The Seal King Murders

by Alanna Knight

  ‘Celia, my dear.’ It was Gerald who stepped forward and Celia threw herself sobbing into his arms.

  Leaving her to explain as best she could the reason for this extraordinary reappearance, Faro chose not to be present, and before anyone could halt his exit, thankfully closed the door on what would doubtless prove to be a very painful and long-remembered domestic scene.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Returning to the servants’ lodge, an hour passed before a very angry, frustrated Stavely appeared. He had witnessed the amazing scene of Celia still in disguise and arguing furiously with her father, while her mother, weeping, implored her to retire immediately and put on a decent gown.

  Celia ignored her, obstinately denying that she had come to Orkney to ‘meet up with that fellow’, whose identity she steadfastly refused to disclose. At least she owed him that. Now that the whole business might end in disaster for the hapless Amos Flett, she refused to take revenge upon an innocent man. Even angry with him, heartbroken by his rejection, she was sufficiently fair-minded to see clearly that she had been driven by her own impetuosity, and although she cringed at the thought, she had forced herself upon him.

  The responsibility was hers. On the strength of some passionate kisses, she had believed that this was the love that would last a lifetime. Amos’s only crime was that she had taken seriously his intentions and imagined that such overtures indicated that he was also wildly in love and intended marriage, when, in fact, this was his normal flirtatious behaviour as most of the young women on the island could have told her.

  As for Stavely, having been reduced to a minor role in the drama of the missing heiress, he was not best pleased to realise that Constable Faro was receiving any praise that was going, for making the ‘arrest’ and unmasking the kidnapper single-handedly. It was most unjust, considering all the hard work the Orkney Constabulary had put in. And for himself in particular, bearing in mind the disruption of his comfortable home life by living near to Scarthbreck with his wretched brother-in-law.

  Picking up the threads he was witnessing of the Prentiss-Grants’ reconciliation with their daughter, Stavely was annoyed that he had never suspected Miss Celia’s deception as he studied the ‘youth’, tall and slim in shirt and breeches, arguing with Sir Arnold. He had been deceived by the voluminous cloak, the loose gown discarded by the shore, and had taken for granted that they were to hide a pregnancy, and had he been a bit sharper than Constable Faro and more observant, then his success in solving this particular ‘crime’ would have weighted handsomely on the credit side of his speedy promotion, with an additional commendation from Sir Arnold.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring Faro’s pleas to calm himself, he shouted, ‘Why didn’t you inform me at the cathedral of your suspicions? As we have worked together on this case, didn’t you think I was entitled to share them?’

  ‘One can never be absolutely sure, Sergeant. I could have been wrong and I realised there might be a long wait ahead.’ Remembering that Stavely was very short on patience, he added, ‘A wait you would not have enjoyed, eager to get home where Mrs Stavely had dinner on the table for you.’

  Stavely grunted, a happy fleeting memory of that feast now troubling his digestive system. ‘I take exception to that message handed in at the station. You know where I live, you could have come to the house.’

  Faro was becoming exasperated by a futile argument and what promised to be a chronicle of ‘what ifs?’. He said, ‘The police station was nearest and I had to hold on firmly to Miss Celia, who was doing her utmost to escape. No means of restraining her. No handcuffs, alas, in the Scarthbreck carriage.’

  They weren’t getting anywhere and Stavely decided to change the subject. ‘What about this man?’

  ‘What man?’ Faro remembered his promise and shook his head. ‘There was a man – in London – her parents wanted her to marry. She rebelled and ran off, back to Orkney. Had this idea she’d scare them by pretending that the seal king had carried her off.’

  No man and no pregnancy. All the wrong answers. Stavely sighed. ‘What nonsense. As if any normal man like Sir Arnold would believe that story. How was this seal king able to write a ransom note?’

  ‘We all knew it was written by Celia herself. Her mother was the one to seize on the terrible possibilities it indicated. And there was enough realism in the kidnapping story for Celia to try to extract one thousand pounds from her father. That was all she wanted. A vast sum of money.’

