[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  'Isn't that rather obvious, seeing that you are incapable of walking?'

  ‘Put me down - at once.'

  'As you wish,' Faro said coldly, setting her down so unceremoniously that she moaned, clutching her ankle as she tried to regain her balance.

  'I-I can't.'

  'Then will you allow me to assist you?' She put her arms around his neck and struggled no more as he carried her once more towards the stone circle.

  'This isn't the way to the road.'

  'I'm quite aware of that. But this is the way we are both going. The way we both came up. Unless you want us both to have twisted ankles - or worse. A broken neck might be the answer...'

  She struggled in his arms. 'This is nonsense. Put me down. I'll manage.'

  Faro stopped, and again set her on her feet. 'Listen to me. Either you do as I say or I will leave you to make your own damned way back to Elrigg. I don't care either way.'

  She was silent, staring at the ground.

  'Agreed?'

  She nodded and, with a sigh, he said: 'Off we go then.'

  Lifting her more carefully this time, he clambered up the last few yards very carefully. The terrain was strewn with smaller stones, boulders from the circle that had been eroded through the ages, washed by wind and weather down the field and were now barely but dangerously concealed by thick coarse grass.

  'You shouldn't have taken it at a run. You could have hurt more than your ankle. Foolish creature.'

  This expression was mild compared to what he wanted to say - and do - at that moment. She was behaving like a spoilt child and deserved more than a gentle reprimand. He pursed his lips grimly.

  However, she was lighter than he had expected, small boned although she was quite tall. Bodily contact was not unpleasant, she was warm, sweet smelling, her hair resting against his cheek...

  Damned woman. Damned woman, he muttered to himself and set her down rather more sharply than was kind on one of the flat stones within the circle. There, without a word of thanks, she began to moan and rub her injured ankle.

  He pushed her hands aside. 'Let me look at it.'

  Angrily, she thrust him away. 'No. Leave me alone. There's nothing you can do. Unless you're a doctor.' And wriggling her foot, she winced. 'It's probably just sprained a little. If I could rest for a few minutes.'

  'Very well,' he said wearily. 'Let me know when you're ready to go down.'

  She looked towards the road, distant beyond the stony field. 'How can I walk that far?'

  He looked at her. 'I'll see if I can find a stick somewhere. You can use that. If not, I'll carry you. You're not very heavy.'

  She darted him an angry glance. As if the whole episode was his fault.

  Never had he met such a thankless, ungracious young woman and he walked quickly away before she could think of any ill-natured comment.

  Leaving her with little hope of finding a branch for support, he was glad to escape from her and to concentrate on his reason for coming here in the first place. The view was breathtaking. The site commanded a magnificent landscape over the Cheviots, reaching out to touch the border with Scotland.

  As for the five headless women, they were less forbidding at close quarters than seen from below. On closer examination the torso shapes were the result of natural erosion, confirming Hector Elrigg's theory that the fluting effect might well produce alarming sounds when the wind was in the right direction.

  He made his way carefully through the nettles, which were their natural protective vegetation and whose roots had long ago hidden any significant details of what had been the purpose of their original builders.

  Lost in thought, he was suddenly aware of Miss Crowe looking over his shoulder.

  'You've been such a long time, I thought you'd gone without me,' she said anxiously, sounding so contrite and scared that, smiling kindly, he was able to bite back the words: As you richly deserved.

  In no hurry to leave, he continued to look at the view, fascinated by the mystery of this strange prehistoric site.

  As if reading his thoughts she said, 'Why were they put here?' - her voice a whisper as if they might be overheard, their presence resented by the ghosts of this ancient place. 'Do you have any idea? I mean, how they were carried up this steep hill?'

  'They are questions to which we will never have proper answers, I'm afraid. No more than how the Pyramids of Egypt were built.'

  Pointing towards a horizon where Scotland began: 'Defence? Was that what they had in mind?' she asked.

  'Probably. A lookout post for the hillfort below.'

