The Seal King Murders (19 page)

‘You’re very fond of her,’ Faro said.

Inga smiled. ‘She’s the strangest, most wonderful person I have ever known – and the very first selkie, for that matter.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Don’t you? Anyone looking at her would have doubts that she is a usual island person.’

As they stood up, still holding hands, he said anxiously, ‘Will I see you again, before I go?’

‘Of course, Jeremy. You’re just along the road. And Amos is planning an evening cruise around the islands.’

‘He mentioned it. Invited me to come along.’

‘He does it every year at Lammastide, fireworks on the shore, too. Come along, you’d enjoy it. Amos is a great organiser.’

He looked at her. ‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’

‘What sort of question is that?’ she asked gently.

‘All right. I’m jealous. He has you all year and I see you for a week in ten years.’

She kissed him and laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Jeremy. Time doesn’t matter where affection is concerned.’ And giving him an admonitory shove, ‘Come on, you surely know that – you’re sensible enough to have worked that one out.’

He kissed her again, holding her, not wanting her to say she loved Amos and wishing he had that magic with girls. Still he lingered, wishing he could go back to Spanish Cove and hold her in his arms all night, waking to find her beside him, her head on the pillow.

His longing was a steady physical ache to possess her utterly, to prove to her that he was no longer the callow seventeen-year-old she had seduced, but a strong virile man who loved her with every fibre of his being. Not for a night, but passionately and for ever. Her shadow would always fall between him and any other woman he ever made love to.

He left her feeling as if his heart had been wrenched from his body. This tortured relationship could not go on. Time he was away from this land of magic where anything could happen and seal kings could take a human bride from the shore. Yes, about time he was back in Edinburgh, his sanity restored. Lizzie never aroused these violent emotions and he was careful never to allow her to become aware of a man’s natural response, afraid that such arousal might scare her off for ever, reviving terrible memories of being taken by force.

And then there was Vince, conceived by rape all those years ago. He didn’t like the boy but felt sympathy for his need for a father who didn’t exist for him.

There was a faint moon rising and as he walked along the cliff edge, the sky fading into twilight – a smouldering twilight, for it never got really dark in summer – the seals were keeping pace with him, watching eagerly, their excited barking echoing from the rocks.

Wondering again who was their king, he laughed. 

As Faro reached the servants’ lodge, Emil Latour was heading towards the stable, leading a fine horse, his progress watched by a smiling Mary holding a lamp, and he thought cynically that Emil was getting his feet well under her kitchen table.

Following her inside, Faro decided that she was looking very pleased with herself, obviously making much greater progress with her love life than her unfortunate son.

She pointed to a book on the sideboard, ‘That kind Mr West left this for you. Finished it, said it might be good company for your journey. There’s an Edinburgh address for you to leave it for him.’

Weary and depressed, Faro declined supper and went off to his room. Before he fell asleep he read a chapter of
A
Tale of Two Cities.
Remembering the conversation with West, falling asleep, something clicked into his mind about that discussion. Something important. What was it? But his eyes were heavy and sleep overcame him.

Next morning there were other matters to engage his mind. Emil was outside, overseeing a carriage unloading framed paintings.

Mary Faro took off her apron and rushed out offering assistance. ‘Looks like he’s moving in permanently,’ Faro observed drily.

She smiled. ‘He wanted them here with him. They’re very valuable, quite irreplaceable and he’s scared they may get stolen from my house. The very idea,’ she added indignantly.

Emil drifted over and, looking at him rather pityingly, she went on, ‘I’ve told him, Jeremy, but he won’t believe me, how safe it is in Kirkwall. But it worries him that we never lock our doors.’

Listening, Emil’s face was expressionless. ‘That is the problem, Mary,’ (he pronounced it as the French ‘Marie’). ‘No keys. No locks. That worries me deeply.’

As he shook his head, Mary’s glance changed from pitying to fond. She smiled. ‘No one locks doors here, Emil. I wish I could convince you.
It isn’t necessary and it would seem an insult to friends looking in casually, and the postman would be most upset.’

Emil’s eyes were riveted on the final canvasses being unloaded. ‘I wish to have them with me at all times.’ With a shrug he added, ‘Do not distress yourself, it is only for a few days. I cannot carry them in my luggage as I travel back to France, and an arrangement has been made for a ship to come here. Excuse me.’

Bowing, he went over to the driver and Mary led Faro indoors. ‘These French gentlemen, they do take on,’ she giggled.

‘Where will he put all those canvases?’

