Mary paused from stirring the soup and regarded her gravely. ‘What a dreadful idea and so dangerous. A woman driving a car, what will they think of next?’
‘Why not, Gran?’
Mary shuddered. ‘It’s so unladylike.’
‘Well, no one, not even my best friend, could ever accuse me of being a lady,’ laughed Rose, since her grandmother had said exactly the same words about her riding a bicycle on her visit ten years ago. Following her father upstairs to the telescope, she decided that progress was not a word in Mary Faro’s vocabulary.
As if rooted to the spot, the yacht remained silent and stationary. The only activity now was the river pilot moving purposefully across from the direction of Kirkwall.
‘So they got wind of it at last, Pa. Certainly took their time about making an official report and getting some help.’
Faro shook his head. ‘A little too late for that. Not much anyone could do, I’m afraid. If there was a man overboard, he would be at the bottom of the sea by now.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Later that day, Rose decided to introduce her father to Skailholm, which they had passed briefly on the drive to Hopescarth. She had an idea that the local inn would appeal to him and he laughed. ‘You are being tactful, lass. What you mean is that I can enjoy more than one wee dram without your grandmother’s eagle eye and reproachful tut-tut indicating that I am taking to the drink.’
Rose took his arm. ‘You can include me in that.’ She giggled. ‘Ladies are only supposed to take whisky for dire medicinal purposes.’
‘What a waste.’ Faro groaned. ‘It’s not just usquebaugh. There are many different varieties for many different tastes and I’m looking forward to Orkney’s special brand, with its peaty flavour – somewhat different to the one my mother keeps locked up in the cupboard, to be produced, hot water added and diluted with lemon, when someone has a cold.’
‘What’s Irish whisky like?’
‘Different,’ was all Faro would say on that topic, but Ireland raised the inevitable subject.
‘How long can you stay?’
‘As long as I like. Until Imo’s next conference in York; I was hoping we might meet in Edinburgh. What about you?’
‘Until Meg is due back at school later this month.’ Rose sighed. ‘I don’t think Meg will be in a hurry to go home, so it will all depend on Jack, how he copes without us. Meg’s happy here and meeting Magnus has been such a bonus – so unexpected, really. She was a bit rebellious as always at having to leave Thane behind, needed some persuading. The prospect of a boy older than herself wasn’t much consolation. They’re at the age of intolerance between the sexes.’
‘I think we are all very lucky with Magnus and I have a feeling that you will be seeing a lot more of him in Edinburgh.’
They were in for a surprise. After all those farewells and the idea that Jack was on his way home, the car returned, and with Sven driving, there he was in the passenger seat.
They rushed out to meet him. What had happened? He should have been on the ship heading for Leith.
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer. I’m staying on for a while. The police in Kirkwall had a message from Lothian. They’re investigating a fraud case with a link in Stromness they want me to look into. There was a telegraph waiting.’
While welcoming hugs were exchanged with Meg, delighted to see her father again, Faro studied him intently, certain that there was more than he was telling them, something in his manner, a certain implausibility about that message from Edinburgh no one else seemed to have noticed. And that in Faro’s experience all added up to a suppression of facts, some serious business that he didn’t want the family to know about.
He felt the usual twitch, the hint of a dark shadow, and glancing across at Rose saw her regarding Jack thoughtfully, her expression confirming that she too was having doubts about her husband’s glib statement.
‘Haven’t the faintest,’ Jack was saying to Mary Faro, anxious to know how long he would be staying. ‘Might be just a couple of days to sort things out.’ He smiled at Rose but there was a thin line between his brows that told another story. Jack was worried about something beyond his control.
Carrying his case upstairs, he said: ‘I thought I might just drift over to Skailholm,’ adding hastily, ‘I’ve never had a chance to explore it.’
Rose smiled. ‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Pa and I were just thinking of heading that way. He wants to sample the local whisky.’
