[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  He was silent, frowning before he continued: 'They thought they wounded one, but not the king bull. They were probably wrong and if His Lordship wasn't dead in the fall, and struggling to get to the road, the bull might have seen and set about him with his horns. It looked to me like that was the case -'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'He was gored in the back.' He shrugged away the unpleasant picture. 'And that was the end of him.'

  Again he fell silent, his face bleak, his expression harsh with suffering. And Faro remembered that Yarrow had been seen many deaths and had almost lost his own life.

  'Did you see anyone else in the area - who could have helped perhaps?'

  Yarrow regarded him curiously. 'Not in the immediate vicinity,' he said heavily.

  'But near enough?' said Faro eagerly.

  He looked away. 'Hector Elrigg, Sir Archie's nephew. You - almost - met when you came to the station,' he added with a wry grimace. 'When I found Sir Archie, Hector was working at the hillfort.' He drew a deep breath. 'I shouted to him for help...'

  'And ...' said Faro softly.

  Yarrow gave him a glance of desperate appeal. 'Look, there is probably nothing in this at all. I just didn't care for his attitude. He was rather flippant about the whole thing. A downright refusal, sir, that's what I got from Hector Elrigg,' he added in shocked tones.

  'From what you heard when you arrived earlier on, you'll realise he's a difficult sort of young devil, but I try to be fair—minded. And I'm certainly not suggesting that Hector seriously wished his uncle dead or would have tried to bring it about. Not at all.'

  * * *

  Wondering whether he should have revealed his true identity to Yarrow, Faro returned to the inn. In the empty bar he had a good look at the bull's magnificent de-horned head and decided that in life he must have been an ugly customer to face.

  No doubt the Prince, despite his readiness to mow down everything in sight on a shoot, completely lost his nerve when he was unarmed - and left the gate open in his hasty retreat.

  And Faro would have given much to know more about that quarrel between the Prince and his equerry, the reasons for which he had delicately omitted in his letter to the Queen. Had Poppy Elrigg been the reason, or had the Prince lost at cards?

  Whatever the quarrel, it had been serious enough for him to cut short his visit to Elrigg. Was his anxiety to escape scandal or blackmail the only reason why he had been reported as 'abroad' and unable to attend the funeral of his equerry?

  But Faro now had another strand leading into the labyrinth.

  Yarrow's revelations regarding Sir Archie's nephew, who was also in the vicinity, had posed yet another question over the events of that day.

  As he made notes of his interviews with the local police, Faro was left with an uneasy feeling of something he had missed. Something of vital importance. And what began as a personal command from Her Majesty, to prove for her anxious pride that her son, the future King of England, was not a coward, was already showing unmistakable signs of developing into a worse scandal.

  Murder.

  * * *

  As he walked briskly in the direction of the castle to talk again to the devoted couple who had been his prime suspects, Lady Elrigg and her stepson Mark, Faro was already adding one other name. That of Hector Elrigg.

  Even as he did so, he realised his behaviour was one of habit. But it was also quite out of order and he must not give in to temptation but merely regard it as an exercise in detection to fill in the few days before Vince's arrival, an investigation dictated by personal curiosity and the challenge set by a long-buried victim, no clues and some very vague suspects.

  If murder was involved then he had no rights beyond turning over any evidence he found to Sergeant Yarrow, who would doubtless stir himself out of the torpor of Elrigg village and its feudal system and, remembering his old skills, do an efficient job of seeing justice done.

  As for himself, he must return to Edinburgh, report to Her Majesty that her son was guiltless - of cowardice. She need never know that he had narrowly escaped being involved in a murder inquiry, much more difficult to live down for a future King of England than a divorce scandal.

  Chapter 9

  Later that morning, Faro was retracing his steps along the Castle drive. He was in no very good temper, for it had been a wasted journey. The ancient butler had informed him quite firmly that there was no one at home and, in terms that suggested shocked effrontery, no, he had not the least idea when Her Ladyship and Mr Mark might be expected to return.