‘Into my rooms, of course.’ As Faro’s eyebrows raised at this intrusion, she said apologetically, ‘His room is tiny, all the servants’ are. Just a bed, a chair and a press. You’ve seen them. He wouldn’t be able to get in the door and I have lots of space.’

Faro thought of his bedroom, and at his expression she squeezed his arm. ‘Emil is such a nice, kind man, although he is a bit solemn sometimes, and I’m glad to help him.’ She sighed. ‘He is all alone in the world. No family, poor man, never married. No one to care for him.’

Except you, Faro thought, as later it seemed that Emil and the driver had cluttered every
available space with canvasses, framed and unframed.

Mary leant over Faro’s shoulder as he looked out of the window to see the artist riding briskly along the shore towards Spanish Cove.

She sighed. ‘He likes his daily exercise. So good for him. Sitting painting Miss Celia all day must be very wearisome.’ And Faro would have been very interested to know what handsome commission he was receiving to accommodate such fatigue.

He had an unexpected visitor that morning: Gerald Binsley returning from an early ride.

Mary was across at the house with menus of Celia’s favourite dishes. ‘She’s always hungry: those friends she was staying with forgot to feed her. Pity that message to her mother went astray, what a lot of trouble that would have saved everyone,’ she added.

This was the publicised version of Celia’s disappearance, but those who knew the true events of that evening found it extremely difficult to accept and reconcile with the neatly folded abandoned clothes.

Gerald dismounted to shake hands with Faro. ‘We are so much in your debt. Wanted to thank you personally for all you did for Celia, helping her out of a deuced difficult situation like that.’

‘Not at all, sir. In fact, it was a remark in our conversation that gave me a clue to what had happened.’

Gerald looked amazed. ‘And what was that?’

‘Miss Celia’s love of horses or her riding like a man. Wanting to be a boy. And that voluminous winter cloak in the height of summer troubled me. It suggested she had something to conceal, and for such a slender young lady, a boy’s shirt and breeches could be hidden underneath a loose gown. A chat with the stableman at Scarthbreck confirmed my suspicions.’

Gerald shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s amazing. Never occurred to me, although I’ve known her all these years.’

And Faro remembered the more obvious conclusion of a secret pregnancy as Binsley continued, ‘All is now forgiven. The parents are so relieved to have her back safely, Sir Arnold has even forgiven her for stealing money from his desk in London and throwing the shadow of suspicion of a thief among the servants.’ He paused to smile at Faro. ‘Her father is grateful. He would like a word with you.’

Faro made no comment. He was not looking forward to that. As they spoke, Emil rode in and, saluting them, dismounted before heading for the stables.

‘How is the portrait?’ Faro asked.

Gerald sighed. ‘Come to a full stop, I’m afraid. Celia and her mother leave for Brighton tomorrow. Sir Arnold enjoys Orkney and will stay on for the shooting, of course. House guests and that sort of thing demand his presence.’

And more employment for his mother, Faro thought. Something to occupy her when both himself and Emil had departed.

‘So the portrait will be abandoned, after all.’

‘Not quite. Merely a change of direction. Latour has promised to come to England next year and finish it. Meantime, a series of sketches and a daguerreotype, very popular with the last generation, and Celia has an excellent profile …’ Gerald paused to smile broadly. ‘As for the immediate future, I have proposed again – and have definite hopes of success.’

‘That is good news. Please accept my congratulations, sir.’

Gerald put a finger to his lips and said wryly, ‘Not quite yet, but when I promised not to raise the subject again she looked quite disappointed, until I said that should the idea ever appeal to her, then we might discuss the possible success of a marriage built on the solid ground of a long and trusting friendship.’

Faro thought sadly of no such hopes of a happy-ever-after future with Inga, as Gerald went on, ‘I am sure there will be difficulties,
but I hope I can promise her a less restricted life outside the parental home that will meet with her approval. She will be able to travel, to develop her cultural interests and to learn to appreciate the better parts of this new world of progress we are witnessing. Nor will I expect her wifely duties to be limited to being hostess at endless dreary parties and producing a baby each year.’

Frowning across at the house, he said, ‘I will have to be content with irregular visits, meantime.’

‘London does seem a fair distance,’ Faro said sympathetically, remembering how far from Scotland Kent had appeared, like entering another world. Gerald then said, ‘Not really. My place in Sussex is on the South Downs. Excellent riding country and I shall continue to hope that needs for those visits will end with Celia living under my roof.’

Gerald’s mount was getting restive. Patting his nose, Gerald said, ‘Past his breakfast time.’ He whistled, a boy approached and led the horse to the stables.

