The Seal King Murders

by Alanna Knight

‘Not much point, folk wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t island news. Hardly makes headlines and doesn’t sell more newspapers or rocket the circulation figures. Besides, I could hardly ask her why she hadn’t been to the funeral, could I?’

  ‘What did your auntie make of it?’

  Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. ‘Haven’t been down since they took her into the asylum a couple of years ago. Went off her head apparently – maybe it’s something that runs in the family, like Thora’s loss of memory. I hope it’s not on my side. The local folk said she never got over Thora’s disappearance and was never the same again when she came back and got married.’

  He shook his head. ‘But I do feel badly about poor old Auntie – guilty, you know. Went to see her once but she hardly recognised me. Just wanted to gabble on about Thora and what a good lass she was. I know I should keep in touch, but well, it’s a long way to go and see an auntie who doesn’t know who you are. She was the only family I ever had: my folks died of TB when I was a bairn, and Auntie Bet never made any secret of caring more about the two Harbister girls than her own flesh and blood,’ he added bitterly.

  It was a sad tale in many families with old relatives and no one willing to look after them when they became too much for their neighbours.

  Faro understood that Jimmy was hurt by his aunt’s rejection and guessed that he was also keen to avoid any return to the bitterness that must have grown with the passing years as he shrugged and said, ‘Thora Claydon is old news and I’d need a proper excuse to give my editor for going down to the Hope to go over all that old ground. It’s the wrong time for me to be away, right now. Crucial to be on the spot ready for the Celia Prentiss-Grant story to break,’ he added cheerfully.

  An urgent call from the inner office had Jimmy scurrying away, shouting over his shoulder, ‘If you get any news, I’m first, remember.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  During their conversation Faro had already made his decision, he would go to the Hope. Tom, the Scarthbreck coachman, was lingering near the cathedral, smoking his pipe. Faro left a message for his mother not to wait as something had turned up.

  He covered the distance to the ferry landing as quickly as he could and was just in time to leap aboard as it moved off, his arm grabbed by one of the passengers.

  Amos, at the wheel, shouted a greeting. Faro was surprised to be recognised again, seeing the number of people he ferried back and forth twice a day.

  When the passengers were settled, Faro drifted over and watched Amos negotiate his way out of the harbour. Once safely at sea, the ferryman turned and called cheerfully, ‘Enjoying your stay?’ He grinned. ‘Change from Edinburgh, is it?’

  His friendly manner gave Faro an idea. The sea between North and South Ronaldsay was dour and grey, but mercifully calm. When they reached the quay at St Margaret’s Hope, Faro lingered, hoping to have a word with Amos after the other passengers departed.

  Safely anchored, Amos set down the rope and said, ‘Trust it wasn’t too rough for you?’

  Faro laughed. ‘I lived here briefly once upon a time. It’s good to come back again.’

  Amos shrugged and gave the landscape a bleak look. ‘Prefer the bright lights of town, myself.’ Then regarding Faro curiously, ‘Visiting family, are you?’

  ‘Not really. Just old friends.’

  A wry look. ‘Rumour has it that you’re the young Faro who deserted the island for Edinburgh to be a policeman.’

  It was Faro’s turn to smile. ‘News certainly travels fast.’

  ‘You have no idea, sir,’ Amos said. ‘Try keeping a secret – not a bit of use, they’ll just read your mind.’

  A pause and Faro made a decision, saying awkwardly, ‘I’m just here out of curiosity. Past memories, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hope you enjoy them. Last trip back is at six, so you have plenty of time.’

  Stepping off the ferry, Faro turned, as if he’d had a last-minute thought, and asked, ‘Does Elsa, Thora Claydon’s sister, still live here?’

  Amos was suddenly very still. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Amos laughed. ‘Thought she’d be a bit old for a young lad’s fancy.’

  Faro ignored that. ‘Still lives here, does she?’ he repeated.

  Amos stared towards the horizon, considered the anchor rope. ‘Have no idea, mate. Ask at the post office. See you later.’

  And with that, no longer friendly but somehow cool and dismissive, Amos bent his head and went about the business of collecting money from the waiting passengers.