  And remembering Celia’s version, he added. ‘She would be rich – indeed, it would have given her independence, a chance to escape a forced marriage and begin a new life.’

  ‘Must be out of her mind – bad in the making and mad too – to want to leave that life of luxury every young lass would envy, with everything she wanted.’

  Faro thought, not quite everything, but made no comment as Stavely continued, ‘I’m going to have the devil of a job explaining it to the authorities, and she could be in big trouble, you know, breaking the law by this deception.’

  ‘I am sure you’re right, but Sir Arnold will no doubt pull a few strings and be eager to more than compensate for his embarrassment and the extra work involved for the local police.’

  Stavely realised, with feelings of guilt, that this was indeed the case. As he was leaving Scarthbreck, the mollified Sir Arnold saw him to the door and suggested that the Orkney Constabulary accept a large sum of money to repay this costly mistake, his foolish daughter’s behaviour which had caused such inconvenience to everyone concerned. He had even added, clearing his throat, that the fault was his, imagining that his daughter had been kidnapped, spreading alarm and despondency across the entire island, when it appeared she had merely been visiting old friends.

  As a postscript and a piece of spur-of-the-moment invention, he added casually, ‘Seems it wasn’t entirely her fault. She did leave a note on her mother’s dressing table. Got blown away … windy day, open window. That was how the alarm was raised.’

  Stavely hoped his peers would believe it. Personally, he didn’t believe one single word and neither did Faro, which was hardly surprising since he knew the whole truth regarding Celia Prentiss-Grant’s disappearance.

  One person, however, was delighted and excited by this fanciful embroidery of what had happened. Mary Faro never once questioned its authenticity, for it would never have occurred to her that the master of Scarthbreck, a peer of the realm, respected by all, would be capable of a deliberate lie.

  Regaled by the misfortune of the missing message, she said stoutly that she never had faith in notes left precariously on dressing tables by open windows. She had a story about an acquaintance to fit such an occasion. The tragedy of a note on a mantelpiece which blew down into a blazing fire and almost set a room ablaze.

  As for Sir Arnold, his generosity knew no bounds. Relieved beyond measure to have his daughter returned safely and unsullied, in what he presumed was still her virgin state, the servants were given an extra day off to compensate for sleepless nights and the stress of several days of needless anxiety.

  Mary Faro, however, was less interested in the outcome of this piece of drama which had happened in her absence. She had a tale of her own, and Faro found himself listening to a prolonged version of her lunch with Emil Latour, from which every bite eaten was described in elaborate detail.

  She looked flushed and glowing, a surprisingly youthful mamma, and he suspected she had sampled Emil’s splendid French cuisine, which Faro learnt he was an expert in, along with an accompanying indulgence in excellent French wine.

  Amused at first, he realised that he was also slightly shocked at somewhat unseemly behaviour more in keeping with a giddy eighteen-year-old than the lady he regarded as a stolid mother, at fifty beyond frivolity and interest in the opposite sex. Now it was alarmingly evident that after all these years of widowhood she did not consider herself beyond a little romance.

  In all fairness, listening somewhat impatiently as she chattered so happil
y, he decided that it was always a little shocking to discover romantic tendencies in parents, considered from childhood as quite old by their offspring.

  There was a pause. A gleam in her eye as she reached her tenant’s plans for returning to Paris.

  ‘He hoped – no, insisted that I should visit him there,’ she added, with a look of triumph. ‘Very soon. Without delay. Fancy that, now!’

  Faro’s eyebrows shot skyward at this revelation from the mother who had stoutly refused to leave the island for Edinburgh, which she had abandoned after his father’s death, not consenting even now to visit him.

  Pleased with her conquest, she giggled girlishly and Faro’s lack of comment in this monologue needed no comment or interruption. All her occasional glances were directed at him to establish that he was still paying attention and interested. There was an occasional wry movement of his lips, hardly a smile but eagerly interpreted by his mother as a gesture of approval.

