The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (12 page)

'Of course,' Faro replied. 'He is one of my heroes.'

She shook her head. 'A splendid writer, I give you that. Of
romances. But he got it all wrong, didn't he?'

Faro looked at her, amazed at her perception. He had read
all Scott's books eagerly, avidly, and realised the minute he set
foot in Elrigg how far his hero was from the core of the truth.

'This is hardly the land of romance, of Gothic mystery as he
portrayed it, don't you agree? You just have to be here a few
hours to set that right.'

He found himself remembering that her choice of reading lay in the Sensation novels category, when he answered: 'You
think the fairy tale of brave gallant Scot and sturdy Celt was a
myth?'

'I most certainly do. As were his brave knights and beautiful
maidens with high moral principles and dreams of chivalry.
Men and women aren't like that. They're flesh and blood -
weak creatures.'

'Not all flesh is weak,' he said stoutly.

'Don't tell me you believe all the ballads handed down from one generation to the next and from the heart of this nation's
poetic soul. Can you be that innocent - or idealistic?'

She laughed and, before he could reply, she added solemnly:
'Scott was a Borderer himself, he must have known the truth,
the terror and cruelty that he winced away from writing about.
But he opted for the false name of romance to turn a blind eye
on reality, on what really happened, and instead was content to
present history as a kind of Arthurian legend.'

He knew it was true. Nothing was further from the reivers'
thoughts than dying for their God and Queen or King.

'The patriotism Scott believed in never existed,' she said as if
she read his thoughts. 'All they knew was the law of the jungle, of every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. If
patriotism of any kind existed, it was well down on their list of
priorities.'

She pulled out a piece of grass from the fence and began to shred it. 'Patriotism that men die for - that's a different game, far removed from your fairy tales. Some of us know that only
too well.'

He looked at her. The Irish accent she tried to suppress was
stronger now, released by her passions.

'You are an authoress, are you not?'

She turned quickly to face him. 'How -'

'Ink stains on your fingernails, a valise full of papers -'

She held up her hand. 'I should have known - you being a policeman. Just my luck,' she murmured, turning away from
him again.

'What brings you here?' he asked.

'What do you think? I'm writing a book, of course. One of
your dreaded romances,' she said so mockingly he knew it to be
a lie.

Staring at the horizon as though seeing a secret pageant of
weeping ghosts, her eyes widened. Suddenly she shivered. 'I've
had enough of this place. Can we go down now?'

It was a slow, silent journey; step by tortuous step, she
leaned heavily on his arm.

When at last they set foot on the road, she looked pale and
exhausted. Faro looked at her anxiously. How was she to
manage the long walk to the lodge? The alternative was to carry
her.

'Listen,' she said. 'Someone's coming.'

A pony trap bustled round the bend in the road.

Dr Brand stopped, raised his hat, looked from one to the
other, smiling.

Miss Crowe limped towards him.

'An accident? Dear, dear.'

As she explained, he was already helping her into the cart
with Faro's assistance.

'You too, Mr Faro. You're lucky I was along the road. Called
out to a difficult birth. Yes, yes, both well and doing fine now. I'll see Miss Crowe safely home, bind up that ankle. I'll set you
down at the inn, sir.'

But Faro had spent enough time in Miss Crowe's
uncomfortable company. She was impossible. He hadn't
changed his original opinion of her and was left quite unmoved by the common bond they shared in his hero, Sir Walter Scott.

As they drove off he was seized by a fit of sneezing. Putting
his hand in his greatcoat pocket for a handkerchief, he
encountered Miss Crowe's book.

Waving it, he called after them, but they were too distant to
heed him.

'Damn and blast,' he said, returning it to his pocket. He
sneezed again.

Faro decided to visit the kirkyard. Vince might laugh at what he
called his stepfather's morbid addiction but Faro found that
such dalliance in the past had often saved him a considerable
amount of walking. Many pieces of information could be
gleaned and questions answered where there was no written
evidence regarding past inhabitants.

As he walked his attention was drawn to a babble of shrill
childish voices. It issued from the playground of the local school
and indicated an earnest game of hopscotch.

The sound of a whistle blown by an elderly lady, grey-haired
and pince-nezed, imposed immediate silence as the children
swiftly formed a crocodile at the school door. Faro applauded the dominie's speedy control over forty or more pupils and he
guessed that she had taught and disciplined, stern but kindly, at
least two generations of Elrigg children.

Here was a contact worth following, he thought, as he
continued on his way to the kirkyard where the lichened
tombstones leaned at dangerous angles as if occupants rested
uneasily in their graves. Surrounded by ancient cottages, it
confirmed his awareness of being under observation. By now,
his presence was known to the entire population, his identity a
matter of tireless speculation. As, no doubt, was his appearance
today with Miss Crowe, and equally distasteful as it might be
to both, already interpreted as a budding romance.

At least he would prove them wrong, for, in the matter of Imogen Crowe, nothing was further from his thoughts as he
concentrated on the task in hand.