  The weather too fitted Faro's mood of exasperation. How on earth did one bring any possible criminal investigation to a satisfying conclusion in such circumstances as he faced at Elrigg? Small wonder policemen like Dewar and Yarrow were only too glad to accept 'accidental death' and close the inquiries as fast as possible.

  Rounding up suspects over a wide area, much less trying to interview them, faced with ancient retainers like the Castle butler, was a daunting prospect for even the most experienced detective.

  Police procedure in Edinburgh's Central Office, well documented and with carriages on hand, had never seemed more agreeable to Faro as he walked past the archery field, the scene of the Elriggs' medieval pursuits.

  He quickened his steps as, on both sides of the drive, storm-tossed rhododendrons shivered and swayed in the rising wind. If those swift-gathering rain clouds broke, he reckoned he was in for a thorough soaking long before he reached the inn.

  Seconds later, the warning patter of heavy raindrops on the trees above his head had him running towards the gate lodge. But the wooden porch he hoped would offer temporary shelter was already leaking badly.

  As he leaned back against the door, it yielded to his touch. Presumably the cottage was not empty after all and, anxious not to alarm the occupants, he applied his hand to the brass knocker. When there was no response, he stepped inside.

  A woman's voice from upstairs greeted his entrance.

  'Go through to the kitchen. The back door won't close properly and the cupboard door has jammed. I'll be with you in a minute.'

  Faro did as he was bid. The cottage obviously had not been lived in for some time. It felt damp and unwelcoming; the furniture stood shrouded in attitudes of neglect that he felt often characterised inanimate objects in deserted houses.

  In the kitchen, a fire recently lit crackled feebly and a book lying open beside provisions scattered on the table suggested a new tenant had taken possession.

  Insatiably curious about other people's reading matter, from which Faro believed there might be much to be gained in the matter of observation and deduction, he picked it up and read:

  * * *

  We hear every day of murders committed in the country. Brutal and treacherous murder; slow, protracted agonies from poisons administered by some kindred hand; sudden and violent deaths by cruel blows, inflicted with a stake cut from some spreading oak, whose every shadow promised - Peace. In the country of which I write, I have been shown a meadow in which, on a quiet summer Sunday evening, a young farmer murdered the girl who loved and trusted him; and yet, even now, with the stain of that foul deed upon it, the aspect of the spot is - Peace. No species of crime has ever been committed in the worst rookeries of the Seven Dials that has not been also done in the face of that rustic calm which still, in spite of all, we look on with a tender, half-mournful yearning, and associate with - Peace.

  * * *

  The passage was heavily underscored, the word 'Elrigg?' written in the margin. But what surprised Faro most of all was its title: Lady Audley's Secret. Written by Mary Elizabeth Braddon in the 1860s, it belonged to the category of 'Sensation' novels, whereby authors came by their plots from real-life murders and sensational crimes reported in the newspapers.

  'Have you found the problem?' called the voice from upstairs, obviously wondering at his silence.

  'I believe so,' Faro called and tackling the back door discovered the cause to be rusted hinges.
Such a domestic challenge was always calculated to put him on his mettle, as his housekeeper Mrs Brook was well aware.

  On a shelf beside the kitchen dresser, he found what he was looking for, an oil can. A liberal application soon had the offending door working nicely again and, encouraged by this success, he was turning his attention to the cupboard door when light footsteps in the passage announced the occupier's approach.

  There are some other jobs you might tackle now that you've deigned to put in an appearance.'

  Half turning his head in the gloom, with sinking heart Faro recognised the acid tones of the chilly lady who he had fondly imagined was now travelling far from Elrigg.

  She was not a prepossessing sight, her abundant hair tied loosely in a scarf and clad in a capacious and none-too-clean apron. She regarded him curiously.

  'So, you are the new factor. Well, well,' she added as if surprised by the discovery. 'They said you might look in.'

  Indignant, Faro stood up and drew himself to his full height. Unperturbed, she looked him over and taking in every detail of his appearance she said: 'Or am I mistaken? Is it the new gardener, you are?'