  'It must have been more than that, surely. A lookout post wouldn't have lasted for thousands of years.' Caressing the outline of the nearest stone, she smiled. 'Could they have been Celtic princesses perhaps?'

  Faro smiled. 'If you mean, is that winsome legend true, I can assure you of one thing. These stones had been well established for centuries, a landmark long before the Romans came.'

  'Or before history was written.' She moved away from the stone, hobbling a little. 'I think I will be able to manage now - if I may take your arm.'

  'Of course.' He helped her from the perimeter of the stones to the edge of the field. 'What brought you here?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Natural curiosity. It's an intriguing story, one wants to believe that it's true. At least I'd like to. And I wanted to know why the village people were so afraid, why they avoid it.'

  Leaning against the fence for support, she pointed towards the Eildon hills. 'Have you read Sir Walter Scott, by any chance?'

  'Of course,' Faro replied. 'He is one of my heroes.'

  She shook her head. 'A splendid writer, I give you that. Of romances. But he got it all wrong, didn't he?'

  Faro looked at her, amazed at her perception. He had read all Scott's books eagerly, avidly, and realised the minute he set foot in Elrigg how far his hero was from the core of the truth.

  'This is hardly the land of romance, of Gothic mystery as he portrayed it, don't you agree? You just have to be here a few hours to set that right.'

  He found himself remembering that her choice of reading lay in the Sensation novels category, when he answered: 'You think the fairy tale of brave gallant Scot and sturdy Celt was a myth?'

  'I most certainly do. As were his brave knights and beautiful maidens with high moral principles and dreams of chivalry. Men and women aren't like that. They're flesh and blood - weak creatures.'

  'Not all flesh is weak,' he said stoutly.

  'Don't tell me you believe all the ballads handed down from one generation to the next and from the heart of this nation's poetic soul. Can you be that innocent - or idealistic?'

  She laughed and, before he could reply, she added solemnly: 'Scott was a Borderer himself, he must have known the truth, the terror and cruelty that he winced away from writing about. But he opted for the false name of romance to turn a blind eye on reality, on what really happened, and instead was content to present history as a kind of Arthurian legend.'

  He knew it was true. Nothing was further from the reivers' thoughts than dying for their God and Queen or King.

  'The patriotism Scott believed in never existed,' she said as if she read his thoughts. 'All they knew was the law of the jungle, of every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. If patriotism of any kind existed, it was well down on their list of priorities.'

  She pulled out a piece of grass from the fence and began to shred it. 'Patriotism that men die for - that's a different game, far removed from your fairy tales. Some of us know that only too well.'

  He looked at her. The Irish accent she tried to suppress was stronger now, released by her passions.

  'You are an authoress, are you not?'

  She turned quickly to face him. 'How -'

  'Ink stains on your fingernails, a valise full of papers -'

  She held up her hand. 'I should have known - you being a policeman. Just my luck,' she murmured, turning away from him again.

  'What brings yo
u here?' he asked.

  'What do you think? I'm writing a book, of course. One of your dreaded romances,' she said so mockingly he knew it to be a lie.

  Staring at the horizon as though seeing a secret pageant of weeping ghosts, her eyes widened. Suddenly she shivered. 'I've had enough of this place. Can we go down now?'

  It was a slow, silent journey; step by tortuous step, she leaned heavily on his arm.

  When at last they set foot on the road, she looked pale and exhausted. Faro looked at her anxiously. How was she to manage the long walk to the lodge? The alternative was to carry her.

  'Listen,' she said. 'Someone's coming.'

  A pony trap bustled round the bend in the road.

  Dr Brand stopped, raised his hat, looked from one to the other, smiling.

  Miss Crowe limped towards him.

  'An accident? Dear, dear.'

  As she explained, he was already helping her into the cart with Faro's assistance.

  'You too, Mr Faro. You're lucky I was along the road. Called out to a difficult birth. Yes, yes, both well and doing fine now. I'll see Miss Crowe safely home, bind up that ankle. I'll set you down at the inn, sir.'

