The Seal King Murders (10 page)

Relieved at not having to inform Lily of his prolonged stay and suffer her inevitable angry reactions, handing it over, he said, ‘Collect a clean shirt, if you please. I hope I’ll only need the one.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Lily won’t be pleased by this piece of news.’

Nor was he pleased at the prospect of sleeping in Hal’s house as, sparse diet apart, its amenities were not even basic, sorely lacking a woman’s touch or any sense of order. Even to the most unobservant male eye, it was an uncomfortable, chilly and dirty hovel and after years of being cared for with all possible devotion by a loving partner, who was also a careful and efficient housewife, Stavely braced himself to endure what he prayed would be only a very temporary separation.

This enforced stay did mean he could keep a sharp eye on Ed’s activities, so slothful and boorish at home, but always willing and eager to escape to his young uncle, on the excuse of helping him on the croft.

For his own relief and satisfaction, he hoped to find out exactly where Ed and Hal had been during those missing hours of Celia’s disappearance and that they had an alibi.

He was acutely aware that any involvement by members of his own family in such a scandal would have grave personal issues and put an end to his hopes of promotion, disappointing Lily whose heart had been long set upon it. However, that would be minimal compared with her distress as a doting mother, in whose eyes her wayward only son could do no wrong.

In the carriage, Mary Faro’s distress over the missing girl had given over to preoccupation on how she was to manage her mistress’s shopping list, with items scattered the length and breadth of every shop in Kirkwall.

As they reached the outskirts and prepared to climb the hill to her cottage, she looked at the photograph of Celia.

‘Monsieur Latour should manage a copy of that easily. I understand he has exhibitions in Paris and London. Let’s hope he’s in. He could be miles away on a nice sunny day like this, calm too, no wind to blow the easel away. Just perfect for one of his seascapes.’

Outside the cottage where Faro had grown
up, she gazed up at the windows anxiously. ‘I’m comfortable enough in Scarthbreck and I should be grateful enjoying all the little luxuries, but it isn’t home and I love my own little place. I was lucky finding someone keen to rent it. The extra money will be so useful, and it’s not good for the house to be empty, could get damp. Monsieur Latour has promised to take good care of it for me. Such a nice chap, he is, for a foreigner.’

Faro smiled. ‘Tell me about him, Ma.’

‘Emil Latour is quite famous, lives in the Latin Quarter in Paris. Always wanted to visit Orkney. Speaks very good English too. Oh, you’ll like him.’

Faro, who did not have his mother’s capacity for trust and instant rapport with strangers, was not quite so sure about that.

Mary hesitated at the door, her wry glance saying that she was feeling foolish. This was her own home, after all.

A sigh of relief at the sound of footsteps as the artist opened the door.

His eyebrows raised in sharp surprise and perhaps even dismay, Faro thought, at the meaning of this unexpected visit from his landlady. However, he recovered quickly, and gallantly bowed over her hand, enquiring politely after her health and well-being.

Faro decided that Emil Latour was everyone’s
idea of a French artist, from the neatly trimmed moustache and beard to the beret and paint-stained smock. He ushered Mary Faro into her parlour with all manner of flattering compliments in flawless English, which pleased her exceedingly, and did at least help with an explanation for this intrusion and the urgency of what was involved.

Introducing her son so proudly as a detective constable, Faro produced the photograph and handed it over to the Frenchman who frowned, considering it silently for a moment.

Although no doubt curious, politeness forbade him enquiring why a policeman should wish for this sketch. He glanced somewhat warily at Faro, nodded and said, ‘A little time only. You will wait, perhaps.’

The parlour was now his studio, an easel in one corner, but although his garb brought back memories of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and Faro’s most recent encounter, there were little of the smells of oil paint and linseed he associated with William Morris’s Red House and its artist residents.

In fact, Latour’s temporary studio was surprisingly orderly, everything neat and tidy, suggesting to Faro that, if he was an example of the Bohemians across the Channel, whose lifestyle was regarded as questionable and highly
improper, then they were considerably better organised than their British equivalents.

Latour pinned up the photograph to a sheet of paper on the easel, and drawing rapidly, a life-size sketch of Celia’s head emerged. Mary Faro ignored his invitation to take a seat and took the opportunity to wander around the room in a wistful search of her favourite things: a monstrous clock and two oversize florid vases, deplored by Faro but of sentimental value, bequeathed to her by an ancient aunt.

Faro glanced over a stack of paintings and went to her side. She was very still, looking at one now banished into a dark corner. Touching his arm, she whispered almost tearfully, ‘Remember that day, Jeremy?’