  Faro left the harbour and walked past the tiny house in Front Street where he had lived so briefly as a child. There weren’t any memories lingering there apart from riding on his father’s shoulders and watching the seals. The place seemed smaller than he remembered, deserted and grey, untouched by sunshine. Its shadows, cold and withdrawn, brought an ominous feeling that his journey had been a waste of time.

  At the post office, his question about Elsa Harbister’s address was regarded with a disinterested shrug.

  ‘Left here years ago.’

  That cleared up one mystery, a valid reason why she hadn’t been at Dave Claydon’s funeral. Perhaps she didn’t even know he was dead. ‘Any idea of her last address?’

  ‘Used to live up the hill, yonder. First house past the crossroads, beside the church. Her sister lives in Kirkwall, maybe she could help you.’

  With little hope of success, Faro climbed the hill, found the house, and stood outside for a moment. It looked empty, and as he expected from the shuttered windows, there was no response from within.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  He turned to see a man watching him from the church door opposite. White-haired and elderly, his occupation denoted by his clerical collar, he gave a gleam of hope and Faro said, ‘I was looking for the lady who used to live here, Elsa Harbister.’

  ‘She left the Hope some years ago. And the present tenant is in poor health and now lives with his relatives.’

  ‘Were they acquainted?’

  The clergyman looked puzzled; he obviously thought this an odd question. ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, I was hoping some of Elsa’s relatives may still be here,’ Faro said bleakly.

  ‘She used to visit a sister – in Kirkwall, I believe. She may be able to tell you more about Elsa.’

  A sudden flurry of rain and a sharp wind threatened to close the conversation. The clergyman opened the church door, beckoned him inside, a noticeboard revealing his identity as Rev. James Wademan. ‘Such weather for summer, sir.’

  Cold and dark, with the familiar musty smell Faro associated with old bibles, the sole occupant was an elderly woman busy with duster and mop. Was her industry rewarded each Sunday by a congregation of devout worshippers, he wondered? The line of empty pews stretching down to the altar with its plain cross might accommodate all South Ronaldsay’s inhabitants.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bain.’

  ‘Afternoon, Minister.’

  Rev. Wademan turned to Faro. ‘Mrs Bain has been with us for many years. She is one of our senior elders and sustains us all with her gallant efforts.’

  Mrs Bain straightened her back, smiled gratefully as the minister went on, ‘Perhaps you could help this gentleman. He is in search of a lady who once lived here.’ And consulting his watch, he frowned. ‘I have a meeting.’

  ‘The gentlemen are waiting in the vestry, Minister.’

  Rev. Wademan smiled. ‘May I leave you in Mrs Bain’s capable hands, sir?’ He bowed and scuttled past the pews and out of a small door near the altar.

  Mrs Bain put down her mop and waited politely. ‘What was it you wanted, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Miss Elsa Harbister,’ and taking a certain diversion from the truth, ‘for a relative from Edinburgh – I’m here visiting my mother.’

  Mrs Bain smiled. ‘I thought from your accent you were from the island.’ And once again he was directed to Tho
ra in Kirkwall. ‘Sad about her man being drowned. Read about it in the paper.’

  ‘Did you know her sister?’

  Mrs Bain nodded. ‘Knew them both when they were bairns. Tragic lives they had, losing both parents, boat sank in a storm. Always close, always together. Just a year between them, more like twins really. Folk were proud of them, made something of their lives. Never parted, until …’ she hesitated, frowning, ‘that business about Thora.’

  Feigning ignorance, Faro asked, ‘What business would that be?’

  ‘Both wanted the same man. Then, when her sister went away for a year … like that.’

  Did ‘like that’ mean she knew about the seal king legend but was too delicate to mention it? She continued, ‘Maybe then Elsa had hopes. She went to Kirkwall, got a job. But Thora came back and Dave Claydon married her, despite everything.’

  She paused, remembering. ‘We’d always been friends with the Harbister girls and I was a bit like a mother to them. But they changed. Once Thora married she hardly ever came to the Hope and Elsa was away to the mainland without a word to any of us.’

