The Seal King Murders (12 page)

Faced with the prospect of a long walk back to Scarthbreck, he was delighted to meet the carriage on the Stromness road. There was hardly room for him inside. His mother, surrounded by parcels and boxes, was tired to exhaustion.

Her shopping successfully concluded, she had seized the opportunity to visit a friend for a more-than-welcome cup of tea. Meanwhile Tom, the coachman, had been grateful to anchor the carriage outside the local tavern.

Mary Faro was only mildly interested in his activities, for which Faro was grateful not to be faced with questions for which he had no answers. Utterly worn out, she yawned, closed her eyes almost immediately and slept with her
head resting comfortably on his shoulder, his arm tenderly around her as often in childhood he had slept, their roles now reversed by time.

A message from Stavely awaited him. He was requested to come to Hal’s croft after breakfast early next morning.

Mary Faro, refreshed after her sleep in the carriage, her energy restored, provided an excellent supper. As he downed ham pie and a warmed-up apple dumpling, he came to a decision. Taking out his logbook, he added the abortive visit to the Hope, Mrs Traill and his failure to locate Elsa Harbister, all of which had convinced him to abandon any hope of solving the tantalising mystery surrounding Thora Claydon as the seal king’s bride.

Rereading all that he had discovered concerning Dave Claydon’s accidental drowning for Macfie’s benefit, he resolved that, from now on, he must devote all his energies to the present, by finding Celia Prentiss-Grant and answering the questions posed by the abandoned clothes and a possible pregnancy.

As he finished writing, he put down the pen, certain there was something missing, something he had heard or overheard, a vital clue. But try as he might, his usually excellent memory let him down. Perhaps he was too tired, too disappointed at this negative result.

Laying aside the logbook, he went to bed and slept soundly, to awake at six, hearing his mother already up and preparing a substantial breakfast.

An hour later he knocked on the door of Hal’s croft, whose signally grimy exterior and the overgrown wilderness that had replaced the garden told their own sorry tale.

The door was opened by Ed, tousled and unkempt. At the sight of Faro his face underwent a transformation: he turned white and almost staggered back. ‘What do you want?’ he gasped. ‘What’s happened now?’

At that moment, before Faro could utter any reassurance, Stavely appeared. Thrusting Ed roughly aside, he said shortly, ‘Oh, here you are – I didn’t mean this early,’ and to his son, ‘Aren’t you going to invite Constable Faro in?’

Ed stood back, and as Faro squeezed past him in the narrow opening to the kitchen, he sensed that the boy was trembling violently.

‘Hal’s already away, cutting peat; he gets up at dawn.’

The boy disappeared into the bedroom and Stavely, unshaven and weary after a night’s restless discomfort on a temporary bed, evaded by sleep and filled with tortuous misgivings, regarded Faro reproachfully.

‘Mind coming back in an hour? Haven’t
had my breakfast yet. We’ll decide what to do next. The Prentiss-Grants want a daily report. I suppose that’s their right in the circumstances.’

Faro left deep in thought and unable to rid himself of that vision of Ed’s strange behaviour. In his experience of crime and criminals he had encountered guilt and innocence many times, and was well aware of the symptoms displayed by guilty men and women. Especially the very young who had not yet learnt to dissemble. And after that morning’s encounter, he was certain that Ed Stavely had something to hide.

Returning to the croft an hour later, Stavely was ready and his behaviour almost confirmed those suspicions when Faro asked, ‘How’s young Ed taking all this?’

Stavely stopped, turned sharply. Preoccupied with thoughts regarding his son, he wondered uneasily if Faro was reading his mind. ‘What do you mean – “all this”?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, living with his uncle here, missing all his friends in Kirkwall. It’s a long way to go,’ Faro said cheerfully, trying to sound casual.

Stavely hardly suppressed a sigh of relief. Of course Faro couldn’t possibly know of Ed’s missing hours coinciding with Celia’s disappearance.

‘He’s always wanted to work here with Hal, they get along very well. Hal’s fifteen years
younger than Lily, much nearer Ed in age.’

Faro interpreted his sad shake of the head. ‘Both a bit on the wild side, are they?’

Stavely gave him a hard look as he went on, ‘We’ve all been there. Young fellows sowing their wild oats, that sort of thing.’ He hoped he sounded understanding and sympathetic.

Stavely grunted disapprovingly, afraid that he had given himself away. And he was right. Stavely was no great actor, and Faro guessed that he knew, or at least suspected, that something was amiss with his son.

