[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  'Did he say when he'd be back?'

  'Told me to tell you he'd be in at six again tomorrow evening. I was to tell you to be here because he had vital information to give you.'

  Faro felt exasperated at having missed the poacher a second time. Was it no more than a ruse to extract money from a stranger by offering him some stolen booty, or did he know something vital about Sir Archie's death that he was willing to sell to the insurance mannie?

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Faro set off for the Castle. On his way through the village, his conscience prompted him that he should send a postcard to his daughters in Orkney and write a long overdue letter to his mother.

  Opposite the one church which catered for all Elrigg's spiritual needs was the one shop which catered for all their material ones, from food to farming implements.

  Purchases in hand, Faro waited for some time behind a customer buying boiled sweets from a large selection of glass jars. Her choice involved a great deal of indecision.

  Turning to him, she smiled apologetically and he recognised the elderly schoolteacher, whom the shopkeeper addressed very civilly as Miss Halliday.

  'My apologies, sir, these are rewards for good conduct and good marks for my children. Yes, that will do nicely, thank you.' As she awaited the weighing out and summing up of pennies, she continued: 'Are you enjoying your visit? I observed you outside the school railings and deduced that, as you were not a parent and therefore known to me personally, you must be a visitor.'

  'I am indeed,' Faro smiled inwardly. What splendid detectives these local people would have made. His strict rules of observation and deduction might well have been invented by them.

  The teacher obviously expected some further enlightenment and Faro found it difficult to give the kind of response that the woman's shrewd and eager expression demanded. He still wore his recently acquired persona like an ill-fitting suit of clothes, about which he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and self-conscious. A poor actor, he was certain that everyone in Elrigg had seen through his disguise and knew it for a lie.

  'If you are staying for a while, perhaps you would care to come to our charity concert, the day after the Archery Contest? The children are performing well-known scenes from Shakespeare's plays and I can guarantee an evening of lively entertainment...'

  As she warmed to her subject, waxing ecstatic about her small actors and actresses, Faro listened bleakly. How he dreaded and assiduously avoided amateur theatricals, the worst of all being school plays. His role of fond and indulgent parent had its limitations and he was thankful that his daughters Rose and Emily had never exhibited even hints of latent acting abilities.

  Thanking Miss Halliday graciously but remaining vague about his immediate future in Elrigg, he made his escape.

  Relying on his forged credentials and the fact that the further inquiries of an insurance investigator might be accepted as natural, Faro walked briskly towards the Castle.

  At the lodge Imogen Crowe was at home, busily hanging curtains in the kitchen window. Pretending not to notice, and staring hard in the opposite direction, he hurried past, head down, eager to avoid any further communication with her.

  An impossible woman.

  Chapter 17

  The day was warm and sunny and Faro concentrated on what he was going to say to Lady Elrigg and her stepson. The aged butler opened the door and looked down his sharp nose at Faro. As usual he was left waiting on the doorstep for some time while the old man enquired as to who might be at home.

  It was all very tiresome, thought Faro, his good nature evaporating rapidly as he wondered if his presence had been forgotten.

  At last the door was reopened. 'Her Ladyship is not at home but Mr Mark is willing to see you.'

  Faro was relieved to see Mark appear behind the butler at that moment.

  'Good day to you, Mr Faro. Shall we stroll in the gardens?'

  Faro smiled. Perhaps it was crediting the young man with too much subtlety to have realised that emotions are easier concealed strolling in a garden than sitting face to face across a table. And a much less unnerving experience.

  'The paintings haven't turned up, I'm afraid,' Mark volunteered.

  Faro would have been surprised if they had, having long since determined their fate.

  'I suppose you have documents for us to sign?' Mark continued.

  Faro hadn't thought of that.

  'Sir Archie didn't tell me - as you know. All a bit of a shock, what happened.'

  ‘I’m sorry. You were close to him?' Faro said boldly.