  This was too much for even Faro. Notoriously uncaring in sartorial matters, he decided that although his clothes were by no means new, they did not merit such an outrageous assumption.

  'No, madam,' he said coldly. 'I am neither gardener nor factor. I happened to be passing on my way from the Castle when the rain began -I was simply taking shelter -'

  'Spying -' she interrupted, pointing a finger at him.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Spying,' she repeated accusingly. 'Of course, you're a policeman.'

  Taken aback, he stared at her. 'What makes you think -?'

  'Oh, don't bother to deny it. I saw you going into the police station this morning. I guessed right, didn't I?' she demanded triumphantly. 'You're here about Sir Archie?'

  Faro remained speechless as she continued: 'You'll get no help from Constable Dewar, I'm afraid. He's not very good at his job. Or that poor doomed fellow Yarrow, who's in charge -'

  'What makes you say he's doomed?'

  She looked at him strangely. 'I just know such things. I can see them written in people's faces.'

  'Indeed. Psychic, are you?' he said mockingly.

  She shrugged. 'Sometimes. I know things. I get flashes about people. Like you - like policemen,' she added sourly.

  With the kitchen table between them, they glared at each other, adversaries poised in anticipation of the next move.

  Finally, she gave way, and with a shrug walked over to the back door. Opening and closing it a few times, she nodded and said grudgingly: 'You did a good job, I'll say that for you. Thanks. I didn't feel very secure or very comfortable with it open to the four winds.'

  'So you're a town lady?'

  'Ye-es. How did -?'

  'Country folk don't lock doors.'

  ''Touché.’ For the first time she smiled, an expression, Faro admitted reluctantly, that quite transformed her face.

  As he walked towards the front door, she said: 'What about the cupboard then?'

  Faro looked at her and went over to the offending door. A vigorous tug and it responded. Turning, he gave her a grin of satisfaction. 'That's all it needed.'

  'I see,' she said slowly. 'Brute strength! That was the answer.'

  Faro merely nodded and preparing to take his leave, he asked: 'How long have you been living here?'

  'Oh, about a month - on and off. I come and go.'

  'You're not from these parts, are you?'

  'Neither are you,' she said sharply.

  Again Faro was taken aback, but before he could reply she said: 'I'm Irish. I took you for a Scot at first, but your accent isn't quite right.'

  Faro smiled. 'That's very perceptive of you. I'm from Orkney.'

  She opened the door. 'I've never been there.'

  On the doorstep he turned. 'Are you staying here long?'

  'Depends,' she said suspiciously.

  Faro was about to ask 'On what?' As if reading his thoughts, she added: 'Depends on when my money runs out.' Poking her head out, she looked at the sky and dismissed him with the words: 'The rain's stopped. You can go now.'

  As he stepped outside, she said, 'Name's Imogen Crowe.'

  'Pleased to meet you, Miss Crowe,' he said, feeling hypocritical.

  'How do you know I'm "Miss"?' she demanded.

  'That's easy.' He pointed to her hand. 'No ring.'

  And as he walked away, she called, 'What's your name?'

  'Faro. Jeremy Faro.'

  'Is that Sergeant or just plain Constable Faro?'

  'Just plain Mister will do nicely. I'm an insurance assessor,' he said acidly, in time to see a grin of mocking disbelief on her face as she banged the door behind him too quickly for politeness.

  Going over that brief conversation, he didn't even give her credit for guessing he was a policeman, although that was extraordinary. He must take more care in future. There might be others about Elrigg as sharp as Miss Crowe, but he doubted that.

  He didn't like her. He had no logical reason except hurt male pride and something about her that quite illogically nettled him. And almost angrily he shook his head, in an attempt to dismiss her completely from his thoughts.

  * * *

  At the inn a letter from Vince awaited him. 'Have managed to get an invitation to Miss Gilchrist's eightieth birthday celebration. Arriving with Owen and Olivia on Saturday. Plan to take an extra couple of days off, give Balfour a chance to become better acquainted with the patients! If you're not too busy with crime, I'd appreciate the opportunity of some decent tramping about, go to Hexham and walk the Roman Wall.'

