The Seal King Murders (16 page)

The prospect of returning to Edinburgh should have left Faro with a sense of triumph after solving the mystery of Celia Prentiss-Grant’s disappearance. But after a week of unexpectedly intense activity with the Orkney Constabulary rather than a holiday, it would seem tame indeed to pick up the threads of his life at the Central Office.

He might now summon up courage to ask Lizzie to marry him, although he was no longer wholly certain about this, or even that she would eagerly accept. Meeting Inga again had raised doubts that he knew anything at all about women, to say nothing of their extraordinary behaviour as personified by Celia and, now, even by his own mother.

You knew where you were with men, he thought, by comparison. They seemed uncomplicated, straightforward creatures.

He would have ended his Orkney visit with a lighter heart had there not been a couple of riddles still unsolved: his negative report to Macfie on Dave Claydon’s accident and the artefacts he was carrying to Edinburgh.

Or what intrigued him most, the missing year and a day from Thora Claydon’s life a decade ago.

He was unable to accept the popular island version of the seal king’s bride which gave her a kind of legendary aura: although the islanders might prefer to shake their heads and add it eagerly to their recorded legends of trolls, selkies and magic, this one would continue to haunt him.

Common sense told him that every mystery has an explanation, and the only magic for Faro was the occasional miracle by which, against all the odds, a dying man like Josh Flett was wooing Dave Claydon’s widow.

He thought again of the similarities between Celia and Thora. The latter reconciled to Dave who had accepted her lack of memory for those missing months and promptly married her. Celia had been reconciled to her parents, and it seemed very likely that she would marry her
faithful Gerald, who would dismiss the fleeting incident of her amour with Amos Flett.

The reply to his letter to Macfie, which he had been expecting daily, arrived next day and its contents reopened the mystery of Dave Claydon’s drowning.

Macfie wrote, ‘Hope this reaches you in time. I have been in touch with the authorities concerned and they are unable to trace any correspondence with Dave in their files relating to priceless artefacts which he claimed were being brought by him to Edinburgh on their orders. What is even more baffling is that there was no trace of a Leith-registered ship leaving Kirkwall that evening. This information has caused me grave concern that Dave was using his situation as an excise officer to engage in some criminal activity such as smuggling. I realise that this information will not be of much use with your visit at an end, which is a pity because we are never likely to know the truth.’

Faro put down the letter which threw new light on the events of that fatal night. Amos had problems aplenty grappling with his small boat in wild seas that night and could have mistaken a merchant vessel looming towards them in heavy fog as the Leith-bound ship Dave Claydon informed him that he intended boarding. If he was not carrying the artefacts to Edinburgh,
why was he boarding the ship in the first place? The answer that came readily was that he had in mind a private buyer in some other place abroad.

Macfie’s information had come too late. Faro had no time left to open another investigation suggested by its contents. As for the artefacts, the truth lay buried with Dave in Kirkwall cemetery.

Then a thought. Unless Thora had been told.

Before he left he would make a final visit. An excuse to ask if she had any message for Macfie. He would also call on Amos, negotiate a chat to Josh, and aware of his romantic dalliance with Dave’s widow, summon up opportunity to mention Claydon’s unfortunate accident.

Finally, although he had little hope of success, there was a possibility that when he went to book a passage to Edinburgh, the shipping office might have on record details of vessels leaving Kirkwall on the night of Claydon’s drowning.

Too late, alas, for any successful action and he could not imagine stirring up interest from Stavely, or even Jimmy, with new light on a closed case and a dead man.

There was one other person he could not leave Orkney without seeing once more. And that was Inga. Despite his shattered illusions – and indeed his forlorn hopes – he would always
care deeply for her. She had an indestructible place in his heart, part of the youth he had left ten years ago, part of his growing-up.

As for his mother, she had promised to come and visit him this time. He had refrained from asking, ‘Would that be before or after going to Paris to see Emil Latour?’ He could sympathise with her. She had no friends or connections in Edinburgh that did not revive dismal memories of her heartbreak over Magnus’s death.

Faro knew he would not be coming back to Orkney in the foreseeable future and began planning his remaining few days.

