[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

by Alanna Knight

  Half hoping there might be some forgotten memorial among the scattered tombstones, he wandered around reading inscriptions, deciphering weathered stones with their skulls and crossbones, their intimations of mortality.

  There were names famous on both sides of the border: Elliott, Armstrong, Scott - so many young people. Thirty to forty was the average age. And there were sad reminders. A 'relict' aged nineteen, 'beloved wife aged twenty-three' with an infant one week old.

  Like his Lizzie, many had died in childbirth. Children too. Died in infancy. 'Died in an accident - Elrigg - aged eleven.'

  He was still staring at the stone, aware suddenly of Vince looking over his shoulder. He whistled softly and pointed to the stone. 'I think you have found your murderer, Stepfather.'

  * * *

  But Faro was still unconvinced.

  Miss Gilchrist's party having been invited to dinner with the local doctor, the twins were returning to Edinburgh next day and they had persuaded their great-aunt, much against her will, to allow Vince to sleep that night on the very comfortable sofa in the parlour.

  The arrangement pleased him. 'I like to be informal and I love this house.'

  Imogen Crowe declined his somewhat reluctant invitation to share the governess cart back to Elrigg. Her excuse that Hector was coming for her later was a relief for Faro, who pleaded a necessary return to the inn before setting out on holiday with Vince.

  * * *

  As Faro paid his bill at the Elrigg Arms, Bowden said: 'By the way, a lad came a while ago with a message from Mr Hector Elrigg. You're to meet him at the hillfort. He said it was urgent.'

  The fickle weather had changed once again and it would be dark soon. A dull evening, heavy with mist, and Faro was suddenly reluctant to leave the warm fire.

  Vince would say: 'Let well alone, leave it. The case is closed.'

  But Faro was tempted. This might be the last link in the evidence. He told himself of course it wasn't necessary, but to ferret out the truth was the habit of a lifetime. He had to know the murderer's identity for his own satisfaction, otherwise he would always be plagued by a case unfinished, a question forever posed.

  He realised that the mist was thicker than ever on the road. The ground underfoot was wet with visibility limited to a few yards, a few ghostly hedgerows. He shivered as the atmosphere gripped him like a clammy shroud. Peering into the gloom, he realised that the standing stones had also vanished, hidden behind that dense grey curtain.

  At the boundary fence he hesitated, caring little for the idea of crossing the open pastureland to the hillfort. The mist now clung heavily to his eyelashes, blinding him. He blinked, feeling sick with apprehension, searching the mist for shadows and finding them. He remembered being told that the cattle come down from the hill in bad weather, nearer the road, seeking shelter. Now he fancied he could hear them, the grass rustling. And smell them too.

  Something rose in front of him, large and white...

  He stood still, heart-thumping, prepared for flight as a solitary sheep rushed off bleating at his approach.

  He breathed again. Then the sound of hoofs, heavy this time.

  A stray horse, riderless, swerved from his path, whinnied and disappeared.

  Another shadow.

  A man. The outline of head and shoulders, a soft-moving, gliding shadow.

  'Hector! Hector?' he called. 'Over here.'

  The air behind him was cut by a whirring sound. Instinctively, swiftly, he ducked and the arrow that was to have killed him struck his shoulder. He felt the searing agony as he staggered and tried to reach the shaft of the arrow, to drag it out, aware that he was the target for an excellent archer, one who could take his time killing him.

  Through his own folly, he was going to die.

  He should have listened to Vince, heeded more carefully the clues that had come his way, that pointed undeniably to the killer...

  He heard the next arrow's flight and dropped to the ground. Through the pain, he began coughing. He felt the warm blood flowing and as the blackness of merciful unconsciousness enveloped him he fainted away.

  The blackness was invaded by light, sound and smell.

  He opened his eyes. At least he wasn't dead, pain told him that he was still alive. He lifted his head. It was an animal noise that had stirred him, the pounding of hoofs reverberating on the ground near him.

  And then he saw it. Running towards him, the heavy head, the shining horns. For one second only, he thought he dreamed again, that this was yet another return to childhood's nightmare. But this was no shaggy red Highland beast. The animal that bore down on him with its acrid stench was the terrible reality of a white king bull.