Silent, he nodded. His father, Magnus, had been a keen amateur watercolourist, a talent, alas, which Faro had not inherited. One glorious summer’s day, visiting a fisherman cousin at the north of the island, they had rowed across to Egilsay.

Magnus Faro had always wanted to visit the island where the saint after whom he was named was martyred.

Finding a suitable viewpoint of the
twelfth-century
remains of the round-towered church, he immediately set up his easel and paints. Mary, young, happy and laughing, had taken
eight-year-old
Jeremy’s hand to explore rock pools and set out the picnic.

Jeremy Faro would never forget that day on Egilsay. The church fascinated him. He was drawn into its shadows, watched the tiny figure of his father painting, engrossed. Then the scene suddenly changed, as if for a brief moment the veil of time was whipped aside.

What he was witnessing terrified him. His cries set his parents rushing to his side, picnic and watercolour forgotten. Had he been climbing again, fallen down, hurt himself? He could only shake his head. He could not tell them, could not explain that for a moment the present had vanished, spilt back seven hundred years.

They wouldn’t let it rest. They had to know. Sternly they demanded he tell them the truth. And as lies were something he had been brought up to regard as hell’s greatest sin, he gasped out incoherently, sobbing that he had seen, as if it was happening now, the moment of the saint’s murder re-enacted before his eyes.

And he was white-faced, shivering despite the warm sunshine. He clung to them, holding their hands. ‘I thought I’d lost you both – I was away back there’ – he pointed – ‘long ago. I wanted to come back – to now, to be with you.’ A shudder. ‘Safe with you, Pa. You wouldn’t let them harm me.’

That night in his temporary cot at the foot of their bed in the cousin’s croft, he heard their whispers in the darkness. His mother’s tearful, ‘I don’t like this. It’s not right, not Christian.’

His father’s soothing murmur. ‘He’s just a child, Mary. Such things happen.’

A horrified, ‘To you?’

‘No, no, never to me.’

A pause, then slowly, ‘Then it’s all Sibella’s fault.’

‘How could that be, Mary? That’s nonsense.’

‘Is it? Is that why I’ve never had another bairn? Just the one, just Jeremy.’

‘We tried,’ Magnus whispered. ‘It just wasn’t God’s will. At least we weren’t childless. We must be grateful. We had Jeremy, a precious son.’

‘One bairn, when I’ve longed for more, waited – for a lass. It just wasn’t fair, everyone round us having bairn after bairn, year after year. It was all Sibella’s fault,’ she repeated.

‘No, Mary. You must never believe that. He never knew her.’

‘I made sure of that. But the blood, the selkie blood – it’s there in him.’

Young as he was, Jeremy knew that Sibella Scarth, his grandmother, was the selkie who died, who his mother refused to talk about.

What he had overheard that night stayed
with him and made him resolve to be very careful in future, for Egilsay was not to be his only experience of such moments.

Once he saw the Viking ships approaching St Margaret’s Hope, heard the yelling, the laughter, the drumbeat of the oars. In Edinburgh as well as Orkney, no place was too far for selkie blood to travel. It was as if, for an instant, he stepped off the circle that was time and found himself in a world lost for ever. These instances were less frequent when he left childhood, but they still lurked, sometimes just an eye-blink away.

And although the past no longer recreated itself in tangible scenes, the feeling of danger, of awareness, was all that remained of his lost-time experiences that he was unable to share with anyone. How could he find the right words? People would think he was mad, and he must be forever vigilant: such imaginings did not befit a policeman.

He knew now that he had only ever encountered two people who he was certain would understand. One was the highly improbable earthbound Inga St Ola who, he felt certain, still revered the pagan gods of Orkney. The other, met recently and briefly, a frail thread that renewed for a moment his link to the selkie world, Baubie Finn.

Such were his thoughts as he squeezed his mother’s hand in recognition of that long-ago day in Egilsay. He returned to his contemplation of works which had replaced his mother’s homely and sentimental copies of paintings made famous by Millais and Holman Hunt and on view in almost every home. Copies were now banished to a stack in a dark corner of the room. Faro was surprised that the artist had not also seized the opportunity to add the florid vases to the stack, his finer feelings outraged by their tasteless presence.

He was eager to see his paintings of the islands, the reason for this sojourn in Kirkwall. There were a few rough sketches scattered on the sofa and, disappointed, Faro was still wondering how the artist spent his days. Had he found unexpected diversions and new friends? A few moments later, the poster was ready.

Latour handed it over and Faro said, ‘This is excellent. Sir Arnold will be in touch,’ he added, although the matter of a fee had not been discussed.

‘A pleasure, sir.’ A bow. ‘I hope this rough sketch will be agreeable.’

