The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (5 page)

^{Chapter 6}

The supper room at the Elrigg Arms sported ancient oak beams,
dark panelling and a regiment of anders as well as an assortment
of glass-entombed tiny animals. Their bright eyes followed Faro
as he walked across a floor on which only the sturdiest of tables
could rest all four legs at the one time.

A cheerfully cracking log fire shed a glow of welcoming
hospitality but any hopes Faro had of meeting fellow diners
inclined to local gossip were doomed to failure. The two
gentlemen who shared one end of the oak refectory table greeted
him politely and hastily resumed a conversation that revealed
them as business acquaintances travelling north to Edinburgh.

Another diner entered. The chilly lady from Faro's railway encounter. As her presence suggested she was also staying at the inn, he felt a resurgence of indignation that she had deliberately
left him standing on the station platform when they might have
shared the only hiring carriage.

Her brief acknowledgement of his cold bow declined
admission of any earlier meeting. Firmly opening the book she carried indicated to her fellow diners that she intended keeping
her own counsel.

Despite her formidable attitude, the lamplit table revealed
what veils and scarves kept hidden, an abundance of dark
auburn hair and slanting green eyes, which suggested in her less
disagreeable moments capabilities of appeal, even enticement.

Observing the secret glances exchanged by the two other gentlemen, Faro decided that such looks might encourage the
attentions of predatory males and that her chilly reception was
perhaps a necessity for a female travelling alone.

As the plates were passed round he observed ink-stained
fingernails. An artist or some clerkly occupation, school teacher
or governess? Even as he pondered, she wasted no time over
eating but tackled each course in a hearty businesslike manner,
far from the polite toying with food in public that characterised
genteel members of her sex. Eager to be gone, with a murmured
excuse she rose from the table so abruptly that the capacious
leather bag she carried slid to the floor and disgorged a quantity
of papers.

As Faro helped her to retrieve them, they were snatched from
his hands, with hardly a word of thanks. He sat back in his chair
and realised that he had been correct in his suspicions. Such rudeness, however, was inexcusable. He hoped he had seen the
last of this formidable travelling lady as he devoted his attention
to the increased buzz of voices that issued from the public bar.

There might be valuable information to be obtained regarding
his mission by mingling with the tenants and he carried though
his pint of ale.

A few farmers were playing cards and although his greeting
was politely received, by no stretch of imagination could it be
called encouraging. It was neither as warm nor even as mildly
curious as the flurry of tail-wagging the scent of a stranger
stirred among their farm dogs.

He patted a few heads and distributed liberal 'good fellow's
but this failed to play him into their owners' confidences.
Resolutely they devoted themselves again to their game, having called their fraternising animals sternly to order.

Refusing to be daunted, Faro threw in some cheerful remarks
about good weather, to be greeted by grunts and at most a few disbelieving headshakes. He had almost given up hope of any
success and was about to retreat to his room when the door
opened.

The man who entered was clad in an indescribably dirty,
voluminous greatcoat which contained more than his large frame and Faro realised he was face-to-face with the local
poacher. The huge garment wrapped tent-like about him was
composed of inside pockets large enough comfortably to stow
away a variety of game birds and small animals for the pot and,
by the smell of it, included an interesting range of fish.

Faro's greeting to the newcomer was cordially but toothlessly
received, its warmth strengthened by the offer of a jug of ale. The
poacher's eyes glistened and he responded cheerfully to Faro's
careful overtures about the weather for the time of year.

'Travelling in this area are you, sir?'

'Briefly,' said Faro.

'Fisherman, are you?'

'Alas, no.'

The poacher regarded him, head on side. 'Naught much for
a gentleman to do, to fill in his time, like.'

Refusing to be drawn and hoping to direct the conversation towards the castle, Faro asked: 'I presume there is much casual employment hereabouts during the shooting season?'

'Just for the young lads, the beaters. But I'd never let one of my lads go - dead dangerous it is, those high-nosed gentry are
awful shots,' he added confidentially. 'Few years back, there
was one killed...'

'What are you going on about, Will Duffy?' The enquiry
came sharply from the barman who had edged his mopping-up
activities on the counter a shade nearer. 'That was an accident,'
he said sharply to Faro. 'Such things do happen.'

'Mebbe,' was the poacher's reply. 'Mebbe like the horns over
yonder.' So saying he nodded towards a bull's head among the
decapitated trophies adorning one wall.

Caring little for the present bloodthirsty fashion in wall
decoration, Faro had given this evidence of sporting skill scant
attention. Now he observed for the first time that the splendid
white bull's head lacked horns.

'You probably know more than most what happened to
them,' the barman said heavily to Duffy, who thereupon leaned across the counter, his fists bunched in a threatening manner:
'Are you saying that I pinched them, Bowden?'

'It wouldn't be the first time something had gone amissing
from my walls...'

Duffy stood up to his full height, bulging pockets giving him
monumental stature.