‘I wonder if I might impose on you? If you have a few spare moments, perhaps you would accompany me to see Sir Arnold? He will be at home at this hour.’

Faro had no excuse to refuse and followed
him into the house. Tapping on the study door, Gerald announced, ‘Constable Faro to see you, sir.’

‘Come in, come in. Thank you, Gerald.’ As he bowed and departed, the man who stood up and leant across the desk to shake Faro’s hand was a very different Sir Arnold from the irate parent of their first meeting.

‘Take a seat, Constable. I wish to express my gratitude regarding the … er … unfortunate business of my daughter’s disappearance.’ Clearing his throat and studying the inkwells on the desk, he said, ‘She tells me you behaved in an exemplary manner throughout, very understanding, discreet, and careful that no one should know the truth. You not only protected her reputation, but you also protected her family and shielded them from appalling consequences should the real story have ever reached the press.’

Pausing for a moment to shake his head at the awful thought of what might have been, he continued, ‘A scandal that might well have signalled the end of my family’s association with this island, which I am very fond of. Distant ancestors apart, I do not want to become an absentee landlord, coming only for the annual shooting.’

An expansive gesture accompanied his words. ‘I feel most strongly that these are my people
and I want to be the best of lairds for them.’

It was quite a speech and Faro did not doubt he meant every word as he went on, ‘I have already donated to the local constabulary,’ and pushing a purse across the table, ‘Now it is your turn, Constable. I should like you to accept this – the reward for information, to which you are entitled, in fact.’

In answer, Faro shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, for your generous gift, but I cannot accept it for merely doing my duty by solving such a distressing problem. I am glad that there was no lasting damage and that your daughter will have a happy and settled future.’

Sir Arnold smiled. ‘If Gerald Binsley has any influence, then I think we can be assured on that score.’ He frowned. ‘As for this young man she placed in such an embarrassing position …’ Pausing, head on one side, he regarded Faro. ‘I expect you are aware of his identity. I don’t wish to know,’ he added hastily, ‘but I admire his gentlemanly qualities for not taking advantage of a silly girl throwing herself at his feet – which a less scrupulous and honest fellow could well have exploited for its monetary gain.’ Pausing, he added heavily, ‘I mean blackmail, of course.’

Returning to the servants’ lodge, with Emil’s paintings strewn everywhere in his mother’s
parlour, Faro considered that, the daily sittings for Celia’s portrait abandoned, Emil no longer had any excuse to remain at Scarthbreck, a fact he had not thought fit to convey to Mary Faro.

The thought of his remaining indefinitely was disturbing. Faro did not feel like leaving his vulnerable, sentimental mother at the mercy of the Frenchman who, whatever his romantic appeal to women, did not quite ring true.

Faro did not trust him, especially after taking a quick look at the paintings stacked against the walls. They seemed quite unexceptional, and ‘mediocre’ was the word that sprang readily to mind as he replaced the final one. True, perhaps knowing nothing about art, he was doing Latour an injustice by passing judgement, measuring all artists by the same yardstick of excellence set by the Pre-Raphaelites whom he had encountered last year.

Heading to his bedroom door, he almost tripped over the latest addition to the servants’ lodge.

A small and very excitable black puppy slid along the corridor and gave him a rapturous welcome, head and tail wagging vigorously. He was soon to learn that Emil had decided Marie should have an animal which, when fully grown, would protect her in that unlocked Kirkwall house.

He had found a stray puppy on the shore when he was out riding. It had decided to adopt him, and being an animal lover, however unlikely that seemed, he had brought it back as a gift for Mrs Faro after requesting Sir Arnold’s permission to keep it in the servants’ lodge.

Sir Arnold had no objections. He shrugged and declared it most likely to be a mongrel sired by one of his two dogs, which accompanied him everywhere. ‘She may have it, by all means. If she decides not to take it back with her, there’s always room for a good retriever in the kennels here.’

The puppy, appropriately named Beau, proceeded to gnaw Faro’s bootlaces, setting the pattern of mischief personified, with a remarkable taste for sharpening its teeth on anything visible at its own height, with a particular fondness for wood. In no time at all, the pup’s devoted slave, Mary Faro, obliging with sticks, reminded Faro when he went out of doors to bring back wood for Beau.

Faro did not object. He was pleased, and decided that his mother needed an animal to fuss over. Beau was a good idea to ease the loneliness of her return home, not knowing when she would see her son again, and in the case of Emil, if ever.