The Seal King Murders (4 page)

‘Does that happen often?’

‘Aye, more than you think. The tides here, they can wash bodies into these caves along the shoreline, to other islands. Never seen again. Sometimes as far as Shetland, or we’ve even been told one turned up in Scandinavia. Not much left to identify after the mountainous seas and the fishes are done with them.’

Faro never did like fish very much, even from childhood. Perhaps someone had told him that story or it was the legacy of his selkie grandmother.

‘You’ll need to tell your mate about it. That you missed the funeral and all.’

Faro nodded vaguely. He wasn’t sure how to phrase the matter delicately. ‘When he drowned … you were there. How did it happen? His cousin, my mate, you know … could you tell me about it?’

Amos nodded, gazed away from Faro out to the sea. ‘A terrible night it was. Fog thick as pea soup.’

‘Were there other passengers beside Dave Claydon?’

Amos shook his head and Faro continued, ‘Surely that was odd. Was it because of the weather?’

‘No. Wasn’t the ferry like you see here, just my own boat. It was like this. We had finished our trips for the night, the ferry was docked and my mate Rob had cleared off home when this gentleman dashed over, said he’d just missed the Leith boat, would I oblige him – for a small payment that was – to row him out in my boat and catch the ship at the bar. He’d hail them and they’d drop a ladder for him.’

‘Sounds a bit illegal,’ said Faro, for whom smugglers came readily to mind.

Amos laughed. ‘Of course it does, but we all do it. It happens all the time. We get well paid for our trouble, sir. Besides, this gentleman had booked a berth, so they were expecting him.’

But hardly off a ship’s ladder in the middle of the sea, Faro thought as Amos went on.

‘Anyway, off we went. I’m used to obliging in this way, so he had got my name from somewhere, gave me two pounds for my trouble.’

And that was a lot of easy money, Faro thought, small wonder boatmen were tempted.

‘We raced the boat, got to the harbour bar first, then he shouted and someone heard him. Although I couldn’t see the ship, I heard its engines. The fog was so thick, but we heard the ladder clatter down. Got as close as I could, held his luggage till he got a foothold—’

‘What was this luggage?’ Faro interrupted.

Amos shrugged. ‘A stout leather bag he was carrying. Then I handed it back to him.’

‘Was it heavy?’

Amos considered for a moment. ‘Yes.’

‘Had you any idea what it contained?’

Amos gave him a thoughtful look. ‘He didn’t mention the contents, but it might have been books, something like that. Anyway, he must have been halfway up the ladder, out of sight, as I had already turned the boat so I wouldn’t be in the way when the ship started again. Suddenly I heard a cry, a mighty splash and I guessed he had fallen off the ladder.’

He paused, remembering. ‘Then shouts came from the ship, “Man overboard”, and I could hear voices, devil of a fuss, but one of the crew told me later that the captain said this passenger’s name wasn’t listed. He had no rights to be climbing up a ladder and the member of the crew responsible for putting it down would be prosecuted, as this was totally illegal. Anyway, after a quick scan of the surrounding sea, nigh impossible in that weather, the captain said he had a schedule to keep, tides and so forth, so off they went.

‘I only heard about this later. All I saw was the ship above me, sailing away, and there I was circling about, shouting, but after a while I knew
my passenger must have drowned. I went back, notified the coastguard. They did what was necessary, a lifeboat was launched, but never a sign nor trace of him. Nothing.’

‘The bag he was carrying?’

‘Nothing,’ he repeated. ‘As I told you, I handed it up to him, so it must have gone down with him.’

‘Did you know who this passenger was?’

‘Dave Claydon, the excise officer who would normally board the ship at Kirkwall.’

Footsteps announced the first of the passengers were heading towards the gangway. Suddenly busy with tickets, there were no further questions Amos could answer.

Thanking him, Faro went ashore. He had a lot to think about, as none of this story fitted the account he had been given. The accident with the ladder for instance. There were sinister gaps in the boatman’s account too. The ship’s captain would have no wish to be involved and possibly lose his command by the shipping company for being party to an illegal, although fairly regular, practice of boarding.

As they had talked Faro felt a rapport with the young ferryman, and hearing of his devotion to a much older, invalid brother, this struck a chord of guilt as he remembered Erland Flett, the friend he had never understood and for
whose tragic early death he still mourned.

Later he was to realise that was the reason for the rapport, his need for a friend of his own age and background. Edinburgh was a lonely place. His fellow constables regarded him as a stranger, and being befriended by Macfie had not helped to increase his popularity with the rank and file. Apart from the old superintendent to whom he owed so much, there was no one with whom to share a pot of ale and a good chat in the local howff. The constables had their own cliques and were not eager for his company in their leisure hours. The only true friend he had made was Lizzie.

Being a policeman had its drawbacks, and although Amos was sure to find out his true identity, he was not anxious to reveal that he was investigating the matter of the drowned excise officer and the missing artefacts bound for Edinburgh. He already knew from his own experience that mention of the police made even the most innocent become guarded and suspicious.