‘I’m all for that. A splendid idea.’ Jack sounded interested and somehow relieved, and this set her wondering if this suddenly invented fraud case had something to do with whisky smuggling, while Faro, remembering the brisk river pilot making for the royal yacht, was thinking much along the same lines.
After they ate, with Mary fearing that there would not be enough to go round and Jack insisting that there was more than enough salmon and that he ate too much, the three got on the road to Skailholm, the children kept at bay. This was for grown-ups, Jack told them, we are going to the local inn and even if children were allowed, they would be bored.
As they walked down the curve of the road that hid them from Hopescarth and the anchored yacht, Faro said: ‘Was there any report in the police station about the river pilot’s visit this morning?’
Jack frowned, considering. ‘Oh, that. Just routine, you know.’ A moment’s pause. ‘One of the crew fell overboard. But they got him back safely. Everything all right again,’ he added with a bright smile.
‘He was lucky. In that wild sea, he could well have been swept away,’ Rose persisted.
Jack nodded vigorously. ‘That would have been a tragedy and the King would have been most upset too. He is very conscientious about the well-being of his crew and examines the safety precautions regularly. He takes a great personal interest in anything relating to his yacht.’
‘The King definitely isn’t with them?’
‘Not this time. I gather one of his upper echelons have been given it as a treat for some anniversary or other.’ And to Faro, ‘What news of Imogen?’
‘Nothing so far.’
‘That’s a pity. We were looking forward to seeing her. God! I’m thirsty. Is it far to go?’ Jack added, obviously glad to get away from the subject of the yacht. Rose, taking in his reactions as the conversation switched to the safer ground of her father’s travels abroad, decided that her husband might well be a brilliant detective but he was certainly not the world’s greatest actor.
‘At last! Is that the inn I see down there?’
Jack sighed happily as the two men found the local whisky lived up to its reputation, and so did Rose, although the sight of a young lady imbibing such spirits, even in the company of gentlemen, raised some eyebrows among the locals. A small sherry or port would have been much more ladylike for one related to the big house at Hopescarth, at least in public, since the locals could only speculate, as they did at some length, about what were the goings-on behind closed doors in upper-class houses.
It was soon obvious that Erland Yesnaby was held in high regard, and while they were being served, other customers came over to offer condolences to Rose, who to her amazement, was remembered and recognised by the now ageing barmaid; she had inherited the inn on her husband’s death and had now added bed-and-breakfast accommodation.
Rose was also welcomed by the local policeman, PC Flett, who shook her hand and, on being introduced to Jack, beamed down at her: ‘Well now, I would have known her anywhere. Ten years, is it?’ he whistled under his breath. ‘And you haven’t changed a bit. It must be good for you, living on the mainland.’ The mainland to an Orcadian being anywhere off the island.
Flett was also delighted to meet the retired Chief Inspector Faro, whose exploits and legendary fame had progressed further than Kirkwall, doubtless spread liberally over the years by his proud mother.
Preparing to leave, the policeman declined the parting offer of a dram. ‘Thank you,
sir, but no. I am on duty, you know,’ he added importantly, although what those duties were remained vague to the three visitors.
Standing to attention, and saluting them, he said gravely: ‘It has been a great pleasure and, if I may say so, an honour to meet two policemen from Edinburgh. Perhaps we will see you again in Hopescarth.’ He smiled. ‘Your visit has coincided with the royal yacht, a rare occurrence. Presence of royalty always means we have to smarten up, have the uniforms well pressed and give the peedie buttons a polish.’ At the door he turned: ‘Seen any activity?’ he added hopefully.
Rose looked quickly at Jack, who shook his head and said: ‘No.’
He was keeping his own counsel and not sharing information received in Kirkwall with a fellow policeman. Outside, Jack looked at the sky and decided that he was getting far too little exercise these days as well as overeating. He always disliked returning from a long walk the way he came and challenged them to a less direct route inland. It was hardly picturesque as he perhaps had hoped, and although something of a novelty to him, his companions found the bleak landscape depressing.