  Her sad expression suggested that memory still hurt.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I can’t mind exactly. A few years back. I’d been up in Shetland looking after my father and when I came back, she’d gone. She might have left me an address so that I could have written to her. But there was nothing.’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘Thora had looked in when I was away. Never stayed – perhaps she’d come wanting to make it up with Elsa and she was too late. I hoped she’d come back and see me, close like we were once.’

  ‘What about Bet Traill, how did she take it?’

  ‘I ken Bet well. We were friends. She’s in a bad way, poor old soul. Loved those two girls, like they were her own. Never got over them both leaving. Seemed to take all the life out of her too. Taken to the asylum up the hill yonder a while back. Some of us look in and take her things to eat but,’ she shook her head, ‘she never talks, just sits there staring into space. It’s awful to see her like that.’

  She stopped, looked at him and said, ‘You’ve come all this way from Kirkwall for nothing. Thora’s the one you should talk to, if it’s urgent business about this relative from Edinburgh.’ Pausing, she sighed and added, ‘Tell her that Molly Bain’s still here and that she’ll always be welcome for a visit.’

  Thanking her, Faro went into the local inn, and over a pie and a pint of ale decided to fill in the waiting time to the next ferry by a visit to the asylum up the hill. It dominated the skyline. A grim, dark, depressing building with barred windows, more like a whisky distillery than a welcome retreat for folks who had mental problems.

  The door was opened by a tall, thin woman, grim of face and tight-mouthed. He wondered if she had been specially chosen to suit the building’s exterior. Responding to his request, she said, ‘Mrs Traill doesn’t receive visitors.’

  Faro put his foot against the door before it could be closed in his face and said firmly, ‘I have a message, an urgent one from her nephew, Jimmy Traill.’

  The woman looked at him. ‘The newspaperman? Is he a friend of yours?’ Faro said he was and she nodded, ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  Following her down a long, dark corridor and up a flight of ill-lit stairs, she turned and said, ‘Her nephew never comes near these days, so don’t expect too much of her. Gets very upset, very wandered in her mind. And look out, she can use her fists and be quite violent sometimes.’

  With these timely warnings, she opened a door, stood aside for him and called, ‘A visitor for you, Bet.’

  She was sitting by the barred window, a wisp of white hair visible above the chair. Turning as he approached, she said, ‘Thora, is it you – at last?’

  ‘No, Mrs Traill. I’ve come from Jimmy. He wants to know how you are?’

  ‘Jimmy?’ She sounded bewildered. ‘Jimmy.’

  ‘Your nephew Jimmy in Kirkwall.’

  ‘Oh him!’ she said contemptuously. ‘It’s Thora I want. Why does she never come and see me anymore?’ she wailed.

  ‘I’ll tell her when I see her,’ Faro said lamely.

  ‘That’s not enough. I have to see her. Talk to her again.’

  Faro was at a loss how to continue with this obsessive conversation. ‘I’ll do what I can. But Jimmy would like to know that I’ve seen you. Have you any message for him?’

  ‘Thora. It’s Thora I want.’ Her voice was like a drumbeat. ‘Thora and I have secrets. I was there – she needn’t ever forget that.’

  ‘When was that?’ Faro asked patiently. Had he found the person who knew the secret of Thora’s disappearance, her missing year?

  Mrs Traill was shouting, ‘The night Elsa – Elsa left us for good.’

  ‘Tell me what happened?’ he asked gently.

  She narrowed her eyes, as if aware of him for the first time.

  ‘None of your business!’ A violent gesture of her fist. Had she been stronger, she would have struck him, her face a distorted mask of anger.

  ‘I can’t get her out of my mind. Can’t sleep for it! Thora!’ Her voice rose to a shrill scream. The door opened to the attendant who had let him in who said, ‘Didn’t I warn you not to upset her? See what you’ve done? You’d better go.’ And to the old woman, ‘Now, now, Bet, everything’s all right.’

  He left unobserved, as she sat mutely staring at the blank window. He followed the attendant downstairs. ‘What’s all that about the sisters?’

  ‘Take no notice. Apparently she was devoted to them, like her own bairns. Never forgave the one who went away back to the mainland.’

  ‘Elsa?’

