The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (16 page)

The room was well filled with bookshelves, every inch of
wall covered by framed paintings, every foot of floor by sofas
and soft-cushioned chairs. The hands of the needlewoman, either her own or those of her pupils, had been industriously employed
through the years.

She pointed to the kettle. 'I was about to make myself a cup
of tea when I looked out of the window, thinking my poor
plants - how they would welcome a drink. And there you were,
poor gentleman - getting absolutely drenched. Perhaps you
would like a cup of tea while we try to dry you off.'

Faro insisted that he wasn't very wet, thanks to her timely
intervention, but the tea would be most welcome.

As he introduced himself as Mr Faro, Miss Halliday smiled wordlessly and held out her hands for his coat. 'Wait a moment
till I set a place for you at the table - oh yes, I insist,' she said
and, indicating the papers she bundled on to the sideboard:
'Two of our little girls, sisters, have gone down with scarlet
fever, poor dears. I have to fill these in for Sergeant Yarrow.' She
sighed. 'I do hope we don't have to be quarantined and our little
school closed.'

Faro murmured sympathetically as she set before him a plate
of scones.

'By my cookery class,' she said proudly. 'They are quite
excellent. Do try them.'

His initial misgivings were quickly set aside and he accepted
a second helping.

She looked pleased. 'The dear children, all of them have their
own special gift, there isn't one of them who doesn't shine at
something. If they aren't clever at sums then they are usually
very good with their hands. Do you have children, sir?'

Faro told her about Emily and Rose and she listened, smiling, and nodded sympathetically when she heard he was a widower.

'I can tell you are very proud of your daughters, a pity they
cannot live in Edinburgh with you, but I think you have made the
right decision, the countryside is a much better and safer choice for children to grow up in. Won't you came and sit by the fire?'

As he sank into a comfortable chair, he sighed. 'What a
pretty house you have, Miss Halliday.' Noticing how some of
her movements were slow and rheumatic, he added, 'Would it
not be more convenient to live on the school house premises?'

She laughed. 'I know what you're thinking, Mr Faro, a big barn of a house for one elderly lady without any servants. But
you see this has always been my home. I was born in this house,
so were my parents and grandparents. It was a farmhouse in
those days. Do you know, Sir Walter Scott once stayed here,'
she added proudly. 'We have his letter.' And she pointed to a
framed letter among the many watercolours.

'How fascinating, Miss Halliday. Why, Sir Walter is one of
my heroes. I've read all his books.'

'And so have I. Well, he most likely sat on that very same
chair you are occupying now, Mr Faro. Here you are -' and so
saying she took down the letter. 'Read it - aloud, if you please,
I love to hear his words.'

Touching through the glass that well-beloved handwriting
which had brought so many hours of pleasure, Faro began:

Behold a letter from the mountain, for I am very
snugly settled here in a farmer's house, about six miles from Wooler, in the very centre of the Cheviot Hills, in
one of the wildest and most romantic situations... To
add to my satisfaction we are midst places renowned
by the feats of former days; each hill is crowned with
a tower, or camp, or cairn; and in no situation can you
be nearer more fields of battle. Out of the brooks with
which these hills are intersected, we pull trouts of half
a yard in length and we are in the very country of muir
fowl. My uncle drinks the goat's whey here as I do ever
since I understood it was brought to his bedside every
morning at six by a very pretty dairy maid -

'Stop a moment, sir,' Miss Halliday interrupted, her face
gleaming with excitement. 'That dairy maid was my great-grandmother. Sir Walter was only twenty years old when he
wrote that. He was still a law clerk in his father's office.'

She sighed happily. 'I like to think he might have been a little
in love with that pretty girl. I do beg your pardon, sir, please
continue.'

All the day we shoot, fish, walk and ride; dine and sup
on fish struggling from the stream, and the most
delicious health-fed mutton, barn door fowls, pies,
mild-cheese,
etc.
all in perfection: and so much
simplicity resides among these hills that a pen, which
could write at least, was not to be found about the
house, though belonging to a considerable farmer, till
I shot the crow with whose quill I write this epistle.

Miss Halliday sighed. 'Thank you, sir. I do love to hear a man's
voice read that letter, although I know every word of it. And
you did it so nicely.' And rehanging it, she added: 'I like to think
that perhaps he found his inspiration as a great author while
staying in this house. I have been very fortunate today.' She
smiled.

'Indeed?'

'Yes, I must confess that you are the second person who has
so indulged me. A young lady, Miss Crowe.' She shook her
head. 'A young lady of mystery, I might add. She comes and she
goes. Perhaps you have met her? She lives at the Castle lodge.'

'She occasionally takes meals at the inn where I am staying.'

'Does she really?' said Miss Halliday eagerly. 'And what do
you think of her?'

'I really haven't paid her much attention, to be honest.'

As Miss Halliday refilled the teapot, Faro sensed that she
was disappointed with his answer, and that she would have very
much enjoyed a little speculative gossip about the mysterious
Miss Crowe.

