-husband role.’
Momentarily silent, he glanced at Faro. ‘I knew she hated all this. I loved her, had always loved her, and suddenly what seemed like a brilliant idea came to me. I proposed to her. I asked her to marry me. And she laughed. She laughed. Thought I was having a joke with her.’
And shaking his head violently as if the memory was too much to bear, ‘“How can I marry you?” That was what she said. “You’re my friend. I don’t love you.”’
He sighed deeply. ‘And that seems to have put an end to our friendship, too. She became suspicious, regarded me as part of her parents’ conspiracy to marry her off.’
‘Was this some time ago, sir?’
‘No, in June – it was her birthday, but I realised she no longer shared confidences and avoided being alone with me. I understood her behaviour all too well. She had trusted me with her secrets and I had betrayed her.’
Another silence. Then Faro said, without a great deal of hope, considering the parallel of his own disastrous relationship with Inga, and her harsh words, ‘When we find her again, maybe—’
Binsley shook his head firmly. ‘No, absolutely not. I have lost her. I know that. But I shall never cease to love her and that is the reason why I had to come to Orkney to help to find her, whatever happens …’
They had reached the stable block where a lad waited. Handing the mare over to him, Binsley turned again to Faro. ‘Thank you for listening to my tale of woe, sir. It is such a relief to talk to someone. Forgive me for troubling you in this manner.’
‘Not at all, sir. I do understand such problems.’
Binsley smiled. ‘And yet you are still young.’
‘I have lived long enough, with enough experience to realise that it is often easier to talk to a stranger than those closest to us by blood.’
Binsley’s eyebrows raised. ‘D’ye know, that is absolutely true.’
And as they walked back in the direction of the house, he added, ‘I’m afraid Celia’s parents can be difficult sometimes. They seem quite out of touch with how young people think and behave these days. They live in a cosy time lock, quite unaware that the world has moved on since Victoria came to the throne.’
He sighed. ‘They have known me all my life, since I was four years old, like second parents, but I have never really got to know them at all. Always a bit in awe, never at ease with them as I am with Celia.’ Pausing, he gave Faro a curious glance. ‘And as I appear to be with you on the merest acquaintance.’
He got no further. ‘Gerald – so this is where you are.’ Two spaniels and the formidable figure of Sir Arnold bore down on them. Cracking his whip against his riding boots he said irritably, ‘Thought we might have a morning ride together, but it seems you have forestalled me.’
‘I took Blossom out, she needed exercising. Celia was very particular about such things.’
Sir Arnold pondered on this for a moment and said briskly, ‘That’s what we keep stable boys for. Mare’s too meek and mild for me, I like an animal with spirit,’ he said, pointing to the powerf
ul black stallion being led from the stables.
Faro thought cynically that Sir Arnold’s feelings obviously did not include spirited daughters.
Gerald turned and said, ‘Good day, Faro. Good to meet you.’ As he held out his hand, Sir Arnold looked astonished and stared at Faro as if seeing him for the first time and Binsley had spoken to a brick wall.
As far as he was concerned Gerald was alone. The policeman did not exist.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Returning to his room in the servants’ lodge, Faro’s conversation with Gerald Binsley had given cause for considerable thought and reassessment and, in the kind of desperation he was enduring, in Binsley he had found it easier to talk to a perfect stranger.
One thing was clear. If Celia was indeed pregnant, then the man responsible was certainly not her old friend and confidant who was also quite unaware of this possible rival’s existence.
Using his remarkable ability of total recall Faro went over every detail of what Binsley had revealed about Celia’s rebellious nature – in the eyes of her parents, a tomboyish unnatural girl.
It confirmed Faro’s theory that womankind in general was also on the move, undergoing a metamorphosis – evidence provided by the fact that a curious coincidence linked Celia Prentiss-Grant and Inga St Ola, two young women belonging to different strata of society who had nothing in common, except for one element. They represented a new kind of woman who no longer considered themselves as mere breeding machines or men’s chattels, but were preparing to face a future of sturdy independence; the words ‘free spirit’ came to mind.
If he married and had daughters, Faro wondered if they would, in turn, seem outrageous, bewildering, in attitudes which he would fail to understand, almost as if they belonged to a different species of women from his mother and her generation, upon whose ideals and beliefs he had been reared.
His own acquaintance contained one woman of this new breed. Lizzie had shown courage and proved herself indifferent to what society considered her shame. With Vince, a child the result of rape, she had not given in to despair or taken her own life, nor had she allowed society to brand her or put her into an asylum, as was the fate of so many unmarried mothers, with babies taken away from them and cast into the workhouse, doomed to a future of slave labour.
Lizzie had fought single-handed to survive for herself and her child. She had refused to sell herself into prostitution but had sought menial jobs instead, determined that her baby should thrive and survive the stigma of illegitimacy.
Once again it seemed so unfair to Detective Constable Faro, who knew so much from his daily beat in Edinburgh’s Leith Walk of the behaviour of respectable upper-class men who could defy the rules, patronise brothels, take a mistress, and often as a result of their indulgences, pass on, while laying claim to their conjugal rights, venereal disease to an innocent wife. All this and still they kept their heads high in Edinburgh society, a man’s world where women remained an inferior species.
Faro shook his head. If Inga, Celia and Lizzie were three prime examples of new women from completely different classes, then there was a wind of change on the horizon, a change much overdue.
Stavely came back later that day, his arrival in Mary’s kitchen timed to a well-cooked supper; an excuse to see what results Faro had to report. His watchful regard for his son while residing under his uncle Hal’s roof was in temporary abeyance. Lily had gone down with summer fever and the devoted son had returned home to Kirkwall to take care of mother and siblings.