  Mark shrugged. 'As close as anyone. He was good to me and I enjoyed better relations with him than most,' he added frankly. 'He could be a devil sometimes, you know, he believed in the old traditions of the gentry, tried to run Elrigg like a medieval warlord. He refused to believe that times were changing. He yearned for the old-style barony courts, with absolute power of life and death, the droit de seigneur - all that sort of thing. He liked the idea of summoning his tenants once a quarter - to dispense justice and administer punishment.'

  They had reached the edge of the walled garden. Ahead of them stretched a large expanse of boggy, heavily weeded marshland, quite out of the keeping with the neat paths and well-trimmed garden.

  That was once an ornamental lake. We used to sail boats on it, have picnics. Then there was an accident, a girl drowned. Sir Archie wouldn't tolerate that sort of thing on his land. Had it drained. He was like that.'

  'It must have been very distressing for you finding him that day -' Faro decided to pretend ignorance and the mild curiosity that might be expected of him regarding Sir Archie's death.

  Mark shook his head. 'I didn't know what had happened until later. I was busy in the estate office. Something my stepfather wanted checked,' he continued swiftly. Then, looking at Faro, he said, 'We were used to him being unseated by his horse. He would arrive back on foot in a towering rage, out for blood.'

  'That happened often?'

  'Often enough. He had a passion for highly bred Arab horses, very expensive. He had to show them - like everyone else - that he was master. Used the whip cruelly at the breaking-in process -'

  'He was riding alone, I take it?'

  'No. As a matter of fact he had one of our guests with him.'

  'And didn't this guest give the alarm?'

  'Of course,' said Mark uncomfortably. 'Oh, there you are,' he called as Lady Elrigg and her companion Miss Kent emerged from the walled garden, the relief in his voice suggesting rescue from a particularly nasty situation. Faro bowed politely, greeted them cordially. While he listened to Mark explaining too brightly that Mr Faro was still busy with his inquiries about the paintings, he felt Lady Elrigg's smile was fixed and held no warmth.

  But it was the companion who most interested him. This was their first meeting and he regarded her with considerable interest in the light of Constable Dewar's scathing remarks regarding her matrimonial chances.

  Beatrice Kent was tall and thin with a sallow complexion, the kind of anonymity that doomed actresses to character roles. Even in extreme youth he doubted whether she had ever been pretty enough for juvenile leads. She was no foil for her mistress's flamboyant beauty.

  She was aware of his scrutiny and turned aside sharply. At her side Poppy Elrigg continued to smile, her composure unimpaired by this encounter with the insurance assessor. Only Miss Kent showed evidence of despair, her lips trembling, her eyes darting back and forth nervously from one to the other as if in some desperate mute appeal for help.

  At last she touched Lady Elrigg's arm, the slightest gesture but enough communication for the two women to turn and look at him with expressions that left him in no doubt regarding his popularity. And had they been able to slip back into the shrubbery unobserved he guessed they would have withdrawn immediately.

  Feeling that words of explanation were demanded of him, he said heartily: 'Just the usual procedures, you know.'

  'In view of our unfortunate ber
eavement, I was reminding him -' Mark's voice held a note of pleading.

  'I'm sure Mr Faro understands perfectly.' Lady Elrigg's brilliant smile in his direction was followed by a brisk nod to Mark. 'And now, if you'll excuse us. Come along, Mark,' she added as if he had some burning desire to remain. 'Beatrice and I were looking for you. There are estate matters urgently needing your attention, you know.'

  The heir to Elrigg seemed in no great hurry to take over his duties either and Faro, detecting a hint of reproach and reprimand, regarded their rapid exit thoughtfully.

  Lady Elrigg had been particularly anxious to remove Mark and, he felt sure, she would be very concerned about the particulars of their conversation.

  At that moment, he decided that Mark was the most unlikely person to have murdered Sir Archie if he had found him unconscious in the spinney.