The sun had retreated behind heavy clouds to reveal a land occupied by stones, the scattered ruins of human habitation now shelters for sheep, the skeletons of ancient crofts with fallen roofs and broken window frames. Like eyes emptied of hope, Faro thought each told its own tale of blighted days gone by, of clearance and the beggary that still stalked the northern isles.
The further inland they walked, the bleak landscape was leavened by peat fields with bog cotton, stretching in every direction, and suddenly they were not alone. There were dogs barking and other humans, crofters still hard at work, straightening up from their back-breaking toil to shout a greeting.
‘Are ye lost?’
‘We’re heading for Hopescarth,’ Jack said.
‘Ye awa’ off the track, laddie. Over yonder, keep going south until ye see a glimpse of the sea and that’s yer road.’
Half an hour later on the cliff path again, Jack breathed deeply, smiling and exclaiming that all this fresh air had been an unexpected adventure, while Rose was complaining that, had she known, she would have worn more suitable walking boots. Faro, who still suffered from the sore feet that were his inheritance from early years as a beat policeman, decided he was definitely beginning to feel his age and was heartily glad to see Hopescarth loom into view. Below them the Victoria and Albert III lay still unmoving at anchor.
‘I wonder how long they are staying.’
‘I expect they are enjoying a good spell of weather.’
‘Good but unreliable. It never lasts long,’ said Rose.
Jack shrugged but in the glance Rose exchanged with her father there was a question: Jack’s mysterious behaviour, the prolonged stay at police request, and that man overboard – recovered, Jack said, but then why was their small boat patrolling round the yacht with lanterns the night after they had got him safely aboard again?
It suggested that their activity had nothing to do with an attempted rescue and instead brought to the surface that old story so often discredited. Had the King heard from sources near the palace of a possible treasure trove related to the legendary Armada shipwreck, and did the crew of the royal yacht include archaeologists who were also diving at night?
Over breakfast the next morning, Emily told Rose that Sven was also intrigued by the yacht’s mysterious behaviour and as there were Norwegians in the crew he had decided to try to find out what was going on, perhaps by meeting them in the local inn at Skailholm.
When Rose reported this to Faro, he said: ‘Good luck to him. I hope he has more success than we have had. I suppose it gives him something to do.’
Rose looked at him. ‘I gather Emily keeps him busy as a secretary, dealing with her letters and so forth.’
As they returned from their morning walk, Sven was at work with his trowel, carefully scraping at the soil in the sunken garden far below, down a steep flight of stone stairs, invisible from the drive, with its signs of those earlier habitations marked by broken pieces of crumbling masonry.
He looked up and saw them watching him. Shouting a greeting, he beckoned to them: ‘Please come down. I want to show you something …’
Emily smiled. ‘Let’s go.’
Faro followed the others into that vast area of bright flowers and shrubs framed by a desolate landscape stretching mile upon mile beyond its walls, once again so completely unexpected, it took him by surprise, this old walled garden from an ancient painting, carpeted by plants carefully chosen for longevity, resistant to the elements and sheltered by the house towering above.
Emily looked at him and smiled. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘I can hardly believe that it’s real,’ he said.
‘When Erland first brought me here, he said that it was a miracle that anything survived, given our climate, but he didn’t claim it as his creation. All he ever had to do was maintain it in the pattern that his grandfather had laid down. The rest was easy.’
They had reached Sven’s side. ‘I can see you are all a little surprised.’ And raising his hand, ‘See, even on the chilliest day with a wind blowing, there is always some quiet spot where one can sit and admire the flowers.’ He sighed. ‘There is always colour here, even in darkest winter.’
‘Incredible,’ said Jack. ‘It is well-nigh impossible to maintain any sort of garden outside our house in Edinburgh on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat. How do you keep it like this?’
