The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (3 page)

'Well, that sounds feasible.'

'Except that this was not the first time. On his previous visit
to Elrigg, there was a similar incident with a fellow guest -'

'Wait a minute. You aren't saying that he was there when
Philip Gray died?'

'I am.'

Vince whistled. 'What a very unfortunate coincidence.'

And at Faro's expression, he said slowly, 'You don't surely
think he had a hand in it?'

'There was a quarrel certainly - both times.' And Faro frowned
again, seeing the damning words of the Prince's letter to his mother.

'In Gray's case, he and Bertie had been playing at cards - for
high stakes. Bertie doesn't like to lose and tempers ran high,
there were hints at - certain irregularities-'

'Cheating, you mean.'

'Precisely.'

'Gray had a reputation as a gambler,' Vince put in. 'It was
well known, I heard about it when he was in Edinburgh...'

Ignoring the interruption, Faro continued, 'The two went
out alone next morning - Elrigg asked to be excused, indisposed
with a bout of toothache. Bertie returned alone. Gray's horse meanwhile had bolted into the high pasture - the domain of the wild cattle. When he didn't return to the castle a search party
went out and he was found, gored to death by one of the wild
bulls.'

'Very unfortunate. This quarrel between Bertie and Elrigg -
what was it about?'

'I have no idea.'

Vince rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'So you think there is a
possible link between the two?'

Faro sighed. 'All I know is guesswork. Gray was young,
handsome, adored by the ladies. Perhaps he was also anxious to
enjoy Lady Elrigg's favours.'

'A rival, you mean.' Vince sat up in his chair. 'Good Lord -
you don't think -'

'I'm trying hard not to - until I know a great deal more,
Vince. This is, after all, circumstantial evidence.'

'Yes, it is. And not very good at that, Stepfather. I can't
seriously imagine the heir to the throne killing off his rivals for
a lady's favours. After all, with the pick of the field at his
disposal, so to speak, would he really care about one more or
less drifting towards his bed? As for sullying his hands with
murder, surely he has enough influence to discreetly engage
someone to do the dire deed for him?'

'Not with his already damaged reputation, Vince.'

'Blackmail, you mean?'

'Precisely. Think of the blackmail potential if the coincidence
of these two deaths were made public.'

Vince thought for a moment. 'True. We're in a far from
happy position regarding the monarchy. I know he is not
popular with his mother's less illustrious subjects, despite that
leader-of-society role.'

As Vince spoke, Faro remembered the Queen's comment: 'If
he ever becomes king, he will find all these friends most
inconvenient.'

'Running away from an embarrassing situation is a long way
from murder, Stepfather,' Vince reminded him.

'Then why didn't he wait for Sir Archie to be brought back
home instead of immediately leaving the castle?'

'He did that? How do you know?'

'Because he said so in his letter to the Queen. That was what was worrying him. That he might be thought a coward because he gathered up his entourage. And left immediately.'

'Cut short his visit, you mean?'

'Precisely. "I thought it best to withdraw" - his own words.'

'But he didn't realise that Sir Archie was dead, did he?'

'He might have waited to find out.' And Faro remembered again the whining tones of the spoilt schoolboy. 'Try as hard as I can, Vince lad, this doesn't sound to me like the behaviour of an innocent man.'

'Perhaps the business with the actor made him nervous - it was an appalling coincidence after all.'

Faro looked at him sharply. 'I'm no great believer in coincidences, Vince, and this was altogether too strange. No, it won't do, lad. Think about it. Put yourself in those royal shoes. How would you - or any decent fellow - have reacted had you gone riding with another guest - even one you didn't care for - when you saw him thrown and injured?'

Vince frowned. 'Lacking medical knowledge, I'd have tried to make him comfortable before tearing back for help. And I'd have gone back to direct the rescue party to the spot.'

'Exactly. You wouldn't have rushed back so carelessly that you left the gates open with an injured man lying there and wild cattle in the vicinity.'

Vince shook his head. 'Not unless...'

'Unless? You see the doubt. Now you realise what we're dealing with.'

Vince sighed. 'No doubt Bertie will tell you a convincing story. Settle all your fears.'

'I'm afraid not. As you well know, the first place we look for a murderer is within the family circle or close friends, or known enemies, but this is one occasion when I am not allowed to interview the prime suspect.'

'Not allowed - I don't see -'

'Of course you don't. I have been expressly told by Her Majesty that His Royal Highness is not to be interviewed and no mention of his name is to be made. He wishes it kept secret that he was ever at Elrigg at the time of his equerry's death.'

Vince's mouth twisted in distaste. 'All this rather bears out Bradlaugh's scandalous letter, doesn't it?'

The Prince of Wales was twenty-seven in 1868, his behaviour
already notorious, when the radical Member of Parliament's
sentiments were made public. He wrote, ‘This present Prince should never dishonour his country by becoming its King...
neither his intelligence nor his virtues entitle him to occupy the
throne.'

Vince shook his head. ‘I don't envy you this one, Stepfather.
A good clean murder would be much more your style.'