  Unless he was lying in wait for just such a possibility, when he most certainly would have been seen in the vicinity by Yarrow or Dewar. Besides, from what Mark had told him, Faro felt the boy was more likely to have rushed to the scene and tried his best to resuscitate his stepfather.

  Returning along the Castle drive, deep in his own thoughts, Faro stepped aside to make way for a rider leading a string of horses.

  Greetings exchanged, Faro was admiring the mare with her new foal, when the lad said: 'You're the man from the insurance people. I thought I recognised you. I've seen you at the inn.'

  'You were here the day of His Lordship's accident?'

  'I was that,' said the lad as he dismounted. 'Mind you, I thought little of it at the time. His Lordship had frequent disagreements with the beasts. Often came off worst.'

  He shook his head. 'I didn't realise he was hurt, especially as the other gentleman rode in, never mentioned it -'

  'This other gentleman. Who was he?'

  The stable boy gave him a curious look. 'Very important he was sir, very confidential. We'd lose our jobs if we talked about him - gossiped and the like,' he said anxiously.

  'Quite so. I just wondered why he hadn't waited and seen His Lordship home.'

  'Can't say, sir. He rode in. I helped him dismount and he was very wet and in a tearing rage, I could see that. He ordered his carriage to be sent round immediately and stormed off to the house. We hadn't been told that he was leaving and of course there was the usual panic. I watched him leave with his servants, wondering about His Lordship. Wasn't like him not to be there to speed on the departing guest. Her Ladyship looked a bit flustered, apologetic like.'

  'Was Mr Mark with her?'

  'No. I didn't see him. When I got back to the stables, His Lordship's horse galloped in. I was alarmed. I realised His Lordship might have gone right up to the Castle not to be late for dinner. But that wasn't like him. It was still raining and getting dark. I chatted to the other lads and none of us liked the idea of him lying hurt out there, especially with the cattle roaming about, upset by a stalking party earlier on. And we'd been told there were some young calves just dropped.

  'Then Constable Dewar rode in, told us about the accident,' He shrugged. 'When we got there it was too late. Sergeant Yarrow and Dr Brand were with him.'

  'Anyone else?'

  The stable lad thought. 'Aye. Mr Mark and Mr Hector were standing about and one or two of the estate folk. But there wasn't anything they could do.'

  As Faro continued on his way, he made a mental picture of the scene in the copse. Mark, Hector and a few anonymous 'estate folk', any of whom could ride a horse and might have found Sir Archie lying injured. From what he had learned, all the tenants were expert archers. It didn't take much stretch of. the imagination to realise that the bull's horn might be used as a murder weapon.

  He considered the time factor. Although it took the best part of thirty minutes to walk briskly to the copse from the Castle, ten minutes on a swift mount was all that was required, taking well-known short cuts over fields and fences.

  Luck had been with the murderer, since Sergeant Yarrow's arrival had been delayed by his horse going lame. A murderer who was clever - or desperate - who had discovered the bull's horns and realised the possibilities or re-enacting the death of the actor Philip Gray by blaming it on the wild cattle.

  His thoughts were irresistibly drawn once more to Hector Elrigg. He could not dismiss him from his list of possible suspects. He spent most of his working days at the hillfort with the copse in clear view, his cottage less than a hundred yards away.

  And Hector was an expert archer.

  Chapter 18

  Deep in thought, Faro was halfway between the Castle drive and the village when the rain began. A few preliminary warning spots became a torrential downpour. Taking refuge in the only available shelter offered by a large but still leafless oak tree whose branches hung over the estate wall, he gazed longingly towards a cottage on the other side of the road.

  Smoke issued from its chimney bringing the scent of a peat fire. Lamplight gleamed in its windows. Suddenly the door opened and a lady beckoned to him.

  'Won't you come and take shelter, sir? It is only a shower, and it will soon pass...'

  Faro recognised the schoolteacher Miss Halliday. And needing no second bidding, he raced across the intervening ground and followed her into the kitchen where a kettle whistled merrily on a large fire.

