Would the ferryman be shocked that Dave Claydon had deceived him regarding the identity of the ship bound for Edinburgh? Or would he argue that it had been a natural mistake?
Whether Amos knew the truth or not, it was understandable that he did not wish to admit to any involvement in the illegal practice of taking passengers to board departing vessels, their credentials cleared by the port authorities.
As Faro walked the short distance to Spanish Cove he decided to look in on Inga, but the door remained closed. She was not at home. Nor was the stableman. A note on the door said ‘Back at 2’.
With more than an hour to wait but hardly worth returning to Scarthbreck, he decided to explore the local store which had an engaging ‘Teas served’ notice in the window.
He doubted there would be many customers, with only two small tables covered with checked cloths and vases of wilting wild flowers, a gallant attempt at lightening a dark, uninviting corner.
One table was occupied. A cheery greeting from the botanist, Mr West. ‘My housemaid is away for the day. She looks after me very well, cooks and cleans. All quite adequate but I decided to treat myself to a little luxury.’ And indicating the chair opposite, ‘Do please join me in a little celebrative lunch. I come here quite regularly and I recommend the soup and the bannocks and cheese.’
Their order placed, the conversation switched from the present availability of botanical specimens and the unreliable weather to the book West had laid aside.
Faro said, ‘I’m afraid I interrupted your reading.’
West smiled. ‘A Tale of Two Cities, Mr Dickens’ latest and a great book. Apart from Barnaby Rudge dealing with the Gordon riots, all his novels so far have dealt with present-day topics – and how excellently he brings injustices to light. This one, however, set in the French Revolution, is his first venture into historical fiction.’
When Faro said that he was also a great admirer of Mr Dickens, the botanist beamed on him, and indicating the book again, ‘The plot intrigues me, the whole story hangs on two men in love with the same woman, one taking the other’s place and making the supreme sacrifice. Unlikely, I fear, in real life, and relying on the Bastille guards being either unobservant or stupid. But Mr Dickens writes with such authority that his readers are called on for a suspension of disbelief. For myself, I greatly enjoy an adventure or a mystery.’
And the real-life mystery Faro had been trying to solve sprang into mind as West enquired politely, ‘May I ask what is your profession, sir?’
Replying that he was a policeman, Mr West, fascinated, clapped his hands together. ‘Would you believe it? That is exactly what I would have chosen had I not gone in for botany. Quite a difference, an interest in innocent flowers to violent crimes. And yet, there is something we have in common. And that is finding out what is behind it all, what makes things happen!’
Pausing, he gave Faro a look of triumph. ‘Most intriguing! What is inside a plant to make it grow and what is inside a criminal to prompt him to commit violent deeds?’
Faro did not see all the logic behind these statements and was not called upon to unravel any of the botanist’s theories, as the stableman walked past the window.
He stood up, explaining his journey to Kirkwall and the need for a horse. Handing over coins for his share of the lunch, they were sternly rejected.
As they shook hands West said, ‘I trust we will meet again and continue this discussion. If not here, I shall be in Edinburgh in November to deliver a paper to the Royal Botanic Society.’
‘That would be splendid,’ said Faro, tearing out a sheet from his notebook and scribbling down his address. ‘I shall look forward to seeing and hearing you, sir.’
A likeable and intelligent old gentleman, Faro thought as, armed with instructions from the stableman, who regarded his attempts to mount the mare with growing concern, he was asked, ‘Are you sure you ever rode a horse before, sir?’
Treating the remark with a non-committal but embarrassed nod, Faro did not add that it was some considerable time since he had sat upon a horse in Orkney. An unnecessary qualification for police work where constables used their feet to patrol the streets of Edinburgh, any equestrian expertise he had was most certainly lost.
Now he rode out, unsteadily at first, watched by the stableman anxious for the welfare of his horse. However, a couple of miles down the road and he had the hang of it, firmly in the saddle and managing to trot at a steady pace, rather enjoying the novel experience.