  But Faro had spent enough time in Miss Crowe's uncomfortable company. She was impossible. He hadn't changed his original opinion of her and was left quite unmoved by the common bond they shared in his hero, Sir Walter Scott.

  As they drove off he was seized by a fit of sneezing. Putting his hand in his greatcoat pocket for a handkerchief, he encountered Miss Crowe's book.

  Waving it, he called after them, but they were too distant to heed him.

  'Damn and blast,' he said, returning it to his pocket. He sneezed again.

  Chapter 14

  Faro decided to visit the kirkyard. Vince might laugh at what he called his stepfather's morbid addiction but Faro found that such dalliance in the past had often saved him a considerable amount of walking. Many pieces of information could be gleaned and questions answered where there was no written evidence regarding past inhabitants.

  As he walked his attention was drawn to a babble of shrill childish voices. It issued from the playground of the local school and indicated an earnest game of hopscotch.

  The sound of a whistle blown by an elderly lady, grey-haired and pince-nezed, imposed immediate silence as the children swiftly formed a crocodile at the school door. Faro applauded the dominie's speedy control over forty or more pupils and he guessed that she had taught and disciplined, stern but kindly, at least two generations of Elrigg children.

  Here was a contact worth following, he thought, as he continued on his way to the kirkyard where the lichened tombstones leaned at dangerous angles as if occupants rested uneasily in their graves. Surrounded by ancient cottages, it confirmed his awareness of being under observation. By now, his presence was known to the entire population, his identity a matter of tireless speculation. As, no doubt, was his appearance today with Miss Crowe, and equally distasteful as it might be to both, already interpreted as a budding romance.

  At least he would prove them wrong, for, in the matter of Imogen Crowe, nothing was further from his thoughts as he concentrated on the task in hand.

  Entering the church by the Norman door, he found himself facing a twelfth-century rounded chancel arch leading to the altar with its handsome rose window.

  He knew enough about old churches to hazard a guess that Elrigg St Mary's with its square tower and narrow slit windows in the belfry tower had been built with defence as well as worship in mind, an additional place of security for the priest and worshippers to take refuge from raiders.

  Never a religious man, Faro limited his appearances in the kirk of St Giles in Edinburgh to christenings, marriages and funerals but standing before the tiny altar surrounded by these ancient stones brought a feeling of peace and tranquillity, a sense of benediction.

  If he had been a praying man, he would have seized the opportunity to beg for an audience, but he felt uncomfortable calling upon God's assistance when he was not a communicant of the Christian church. He looked up at the figure of Christ on the crucifix above the altar and, for one fanciful moment, it seemed that the Son of God's wry expression saw right through him and understood his problems very well indeed.

  With a sigh, he wandered over to the stone effigies of the Elriggs who had dominated this piece of Northumberland for more than five hundred years. Elaborately carved and marbled, with a profusion of weeping angels, their tombs told him nothing and he wished, not for the first time, that he had with him his Sergeant, Danny McQuinn of the Edinburgh City Police.

  He had never thought the Queen's mission would be simple, but the answers were turning out to be far more difficult than he had imagined. Living at the inn and carrying out inquiries at the Castle without proper authority to do so was fraught with frustrations. He felt that, as always when dealing with the aristocracy, the best clues were to be found in the servants' hall. But he could think of no good excuse for an insurance investigator to be closely questioning them regarding their mistress's behaviour.

  This was the area in which McQuinn excelled. The boy who had left Ireland in the disastrous years after the potato famine had grown up to be a man of the people. There was no class barrier for Danny McQuinn. He could be relied upon to ferret out confidences that would never be given, tongue-tied and scared, in the awesome presence of a senior detective inspector. Servants felt at ease with McQuinn with his homely Irish wit, his charm with the humblest of maids, each one of whom he treated like a well-born lady. Such methods would be sure to find a way to get - and to keep - them talking.

  Closing the church door behind him, Faro made his way slowly through the tombstones, reading the inscriptions

  'Good day to you, sir!'