  The room was well filled with bookshelves, every inch of wall covered by framed paintings, every foot of floor by sofas and soft-cushioned chairs. The hands of the needlewoman, either her own or those of her pupils, had been industriously employed through the years.

  She pointed to the kettle. 'I was about to make myself a cup of tea when I looked out of the window, thinking my poor plants - how they would welcome a drink. And there you were, poor gentleman - getting absolutely drenched. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea while we try to dry you off.'

  Faro insisted that he wasn't very wet, thanks to her timely intervention, but the tea would be most welcome.

  As he introduced himself as Mr Faro, Miss Halliday smiled wordlessly and held out her hands for his coat. 'Wait a moment till I set a place for you at the table - oh yes, I insist,' she said and, indicating the papers she bundled on to the sideboard: 'Two of our little girls, sisters, have gone down with scarlet fever, poor dears. I have to fill these in for Sergeant Yarrow.' She sighed. 'I do hope we don't have to be quarantined and our little school closed.'

  Faro murmured sympathetically as she set before him a plate of scones.

  'By my cookery class,' she said proudly. 'They are quite excellent. Do try them.'

  His initial misgivings were quickly set aside and he accepted a second helping.

  She looked pleased. 'The dear children, all of them have their own special gift, there isn't one of them who doesn't shine at something. If they aren't clever at sums then they are usually very good with their hands. Do you have children, sir?'

  Faro told her about Emily and Rose and she listened, smiling, and nodded sympathetically when she heard he was a widower.

  'I can tell you are very proud of your daughters, a pity they cannot live in Edinburgh with you, but I think you have made the right decision, the countryside is a much better and safer choice for children to grow up in. Won't you came and sit by the fire?'

  As he sank into a comfortable chair, he sighed. 'What a pretty house you have, Miss Halliday.' Noticing how some of her movements were slow and rheumatic, he added, 'Would it not be more convenient to live on the school house premises?'

  She laughed. 'I know what you're thinking, Mr Faro, a big barn of a house for one elderly lady without any servants. But you see this has always been my home. I was born in this house, so were my parents and grandparents. It was a farmhouse in those days. Do you know, Sir Walter Scott once stayed here,' she added proudly. 'We have his letter.' And she pointed to a framed letter among the many watercolours.

  'How fascinating, Miss Halliday. Why, Sir Walter is one of my heroes. I've read all his books.'

  'And so have I. Well, he most likely sat on t
hat very same chair you are occupying now, Mr Faro. Here you are -' and so saying she took down the letter. 'Read it - aloud, if you please, I love to hear his words.'

  Touching through the glass that well-beloved handwriting which had brought so many hours of pleasure, Faro began:

  * * *

  Behold a letter from the mountain, for I am very snugly settled here in a farmer's house, about six miles from Wooler, in the very centre of the Cheviot Hills, in one of the wildest and most romantic situations... To add to my satisfaction we are midst places renowned by the feats of former days; each hill is crowned with a tower, or camp, or cairn; and in no situation can you be nearer more fields of battle. Out of the brooks with which these hills are intersected, we pull trouts of half a yard in length and we are in the very country of muir fowl. My uncle drinks the goat's whey here as I do ever since I understood it was brought to his bedside every morning at six by a very pretty dairy maid -

  * * *

  'Stop a moment, sir,' Miss Halliday interrupted, her face gleaming with excitement. 'That dairy maid was my great-grandmother. Sir Walter was only twenty years old when he wrote that. He was still a law clerk in his father's office.'

  She sighed happily. 'I like to think he might have been a little in love with that pretty girl. I do beg your pardon, sir, please continue.'

  * * *

  All the day we shoot, fish, walk and ride; dine and sup on fish struggling from the stream, and the most delicious health-fed mutton, barn door fowls, pies, mild-cheese, etc. all in perfection: and so much simplicity resides among these hills that a pen, which could write at least, was not to be found about the house, though belonging to a considerable farmer, till I shot the crow with whose quill I write this epistle.