* * *
At Stromness he watched the ferry approaching but decided not to wait for a word with Amos. An opportunity, while he was absent, to call on Josh Flett, and Faro wondered whether his wooing of Thora began during Dave’s lifetime, a secret affair, or if it had grown out of compassion for the widow.
There were present all the ingredients of a tragic, doomed love about this relationship, and his thoughts returned to the discussion with Mr West and their mutual admiration for Mr Charles Dickens, for this was a subplot quite worthy of one of his novels.
Riding through a quilted landscape stretching to the horizon, he realised that the best of summer was past. Change was already in the air, a mature, mellow look to the fields, greens fading and the hint of harvests soon to be garnered.
He rode into Kirkwall, with a breeze never completely absent from that stretch of the road in his face. A pleasant, invigorating ride, although he had not the least doubt he would pay for this unusual exercise with aching muscles and stiff joints when he awoke next morning. Leaving the mare at the stable, with arrangements to take her back to Spanish Cove later that day, he was surprised to realise that he had grown quite fond of this new companion.
His first call was at the shipping office by the quay. And his first disappointment, to be informed that the next sailing to Leith was several days hence; a hiatus just as he was looking forward to being in Edinburgh again.
Making the booking and giving his name, the head of the clerk jerked up, looked at him and said, ‘I know you, you’re that Jeremy Faro who went to be a policeman.’ And throwing down his pen, he leant across the desk and chuckled. ‘Well now, I’d never have believed that of you. You never seemed that clever when we were at the school together …’
‘Really?’ Faro had not the slightest remembrance of the rather chubby, balding young man who was grinning amicably at him.
‘That’s correct. In the same class. We sat together one term and you were hopeless at sums, always getting the strap. I always beat you, got good marks, stars even. The teacher thought I’d go far.’
There was a hint of bitterness in his pride. ‘I’m Tod Raine, don’t you remember me?’
He had indeed changed and Faro barely recognised Raine as one of the bullies who had tormented his lame friend Erland Flett. Raine had maybe beaten him at sums, but did he remember that he had been no match for Faro in fisticuffs?
Doubtless this Tod Raine had forgotten such events, even the bloody nose he had received, and now seemed eager to be regarded as an old chum.
He was married, two great wee lads, he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m here on holiday, seeing my mother.’
‘Not married yet?’ When Faro shook his head, Raine gave him a look of contempt. ‘Better get down to it, mate. Look sharp. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’
Faro ignored that as Raine went on to boast that he was now head clerk with exceptional responsibilities, informed by his bosses that he was in line for promotion to a top situation in their Glasgow or Edinburgh offices.
Listening, Faro made the expected sounds of approval, his mind toying with other possibilities – if this was the right person to give him reliable information concerning the registration of the ship that Claydon had been boarding the night he drowned.
He decided to broach the subject by again producing the Edinburgh relative of Dave Claydon.
‘Did I know Dave? Everyone knew Dave.’
He wagged a finger at Faro. ‘The newspape
rs made a mistake.’ And that was what Faro wanted to hear.
‘Wasn’t the Leith ship that night. The skipper’s a grand, conscientious man. He would never tolerate those illegal goings-on. He protested, made quite a fuss about anyone believing it was his ship, but that never got into the papers, did it? Flett insisted that was what Dave had told him. But on such a terrible night anyone could have made a mistake.’
He shrugged. There was a pause and Faro asked, ‘Have you any ideas about what ship it was, leaving that night?’
Raine looked at him and grinned. ‘Is this one of your cases, Jeremy?’
Faro shrugged. ‘Not at all. Just interested.’
‘Then I can tell you there was only one ship – a Norwegian-registered merchantman bound for Hamburg – leaving that night.’
‘Indeed? And it was never followed up – the mistake, I mean?’