Faro, however, was more keenly interested in the treasures
that surrounded him, the walls with their watercolours.
Photographs too, for this new fashion had obviously seized
Miss Halliday's enthusiasm.

There were several paintings of pretty young children and in
place of honour an outstanding watercolour portrait of a
handsome young boy who stared out at them with large
enquiring eyes and a slight shy smile. He seemed ready to
speak, his expression reminding Faro of someone he had met
recently.

'One of your paintings, Miss Halliday?'

She clasped her hands in delight. 'Indeed yes, I'm glad you
approve of my little painting.'

'A relation perhaps?'

He expected to be told that this was indeed a favourite
nephew but instead she shook her head sadly.

'Merely a favourite pupil.' She sighed. 'Poor dear little Eric,
he was at school a few years ago, and I must confess that he was
exactly like the son I would have wished for had I ever married.'

She paused and Faro asked; 'Where is he now? Grown up
and away, I expect.'

'If only that were so.' She bit her lip and turned away, near to tears and Faro guessed the answer before she spoke.

'He is dead, sir. Killed on the estate here, a most tragic
accident. He was with the young beaters, when a gun that one
of the party was loading misfired.'

She shook her head, her eyes tragic. 'We could hardly believe
such a thing could happen. You can imagine how everyone felt,
we were heartbroken - guilty even, for the boy was only a visitor but we were all fond of him, he had made so many
friends. And, of course, we all blamed ourselves for not taking
better care of him.'

Faro looked at her. Loyalty obviously demanded discretion
and according to Hector Elrigg, the gun had been in the hands
of Sir Archie who had been drunk at the time.

As he was leaving, he realised sadly that this handsome
young boy who had won his way into her spinsterly heart and
tragically died had been Miss Halliday's nearest encounter with
motherhood.

But the person the boy reminded him of remained stubbornly obscure.

Six o'clock was wheezing from the inn's ancient clock as Faro
sat down to his supper. The dining room was empty and he was
pleased that he had the table to himself for his meeting with
Duffy. He would put a pint of ale in front of the poacher just to
loosen his tongue a little, with hopes that this eagerness for a
meeting signalled enlightenment on the mystery of Sir Archie's
last hours.

But his meal was finished, seven had struck with no sign of
Duffy, and Faro returned to the bar where Bowden, polishing the
counter with his usual eagerness, did not share his anxiety.

'Not the most reliable of chaps,' he said. 'If something better
comes along, isn't that so, Sergeant?' he asked Yarrow who was
seated at the far end of the counter.

Yarrow's smile indicated that Duffy was not one of his
favourites. 'Care to join me, Mr Faro?'

Faro did so but with some diffidence since the bar was
directly overlooked by a window. If Duffy chanced to look in
and saw the insurance mannie chatting to the law in the shape
of Yarrow, this might well scare him off.

As time passed in desultory talk with the Sergeant, Faro was
certain this must have happened, despite his efforts to keep a
watchful eye on the door.

At last Yarrow buttoned up his tunic and announced that he was back on duty. Faro was relieved to see him depart and with
a final word to Bowden to let him know when Duffy arrived,
he prepared to go up to his room.

The barman shook his head and looked at the clock. 'You'll not see him tonight, sir, he'll be busy about his own business by now. He'll have forgotten all about your arrangement and he'll
be in as usual for his pint of ale at opening time tomorrow morning. If he's sober enough to walk, that is.'

Faro spent the rest of the evening making notes, bringing his log
of the case up to date, carefully writing in dossiers of what he
knew of the suspects, and of their movements.

Conscious that such an investigation had never been his
responsibility and that he had no legal right to interfere, he
threw down his pen at last.

The time had come to reveal his identity and confide his
suspicions to Sergeant Yarrow. The rest was up to the
Northumberland Constabulary who might well consider his
observations of merely academic interest. If they felt there was
not enough at this late date to follow his leads and reopen an
inquiry into Sir Archie's death, he had done what he considered
his moral duty.

When he undertook the Queen's Command regarding the
future King of England, he had not expected to be landed with
a murder case. In fact, the only conclusion he had reached was
that the person least likely to have murdered Sir Archie was the
Prince of Wales, despite his suspiciously hurried departure from
Elrigg Castle.

Whether he had been guilty of that gravest of British sins,
cowardice, could, however, be settled only by that most
unsatisfactory of Scottish verdicts: 'Not proven'.

Faro slept badly that night, haunted by his old nightmare. Pursued by Highland cattle, the bull's hot breath on his heels as
he ran, screaming...

He awoke screaming, but the bull's bellowing was merely the
gentle lowing of the dairy cows on their way to milking.

Now fully awake, he was aware of sweeter sounds of
birdsong that filled his open window. Shaking free from the
web of nightmare, he washed and dressed for the day, aware
that the weather beyond the window looked promising. He
might as well make the most of this good fresh air before
returning to the grime of Edinburgh's smoke-laden High Street
and the Central Office of the City Police.