‘Must you go so soon?’ his mother demanded. ‘I’ve got used to having you. I’ll miss you. It seems like only yesterday that you arrived. You could get a transfer to the Orkney Constabulary,’ she added wistfully. ‘It would be great having you home for good and I’m sure Sergeant Stavely would give you a fine recommendation. He would be so pleased to have you working with him.’

Faro wasn’t at all sure about that and shuddered at the prospect she was suggesting, as she said, ‘We shall all miss you, you belong here.’

That much was true. He did belong, from the very roots of his being. He could not deny that. His selkie blood called to him. Body and soul
might be Orcadian but his heart needed escape from the confines of island traditions. Ambition yearned for enlightenment, for a larger canvas to explore.

There was no immediate transport to Kirkwall available, so he decided, although an indifferent horseman, he would hire a mount from the stables at Spanish Cove. First the shipping office, then Thora and a call on Amos.

Would the ferryman be shocked that Dave Claydon had deceived him regarding the identity of the ship bound for Edinburgh? Or would he argue that it had been a natural mistake?

Whether Amos knew the truth or not, it was understandable that he did not wish to admit to any involvement in the illegal practice of taking passengers to board departing vessels, their credentials cleared by the port authorities.

As Faro walked the short distance to Spanish Cove he decided to look in on Inga, but the door remained closed. She was not at home. Nor was the stableman. A note on the door said ‘Back at 2’.

With more than an hour to wait but hardly worth returning to Scarthbreck, he decided to explore the local store which had an engaging ‘Teas served’ notice in the window.

He doubted there would be many customers, with only two small tables covered with checked
cloths and vases of wilting wild flowers, a gallant attempt at lightening a dark, uninviting corner.

One table was occupied. A cheery greeting from the botanist, Mr West. ‘My housemaid is away for the day. She looks after me very well, cooks and cleans. All quite adequate but I decided to treat myself to a little luxury.’ And indicating the chair opposite, ‘Do please join me in a little celebrative lunch. I come here quite regularly and I recommend the soup and the bannocks and cheese.’

Their order placed, the conversation switched from the present availability of botanical specimens and the unreliable weather to the book West had laid aside.

Faro said, ‘I’m afraid I interrupted your reading.’

West smiled. ‘
A Tale of Two Cities
, Mr Dickens’ latest and a great book. Apart from
Barnaby Rudge
dealing with the Gordon riots, all his novels so far have dealt with present-day topics – and how excellently he brings injustices to light. This one, however, set in the French Revolution, is his first venture into historical fiction.’

When Faro said that he was also a great admirer of Mr Dickens, the botanist beamed on him, and indicating the book again, ‘The plot intrigues me, the whole story hangs on
two men in love with the same woman, one taking the other’s place and making the supreme sacrifice. Unlikely, I fear, in real life, and relying on the Bastille guards being either unobservant or stupid. But Mr Dickens writes with such authority that his readers are called on for a suspension of disbelief. For myself, I greatly enjoy an adventure or a mystery.’

And the real-life mystery Faro had been trying to solve sprang into mind as West enquired politely, ‘May I ask what is your profession, sir?’

Replying that he was a policeman, Mr West, fascinated, clapped his hands together. ‘Would you believe it? That is exactly what I would have chosen had I not gone in for botany. Quite a difference, an interest in innocent flowers to violent crimes. And yet, there is something we have in common. And that is finding out what is behind it all, what makes things happen!’

Pausing, he gave Faro a look of triumph. ‘Most intriguing! What is inside a plant to make it grow and what is inside a criminal to prompt him to commit violent deeds?’

Faro did not see all the logic behind these statements and was not called upon to unravel any of the botanist’s theories, as the stableman walked past the window.

He stood up, explaining his journey to Kirkwall and the need for a horse. Handing
over coins for his share of the lunch, they were sternly rejected.

As they shook hands West said, ‘I trust we will meet again and continue this discussion. If not here, I shall be in Edinburgh in November to deliver a paper to the Royal Botanic Society.’