‘Of course not. No one wanted to involve the skipper. He didn’t have much English and there would have been a rare court case, cost a lot of money. So they just kept quiet, let the newspaper report be taken for granted. Strictly illegal, this boarding out of harbour waters, but we all know it goes on.’ And leaning further over the counter, he tapped his nose and whispered, ‘Between you and me, there’s quite a bit of smuggling involved. Always has been, it’s nothing new and everyone knows – many get a share in it. Maybe Amos Flett, too. Who can tell? But money changing hands is great for keeping lips sealed. If you’ve got the money you can change the world these days.’
Faro guessed that the procedure of illegal boarding also provided splendid opportunities for smuggling artefacts abroad and he left Raine very thoughtfully.
Was Claydon’s intended appointment with a buyer in Hamburg and were Stavely and the Orkney Constabulary aware of what was going on beneath their noses? Or did they turn a blind eye to a criminal activity which filled various pockets to satisfaction?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Walking past the cathedral, Faro’s next stop was at The Orcadian, where he hoped that Jimmy Traill would not be absent in pursuit of one of his news stories. His luck was in.
Jimmy sat huddled over a desk, his pen scratching furiously over what must have been a very trying and long article for the next edition. The pile of screwed-up pieces of paper littering the floor beside him indicated the gravity of this mind-searching task.
Turning and seeing Faro, he called, ‘Come away in,’ and obviously eager to abandon the task at hand, he left his desk, shook hands and gave Faro a friendly grin.
‘Good to see you again. No, no, you’re not interrupting,’ and pointing to the forlorn proof of his labours, he groaned.
‘This is an infernally boring piece I have to write for tomorrow. Sheriff court procedures. So boring, not my style at all. I like plenty of action.’ And rubbing his hands together, ‘I was quite disappointed, I have to tell you, that the Celia Prentiss-Grant case fizzled out so soon.’
‘All that fuss over a lost note,’ he added in disgust. ‘And I was all prepared for something really sensational after those posters. A kidnapping with a dramatic rescue. I could have guaranteed to keep our readers agog for weeks on that. How’s your holiday?’
Hearing that he was taking the next Leith sailing and had come in to say farewell, Jimmy sighed. ‘How I envy you, old chap. My ambition is to work on a national newspaper. One like The Scotsman where there must be interesting news to report every single day.’
Jimmy’s problem, Faro thought cynically, was most aptly defined as the grass being always greener on the other side of the fence. He could have disillusioned him about the Edinburgh press. Readers wearied of information from the Indian wars on the North-West Frontier – unless some member of the family was a soldier, for most folk it was too remote to connect with their ordinary lives – and reports on the health of the Royal Family, particularly those regarding Prince Albert, who was a lot less fit than his queen.
It was not unknown for journalists faced with blank pages for tomorrow’s edition to desperately approach Edinburgh’s Central Office in search of some police business, minor crimes or criminals that might be stretched out to fill a column or two.
‘I should have told you before, but for circumstances back at Scarthbreck,’ Faro said, ‘about my visit to your auntie Bet.’
‘How was she?’ Jimmy’s facial expression showed a lack of interest and enthusiasm.
‘We did not have a great deal of conversation.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘She seemed a little confused.’
‘Don’t tell me – you weren’t Thora. She’s the only person Auntie ever expects or wants to see.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Don’t I just know. That’s the reason I stopped going to visit her. Used to go regularly. But it’s a long way, as you’ll appreciate, and she wasn’t in the least grateful, just resentful that I wasn’t Thora or hadn’t brought her with me. It was Thora this and Thora that and where was she?’
Pausing, he scowled. ‘As if I knew or cared after the first and only time I took Thora with me, a wee while back while Auntie was still managing fine in her own home. What a disaster – I might as well have been a piece of furniture – a table or chair would have had more attention than they paid to me. Auntie was getting very deaf, Thora had to sit close and hold her hand, listening to her going on about dear Elsa and the happy days they had long ago.
‘It was very embarrassing for Thora with me present. In fact, she tended to avoid me after that. Even now, living just streets away, we can’t help meeting but she’ll cross to the other side of the street and pretend not to see me.’
