The Seal King Murders (17 page)

He shrugged. There was a pause and Faro asked, ‘Have you any ideas about what ship it was, leaving that night?’

Raine looked at him and grinned. ‘Is this one of your cases, Jeremy?’

Faro shrugged. ‘Not at all. Just interested.’

‘Then I can tell you there was only one ship – a Norwegian-registered merchantman bound for Hamburg – leaving that night.’

‘Indeed? And it was never followed up – the mistake, I mean?’

‘Of course not. No one wanted to involve the skipper. He didn’t have much English and there would have been a rare court case, cost a lot of money. So they just kept quiet, let the newspaper report be taken for granted. Strictly illegal, this boarding out of harbour waters, but we all know it goes on.’ And leaning further over the counter, he tapped his nose and whispered, ‘Between you and me, there’s quite a bit of smuggling involved. Always has been, it’s nothing new and everyone
knows – many get a share in it. Maybe Amos Flett, too. Who can tell? But money changing hands is great for keeping lips sealed. If you’ve got the money you can change the world these days.’

Faro guessed that the procedure of illegal boarding also provided splendid opportunities for smuggling artefacts abroad and he left Raine very thoughtfully.

Was Claydon’s intended appointment with a buyer in Hamburg and were Stavely and the Orkney Constabulary aware of what was going on beneath their noses? Or did they turn a blind eye to a criminal activity which filled various pockets to satisfaction?

Walking past the cathedral, Faro’s next stop was at
The Orcadian
, where he hoped that Jimmy Traill would not be absent in pursuit of one of his news stories. His luck was in.

Jimmy sat huddled over a desk, his pen scratching furiously over what must have been a very trying and long article for the next edition. The pile of screwed-up pieces of paper littering the floor beside him indicated the gravity of this mind-searching task.

Turning and seeing Faro, he called, ‘Come away in,’ and obviously eager to abandon the task at hand, he left his desk, shook hands and gave Faro a friendly grin.

‘Good to see you again. No, no, you’re not
interrupting,’ and pointing to the forlorn proof of his labours, he groaned.

‘This is an infernally boring piece I have to write for tomorrow. Sheriff court procedures. So boring, not my style at all. I like plenty of action.’ And rubbing his hands together, ‘I was quite disappointed, I have to tell you, that the Celia Prentiss-Grant case fizzled out so soon.’

‘All that fuss over a lost note,’ he added in disgust. ‘And I was all prepared for something really sensational after those posters. A kidnapping with a dramatic rescue. I could have guaranteed to keep our readers agog for weeks on that. How’s your holiday?’

Hearing that he was taking the next Leith sailing and had come in to say farewell, Jimmy sighed. ‘How I envy you, old chap. My ambition is to work on a national newspaper. One like
The Scotsman
where there must be interesting news to report every single day.’

Jimmy’s problem, Faro thought cynically, was most aptly defined as the grass being always greener on the other side of the fence. He could have disillusioned him about the Edinburgh press. Readers wearied of information from the Indian wars on the North-West Frontier – unless some member of the family was a soldier, for most folk it was too remote to connect with their ordinary lives – and reports on the health of the
Royal Family, particularly those regarding Prince Albert, who was a lot less fit than his queen.

It was not unknown for journalists faced with blank pages for tomorrow’s edition to desperately approach Edinburgh’s Central Office in search of some police business, minor crimes or criminals that might be stretched out to fill a column or two.

‘I should have told you before, but for circumstances back at Scarthbreck,’ Faro said, ‘about my visit to your auntie Bet.’

‘How was she?’ Jimmy’s facial expression showed a lack of interest and enthusiasm.

‘We did not have a great deal of conversation.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

‘She seemed a little confused.’

‘Don’t tell me – you weren’t Thora. She’s the only person Auntie ever expects or wants to see.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Don’t I just know. That’s the reason I stopped going to visit her. Used to go regularly. But it’s a long way, as you’ll appreciate, and she wasn’t in the least grateful, just resentful that I wasn’t Thora or hadn’t brought her with me. It was Thora this and Thora that and where was she?’

Pausing, he scowled. ‘As if I knew or cared after the first and only time I took Thora with me, a wee while back while Auntie was still managing fine in her own home. What a disaster
– I might as well have been a piece of furniture – a table or chair would have had more attention than they paid to me. Auntie was getting very deaf, Thora had to sit close and hold her hand, listening to her going on about dear Elsa and the happy days they had long ago.

‘It was very embarrassing for Thora with me present. In fact, she tended to avoid me after that. Even now, living just streets away, we can’t help meeting but she’ll cross to the other side of the street and pretend not to see me.’