Entering the church by the Norman door, he found himself
facing a twelfth-century rounded chancel arch leading to the
altar with its handsome rose window.

He knew enough about old churches to hazard a guess that
Elrigg St Mary's with its square tower and narrow slit windows
in the belfry tower had been built with defence as well as
worship in mind, an additional place of security for the priest
and worshippers to take refuge from raiders.

Never a religious man, Faro limited his appearances in the
kirk of St Giles in Edinburgh to christenings, marriages and funerals but standing before the tiny altar surrounded by these
ancient stones brought a feeling of peace and tranquillity, a
sense of benediction.

If he had been a praying man, he would have seized the
opportunity to beg for an audience, but he felt uncomfortable
calling upon God's assistance when he was not a communicant
of the Christian church. He looked up at the figure of Christ on
the crucifix above the altar and, for one fanciful moment, it
seemed that the Son of God's wry expression saw right through
him and understood his problems very well indeed.

With a sigh, he wandered over to the stone effigies of the
Elriggs who had dominated this piece of Northumberland for
more than five hundred years. Elaborately carved and marbled,
with a profusion of weeping angels, their tombs told him
nothing and he wished, not for the first time, that he had with
him his Sergeant, Danny McQuinn of the Edinburgh City
Police.

He had never thought the Queen's mission would be simple,
but the answers were turning out to be far more difficult than
he had imagined. Living at the inn and carrying out inquiries at
the Castle without proper authority to do so was fraught with frustrations. He felt that, as always when dealing with the
aristocracy, the best clues were to be found in the servants' hall.
But he could think of no good excuse for an insurance
investigator to be closely questioning them regarding their
mistress's behaviour.

This was the area in which McQuinn excelled. The boy who
had left Ireland in the disastrous years after the potato famine
had grown up to be a man of the people. There was no class
barrier for Danny McQuinn. He could be relied upon to ferret
out confidences that would never be given, tongue-tied and
scared, in the awesome presence of a senior detective inspector.
Servants felt at ease with McQuinn with his homely Irish wit,
his charm with the humblest of maids, each one of whom he
treated like a well-born lady. Such methods would be sure to
find a way to get - and to keep - them talking.

Closing the church door behind him, Faro made his way slowly through the tombstones, reading the inscriptions

'Good day to you, sir!'

The vicar, a tall figure in flowing black robes and white
bands, hurried towards him.

'Perhaps I can help you, sir. Are you searching for someone
in particular?'

As Faro murmured that he was just interested in old stones, Reverend Cairncross's natural curiosity about this stranger in
their midst showed a disarmingly human side to the man of God
whose ascetic face and lean frame were that of a medieval monk.
His appearance suggested that he had been only recently removed
from penning illuminated manuscripts in Melrose Abbey.

'You are, I believe, Mr - Faro - the insurance assessor?'

Thus confronted, Faro did not feel up to the direct lie. Yes, indeed, he was here in connection with Sir Archie's death.

That was strictly true.

Reverend Cairncross murmured sympathetically but the
word 'death' had injected a sudden chill into his manner. The
sudden tightening of his lips and his brooding gaze in the
direction of the Castle hinted louder than any words that the
Elriggs were not the most popular of his parishioners.

The uncomfortable silence between the two men was broken
as a plump middle-aged woman appeared round the side of the
church carrying a large basket.

She was introduced as Mrs Cairncross and Faro smiled. The
bevy of children at her side indicated the danger of taking
people at their face value. The priestly countenance, which
suggested monastic celibacy, was gravely in error.

Mrs Cairncross greeted him warmly, talked kindly but
anxiously about the weather. These civilities were interrupted as a young woman appeared from the direction of the church gate.

As she was introduced as 'our eldest daughter, Miss Harriet
Cairncross', Faro noted that she had inherited her mother's
comely looks and curves.

'Are you a bowman, by any chance, Mr Faro?' said Mrs
Cairncross.

'Alas, no.'

'A pity,' said her husband, eyeing him narrowly. 'You have
an excellent sturdy frame, strong about the shoulders -'

Mrs Cairncross interrupted laughingly, 'Alfred is a great enthusiast. He won the coveted Gold Arrow three years ago and
has never forgotten it. I almost said it went to his head,' she
giggled helplessly and Reverend Cairncross patted her arm
affectionately.

'I can recommend archery to you, sir. A grand healthy
relaxation and I tell myself much more in keeping with the Bible
than guns.'

'Even if you are not an archer, sir, you must come to the fete
in the church hall afterwards,' insisted Mrs Cairncross.

'Mr Faro is an insurance assessor, my dear. He is engaged at
the Castle at present.'

Faro observed that the vicar's grip on his wife's arm
tightened perceptibly. His words, spoken lightly but with a hint of warning, suddenly changed the scene from being warm and
welcoming. It was as if a chill wind had blown over the little
group. The daughter stepped back as if taking refuge, hiding behind her mother, and Faro's quick ears detected a strangled
sob from the girl as her father bowed a dismissal in his direction.