‘The last time we met was at Dave’s funeral. A polite but chilly greeting, never invited me back to the house afterwards, nothing like that. Truth is, like I told you before, Auntie never liked me,’ he added sadly. ‘And now that she’s lost her mind, I’m sorry for the poor old soul, but honestly haven’t time to go all that way to listen to her rambling on about dear Elsa and Thora.’
‘She seemed very upset about Elsa leaving them and going to the mainland,’ Faro put in, and Jimmy shook his head.
‘That daft sort of talk is too much for me. I got the impression that Elsa wasn’t ever coming back and that Auntie was responsible.’
Faro shook hands and promised to keep him in touch with any events in Edinburgh that would make a column or two for The Orcadian readers. Jimmy said wistfully that if Faro heard of any post for an experienced journalist on The Scotsman, he would be greatly obliged.
As they parted, Faro wondered if he would have time to pay one more visit to Mrs Traill. Remembering her words about Elsa, his conversation with Jimmy had made her distress abundantly clear. And this might indicate that she knew the secret of Thora’s year-long sojourn as the seal king’s bride.
Six o’clock was striking as Faro made his way across Kirk Green towards Amos Flett’s house. There was no response. A disappointment, as he was hoping to have a word with Josh alone, but presumably he did not answer the door in his brother’s absence
Walking past the cathedral, where the faint sounds of a choir practice lilted through the air like the voices of angels, he was led towards the Earl’s Palace, now a magnificent ruin, built by Robert Stewart. Created Earl of Orkney by his half-sister, Mary Queen of Scots, his reign of terror, penury and slavery was still remembered and Faro found it curious to understand why his mother and many like the Sinclairs and Scarths were proud to claim descent from the monster who, with his band of illegitimate sons, had peopled the length and breadth of the islands with their bastard offspring.
He would have preferred to claim descent from the selkies and Finn folk, the original inglorious inhabitants of the island. In his childhood years, Mary Faro, who took him to church twice on Sundays, would have been horrified by his fascination with the pagan gods who had pre-dated the birth of the Saviour of the world, remembered in the unchronicled history of brochs and the Ring of Brodgar, mysteries which continued to intrigue Faro – puzzles and riddles wi
thout hope of explanation.
If only his selkie grandmother had not died before he was born. If he could have had a chance to know her, he was sure she would have understood. They would have shared a bond that was lacking with his mother. No matter how much he loved her, they were poles apart in their understanding. But walking through places once dear brought a longing to return to the peace and safety of that long-lost family who had given him birth.
Sadly, he could no longer identify with the Jeremy Faro of those early years, a shadowy figure growing fainter with the passing years, the frail thread broken. It was as if he looked back on someone else, a strange child from one of Mary Faro’s bedtime stories.
Hopefully, he returned to Amos’s house. As he waited, considering whether he should delay any longer, the door was opened by Amos, who did not look pleased to see him. He looked preoccupied, but courtesy demanded that he should be invited in and made welcome, making Faro feel guiltily that his excuse was feeble.
Leaving on Wednesday, could he have a timetable of ferry times? It all sounded very false, which it was.
Amos went ahead of him and was glancing around the room as if to establish that all was in order, and Faro had that strange feeling, so frequent on entering an empty room, that it needed a moment or two to rearrange itself.
Invited to sit down, Faro saw that the table had been set for two, but the empty dishes were not yet cleared.
Following his glance, Amos said apologetically, ‘My day off – Rob’s in charge of the ferry. I’ve been out and about.’ Again that anxious look round the room. ‘Domestic matters to attend to.’ And opening a drawer he handed over a timetable. ‘Here you are. This is what you need.’
His silent regard and faint smile as Faro studied it, hinted that he no longer had any excuse to prolong this visit.
Preparing to leave, Faro asked politely, ‘How is your brother?’
The Seal King Murders Page 17