  The vicar, a tall figure in flowing black robes and white bands, hurried towards him.

  'Perhaps I can help you, sir. Are you searching for someone in particular?'

  As Faro murmured that he was just interested in old stones, Reverend Cairncross's natural curiosity about this stranger in their midst showed a disarmingly human side to the man of God whose ascetic face and lean frame were that of a medieval monk. His appearance suggested that he had been only recently removed from penning illuminated manuscripts in Melrose Abbey.

  'You are, I believe, Mr - Faro - the insurance assessor?'

  Thus confronted, Faro did not feel up to the direct lie. Yes, indeed, he was here in connection with Sir Archie's death.

  That was strictly true.

  Reverend Cairncross murmured sympathetically but the word 'death' had injected a sudden chill into his manner. The sudden tightening of his lips and his brooding gaze in the direction of the Castle hinted louder than any words that the Elriggs were not the most popular of his parishioners.

  The uncomfortable silence between the two men was broken as a plump middle-aged woman appeared round the side of the church carrying a large basket.

  She was introduced as Mrs Cairncross and Faro smiled. The bevy of children at her side indicated the danger of taking people at their face value. The priestly countenance, which suggested monastic celibacy, was gravely in error.

  Mrs Cairncross greeted him warmly, talked kindly but anxiously about the weather. These civilities were interrupted as a young woman appeared from the direction of the church gate.

  As she was introduced as 'our eldest daughter, Miss Harriet Cairncross', Faro noted that she had inherited her mother's comely looks and curves.

  'Are you a bowman, by any chance, Mr Faro?' said Mrs Cairncross.

  'Alas, no.'

  'A pity,' said her husband, eyeing him narrowly. 'You have an excellent sturdy frame, strong about the shoulders -'

  Mrs Cairncross interrupted laughingly, 'Alfred is a great enthusiast. He won the coveted Gold Arrow three years ago and has never forgotten it. I almost said it went to his head,' she giggled helplessly and Reverend Cairncross patted her arm affectionately.

  'I can recommend archery to you, sir.
A grand healthy relaxation and I tell myself much more in keeping with the Bible than guns.'

  'Even if you are not an archer, sir, you must come to the fete in the church hall afterwards,' insisted Mrs Cairncross.

  'Mr Faro is an insurance assessor, my dear. He is engaged at the Castle at present.'

  Faro observed that the vicar's grip on his wife's arm tightened perceptibly. His words, spoken lightly but with a hint of warning, suddenly changed the scene from being warm and welcoming. It was as if a chill wind had blown over the little group. The daughter stepped back as if taking refuge, hiding behind her mother, and Faro's quick ears detected a strangled sob from the girl as her father bowed a dismissal in his direction.

  Seizing her arm as if to restrain her from flight, his head close to hers, chiding or comforting, he propelled her in the direction of the manse.

  Mrs Cairncross darted a helpless look at the pair of them, turned to Faro, opened her mouth as if to say something and, unable to think of anything to fit the occasion, turned on her heel and hurried after them.

  Left standing, Faro regarded their swift departure thoughtfully. Curious behaviour indeed, remembering that warning tone clear as a bell as he was being introduced by the vicar to his wife and pretty daughter.

  As he continued his perusal of the tombstones, he stored away in his excellent memory the picture of the consternation that the vicar's words 'at the Castle' had struck. A chord that the ominous words 'Detective Inspector Faro' normally aroused in those whose consciences trembled with guilt.

  Now he wondered what the Cairncross family had to hide. Their reactions could hardly have been more dramatic had they known his real identity. The blight that mention of Elriggs or Castle brought into the most friendly and ordinary conversations was becoming uncomfortably familiar, swiftly changing listeners' attitudes from geniality to suspicious alertness, tense and watchful as the wild cattle on the hill.

  Experienced as he was in the nuances of criminal attitudes, such strange behaviour fascinated him, as he wondered how many more village folk would be thrown into panic and consternation by the innocent announcement of his business at Elrigg.