‘I have been admiring your work,’ Faro said rather lamely.

Another bow, vague gestures. ‘I prepare for my next exhibition in London.’

The visit was not to be prolonged. Although he was certain that his mother, who addressed the artist as Emil, was disappointed not to be offered the inevitable cup of tea required by traditional Orkney hospitality, they both had much to do.

‘How will you get back?’ Mary demanded anxiously. ‘The carriage will be waiting for me.’ And consulting the list withdrawn from her basket, she said, ‘But this will take me the rest of the day. Do you want to wait, dear?’

‘Don’t concern yourself, Ma. I’ll find a carter heading in that direction.’ And before she could protest he kissed her briefly and hurried in the direction of the newspaper office.

With the poster neatly rolled under his arm, he decided that Latour wasn’t strictly truthful, or perhaps he was merely forgetful – one of his works which Faro had seen at the cottage was a copy. Faro was quite sure he had seen the original in Red House, a landscape with figures by Burne-Jones.

By a piece of good fortune, the first person Faro met in
The Orcadian
office was Jimmy, looking more rumpled and dishevelled than ever as he sat at a desk, glowering over tomorrow’s copy.

Delighted at this unexpected distraction, he greeted Faro warmly. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
And sweeping aside the untidy mass of papers and notes from a chair, he shook his head. ‘Bad business, this missing girl. You couldn’t have timed it better – you’re just the man I want to see.’ He looked up eagerly. ‘I expect this is in your official line of business. Any news of any kind for the press?’

‘Nothing. That’s why I’m here,’ he added, handing him the poster and a brief résumé of Sir Arnold’s wishes and instructions.

Jimmy whistled. ‘This is great, absolutely great progress. We’ll publish it, of course. What a headline and what a story! Our printers will make copies for posting at all the street corners.’ Pausing, he added, ‘I take it that you have interviewed the girl’s parents.’ And tapping his teeth with a pencil he asked, ‘Anything quotable for the newspaper?’

‘Not really.’

Jimmy frowned. ‘That’s a pity. Readers are always interested in parents’ reactions. Mother’s tears, only daughter, that sort of thing. Sure there wasn’t anything we could use?’ he added wistfully.

‘I’m sure.’

‘How did you feel about it? Last man to see her … well, we hope alive?’

Faro didn’t care what that ‘last man’ angle might imply to readers eager for sensation. He
smiled. ‘No comment – and even if I had, I’m a policeman, remember; expressing my opinion would be going right against the rules.’

Jimmy sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right – but between us?’ he added eagerly. ‘Speaking confidentially?’

Faro refused to be drawn. ‘No comment, Jimmy. Absolutely none.’

However, meeting the journalist again, Faro decided to prise out what he might know unofficially regarding Thora and Dave Claydon.

‘This new mystery has distracted me temporarily from my original thoughts. You will recall? Reporting on Dave Claydon’s accidental drowning to his relative in Edinburgh?’

Jimmy’s eyes widened delightedly when Faro said, ‘I’ve been studying the facts and I now suspect a possible crime of greater dimension.’

‘Another crime, eh?’ Jimmy rubbed his hands together with glee when Faro went on, ‘No one has ever explained what happened to the artefacts Dave was carrying when he drowned.’

‘Presumably they went down with him.’

‘Have you any idea what was involved in this vague description “priceless”?’

Jimmy had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘It’s what people like – you know?’ Faro didn’t and he went on, ‘The kind of word that sells newspapers. We didn’t know exactly. Dave never
said. He made frequent trips to Edinburgh for his job, so presumably he was taking things that had been found to the museum there. The archaeology lads frequently find bits and pieces, like yon brooch and some beads from the Neolithic settlement beside Scarthbreck.’ He shrugged. ‘Some folk got quite excited about that – might have been from there.’

‘What about the Armada galleon?’

Jimmy rubbed his unshaven chin. ‘Could well be. All the local lads dive there in the hope of finding buried treasure.’

‘Ever find anything?’

‘If they do, they keep it dark. Dare say if it’s jewellery, something of that sort, they hang on to it and look for a possible buyer.’

‘Are there many people on the island with that sort of money?’

‘Only one I can think of is Sir Arnold, if he was interested in such things.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Or the lads might try to sell it abroad. There’s always foreign ships come into harbour during the summer.’

‘Smugglers, eh?’

Jimmy nodded. ‘Unofficially, so we hear.’ Pausing, he looked eager again. ‘Are you thinking there’s a crime involved?’

‘I have a feeling that there’s some connection between the two young women who vanished at
virtually the same spot ten years apart, and that Dave Claydon’s name fits into it somewhere.’