  He could not rise, in the grip of that same paralysis of nightmare. He was transfixed by fear, fear greater than the searing agony in his shoulder.

  If only he could leap up... run... run...

  And then clearly across the years he heard the voice of his aunt from that Deeside croft.

  'Never run, lad. Never do that. The only way you can save yourself is to lie as still as you can. Play dead. Don't even breathe. He'll sniff at you and, if you don't move, he'll give up and go away.'

  Nightmare had blocked that memory, had turned it into a screaming horror. Now in the face of death again, the words had returned razor sharp, undimmed by the passing years. Knowing this was his only hope of survival, he almost lost consciousness again in those heart-stopping moments when the beast's hoofs trampled the ground inches away from his face.

  He felt its hot, stinking breath on his neck, drips of saliva on his hair. Its nose touched the arrow shaft, questing, and he bit his lip hard against the scream of agony.

  The smell of blood. Was that what it sought before lowering its horns into his back, lifting him bodily from the ground...

  Every second seemed like an eternity as he waited for that terrible death.

  O God - God help me...

  And like a miracle, his prayer was answered. By a single gunshot. A second...

  The animal grunted, lifted its nose from its quest over his body. Then he heard the hoofs beating on the ground. Growing distant.

  Then no more.

  No more.

  Chapter 27

  When he opened his eyes, it was to pain. He screamed against it but was glad even to feel pain. He was still alive.

  Turning his head cautiously, he looked into the face of Imogen Crowe who held the arrow she had dragged out of his shoulder.

  'I didn't know you could handle a gun.'

  'Oh yes,' she smiled sarcastically. 'I use one all the time. We're never without them where I come from in Ireland. But surely you as a policeman know that.'

  She lifted her head. 'Here they are. Hector's brought Dr Brand. He'll soon have you mended.' She pointed towards the fence. 'I don't know about Sergeant Yarrow. He's lying over there. In a bad way, I'm afraid.'

  * * *

  The two men were supported into Hector's cottage and much later, after a lot of blood and bandages, the doctor smiled at Faro.

  'You're a brave man and you'll live. That shoulder will be sore for a while, but the arrow just skimmed the muscle, went sideways. You were lucky.' He looked towards the bedroom. 'Luckier than poor Yarrow.'

  'Is he -'

  Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not yet. But it won't be long. Took a haemorrhage from the lungs. Wouldn't listen to advice. Are you able to stand?'

  'Of course.' Faro tried to swing his legs off the sofa, failed and decided against another attempt.

  Dr Brand smiled. 'I couldn't help noticing as I was patching you up that you have many scars, you must have lived a very dangerous life for an insurance assessor.'

  'It has its problems.'

  Dr Brand nodded towards the bedroom. 'Sergeant Yarrow would like to see you.'

  Faro nodded. 'Where's Miss Crowe?'

  'She's in the garden. With Hector.'

  'I owe her my life, you know. She scared that damned bull away.'

  'You're wrong on
two accounts, lad. It was Hector fired the gun. And it wasn't the king bull or you wouldn't be telling the tale. It was a cow. Maybe a young heifer.'

  'A cow?'

  'Yes, but her horns are just as sharp, and she can be just as dangerous. Fortunately, like all females, she suffers from curiosity. Her mate might not have wasted so much time sniffing around you.'

  Faro shuddered. 'I must thank Hector.'

  Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not now. See the Sergeant first. There may not be much time before Dewar gets here.'

  * * *

  Faro went into the bedroom quietly. At first he thought he was too late, that Yarrow was dead.

  There was so little life in the face, so little difference from the colour of the pillow on which he lay, that Faro was almost taken by surprise when his lips moved: 'I should have killed you.'

  'Another murder? Harder to explain away than Sir Archie.'

  'How did you know?'

  'I didn't. Not until I saw Eric's portrait. He was the image of you. Your eyes looked out at me. And then there was his grave in Branxton kirkyard. But most of all were your own words, first on the scene of the crime...'