He needed an excuse to get the boy on his own and put to him a few well-rehearsed but carefully contrived questions, which he hoped might produce interesting answers regarding any illegal activities Ed was anxious to conceal from his policeman father.

Faro was left standing at the front door while Stavely went in to deliver the first of his daily reports. The audience only took minutes but he emerged looking ruffled and cross, mumbled something about things to attend to in Kirkwall. Mounting one of Hal’s horses, generously provided as his transport, he said, ‘Be back in a couple of hours. I leave you to your own devices, Faro. Find out anything you can.’

Without the faintest idea how he was to
carry out Stavely’s instructions or where to start, apart from walking the shore, which had already been searched inch by inch for clues, Faro had a sudden desperate need of fresh air and fresh company, the latter hopefully in the comely shape of Inga St Ola.

Heading towards Spanish Cove, where there was plenty of the former in evidence, blowing directly across the firth, Faro met Mr West, the amateur botanist whose company he had once shared on the farmers’ carts to Kirkwall, and who was now a familiar solitary figure searching for plant specimens on the cliff’s edge.

Today he was walking down the road, binoculars swinging around his neck. As they met Faro said, ‘You’re not using the trowel today.’

West laughed. ‘It’s a pleasant change to spot the nesting seabirds. You can hear them – lively aren’t they? And I enjoy exploring the horizons for interesting foreign ships, far out, heading in our direction.’

Pleasantries exchanged, Faro hurried on. His route taking him past the stables, he decided, without a great deal of hope, to make enquiries regarding the hiring of gigs.

The stableman looked up eagerly, and was obviously disappointed that this was not a customer as Faro asked if he kept any records.

‘Aye, we have to do that, sir, to make sure we get our animals and the carriages back again. We have an arrangement for their return at stables in Stromness and Kirkwall.’

‘Did you by any chance have anyone hiring a gig three nights ago?’

The lad frowned, thought for a moment and produced a grubby notebook. ‘A gentleman hired a gig to Stromness in the morning and in the evening a chap took a horse for Kirkwall.’

‘No young lady customers?’

The lad scratched his head. ‘Very rare, sir. Miss Inga St Ola sometimes, or a few of the older ladies.’

Disappointed, Faro thanked him and walked on to find that the main reason for his chilly walk, Inga, was not at home. The door remained firmly closed and, disappointed, he was about to walk away when he heard a swishing sound, like a broom on a floor.

The door slowly opened and there was Baubie Finn.

She looked surprised but pleased to see him, and saying that Inga was away, she stood aside.

‘Please – if you aren’t in a hurry, do come in. I won’t ask you to wait as I have no idea when Inga will be back. She’s away seeing one of the ladies she’s sewing petticoats for.’

Following her into the tiny parlour, Faro
realised he had only seen her sitting in the Orkney chair and was now aware of her curious shape. Walking seemed to be a problem and perhaps accounted for the gown that trailed on the floor behind her, her feet invisible. It did not conceal the fact that her body was shapeless, with extremely narrow shoulders so that her head looked out of proportion. When she turned, smiled and invited him to sit down, he was again struck by the roundness of her face, her sleek pulled-back straight hair, her face contourless by the lack of defined eyebrows. Only the huge, luminous eyes were remarkable, the sole vestige of female beauty.

Watching those odd gliding steps, ashamedly the selkie image, cruel but undeniable, immediately came to mind, arousing feelings of compassion for what this poor woman must have suffered throughout her life, almost a freak of nature, but gentle and wise.

The conversation was polite, conventional remarks about weather and whether he was enjoying his stay.

He found himself telling her about his visit to St Margaret’s Hope.

‘I know it well,’ she said. ‘My home is quite nearby. Some day, soon, I must go back. I have enjoyed Inga’s hospitality long enough.’

No cause, no further explanation, and Faro
went on to say that the object of his visit was to see the house where he once lived.

Baubie nodded. She knew that house.

Suddenly hopeful, Faro added that he had been hoping to meet Elsa Harbister and that he had visited Mrs Traill, who was now in the asylum. Did she know her?

‘I know of her, of course.’ She looked at him curiously, and as he hastily explained Macfie’s connection with the family, she nodded. ‘I knew Thora and Elsa well as children. They had such a tragic life. I was sorry for them, we all were, neighbours wanted to help. And Bet Traill more or less adopted them.’ Pausing, she shook her head. ‘I think they were afraid of me, though,’ she added candidly.