  Dismayed, he realised that she was quite moonstruck, something new and fortunately rare – flirting with an artist twenty years her junior. Well, well, he thought, after all these years devoted to mourning her beloved Magnus, it had just taken a couple of hours and a rather flashy Frenchman to break the spell.

  But Faro was soon to learn that he had not heard or seen the last of Emil and neither, to her delight, had Mary Faro. A horseman cantered up the drive to Scarthbreck and Emil dismounted, accompanied by artist’s materials and a large easel strapped to the saddle.

  Mary looked out of the window, and with a small exclamation, quickly removed her apron, straightened her skirts and glanced in the mirror, tidying hair that was immaculate beyond reproach, before rushing out to greet him.

  Faro watched, fascinated, as the tall Frenchman bowed over her and kissed her hand. The indications of luggage hinted that this was not to be a brief visit for afternoon tea. He was right. Emil had come to stay.

  Bewildered, he wondered what on earth was happening to his practical down-to-earth mother as, full of laughter, her face glowing at some whispered flattery, she led Emil into her kitchen.

  Seeing Faro, he bowed, and Mary said, ‘Emil is to stay here for a few days. You’ll never guess, Jeremy.’ And to Emil, ‘Do please tell him.’

  Bowing gravely, Emil made a gesture of dismissal, ‘Sir Arnold was most impressed by my quick sketch of his daughter and he now wishes her to sit for her portrait in oils.’

  This, Faro later learnt, was a commission to celebrate what her parents hoped and prayed for, a forthcoming engagement to the Hon. Gerald Binsley. Mary said, ‘Emil is to have a room in the lodge here. I will leave him with you, Jeremy, while I see that a suitable room is available.’

  Faro decided wryly that Inga would enjoy this story regarding his mother’s transformation. Emil was not in any hurry. Several preliminary sketches must be made, as the artist solemnly declared that it was his usual procedure to get to know his model before the actual painting began.

  As Mary eagerly rejoined them, for Faro suddenly the roles of mother and son were reversed and he felt like a father sternly regarding the skittish behaviour of a lovesick daughter. He wondered what would be the outcome, anxious about leaving her unchaperoned in Emil’s society after he left Scarthbreck.

  For Stavely, at least, there was some relief that Constable Faro need no longer stay to gloat over him – although gloating was not one of Faro’s failings.

  ‘You can go back to your duties in Edinburgh, now that this matter has been cleared up and filed away to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  Faro smiled. ‘I am no longer a prime suspect.’

  Stavely moved uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t my doing. In the regulations, which you know as well as any of us, the last person that is seen in the company of someone who disappears under suspicious circumstances should remain accessible until the case is solved.

  ‘Unlike yourself, normally such a person doesn’t happen to live in a part of the British Isles with easy access to the scene. So we could hardly let you go back to Edinburgh, could we now? Fortunately for you, and for the police, it wasn’t a dead body after all.’

  Or not quite after all, as the following days were to reveal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The prospect of returning to Edinburgh should have left Faro with a sense of triumph after solving the mystery of Celia Prentiss-Grant’s disappearance. But after a week of unexpectedly intense activity with the Orkney Constabulary rather than a holiday, it would seem tame indeed to pick up the threads of his life at the Central Office.

  He might now summon up courage to ask Lizzie to marry him, although he was no longer wholly certain about this, or even that she would eagerly accept. Meeting Inga again had raised doubts that he knew anything at all about women, to say nothing of their extraordinary behaviour as personified by Celia and, now, even by his own mother.

  You knew where you were with men, he thought, by comparison. They seemed uncomplicated, straightforward creatures.

  He would have ended his Orkney visit with a lighter heart had there not been a couple of riddles still unsolved: his negative report to Macfie on Dave Claydon’s accident and the artefacts he was carrying to Edinburgh.

  Or what intrigued him most, the missing year and a day from Thora Claydon’s life a decade ago.