  Yarrow laughed soundlessly. 'You begin with what is certain, what you are sure of, then you build on to it.'

  'The first lesson in detection, I see you still remember that,' said Faro. 'My only certainty was that the killer had to be first on the scene. And after I'd ruled out the Prince of Wales, I was left with only one man it could be - yourself.'

  Faro turned round painfully and touched the sleeve of Yarrow's uniform jacket hanging over a chair. 'See, there's a button missing.'

  'I know. I must have lost it.'

  'And I found it. Clutched in Duffy's hand when I pulled him out of the water. The final piece of evidence, of course, was your name on the gravestone in Branxton.'

  'And enough to hang me,' said Yarrow slowly.

  Faro looked at him. 'Was it revenge? A eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?'

  'Not only for my lad's death, shot by that drunken devil, but for my wife and the end of my marriage. Eric's death killed her as surely as if the bullet had struck her heart.'

  He sighed, staring out of the window. 'She was never strong after he was born and he was her whole life. After he died I watched her creep steadily away from me month by month, then week by week, then each day, each hour.'

  Breathless again, he paused. 'I wanted to die too when I was shot up in the Covent Garden massacre. I was pretty smashed up and they didn't expect me to survive. I was a long time in limbo, at the gates of death and to be honest I was very disappointed when they told me I would live.

  'But I knew my career, my glorious future they had talked about, was over. I'd never be fast on my feet again. I hated London after that and when I got the chance to come to Elrigg, it seemed that fate had taken a hand. I'm not a superstitious man, I don't believe in ghosts, but Eric started to haunt me. I dreamed of him constantly - I was obsessed, convinced that he wanted me to avenge him.

  'As for Sir Archie, I was sure he'd see it on my face whenever we met - arrogant bastard that he was and me so servile: yes, sir, no, sir! But there were never any opportunities of getting him alone. I've waited years, sometimes I was with him alone but, without using my bare fists, I couldn't kill him.

  'The first real opportunity came when we were riding escort to the Prince of Wales. We saw them disappear towards the copse and then the Prince left alone. You know the rest, Dewar set off for the village and I went to - help - Elrigg. He was unconscious and I knew I'd never get such a chance again. But what to use for a weapon? And then I remembered that the day before I'd found Bowden's horns in a ditch and shoved them in my saddle bag. Evidence to nail Duffy, I thought.'

  He smiled wanly. 'Now it seemed like fate, for I held in my hands a weapon to avenge my lad and make it look like an accident. I broke one of the horns off, didn't even check to see that he was still breathing in case he opened his eyes - just thrust it - hard - with both hands - into his back. It went in easily, like a stiletto. I don't know where I found the strength but he had a soft fatty body,' he added in a tone of disgust.

  'I thought he groaned, but even if he wasn't dead then he had never seen my face. I hid the horn in the stone wall - '

  'Where I found it.'

  Yarrow smiled wearily. 'I might have guessed. And that it wouldn't take long for you to guess the rest. I hadn't bargained on Duffy either. He'd been lurking around and knew there was never a bull in sight.'

  'Blackmail.'

  'Yes. I paid him a few pounds but it wasn't enough and then he said he'd tell you - the insurance mannie - what he knew. I overheard him asking you, leaving messages with Bowden and knew I had to do something about it - quick. So I arranged to meet him, promising him more money for his silence. Had a bottle with me - whisky this time. As we talked he was already drunk - and very abusive when he realised I didn't have a hundred pounds on me.

  'He hit me. We both fell and struggled on the ground. I pushed his face down into the water - held him till he was dead. Then I poured the rest of the whisky over him.'

  'What about Miss Halliday?'

  Feebly he held up his hands. 'Not guilty. I never attacked her. I liked the woman, respected her. I'd called to collect the quarantine papers. I'd never been inside her house before. She gave me some tea, and as I sat there I saw Eric's face smiling at me.'

  And Faro remembered that the abandoned cup of tea and Eric's likeness to Yarrow had helped him guess the killer's identity.