Poor Baubie Finn. Faro saw it all: wanting to be kind, her odd appearance, whispers of a selkie, a witch, must have terrified children. What must her life have been like all those years ago and even now?

He decided to mention Sibella Scarth.

She mouthed the name as if savouring it, then she just looked at him, shook her head.

‘You never knew her?’

Again that shake of her head. Nothing more to be said on that topic. Faro was disappointed as she put in quickly, ‘Inga has been very good to me. I had been quite ill.’ Delicately touching
the region of her chest, she sighed. ‘I might not have survived, but she brought me here, nursed me back to life again.’

As she spoke, he noticed her hands, mittened almost to the fingertips, and he avoided contemplating the shape and colour of her nails – long, oddly curved. Like talons.

There was a sudden, bleak silence between them. Nothing left to say or too much said already.

Faro stood up, bowed, said he must leave. She followed him to the door and he turned. ‘I hope we might meet again before I leave.’

She smiled, nodded, her expression suddenly wistful. ‘I am sure we will, Jeremy.’

Leaving Inga’s house, Amos was emerging three doors away – the home of Rob, his assistant ferryman.

‘Hello again,’ he greeted Faro, holding up his hand indicating the weather. ‘Good sailor, are you? Fancy a trip round the coast to Stromness?’ he asked mockingly, pointing to a tiny boat bobbing up and down at the pier.

It was a challenge that Faro accepted. ‘Now that you ask, I was considering it.’

‘Right you are. Off we go, then.’

Amos donned oilskins and sou’wester and threw a raincape across to Faro. A heavy sea made Faro regret his decision as he recognised that the ferryman needed all his skills as an
oarsman to manoeuvre the small boat round the skerry, keeping as close as he dare to the shore, making slow headway in what promised to be an uncomfortable crossing.

Heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of Stromness, he parted company with Amos, who grinned.

‘Well done. You are a good sailor. There were moments when I thought we might have to swim for it.’

‘You perhaps, but I can’t swim.’

‘An island lad? Incredible!’ Amos whistled. ‘You are game, then.’ Saluting him mockingly, he anchored his small boat and boarded the ferry.

Walking through the twisting streets, Faro observed that the police had been busy. Posters for the missing girl were on display, but now that he had made the sea trip as a kind of dare, Faro realised it was a fair distance back to Scarthbreck.

A mile further on, he turned at the sound of a gig approaching. Standing aside to let it pass, a man leant out.

‘Saw you on the ferry, mate. Where are you heading?’ Faro said ‘Scarthbreck’ and the man grinned.

‘You’re in luck. We pass the very door. Jump in.’

Faro was grateful, especially when he learnt
that the man was a neighbour of Hal’s, polite but disinclined to conversation. His mention of the poster of the missing girl aroused no interest or curiosity, his companion’s attentions solemnly devoted to a whisky bottle. Disappointed that his passenger declined his invitation to sample the contents, the journey continued in silence.

Mary Faro was only mildly interested in his morning’s activities, flustered and a little excited by notice of a visitor expected shortly at Scarthbreck.

‘A youngish man, Jeremy. The maids know him already. A remote cousin of the
Prentiss-Grants
, has an estate near theirs.’ And lowering her voice to a whisper as if she might be overheard, ‘I’m told that he’s sweet on Miss Celia. Only gossip, of course, but the hints were that they all expected she would marry him some day.’

Standing back to see the effect on Faro, she said, ‘Well, what do you think of that? He’s come all the way here from Sussex, too early for the shooting. I expect it’s just to help them find her.’

A deep sigh which threatened more tears, then she went on, ‘We’ve had such a time preparing a room for him. Sir Arnold is so particular that he is to be made comfortable after such a journey.’

While Faro assimilated this new information, a tap on the door announced Sergeant Stavely, who followed Mary into the kitchen. His apologies for arriving at such an inconvenient hour were accompanied by wistful glances at a meal in preparation, which Mary Faro interpreted correctly. Always hospitable, she asked if he would care to join them.

Stavely beamed upon her, a quite emotional response, and taking a seat at the table opposite Faro he said, ‘Very kind of your mother. I just wanted to know if you had anything to report.’ That wasn’t quite true, but understandable considering the dismal meal he had anticipated at Hal’s. This visit had been very slyly timed.

Faro mentioned the posters at Stromness and Stavely nodded eagerly. ‘Our men in Kirkwall have been very efficient, too, and they are now being distributed at various points across the island.’

