The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (17 page)

Concluding that dreams were contrary things signifying
nothing, he tackled with promptitude the hearty breakfast set before him and contemplated Vince's imminent arrival.

Not for his stepson the train to Bedford and an undignified
scramble for the only hiring carriage. Vince would arrive in
style in the comfort of the Gilchrists' own carriage, since their
family coachbuilding business had accommodated Midlothian's
gentry for two generations.

In a decidedly cheerful frame of mind, Faro checked with
Bowden that there was a vacant bedroom should Dr Vincent
Laurie require it. Then he set off into the village in search of
Sergeant Yarrow and a vague hope of buying a suitable
birthday gift for the twins' great-aunt Gilchrist.

He had noted that the local shop, in addition to supplying
everything from food to farming implements, also displayed in
its window pretty lace caps with ribbon streamers, a fashion
that the Queen had initiated and that widows and old ladies
everywhere had eagerly adopted.

He was hesitating, undecided over the merits of a
bewildering selection, when a voice at his elbow said: 'The one
with more lace and less streamers, if it's for your mother. Sure,
she'll like that, now.'

The Irish accent, the smiling face, was that of Imogen
Crowe.

As he mumbled his thanks and handed the cap to the
shopkeeper, she said: 'You'll not regret it. That's the one I'd
have bought for my own mother. She'll be pleased too that it's
good value. The rest are somewhat expensive,' she added in a
whisper. 'And they won't launder as well.'

'I'm most grateful to you...'

But turning, he saw she had paid for her own purchases,
which looked like a bag of groceries, and was leaving the shop.

What miracle had caused such a change of heart in this chilly
lady, he wondered as, with his purchase pocketed, it remained only to hand over his notes to Sergeant Yarrow.

The station door was locked and bore a well-worn notice that
anyone in need of the police should apply across the road. A printed hand helpfully pointed in the direction of the Dewars'
cottage.

The door was opened very promptly. Mrs Dewar beamed on
him. 'Do come in, sir.'

As he followed her into the kitchen, she said: 'Sandy isn't here
at the moment, but I have a visitor I'm sure you'd like to meet.'

Seeing Imogen Crowe seated at the table, Faro hesitated. 'I
don't wish to disturb you.'

'Not at all, not at all. Miss Crowe came for a recipe and
we're just having a cup of tea. Perhaps you'll join us.'

Despite their recent encounter, amiable as it was, Miss
Crowe was the last person Faro wished to see at that moment,
and in this setting. He felt his dismay was shared by Miss
Crowe, since the glint in Mrs Dewar's eye, as she looked from
one to the other with considerable sly satisfaction, unmistakably
proclaimed the matchmaker at work.

Faro remained standing, while he and Miss Crowe eyed each
other warily. Yes, they said, they had met before. A bow from
him, a sharp nod from her.

'Sandy went up the road in the pony cart. Sergeant Yarrow's
still abed.' Mrs Dewar raised her eyes in the direction of the
ceiling. 'He was late in last night. It's his morning off and I
always take his breakfast up and put it outside his door,' she
added reverently. 'A gentleman like him needs a bit of spoiling.

'If you take a walk up the road to the hillfort you'll meet Sandy on the way back. Perhaps you'd like to come to supper
-' she darted a look at Miss Crowe's glum face, 'both of you -on Sunday evening. I do a nice beef roast, too big for us now
that our lads are away.'

Miss Crowe frowned, shook her head, glancing at Faro. He
smiled and said: 'You are very kind, but my stepson is arriving
this afternoon and I shall be leaving Elrigg.'

'You are leaving us - so soon.' Mrs Dewar darted an anxious
look at Miss Crowe. 'That is such a pity. We are just getting to
know you, isn't that so, miss?'

Her beaming smile in that lady's direction was rewarded by
a polite but chilly inclination of the head enough to convince
anyone less determined than Mrs Dewar that her romantic
intentions were doomed to dismal failure.

‘I’m sorry you must go, sir. I am sure you and this young lady
would find much in common...'

Faro avoided Miss Crowe's eyes as he took his departure
with more haste than good manners dictated, Mrs Dewar's
well-meaning compliments soaring after him.

He had been through this ritual so many times, with so many
mothers with daughters.

As he walked briskly up the road, he was a little astonished
that a man past forty should still be a potential victim of the
matchmaker's art. Would it never end, he thought? Would they
never give up and accept him for what he was, a widower with
growing daughters?

Having decided to put his notes into Yarrow's hands personally,
he planned to enjoy the end of his stay in Elrigg with a pleasant
stroll on a warm sunny morning. As he walked happily up the
road whistling under his breath he mentally shed 'Mr Faro:
Insurance Investigator' and returned to his own identity.

He decided this would be a good opportunity to take
another look at the hillfort on the excuse that Vince would
want to know all about it. He had another stronger reason: to
meet Hector Elrigg once more.

As he reached the pastureland, with the hillfort in sight, his nightmare returned and he approached with extreme caution.