  He was unable to accept the popular island version of the seal king’s bride which gave her a kind of legendary aura: although the islanders might prefer to shake their heads and add it eagerly to their recorded legends of trolls, selkies and magic, this one would continue to haunt him.

  Common sense told him that every mystery has an explanation, and the only magic for Faro was the occasional miracle by which, against all the odds, a dying man like Josh Flett was wooing Dave Claydon’s widow.

  He thought again of the similarities between Celia and Thora. The latter reconciled to Dave who had accepted her lack of memory for those missing months and promptly married her. Celia had been reconciled to her parents, and it seemed very likely that she would marry her faithful Gerald, who would dismiss the fleeting incident of her amour with Amos Flett.

  The reply to his letter to Macfie, which he had been expecting daily, arrived next day and its contents reopened the mystery of Dave Claydon’s drowning.

  Macfie wrote, ‘Hope this reaches you in time. I have been in touch with the authorities concerned and they are unable to trace any correspondence with Dave in their files relating to priceless artefacts which he claimed were being brought by him to Edinburgh on their orders. What is even more baffling is that there was no trace of a Leith-registered ship leaving Kirkwall that evening. This information has caused me grave concern that Dave was using his situation as an excise officer to engage in some criminal activity such as smuggling. I realise that this information will not be of much use with your visit at an end, which is a pity because we are never likely to know the truth.’

  Faro put down the letter which threw new light on the events of that fatal night. Amos had problems aplenty grappling with his small boat in wild seas that night and could have mistaken a merchant vessel looming towards them in heavy fog as the Leith-bound ship Dave Claydon informed him that he intended boarding. If he was not carrying the artefacts to Edinburgh, why was he boarding the ship in the first place? The answer that came readily was that he had in mind a private buyer in some other place abroad.

  Macfie’s information had come too late. Faro had no time left to open another investigation suggested by its contents. As for the artefacts, the truth lay buried with Dave in Kirkwall cemetery.

  Then a thought. Unless Thora had been told.

  Before he left he would make a final visit. An excuse to ask if she had any message for Macfie. He would also call on Amos, negotiate a chat to Josh, and aware of his romantic dalliance with Dave’s widow, summon up opportunity to mention Claydon’s unfortunate accident.

  Finally, although he had little hope of success, there was a possibility that when he went to book a passage to Edinburgh,
the shipping office might have on record details of vessels leaving Kirkwall on the night of Claydon’s drowning.

  Too late, alas, for any successful action and he could not imagine stirring up interest from Stavely, or even Jimmy, with new light on a closed case and a dead man.

  There was one other person he could not leave Orkney without seeing once more. And that was Inga. Despite his shattered illusions – and indeed his forlorn hopes – he would always care deeply for her. She had an indestructible place in his heart, part of the youth he had left ten years ago, part of his growing-up.

  As for his mother, she had promised to come and visit him this time. He had refrained from asking, ‘Would that be before or after going to Paris to see Emil Latour?’ He could sympathise with her. She had no friends or connections in Edinburgh that did not revive dismal memories of her heartbreak over Magnus’s death.

  Faro knew he would not be coming back to Orkney in the foreseeable future and began planning his remaining few days.

  ‘Must you go so soon?’ his mother demanded. ‘I’ve got used to having you. I’ll miss you. It seems like only yesterday that you arrived. You could get a transfer to the Orkney Constabulary,’ she added wistfully. ‘It would be great having you home for good and I’m sure Sergeant Stavely would give you a fine recommendation. He would be so pleased to have you working with him.’

  Faro wasn’t at all sure about that and shuddered at the prospect she was suggesting, as she said, ‘We shall all miss you, you belong here.’

  That much was true. He did belong, from the very roots of his being. He could not deny that. His selkie blood called to him. Body and soul might be Orcadian but his heart needed escape from the confines of island traditions. Ambition yearned for enlightenment, for a larger canvas to explore.

  There was no immediate transport to Kirkwall available, so he decided, although an indifferent horseman, he would hire a mount from the stables at Spanish Cove. First the shipping office, then Thora and a call on Amos.