'Are you accusing me?' he said in menacing fashion.

Faro and the other drinkers stood by, fascinated by what
promised to be a fists-up between barman and poacher, men of
equal height and weight.

'Duffy!' At that moment the door behind them was flung
open and an elderly man with the look of a prosperous farmer
glared in. 'Gossiping again, are you? Am I to wait all night
while you fill yourself with drink?'

'Coming, sir.'

The poacher, suddenly deflated, tipped Faro an embarrassed
wink and allowed himself to be meekly led away.

'When did this happen?' Faro asked Bowden, nodding towards
the bull's head.

'A while back. Duffy can't keep his hands off anything that
might fetch a few pennies.' And, refusing to be drawn into any further conversation with a stranger, the barman returned to
polishing the counter as if his life depended on a shining, stain-
free surface.

Faro's bedroom boasted a cheery fire and a large four-poster bed, plus the uneven floor of antiquity which creaked at every
step. His door added to this orchestra of rheumatic boards.
Testing the bed gingerly, he was pleased to find that the mattress
was of a more modern vintage than the faded velvet canopy and
ragged, brocade curtains.

Drawing the oil lamp closer, he took out his notebook and
logged the day's events, ending: 'Wild bull's horns missing from
public bar. Duffy might know something about the Elriggs and
be willing to talk for a fee? Talk to him again!'

He slept well that night and awoke to the appetising smell of
ham and eggs. He was relieved to find that his digestion was not
hampered by the presence of the chilly lady at the breakfast table, and ten o'clock was striking on the church clock as he
walked down the main street.

Between the post office and barber's shop, a one-time
cottage bore on its window the words POLICE STATION. A
narrow hallway ended in a door with a heavy bolt and a heavily
barred square cut out of the central panel. It might serve as an
imposing warning to the local inhabitants, but Faro doubted
whether it had ever held a criminal with violent inclinations and
uncongenial habits.

Opening the door marked ENQUIRIES, PLEASE ENTER,
he stepped into what had once been the parlour. A large desk
sat uneasily against one wall while a wooden form opposite
offered uncomfortable seats for inquirers.

The constable on duty had the healthy look of an elderly
countryman who has had a good life: white-haired, apple—
cheeked and overweight. He nodded in reply to Faro's question
and pointed to the closed door.

'It's Sergeant Yarrow you'll be wanting, sir. He has a visitor
- if you'll just take a seat.'

Pondering on the hierarchy of two policemen in charge of a
village station, Faro heard men's voices raised angrily from behind the half-glassed door on the other side of the room.

'You'd better do something about it, then.' The first voice
was cultured, authoritative.

'I'm doing all I can -' The second voice was slow, weary.

'Which isn't half good enough. I demand permission to
excavate the site,' was the reply.

'I cannot grant that. You know perfectly well it was refused
by your late uncle -'

'Who is happily no longer with us,' said the first man,
cutting short the weary man's shocked exclamation. 'It was just
his pig-headedness after all, his sense of possession. Scared that
I might find a treasure trove or some such nonsense. And,
dammit, on what is, if there was any justice left in this country,
my own land after all.'

'Look, sir,' there was an attempt at mollification in the other
speaker's voice. 'Not a bit of use going on like this. I know you
have a right to feel resentment, but the police can't help you here. It's lawyers - good ones - you're needing.'

'Lawyers, you say. I've wasted years trying to prove my inheritance. I've lived in a cramped, damp cottage when my
rightful place should have been up there - in the castle. Damn you, man, you know all this, you know how unjust he's been,
but you're on his side. He bought the law just as he bought
everything else.'

The other man's protest was cut short by a sound suspiciously
like a fist thumping a table followed by a crash.

The constable regarded Faro nervously, suspected this scene was making a bad impression and decided to intervene. Taking
the law into his own hands, he marched to the closed door and
rapped loudly on it.

'Visitor to see you, Sergeant.'

The door opened and, with a final curse, a young man
exploded into the office and vanished out of the hallway.

'I seem to have come at an awkward time,' said Faro, aware
that his words were a masterpiece of understatement.

Sergeant Yarrow did not rise to greet him. Perhaps this was
due to the vexation caused by the angry young man's hasty exit,
but Faro felt that his reception was less than cordial.

Closer to Faro in age than the constable at the desk, he did
not look nearly as fit. There was nothing of the rosy-cheeked
countryman about his sallow complexion and heavily lined
face. Only his eyes were remarkable, a bright pale blue with the
iris clearly defined.

As Faro introduced himself in his assumed role, he realised
that the sergeant must once have possessed outstanding good
looks with such eyes and black curling hair, now thin and grey.

Even as he wondered what suffering had brought about this
premature ageing, with a weary sigh Yarrow began impatiently
rustling the papers on his desk, his gesture indicating that such
callers as Mr Jeremy Faro were wasting his time.