No wild bulls roared down on him, the cattle were grazing nearer to the road than on his last visit, but still safely enclosed
behind a sturdy-looking fence.

There was no sign of Hector Elrigg at the excavations and
having come this far Faro decided to try his cottage. There was
no response but, finding the door partially open, he gazed
inside. A fire glowed, the table was set for a perfunctory meal. The atmosphere was elegant, with chairs and tables that would
have been equally at home in the Castle; furnishings more opulent
than he would have expected from a bachelor archaeologist's
estate cottage.

He closed the door, thinking that Hector's good taste would
not have gone amiss in Elrigg.

Hurrying back across the pastureland he was sure that the cattle
had moved still nearer.

Although they appeared to be peacefully grazing, he also
observed that once again all faces had turned in his direction.
They were watching him with unnerving stillness and intensity.
Quickening his footsteps and resisting the almost
unconquerable urge to run, he was thankful to bypass the
hillfort and reach the safety of the road.

From beyond the fence, he looked at them in wonder. So
little was left of early man's presence, but these beasts, who should rightly have been extinct long ago, continued to thrive,
their survival dictated by some secret knowledge of the universe
and obedience to the natural laws obliterated by layer upon
layer of man's sophistication down the ages.

On the hilltop with the sun behind them, the standing stones
looked more than ever like five headless women. What was
their secret older than recorded time, what long-forgotten
rituals linked them with the hillfort and the wild cattle?

Intrigued by that insoluble mystery and having come this far
on a fruitless errand, Faro decided to inspect them more
carefully than the advent of the tiresome Miss Crowe had made
possible the last time.

Clambering along the margins of the farmer's field with its
newly sown crops, he reached the summit of the circle, once more captivated by the views from this vantage point across
two countries.

Taking a seat on a large stone, he looked down towards the
now distant road. The outlines of the prehistoric fort were more
clearly visible from this height, the sunlight casting shadows on
the contours which had once sheltered the earliest inhabitants
of Elrigg, the nomads who had settled here and given this place
its first history.

There was a newer race of nomads now. And he saw a line
of brightly coloured caravans trotting down the road; the sound
of the horses, the tinkling of the pots and pans, dogs barking
and children shouting, echoed through the air. A cheerful sound
of bustling humanity, though he doubted whether the gypsies' return would be any more welcome here than it was on the
meadows around Edinburgh.

They made careful circuit of the forbidden and dangerous
pastureland and headed towards the riverbank where they
would make temporary camp.

Far beyond the road twisting away below him, smoke rose into the still air indicating the village of Elrigg, an oasis nestling
peacefully among undulating hills, lost in a fold of this wild
barbaric land with its blood-soaked history. Beyond the
parkland the Castle's towers rose through the trees which hid
the drive and the lodge gates.

Shading his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Miss Halliday's
cottage and wondered if the twenty-year-old Walter Scott had
also been intrigued by the riddle of Elrigg as he walked these
roads and touched these stones. It pleased Faro to think that, with his famous novels still in the future, perhaps young Scott had conceived his love of the Borders which was to inspire
Marmion
and
The Bride of Lammermoor
in the Hallidays'
farmhouse.

From the distant church he heard the sound of bells. Eleven
o'clock, and reluctantly he made his way back downhill and,
heading in the direction of the inn, he indulged in the pleasant fancy that on this very spot, echoing his own footsteps, his hero had found inspiration or, in the years of his fame, wrestled with
some particularly difficult passage of prose...

'Hey - mister...'

His reverie was interrupted by two young lads who erupted
from the field and ran towards him waving their fishing rods.

'Mister, mister. Come quick!'

'Old Duffy's lying with his face in the burn...'

Faro sprang over the fence and followed the two lads down the
slope to swift-flowing water.

Half hidden by the overgrowing banks, Duffy lay motionless.

'He looks bad, doesn't he, mister?'

He did. Turning Duffy over, Faro said to the younger of the
two who had the look of brothers: 'Go and keep a sharp look
out for Constable Dewar. He's on the road somewhere. Send
him over.' And to the other: 'Run and get Sergeant Yarrow. Fast
as you can.'

'Will he be all right, mister?'

‘I don't know.'

'Shall I get me father, sir? He's the vicar.'

'Yes, tell him. But get the Sergeant first.'

Obviously the Cairncross lad recognised the signs of death.
And, left alone, Faro knew Duffy was dead. Drowned.

The signs were unmistakable, as was the smell of whisky
about him.

Faro knelt by the body. Only another unfortunate accident,
to be dismissed as one more coincidence, he told himself. And
no connection with any information that, according to Bowden,
Duffy had been anxious to impart (or sell) to the 'insurance
mannie'.

Of course it was an accident, Yarrow and Dewar would say
reassuringly. They knew Duffy well, the kind of man he was.
Everyone had been expecting something like this. He drank too
much, one day he'd keel over, fall into the river.

As Faro looked down at him, he noticed that from one
clenched hand a thread hung. As he tugged, what at first glance
was a silver coin rolled on the ground.