  ‘Was that her name? Keeps on wanting this Thora to come back. Lonely old soul. Doubt whether she’ll last much longer. Best thing too.’

  Feeling very depressed by the visit, with an hour in hand he returned to the inn and a lugubrious innkeeper, who soon revealed an entire vocabulary comprising only the words ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

  At last, Faro sighted the approaching ferry. As he stepped aboard, Amos grinned. ‘Enjoy your visit?’

  ‘Good to see the Hope again,’ said Faro, which wasn’t strictly true. There was no chance to talk to the ferryman this time as two sailors, who were obviously mates, joined him at the wheel, smoking their pipes, chatting and laughing.

  Faro took a seat among the other passengers watching the Hope slowly disappear. His thoughts were dismal. If only he had been able to meet Elsa Harbister or find out something more about why she had left her home for the mainland and cut herself off from everyone, especially Molly Bain, without any explanation. He should have heeded Jimmy’s warning. If her nephew and the local residents failed in their approach to Bet Traill, then he would fare no better.

  As he stepped off the ferry, Amos said, ‘See your old friends, did you?’

  Faro smiled. ‘Not at home this time.’

  ‘Thora’s sister?’

  ‘No. Seems she left a long while ago.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Molly Bain. They were very close once.’

  Amos sighed, shook his head. ‘Pity that. A wasted journey for you.’ And flinging the anchor rope deftly towards the capstan, he gave Faro a mocking glance. ‘Hope our wee voyage wasn’t too uncomfortable for you.’

  ‘It was quite an experience,’ said Faro.

  And saying good day, he wondered why on that first meeting Amos had seemed so likeable, someone he would enjoy getting to know. All that had suddenly gone sour. He wasn’t quite sure, but the Amos of the second meeting was a different person.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Faced with the prospect of a long walk back to Scarthbreck, he was delighted to meet the carriage on the Stromness road. There was hardly room for him inside. His mother, surrounded by parcels and boxes, was tired to exhaustion.

  Her shopping successfully concluded, she had seized the opportunity to visit a friend for a more-than-welcome cup of tea. Meanwhile Tom, t
he coachman, had been grateful to anchor the carriage outside the local tavern.

  Mary Faro was only mildly interested in his activities, for which Faro was grateful not to be faced with questions for which he had no answers. Utterly worn out, she yawned, closed her eyes almost immediately and slept with her head resting comfortably on his shoulder, his arm tenderly around her as often in childhood he had slept, their roles now reversed by time.

  A message from Stavely awaited him. He was requested to come to Hal’s croft after breakfast early next morning.

  Mary Faro, refreshed after her sleep in the carriage, her energy restored, provided an excellent supper. As he downed ham pie and a warmed-up apple dumpling, he came to a decision. Taking out his logbook, he added the abortive visit to the Hope, Mrs Traill and his failure to locate Elsa Harbister, all of which had convinced him to abandon any hope of solving the tantalising mystery surrounding Thora Claydon as the seal king’s bride.

  Rereading all that he had discovered concerning Dave Claydon’s accidental drowning for Macfie’s benefit, he resolved that, from now on, he must devote all his energies to the present, by finding Celia Prentiss-Grant and answering the questions posed by the abandoned clothes and a possible pregnancy.

  As he finished writing, he put down the pen, certain there was something missing, something he had heard or overheard, a vital clue. But try as he might, his usually excellent memory let him down. Perhaps he was too tired, too disappointed at this negative result.

  Laying aside the logbook, he went to bed and slept soundly, to awake at six, hearing his mother already up and preparing a substantial breakfast.

  An hour later he knocked on the door of Hal’s croft, whose signally grimy exterior and the overgrown wilderness that had replaced the garden told their own sorry tale.

  The door was opened by Ed, tousled and unkempt. At the sight of Faro his face underwent a transformation: he turned white and almost staggered back. ‘What do you want?’ he gasped. ‘What’s happened now?’

  At that moment, before Faro could utter any reassurance, Stavely appeared. Thrusting Ed roughly aside, he said shortly, ‘Oh, here you are – I didn’t mean this early,’ and to his son, ‘Aren’t you going to invite Constable Faro in?’