  'That painting, dear God, like he was trying to speak to me. Such a likeness, tears came into my eyes. I had to have it. So I went back late that night intending to steal it. I was clumsy in my eagerness, knocked an ornament down in the dark. It smashed, she heard the noise, came downstairs, tripped and fell headlong. She never moved. I thought she was dead, took Eric's picture and ran.'

  He shook his head, pale and exhausted, his voice growing fainter. 'I wasn't sure how much you knew or guessed - I didn't want to kill you - I don't suppose I'm the first.'

  'By no means, Sergeant. But they were usually criminals, not honest policemen.'

  'Honest,' Yarrow repeated mockingly. 'I was tired of being honest. It had got me nowhere and now I was a goner anyway. Dr Brand told me my time was up, that I could go any day. It would have been something, some small compensation to have written on my tombstone: "Here lies the man who murdered Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police." Quite an epitaph. After all those famous criminals, he'd been bested by a lowly sergeant in a country police station.'

  He shook his head. 'At least there won't be enough of me to hang,' he added, indicating the silver button.

  Faro handed it to him. 'Get Mrs Dewar to sew it on again.'

  Yarrow looked at him in wonder. 'You mean - '

  'I mean that I am going to assist a miscarriage of justice. Life has dealt you enough blows, Yarrow, blows that you are paying for dearly. You had a splendid career, an unsullied reputation. And that's how it will be remembered as far as I'm concerned.'

  There was a message from Vince at the Inn. 'Returning to Edinburgh immediately. Had a telegraph that Balfour is in hospital. Sorry about the holiday. In haste.'

  Yarrow died that night, mourned by all who knew him, especially by the Dewars who spread the word that while practising for the archery contest he had mistaken a moving shadow for one of the wild cattle looming out of the mist towards him. The arrow misfired and hit Faro a glancing blow. A sick man, the effort of pulling back the bow had caused a fatal haemorrhage.

  Only Imogen Crowe and Hector Elrigg knew the truth and if Dr Brand had his suspicions then he kept them to himself.

  As for Faro, it seemed an unlikely explanation that might have satisfied Dewar but would have opened up an immediate inquiry for any detective inspector. The insurance mannie was a different matter.

  Dr Brand signed the death certificate and the Sergeant was laid to rest. The Metropolitan Police he had served so gallantly in L
ondon most of his life as a police officer sent a representative to the funeral at Elrigg kirkyard.

  No connection was ever hinted at concerning Eric Yarrow's grave in Branxton. At least, Faro thought, father and son lay only a few miles apart, to rest for all eternity under the same windswept skies, the same bird-haunted hills.

  * * *

  Imogen Crowe did not attend Yarrow's funeral. When they met, Faro expected that she would be announcing her engagement to Hector Elrigg.

  She laughed. 'You are quite wrong: for once your deductions have played you false, Inspector Faro.'

  'You would be surprised how often you are right about that,' he said bitterly.

  'Just be glad you are alive - that we were in the vicinity when you fell into Yarrow's trap, his lure to get you there. You want to know why I was there that night. Hector has been courting me each time I have come to Elrigg. Perhaps this past weekend I was tempted for a while and then... well,' she looked at him and quickly looked away again as their eyes met.

  'I intended telling him that I couldn't marry him as we drove back from Branxton. By the time we reached the hillfort the mist had got worse and I went into the cottage with him. One thing led to another, I insisted on leaving - and I wanted to walk - alone.'

  She paused, embarrassed. 'Hector said if I insisted on walking back across the pastureland in heavy mist, he'd better get his gun. He carried it as a matter of course in heavy mist, when the cattle come down from the hill. A shot is all they need to scare them off. I waited for him, I heard you calling. The mist lifted for just a moment, like a swirling shroud, and I saw Yarrow, creeping along by the fence. He was heading in your direction, loading a crossbow.'

  They were both silent and then Imogen said: 'When are you leaving?'

  'Tomorrow, I'm going back to Edinburgh. I wouldn't be much use on a vigorous hill-walking holiday with my arm in a sling. What about you?'

  'I'm going to Ford Castle for a little while, to continue my book. I'm leaving this afternoon.'