‘The last time we met was at Dave’s funeral. A polite but chilly greeting, never invited me back to the house afterwards, nothing like that. Truth is, like I told you before, Auntie never liked me,’ he added sadly. ‘And now that she’s lost her mind, I’m sorry for the poor old soul, but honestly haven’t time to go all that way to listen to her rambling on about dear Elsa and Thora.’

‘She seemed very upset about Elsa leaving them and going to the mainland,’ Faro put in, and Jimmy shook his head.

‘That daft sort of talk is too much for me. I got the impression that Elsa wasn’t ever coming back and that Auntie was responsible.’

Faro shook hands and promised to keep him in touch with any events in Edinburgh that would make a column or two for
The Orcadian
readers. Jimmy said wistfully that if Faro heard of any post for an experienced journalist on
The
Scotsman
, he would be greatly obliged.

As they parted, Faro wondered if he would have time to pay one more visit to Mrs Traill. Remembering her words about Elsa, his conversation with Jimmy had made her distress abundantly clear. And this might indicate that she knew the secret of Thora’s year-long sojourn as the seal king’s bride.

Six o’clock was striking as Faro made his way across Kirk Green towards Amos Flett’s house. There was no response. A disappointment, as he was hoping to have a word with Josh alone, but presumably he did not answer the door in his brother’s absence

Walking past the cathedral, where the faint sounds of a choir practice lilted through the air like the voices of angels, he was led towards the Earl’s Palace, now a magnificent ruin, built by Robert Stewart. Created Earl of Orkney by his half-sister, Mary Queen of Scots, his reign of terror, penury and slavery was still remembered and Faro found it curious to understand why his mother and many like the Sinclairs and Scarths were proud to claim descent from the monster who, with his band of illegitimate sons, had peopled the length and breadth of the
islands with their bastard offspring.

He would have preferred to claim descent from the selkies and Finn folk, the original inglorious inhabitants of the island. In his childhood years, Mary Faro, who took him to church twice on Sundays, would have been horrified by his fascination with the pagan gods who had pre-dated the birth of the Saviour of the world, remembered in the unchronicled history of brochs and the Ring of Brodgar, mysteries which continued to intrigue Faro – puzzles and riddles without hope of explanation.

If only his selkie grandmother had not died before he was born. If he could have had a chance to know her, he was sure she would have understood. They would have shared a bond that was lacking with his mother. No matter how much he loved her, they were poles apart in their understanding. But walking through places once dear brought a longing to return to the peace and safety of that long-lost family who had given him birth.

Sadly, he could no longer identify with the Jeremy Faro of those early years, a shadowy figure growing fainter with the passing years, the frail thread broken. It was as if he looked back on someone else, a strange child from one of Mary Faro’s bedtime stories.

Hopefully, he returned to Amos’s house. As
he waited, considering whether he should delay any longer, the door was opened by Amos, who did not look pleased to see him. He looked preoccupied, but courtesy demanded that he should be invited in and made welcome, making Faro feel guiltily that his excuse was feeble.

Leaving on Wednesday, could he have a timetable of ferry times? It all sounded very false, which it was.

Amos went ahead of him and was glancing around the room as if to establish that all was in order, and Faro had that strange feeling, so frequent on entering an empty room, that it needed a moment or two to rearrange itself.

Invited to sit down, Faro saw that the table had been set for two, but the empty dishes were not yet cleared.

Following his glance, Amos said apologetically, ‘My day off – Rob’s in charge of the ferry. I’ve been out and about.’ Again that anxious look round the room. ‘Domestic matters to attend to.’ And opening a drawer he handed over a timetable. ‘Here you are. This is what you need.’

His silent regard and faint smile as Faro studied it, hinted that he no longer had any excuse to prolong this visit.

Preparing to leave, Faro asked politely, ‘How is your brother?’

Amos stared at Faro, whose mind was obviously elsewhere. ‘Josh? Josh is upstairs in his bed.’ He added, ‘One of his bad days, I’m afraid.’ Faro nodded sympathetically but he found it odd that the room was full of recent cigar smoke, a very expensive and exclusive brand Faro recognised as prevalent in the gentleman’s clubs and best restaurants in Edinburgh, and Amos had declared emphatically that he was not a smoker. At their first meeting on the ferry, Faro was lighting a pipe and Amos had smilingly declined the fill of tobacco he offered. Then, with an impish glance, ‘Not one of my vices, but I have plenty less virtuous to make up for it.’