It was enough to endure the disappearance of Celia Prentiss-Grant without the anxiety of a son who might have criminal leanings. Stavely suspected that his brother-in-law indulged in a little smuggling, an activity regarded as harmless and almost a way of life by most of the inhabitants. He was not prepared to investigate further, bearing in mind the discredit its revelations might throw up by association. A smear on the reputation of a respectable sergeant with the Orkney Constabulary, to say nothing of Lily’s concerns for his future promotion.
Faro’s report of no claimants for the reward at Scarthbreck did not surprise him, as none but the bravest would have dared approach the formidable questioning of Sir Arnold.
Faro mentioned that he had met Gerald Binsley.
‘What was he doing here? Could he be—?’ asked Stavely eagerly. And darting a look at Mary Faro’s back attending to the stove, he whispered, ‘Could he be … er … responsible for her condition?’
Faro shook his head emphatically. ‘According to him, he is regarded by her merely as an uncle.’
‘An uncle, eh?’ And ignoring that cynical snort, Faro went on, ‘He’s a long-time family friend, known Celia since childhood, here to help them find her.’
Stavely was disappointed in this result. Sighing, he sat back in his chair, patted his stomach and hoped there was room for a second helping of potatoes and beefsteak pudding. He would stay the night with Hal and take the gig back to Kirkwall in the morning.
‘The lads back at the station can take care of any new developments.’ Considering that very unlikely, he regaled Faro with an account of the far-fetched sightings of claimants that morning, eager for the reward.
‘Up to now,’ he added diving happily into treacle pudding, ‘all we have to do is wait. The ransom note, that’ll be the next thing.’
It was indeed. Stavely rode across, ready to depart for Kirkwall, when they were summoned to Scarthbreck. The ransom note had arrived by the morning mail, posted in Kirkwall the day before.
Written in block letters on a map showing the interior of St Magnus Cathedral offered as a visitors’ guide, a pillar was marked with a cross. ‘After Sunday morning service, hidden under the adjacent pew, deposit an envelope containing one thousand pounds in promissory notes. Do not fail if you wish to see your daughter alive again.’
Sir Arnold’s face was even redder than usual. He said hoarsely, ‘This is worse than we expected.’ And to his wife, hand-wringing, in floods of tears, ‘Try to be calm, my dear.’
‘Calm!’ She screeched with terror, thrusting the note at Stavely, ‘This note is in our daughter’s handwriting. Do you understand what that means? God only knows the indignities she has had to suffer writing this, with a pistol at her head.’
‘You are certain that this is in her hand?’ Stavely asked Sir Arnold.
‘No doubt about that. We fear that she has been forced by her kidnappers to write it,’ he added, accompanied by howls of terror from Lady Millicent.
This was indeed a grave situation. While Stavely assured the terrified parents that there would be every available constable stationed in the vicinity in plain clothes ready to make an arrest, he obviously had not thought of the difficulties involved.
Faro considered the reality of attempting to catch the kidnappers in a cathedral with the congregation milling out after morning service. One man could easily lurk and make his escape.
The note also revealed something of the kidnapper’s identity. He obviously knew the cathedral well, also the placing of the side chapels, and might well be one of the Sunday worshippers. Aware that the Prentiss-Grants would expect a solitary lonely stretch of road, perhaps with a few trees, favoured by kidnappers when collecting ransoms, he had also taken into account the precaution that, most likely, the police would be lurking somewhere out of sight.
As for the constables, they were well known to everyone locally and, even out of uniform and in their Sunday best, would be readily identifiable.
The kidnapper was clever. What better place than his choice of a crowded Sunday morning service at the cathedral, which would conceal his identity and make the uplifting of the ransom easier? Even with uniformed constables stationed outside the doors, ready to search everyone who emerged, this unexplained activity would not be kindly received. Consternation, anger and indignation would reign from those innocent churchgoers delayed and eager to get home to Sunday dinners.
To Stavely, examining the note, Faro said, ‘This is no spur-of-t
he-moment ransom demand. We are dealing with someone local, who has worked it out very carefully, down to the last detail.’
Stavely sighed. ‘You’re right about that. Well, we won’t have long to wait until tomorrow morning.’
They would both be in place at the service, the plain-clothes constables in position, and Stavely decided that Faro and one of the strongest constables, Willy, known for his prowess in the prize ring, should sit together in a pew concealed by the pillar, ready to leap out and arrest the kidnapper.
As agreed with Sir Arnold despite Lady Millicent’s pleas, there would be no money, only an empty packet.
It was going to be a long morning service, Faro decided, keeping a close eye on the pillar from the pew across the aisle. Those nearest were a family with five somewhat unruly children of assorted ages, the eldest at the end of the line, a lad in the traditional woollen bonnet. The adjacent pews were occupied by better-behaved small families, young and elderly couples, and two black-clad widows. Perhaps one was Thora, impossible to identify under the heavy veils.
The ferryman, Rob, came in alone, and quickly knelt in an adjacent pew across the aisle, motionless, praying earnestly until the service began. Of his friend, Amos, there was no sign, perhaps the demands of his invalid brother excluded churchgoing on Sunday mornings.
Watching the family with the naughty children took Faro back to his own early days, constantly admonished to sit still. At his side now, her mother’s tender sideways glance said she, too, was remembering his childhood days. She had insisted on accompanying him in the carriage which Sir Arnold, aware of the plan to capture the kidnapper, had placed at the disposal of Faro and Stavely.
Faro feared there might be danger but could think of no plausible excuse to make her stay behind at Scarthbreck, since other arrangements had been made for the servants to go to the local church escorted by the factor’s wife.
The Seal King Murders Page 14
