Faro walked at her side, conscious of that lovely presence, but aware that he knew her not one whit more than when he had fallen in love with her on his first visit with Vince and Grace.
He had imagined that grief might have changed the perfection of that countenance, might have made his goddess into an earth-bound creature—
She walked swiftly for a woman with long-legged, easy strides. ‘I am going back to America,’ she was saying. ‘I have a little money of my own that Theo left me, and with it I shall start afresh, a new life. Somewhere, I’m not sure where yet.’
‘What will you do? Have you any plans?’
‘I haven’t decided yet, but something will come along, I’m sure. I have friends - humble but good - who will help me make the right decision. I have no one here. No one I care for.’
And her words blotted out the sun from his world, and what he had been going to ask her. To be his wife. The very reason for his coming to Priorsfield died on his lips. As if ice had been carried on the light summer breeze that stirred the perfume of the roses around them.
Trying not to sound wounded he said: ‘You must not feel uncared for. You have people here who care and who will miss you.’
She looked at him in amazement as if such an idea had never occurred to her. Taking a moment to answer, she said slowly: ‘I dare say you are right. Yes, of course, you are. And you are a very kind man, Mr Faro, a very nice person in spite of being a detective.’
Was that how she thought of him? And Faro, who never cried, felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes. All that love and suffering on her behalf. All his dreams about her and she was totally unaware that he was more than ‘a nice person’.
Such fools we are, such fools, he thought.
Suddenly, he stopped, and turning her to face him, he took her roughly in his arms. Held her, savouring the sweetness of the moment, of that slim firm outline of her body so close.
Prepared for resistance, there was none.
Acquiescence then? His heart hammered hopefully.
Did that mean—?
He looked into her face. She was smiling, politely, enigmatically. It was as if he had taken into his arms, in a surge of passion, one of the white marble statues that surrounded the paths and wore the same curiously bloodless expressions.
Embarrassed now, he released her. There seemed nothing more to say and both hastened their steps towards the iron gates at the end of the drive.
As they parted there for the last time, she held out her hand and then, as if she changed her mind suddenly, she stood on tiptoe, took his face in her cool slender hands and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
‘Goodbye, dear kind Inspector Faro. And thank you.’
He touched his lips in wonder. But when he turned round, she had gone. Vanished. Only the roses nodded and the garden was empty.
Walking back along the road past Duddingston he remembered Rose’s letter, that she sounded happy, content to be back in Kirkwall with his mother and Emily, surrounded by all that was familiar to her, by loves that were not touched by uncertainty.
And he remembered her words to him as they waited on the dock at Leith for the Orkney boat to leave.
‘You were very lucky never to have loved anyone but Mama, so that you can be happy enough with those memories not to need to search for anyone else to replace her.’
He had looked at his daughter. Yes, he would let her believe that, although it wasn’t true, and some day, when she was older and happily married with a string of bairns clutching at her petticoat, he might tell her the truth.
About Barbara. And all the others he had loved and lost. Or who had loved him and he had hurt by turning away.
‘Do you mind Barbara Langweil?’ he’d begin. And he’d see her eyes widen in surprise as he told her of this day, and his last visit to Priorsfield.
And how for some men, it’s a lifetime of loving, for some only a butterfly kiss from a goddess in a summer rose garden.
The Langweil case was over, the players in its drama had departed, its stage was empty for all but the few innocents bruised by its impact.
And heading towards the Central Office, as he had done for so many years, and the next case that was waiting for him, he remembered one indisputable lesson life had taught him. Broken hearts are seldom fatal. That given time and patience they invariably heal.
He mustn’t abandon hope. Without hope life was indeed a derelict wasteland.
Hope for a daughter that the pangs of first love would heal. Hope for Vince that his beloved Grace would return to him one day and together they would mend their broken lives that had been the Langweil legacy. Hope for himself, for that hazy unknown future and a final confrontation and outwitting of a master criminal.
‘The evil that men do lives after them.’ So Shakespeare had said. A truth that still remained unalterable and would continue to remain so until man and time itself were no more.
Note to readers
For those interested in Inspector Faro’s earlier cases, the one referred to on page 435 is Bloodline; and on page 529 Enter Second Murderer, both available on Kindle.
The Evil That Men Do.(Inspector Faro Mystery No.11) Page 17