Sven nodded eagerly. ‘There is a good reason for our soil’s fertility. This land, you see, has been lived on continuously since man settled on this island thousands of years ago.’ And tapping his foot on the ground, ‘In medieval times this was the kitchen midden. On this exact spot, animal bones, human excrement and waste deposit from countless generations have been poured into the earth to emerge as the garden you see here.’
Faro looked round at this scene of perfect tranquillity. Timeless, indeed, it suggested sunlight and birdsong, flowers eternally radiant in summer glory.
‘A haunted garden, if I believed in such things,’ he said to Emily. She regarded him solemnly for a moment. ‘Strange that you should say that, Pa. Erland had a theory that people were like the flowers that grow and they left an essence of themselves. Every person who has laughed and loved and … died here through the passing centuries has left something of themselves. In essence they are still here in spirit.’
Rose and Faro were silent, both remembering how very recently Erland’s spirit had taken flight from where they now stood.
Jack, meanwhile, was talking enthusiastically to Sven, keen to learn something of the art of gardening about which he knew nothing.
Sven was saying that it was a pity they could not grow tall trees on Orkney. ‘But over there,’ he pointed: ‘That is a hornbeam.’
‘A fine Shakespearean name for a tree,’ said Faro.
‘But it is our orchids I wanted you to see. They are very rare, indeed. You can only see them properly when the sun is shining, for it is only then they open up those shy petals.’
Bending down, they looked over a tiny patch of green. ‘This is our treasure, the Primula scotica, which would be just as happy growing on the grassy sea cliff a mile away. It rarely survived cultivation, so perhaps it has always been here, like our wild orchids, and firmly established itself long before man invaded. Here is another. Now what does that tiny face remind you of?’
‘A monkey?’ Faro suggested.
Sven laughed. ‘Indeed, sir, you are right. The Orchis simia.’ Standing up, he said: ‘We do not advertise our rare flowers and, alas, in a few years they will be extinct and there are some collectors who would come all the way from Edinburgh and Glasgow and the great English cities too, to harvest our rare specimens.’
Listening to him struck another chord of memory for Rose, remembering how Erland had asked her to imagine what all this looked like before those first settlers came and put down their roots, taking for granted plants and e
xotic flowers that are now not even a memory. Or else in that fight for survival they evolved into something tougher and less delicate, like the birds who evolved from their brilliant plumage into the camouflage of dull greys and browns to keep them safe from their chief predator: man.
For a moment, Rose slipped back ten years and closed her eyes, hearing how that beautiful voice now stilled for ever had conjured up visions of greens and yellows and browns transformed into rainbow shades. And how Erland had asked her to imagine the perfume of those long-lost flowers. She sniffed the air.
Jack smiled. ‘You were miles away there, when I spoke to you.’ He took her hand. ‘What a garden. I wish we could do something like this at home.’
Rose took his hand. ‘Not a hope; not in a thousand years.’ She laughed. ‘And neither of us is a gardener. But our Arthur’s Seat has its own grandeur.’
He laughed. ‘And not everyone can live on the slope of an extinct volcano.’
‘Food is on the table.’ Mary leant over the wall and shouted down to them.
Climbing back up the steps, Jack chuckled. ‘Lad’s a keen gardener and I did like the royal “we”. I’d better remind him that I have to go into Kirkwall again tomorrow.’
‘No progress on the fraud case?’
Jack looked at her vaguely as if he hadn’t heard the question or, more likely, she thought, preferred to ignore it. She would have liked some dates; it was unsettling somehow not knowing how long he was staying with them. Faro followed more slowly, hating to admit that he was finding steep stairs more of a trial these days.
Pausing, he looked back down at the garden, at the walls and small embrasures confirming Sven’s suggestion regarding the ruins of a much earlier settlement. He had been aware of an aura of solemnity, the kind he had encountered in ancient churches all over Europe. Had there been a medieval abbey on this spot, whose fallen stones were augmented into the present house? That would be worth further exploration, and to this he added the young man, Sven. He had not quite made up his mind about just where he fitted into the scheme of things in Yesnaby.
The Darkness Within Page 7