When Faro mentioned his call at the stables regarding travellers on the night Celia disappeared, Stavely was pleased. He smiled, a rare occurrence, and said, ‘Results may take a day or two. We must be patient, and I am now authorised to rent Hal’s gig, for which I am extremely grateful. He only needs it for market days, normally prefers a horse, so it lies unused in the barn. It will make travelling much easier –
I am no great horseman. Walking the confines of Kirkwall is enough for me.’

Faro was also grateful for this alternative means of transport, being no great horseman himself, and accordingly the next morning they set off in the gig. Although open to the elements, it was able to accommodate four passengers comfortably and was a decided improvement in speed compared to walking weary miles in the rain and wind.

In Stromness, Stavely seized the opportunity to buy some hot pies, an agreeable supplement to his last meal, while sending Faro in search of the ferryman.

‘I should like to have a description of anyone resembling Miss Celia who was on the ferry that night.’

Faro had earlier dismissed that as unlikely. The last ferry departed at eight o’clock. And at that hour, he had been walking with her along the shore.

Instead of Amos, another ferryman, taller, older – presumably Rob – was on duty. His face almost invisible under the woollen cap, he was chatting with two companions as the passengers boarded.

‘Amos?’ he said in reply to Faro’s question. ‘Having a day off.’

Faro said he needed to see him urgently.

Rob gave him a curious glance. ‘He’ll be at home – his brother’s poorly. You’ll find the house easily, in Bridge Street next to the Lamb & Flag.’

Back at the gig, Stavely waded into hot pies like a starving man, which according to his assessment of his lodging, he was indeed.

‘Animals feed better than we do,’ he grumbled and Faro took over the reins.

On the outskirts of Kirkwall they came across the first of the posters. Stavely halted the gig and they paused to read it.

The sketch was certainly like the photograph, but with only a verbal description of the girl’s colouring and height Faro felt it was vague enough to apply to many females of her age. There was no description of the clothes she was ‘last seen wearing’, as ‘in her underclothes’ would have been extremely difficult to add.

Stavely had no such misgivings regarding the results. ‘I have great hopes – they made a nice job,’ he added with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘If these don’t bring about a ransom note, then the reward offered will,’ he whistled. ‘One hundred pounds – that’s a fortune for most folk.’

Faro had a sudden idea. ‘Was any reward offered for the return of the artefacts that Dave Claydon was carrying when he drowned?’

Stavely looked at him in astonishment. ‘Hardly.
They obviously went to the bottom of the sea.’ Then a quizzical look. ‘Are you hinting that someone found them?’

‘I think that is a distinct possibility.’

‘Have to have proof of that, Faro. It’s a bit of a waste of time and definitely not police business without someone coming forward claiming ownership.’

‘What about the archaeologists?’

Stavely shrugged. ‘They denied all knowledge of treasure. Stuck to their story of a few beads and a beaker.’

As Faro left the gig outside Amos’s house across the road from the cathedral, he remembered Inga’s cynical words about a reward expected to be shared by many.

He had a lengthy wait at the door and was wondering if Amos was at home. When the door opened, the ferryman seemed surprised, and not too pleased to see his visitor.

Perhaps, thought Faro charitably as he was somewhat reluctantly asked to come in, his evident displeasure was because of the hour of the day and the state of his invalid brother.

The parlour was dark, but the glow of a peat fire touched the man who was shrouded in shawls and huddled close to it. It was obvious that he felt the cold, as his bonnet was pulled
down well over his eyes. Faro, sensitive to atmospheres, had the feeling a task had been left unfinished and hastily put aside.

Presumably Amos had been attending to some personal matters involving the invalid and the scene had been speedily rearranged. However, it reminded Faro of a feeling he had often experienced. Although it seemed impossible in this particular connection, he felt that he had been the subject of an interrupted conversation, and the words still hung precariously in the air.

‘That’s Josh, my brother,’ said Amos, with an anxious look in his direction. Josh merely nodded in acknowledgement of this introduction, and, as if lifting his head involved considerable effort, he was seized by a fit of coughing.

The two men waited politely, with an exchange of sympathetic glances until this sad interlude ended. But when Amos spoke at last, Faro was aware that no trace remained of his former friendly manner. Hardly able to conceal his impatience, he asked, ‘What can I do for you, Mr Faro?’