  Faro groaned. Vince never considered distances, while he became less agreeably aware that his feet, like his teeth, were not what they had been twenty-five years ago when the young lad from Orkney, Constable Jeremy Faro, had joined the Edinburgh City Police. To wear and tear of the damage done by years of ill-fitting boots, time had added sundry injuries acquired during many an altercation with villains.

  Old stab and gun wounds to various parts of his body still plagued his extremely robust frame. Sore feet were more easily dealt with. He had found a temporary cure, and liked nothing better than pleasurably soaking them in a basin of warm soapy water which Mrs Brook sympathetically provided for him after supper. With a pipe of tobacco and a book propped before him, he was quite addicted to this secret vice. Such bliss - as he wriggled his toes, his joy was complete.

  He preferred not to think of that other bane of his life. Toothache. That too was becoming more frequent, although he was consoled by the dental surgeon on his good fortune in having all his front teeth, top and bottom, and most of his back molars in fine condition (the result of good heredity and rare indulgence in sweet things).

  Vince found his attitude extraordinary. That a brave man who fearlessly faced death and injuries inflicted by violent criminals would suffer any agony rather than the inevitable extraction of an aching tooth. As for Faro, he seldom considered the miraculous human machine that carried him through day after relentless day, except when it threw out an occasional warning that chasing criminals had a definitely ageing effect.

  Pride, however, forbade any dwelling at length on his personal weaknesses of foot and mouth to his young stepson. After all, a man in his early forties wasn't all that old. There were politicians and a monarch ruling the country who were much older than himself, not to mention policemen still walking the beat. Men like Constable Dewar.

  * * *

  Over a pint of ale and a game pie in the almost deserted dining room of the inn, Faro returned to Sir Archie's fatal accident - or was it murder? Glancing over the notes of his interview with Lady Elrigg and Mark, he had reached certain conclusions which might be significant.

  Dewar had been helpful in filling in some of the background details and Faro was now almost certain that no wounded bull had been involved and that horns, stolen earlier from the
inn's public bar, were the murder weapon, inflicting the fatal wound to lead the doctor and the two local policemen away from the truth, that Sir Archie had met his death at the hands of some person or persons as yet unknown.

  He decided that a talk to the village doctor was his next step but, perhaps of greater importance, a visit to the angry young nephew Hector whose excavations of the hillfort were within sight of the copse where his uncle had died.

  In weather unreliable from hour to hour, vacillating from warm sunshine to driving rain, he set forth from the inn wrapped about temporarily in the splendour of an afternoon when the world held its breath.

  Here was a day that had never heard of grey skies, of storms and cruel winds as it basked in the dazzling greens and innocent white blossom of a May morning. A lark blissfully hurled its triumphant song into a sky of celestial blue as he quickened his steps up the road.

  To reach the hillfort he had to cross a strip of open pasture, domain of the wild cattle, and, leaving the road, he opened the gate cautiously, breathing freely again when he saw they were far up the hill. But even at that distance he felt naked and vulnerable, for they ceased grazing and fixed their eyes on him, all heads suddenly turned in his direction, as if they were well aware of his unease.

  Hurrying towards the hillfort, he realised this was another wasted journey. There was no sign of Hector Elrigg, although his absence provided a chance to inspect the excavations more closely. He was not sure what he hoped to find, but it offered no helpful clues to the solution of the mystery.

  Changing direction, he walked rapidly to the shelter of the trees across the deserted field, where he again examined the spot where Dewar had found Elrigg. Apart from a few broken branches the ground had healed and there was nothing to connect murder with that fatal misadventure.

  Enjoying the warm sunshine on his back, he sat down on a large stone to enjoy a pipe. The crumbling wall beside him was part of a winter pen to give the sheep shelter. Looking round idly, he noticed what appeared to be the tip of a broken branch sticking out between the stones.