‘That would be splendid,’ said Faro, tearing out a sheet from his notebook and scribbling down his address. ‘I shall look forward to seeing and hearing you, sir.’

A likeable and intelligent old gentleman, Faro thought as, armed with instructions from the stableman, who regarded his attempts to mount the mare with growing concern, he was asked, ‘Are you sure you ever rode a horse before, sir?’

Treating the remark with a non-committal but embarrassed nod, Faro did not add that it was some considerable time since he had sat upon a horse in Orkney. An unnecessary qualification for police work where constables used their feet to patrol the streets of Edinburgh, any equestrian expertise he had was most certainly lost.

Now he rode out, unsteadily at first, watched by the stableman anxious for the welfare of his horse. However, a couple of miles down the road and he had the hang of it, firmly in the saddle and managing to trot at a steady pace, rather enjoying the novel experience.

At Stromness he watched the ferry approaching but decided not to wait for a word with Amos. An opportunity, while he was absent, to call on Josh Flett, and Faro wondered whether his wooing of Thora began during Dave’s lifetime, a secret affair, or if it had grown out of compassion for the widow.

There were present all the ingredients of a tragic, doomed love about this relationship, and his thoughts returned to the discussion with Mr West and their mutual admiration for Mr Charles Dickens, for this was a subplot quite worthy of one of his novels.

Riding through a quilted landscape stretching to the horizon, he realised that the best of summer was past. Change was already in the air, a mature, mellow look to the fields, greens fading and the hint of harvests soon to be garnered.

He rode into Kirkwall, with a breeze never completely absent from that stretch of the road in his face. A pleasant, invigorating ride, although he had not the least doubt he would pay for this unusual exercise with aching muscles and stiff joints when he awoke next morning. Leaving the mare at the stable, with arrangements to take her back to Spanish Cove later that day, he was surprised to realise that he had grown quite fond of this new companion.

His first call was at the shipping office by the quay. And his first disappointment, to be informed that the next sailing to Leith was several days hence; a hiatus just as he was looking forward to being in Edinburgh again.

Making the booking and giving his name, the head of the clerk jerked up, looked at him and said, ‘I know you, you’re that Jeremy Faro who went to be a policeman.’ And throwing down his pen, he leant across the desk and chuckled. ‘Well now, I’d never have believed that of you. You never seemed that clever when we were at the school together …’

‘Really?’ Faro had not the slightest remembrance of the rather chubby, balding young man who was grinning amicably at him.

‘That’s correct. In the same class. We sat together one term and you were hopeless at sums, always getting the strap. I always beat you, got good marks, stars even. The teacher thought I’d go far.’

There was a hint of bitterness in his pride. ‘I’m Tod Raine, don’t you remember me?’

He had indeed changed and Faro barely recognised Raine as one of the bullies who had tormented his lame friend Erland Flett. Raine had maybe beaten him at sums, but did he remember that he had been no match for Faro in fisticuffs?

Doubtless this Tod Raine had forgotten such events, even the bloody nose he had received, and now seemed eager to be regarded as an old chum.

He was married, two great wee lads, he said. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m here on holiday, seeing my mother.’

‘Not married yet?’ When Faro shook his head, Raine gave him a look of contempt. ‘Better get down to it, mate. Look sharp. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’

Faro ignored that as Raine went on to boast that he was now head clerk with exceptional responsibilities, informed by his bosses that he was in line for promotion to a top situation in their Glasgow or Edinburgh offices.

Listening, Faro made the expected sounds of approval, his mind toying with other possibilities – if this was the right person to give him reliable information concerning the registration of the ship that Claydon had been boarding the night he drowned.

He decided to broach the subject by again producing the Edinburgh relative of Dave Claydon.

‘Did I know Dave? Everyone knew Dave.’

He wagged a finger at Faro. ‘The newspapers made a mistake.’ And that was what Faro wanted to hear.

‘Wasn’t the Leith ship that night. The skipper’s a grand, conscientious man. He would never tolerate those illegal goings-on. He protested, made quite a fuss about anyone believing it was his ship, but that never got into the papers, did it? Flett insisted that was what Dave had told him. But on such a terrible night anyone could have made a mistake.’