Faro, made to feel embarrassed and uncomfortable at this intrusion, endeavoured to re-establish his official policeman role with an explanation about the posters and enquired whether Amos could remember having seen
anyone resembling the missing girl among his passengers.

Amos listened to him, shook his head and said in mocking terms, ‘Mr Faro, don’t you realise that what you ask is well-nigh impossible. I carry dozens – maybe hundreds – of passengers every day. Boarding is a busy, hectic time and even a pretty girl like the one in the posters might slip by without a second glance. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’ His accompanying look towards his brother, who was breathing heavily and was in obvious need of attention, was a clear dismissal.

Turning at the door, Faro said, ‘Now that you have seen the poster, may I ask you to be extra vigilant?’

Amos smiled. ‘You have my assurance on that, Mr Faro. Now I must bid you good day.’

Leaving the house, Faro headed towards the police station to be informed that the sergeant was away in the gig and expected to be back at about four o’clock when his business was completed.

What business? Did it concern the posters, or was Stavely seizing the opportunity of a couple of hours to visit his wife? Faro wondered, as he toured the streets and made a note of an impressive number of posters on display. Kirkwall was taking the matter seriously, with many shop
windows displaying the artist’s sketch, with ‘One Hundred Pounds for Information’ heavily stressed in large black letters. A great deal more than most folk could hope to earn for a year’s hard work on the island, it was a substantial and tempting reward.

On his way back he looked into
The Orcadian
, its walls well plastered with the poster. He was out of luck: Jimmy was absent, away on one of his investigations. There was a certain reluctance from the lad behind the desk to tell him more than that. However, Faro left hoping it concerned the missing girl.

As he approached Kirk Green, with several hours in hand, and a dark rain cloud overhead accompanied by an unseasonable shrill wind, he decided to seek refuge in the rose-red cathedral. As always, the first impression when he set foot inside was one of infinity. Its immensity diminished him, an illusion due to the perfect proportions of the interior, to which the narrowness of the nave contributed an effect of loftiness.

Besides the grandeur, what most seized his heartstrings was the beauty of mellow stonework: grey flags, combined with the warm reds and yellow of sandstone. This was comparatively new, and in the original parts
of the church, walls and pillars alike had been richly painted, glowing with colour. As a child he had spent many hours looking at the paintings of angels and saints, eagerly searching the walls for any traces of this ancient pattern.

Named after the patron saint of Kirkwall and all of Orkney, and more than seven centuries old, the cathedral’s history had always fascinated him, believing it to be named after his own father, Magnus.

The story of the martyred saint, whose bones were first laid to rest in the chapel at Birsay and then transferred to the newly built cathedral, intrigued young Jeremy. Many years later, when a pillar was being repaired on the south side of the original altar, a skull came to light. Experts of Norse history recognised that the skull was cleft in the fashion used when a victim was of noble birth, according to the ancient
Orkneyinga Saga.

Enjoying the tranquillity and serenity of its ancient splendour, Faro was suddenly aware that he was not alone. The line of empty pews stretching toward the altar had an occupant.

A man knelt in prayer, his face hidden by a large bonnet. Not wishing to disturb him, Faro continued his walk sheltered by the massive pillars. Glancing towards the figure something about him was familiar. A closer look, and he
knew they had met before, less than an hour ago. The man was Josh Flett.

Poor fellow, thought Faro, overwhelmed with compassion for that lonely, doomed man. Were his prayers for recovery? As his home was only a short distance away across the road, did he come here every day when the cathedral was empty, to sit alone and pray?

Footsteps, and suddenly the man was alone no longer. A woman slid into the pew beside him. This time Faro had no difficulty in recognising the newcomer as Thora Claydon.

Anxious not to intrude on a private moment, aware that his presence would embarrass them, he remained where he was, hidden by the pillar. To an unseen observer, it was obvious that they knew each other and, although he could distinguish no words exchanged between them, they sat close, their shoulders touching and as if they were holding hands.

Her head nestled against his shoulder, her face turned towards him in earnest whispered conversation, her attitude pleading.

Their closeness intrigued him, opened new avenues of thought. Friends, even lovers? Was it possible that he had stumbled on another tragedy in the making? That Thora Claydon, widowed, was in love with a dying man?

At that moment, a door opened, voices
announced new arrivals and, from his vantage point, Faro saw the two spring guiltily apart. She touched his arm and walked, head down, quickly towards the entrance. She could not, however, escape the newcomers, apparently choristers ready for practice, who obviously knew her, and greetings were exchanged.