As Faro agreed with him, the future of what lay in wait at
Elrigg was very fortunately veiled.

Faro's chief regret as he prepared for a hurried departure from
Edinburgh was that he had no time to acquaint himself with the brief of a successful art valuer and investigator. His
acquaintance with art was limited to sojourns in the National Gallery as a refuge from the rain or to rest his feet.

His fondness for the Gallery had begun more than twenty
years earlier in 1850, when, as a young constable, one of his
first assignments had been in the Royal Escort party.

The Prince Consort, turning sharply after the ceremony of
laying the foundation stone, momentarily lost his balance. Faro sprang forward, dignity was restored and he was thanked with
a warm handshake, a kind word and gentle smile. This was
Faro's first encounter with the Royal Family and in one of his weird intuitive flashes he saw a great deal into the character of
Prince Albert.

Now, as he headed towards Waverley Station, he wished
time had been available to acquire some additional facts about wild cattle. His present rudimentary knowledge was limited to
the Highland variety whose menacing horns had cast a
terrifying shadow over his childhood holidays with his Aunt Isa
on Deeside.

He was still subject to nightmares involving heart-thumping
chases which now coloured his mental pictures of the Elrigg
herd and he resolved to keep the animals at a safe distance since
he disliked all cattle, his distrust extending to the allegedly
docile and domestic varieties, such as the dairy cows being led
across the meadow past the railway track.

And so, armed with scant knowledge of painters and almost
none of cattle, Inspector Faro boarded the south-bound train and
prepared to emerge at Belford Station transformed into Jeremy
Faro, art valuer and insurance investigator.

He had a particular fondness for trains. Had his mind been free
from anxiety, he would have enjoyed this opportunity to stare
idly out of the window and welcome those inspired avenues of
thought that often helped him solve his most difficult cases.

On occasions when the compartment was shared with other
passengers, he indulged in a silent game of Observation and Deduction. Sifting through the minute details of their wearing
apparel, gestures and habits, he would produce evidence of their
stations in life and their reasons for boarding that particular
train.

As a boy, Vince had been introduced to this novel game and
had found it both an admirable and often hilarious way of
passing many an otherwise tedious winter journey.

Today, however, Faro was offered no such diversions.
Consumed by anxiety at the prospect ahead, his assumed role
was as uncomfortable as an ill-fitting overcoat. Everything
seemed to be wrong with it and his misgivings refused to be
distracted by the passing countryside.

For once, the beauty of a late-spring day failed to beguile
him and he was left quite unmoved by the soft green grass and
radiant meadows of the East Lothian landscape. Glimpses of
the North Sea, notorious for winter storms, now stretched out
to embrace a cloudless horizon radiantly blue and setting forth
gentle waves to lap golden beaches with a froth of lace. He
remembered his mother's favourite saying: 'God's in his heaven,
all's right with the world.'

Had he ever entertained such noble and simple faith, it
would certainly have been destroyed by many years of dealing
with hardened criminals in a world where neither the guilty nor
the innocent were certain of being rewarded by their just
deserts.

Earlier dealings with the monarchy had taught him that
failure was tantamount to treason in royal eyes and, as for what
lay ahead, this might well prove to be the last chapter in his
long and faithful employment with the Edinburgh City Police.

If the future King of England was a murderer, or at best, a
coward, capable of manslaughter, then Detective Inspector Faro
was expendable and his distinguished career would be abruptly
and quietly brought to a close.

Trying to shake aside his gloomy thoughts, he realised that
his most urgent consideration was how to convince Elrigg Castle
of his bogus identity. Perhaps that would be hardest of all,
suspecting as he did that his sober dress was inappropriate for
anyone connected with the art world.

Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window, he
considered the craggy high-cheekboned face which betrayed his
Viking ancestry, the once bright fair hair still thick but now
touched with silver.

He sighed. A tall athletic body and deepset watchful eyes
told him that his disguise was incomplete. He looked what he was - a policeman, a man of action more accustomed to
criminal-catching than browsing idly among valuable paintings.

His dismal preoccupation was interrupted as the train was
leaving Berwick Station. Suddenly a porter threw open the door
and thrust a young woman into the compartment. Breathless,
she threw a coin into the man's hand and as the train gathered
speed sat down on the seat opposite.

Faro's sympathetic smile and murmur - 'Well done, well
done,' - was dismissed in a single scornful glance.

As the newcomer withdrew a book from her valise and
proceeded to read with deep concentration, her attitude
presented Faro with a unique opportunity of trying out his
Observation game.

Glad of some diversion from his melancholy thoughts, he decided cheerfully that this one was not too difficult. The lady had not come far, for she carried little luggage, only one small
travelling bag. Her numerous veils and scarves worn over a
cloak of waterproof material indicated that she was used to and
prepared for all weathers.

This was confirmed by the condition of her boots, sturdy
footwear with scuffed toes, which had seen a great deal of
rough walking. She retained hat and gloves so he had no means
of seeing hair colour nor of identifying her marital status.