Now following him to the door, Amos said, ‘I hope you will have a storm-free voyage. Have you enjoyed your holiday?’

‘Yes, indeed. Although I also had a mission from a relative of Dave Claydon.’

He paused and Amos said rather brusquely, ‘You told me about it.’ His bleak expression said that he did not want any further discussion on that topic. ‘Look, I told you all I know,’ he added desperately. ‘Is this an official investigation?’

All friendliness had vanished as Faro replied, ‘Of course not, but I have heard that it was not the Leith ship he was attempting to board.’

Amos shrugged. ‘So I gathered later, but
that’s what he told me. It made no difference whether he was going to Leith or Timbuktu. He had hired my boat, handed over the money. That was all I needed to know.’ A weary sigh indicated that he had told this story many, many times and was heartily sick of yet another reiteration. ‘I told you what I told the police, the divers and anyone else involved. He fell in the water and I couldn’t rescue him. That was the end of it.’

Faro didn’t want to end his visit on this sour note. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, Amos. I wish you well … and your brother,’ he added hesitantly, aware of the odds facing Josh.

Amos smiled again. ‘I just wish I could have been of some help. Anyway, I expect you’ll be coming back next year to see your mother again.’

‘Possibly. I’m always trying to persuade her to come and visit me.’

Amos smiled wryly. ‘It must be nice having a mother – or a father. Ours went long ago, hardly had time to get to know them or remember them,’ he added sadly.

Then came the unexpected: ‘We are related you know, the Faros and the Fletts. On your next visit, perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to spend a little more time together.’

And as an afterthought, ‘On Tuesday, I am
to take a small group of visitors on a cruise of the islands. Come with us, if you can spare the time.’

Faro was pleased, remembering how the friendly Amos had distanced himself at their second meeting on the ferry to the Hope. Without knowing the reason for his displeasure, he had now been reinstated, presumably on the grounds of distant relationship.

Amos smiled and held out his hand. ‘Fare ye well.’ A handsome young man with a
devil-may-care
attitude to life which Faro guessed led to his success with the island women, who he wooed ruthlessly while skillfully managing to evade the responsibility of any relationship crossing the boundary into marriage.

It was a progress most men would have envied and Faro had felt pangs of jealousy where Inga was concerned. She had been evasive about Amos and he now wondered if, a declared free spirit, who could indulge in brief love affairs, she had also been one of his conquests and fallen for his undoubted charms. She had certainly been very vinegary, perhaps guilty, regarding Faro’s remarks.

In Amos’s social strata, he would remain free of domestic ties as long as gullible girls would accept that he could not commit himself, with
the responsibility of an invalid brother, which few young lasses would wish to share. Once Josh was no longer an excuse, however, it would be a very different matter.

And Amos had almost been hoist with his own petard, in the wooing of Celia
Prentiss-
Grant
. He must have concealed the vital excuse from his agenda with her until the full horror of his domestic situation was revealed in her brief few days under his roof.

Faro was glad that Amos had not been her kidnapper and could understand his shock at a young woman taking advantage of what had seemed a perfectly normal brief infatuation, which no island girl would have taken seriously. Amos had been the first lover of the heiress of Scarthbreck and she had presumed from her sheltered life that this was to be the prelude to marriage.

Approaching Thora’s door, he found it hard to understand that the widow would prefer the frail invalid to his handsome virile brother, and his thoughts drifted to that lover’s meeting in the cathedral. Had it been Amos and Thora he could have understood. He tapped on the door and waited. There was some delay and he was considering that the lady was not at home. Then the sound of footsteps. The door opened to a
repetition of the scene at Amos’s house. She did not look pleased to see him – aghast was perhaps too strong a word for her expression, but puzzlement and anxiety were mild descriptions.

For the last time, he hoped, he was bringing out the excuse, worn deplorably thin, of the Macfie connection. Each time it sounded more feeble, even to his own ears, as he said, ‘I am leaving for Edinburgh soon, and as I was in Kirkwall I thought I might call on you in case you have a message for Mr Macfie.’

‘Mr Macfie,’ she repeated, frowning, looking at him as if she had never heard the name before.

Faro smiled politely. This time he was being kept on the doorstep regardless of the rules of the island’s hospitality. And there was a reason. Once, twice, she glanced over her shoulder and he was certain she had a guest and that this was an inconvenient intrusion.

He began, ‘I am sorry to trouble you—’

‘Not at all. It is quite all right. I am usually alone at this time of the evening.’

Dismissal implied, and anxious to extend the moment, he said, ‘I was in the Hope last week and visited Mrs Traill.’