Now that Dave Claydon had been buried, how could he hope to satisfy Macfie’s anxiety about whether his drowning was an accident? The sinister question remained – did he fall or was he pushed? As for that leather bag he was carrying, had he handed it to the man at the top
of the ladder or had it gone down with him, as Amos surmised?

He decided to write to Macfie, conveying all the information he had gained so far, although most was in the uncertain realm of theory only. Considering all Macfie’s connections, perhaps he could find out from the Edinburgh Museum what they were expecting to receive, since some correspondence must have been exchanged.

For the immediate moment, however, he was happy to thrust aside all else but the delightful prospect of seeing Inga again.

As Faro walked towards the market stalls keeping a lookout for Inga, he realised his talk with Amos had raised some questions that urgently needed answers. Time was not on his side, so where did his enquiries begin?

There seemed little point in talking to his mate Rob, who had left the scene before the incident. As for the ship in question, even equipped to interview the entire crew, he knew the impossibility of discovering the identity of the man at the top of the ladder. Aware of the captain’s wrath falling upon their heads – each and all would deny anything to do with the illegal boarding incident.

Macfie’s copy of the police report had been
brief and to the point. Hopefully,
The Orcadian
might give a more personal slant, a mention of Claydon’s body recovered and the funeral, in the absence of sensational news of which there was little in Kirkwall: troop movements in war-torn India or crimes in the far-off mainland alike did not merit more than an occasional sentence, unless there happened to be a local link.

The print run was limited and newspapers were a precious commodity, passed down from hand to hand, eagerly awaited reading matter in a place where the only essential was to be able to count, and reading for pleasure was not considered one of life’s necessities. Books were scarce even for those who could read and afford to buy them. Unlike big cities such as Edinburgh and Glasgow, lending libraries for avid readers were rare, and most folks’ interest was confined to events in their surrounding area. Certainly the drowning of a local man was guaranteed sensational headlines.

Faro’s road to the newspaper office lay in the general direction of the police station and on an impulse he decided to acquaint himself with the Orkney Constabulary, with some faint idea based on a conversation with Macfie that it might prove useful.

He was in luck. Introducing himself at the counter, a mid-fortyish uniformed officer
appeared from the inner office. Tall,
well-muscled
, with a healthy-looking complexion, a flourishing moustache and wiry dark hair, he introduced himself.

‘Sergeant Bill Stavely. Young Jeremy Faro! Knew your father, Magnus. Come on in,’ he said, and to the counter clerk, ‘Organise some refreshment, will you?’

Invited to take a seat, Stavely sat opposite, and subjecting Faro to a careful scrutiny said, with an air of approval, ‘Well now, small world. So you took after Magnus, in more than looks.’ He shook his head. ‘I was right sorry to hear about his accident – we were on the Leith beat together. I’m a Yorkshireman by birth, came to Edinburgh when I was a lad, and after joining the police I would happily have stayed there, but the wife was from Stromness. Eight years ago, her ma took seriously ill. They were close and Lily wanted to come home again, especially as there was a much younger brother, Halcro, to take care of. We didn’t take to being parted, travelling up and down here wasn’t easy, so I decided to follow her.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘Although I might have got higher on the ladder had I stayed in the big city, I’ve never regretted that decision. Bairns grew up here, three lasses and one lad – sixteen he is.’ A sudden pause suggested pride mixed
with perplexity. Faro asked the obvious. ‘Does he want to follow you into the police?’

‘I’d like that fine, but he has to make up his own mind.’ Stavely’s face darkened remembering the frequent disruption of domestic bliss and Lily’s tears at Ed’s rebellious behaviour, particularly his fondness for drink and what his father decided were undesirable associates, the lowest elements of young males in Kirkwall. That was bad enough, but lasses had also loomed on the scene and both parents decided he was far too young, which he considered unfair since they had married before they were twenty.

These thoughts remained unspoken and after a few general remarks Faro mentioned Macfie. Stavely beamed. ‘Knew the old fellow well. How is he?’

And that led right to Faro’s mission regarding Dave Claydon.

Stavely shook his head. ‘Poor Claydon. That was bad luck. Buried only a few days ago,’ he added grimly. ‘Enough to give a widow nightmares; Thora was in a state of collapse, completely distraught.’

He sighed. ‘The ferryman, Amos Flett, last person to see him before he drowned, identified the body and spared her that final ordeal.’

The counter clerk came in with a written message and Stavely sighed, ‘Have to go. Business
calls.’ He stood up, shook hands. ‘Enjoyed meeting you. Anytime you’re hereabouts, look in for a chat.’

Faro left heading for the newspaper office and wishing there had been more time to find out Stavely’s thoughts on Dave’s bad luck and any speculation on what that leather bag might have contained.

Hopefully
The Orcadian
would have something vital to his enquiry on offer, with the chance that there would still be a back copy with more information on the accident than he had received from Macfie and that someone could give him the widow Claydon’s whereabouts.

At the desk he announced that he was on holiday and had promised that he would look in on Mrs Claydon and offer condolences from her Edinburgh relatives. The clerk regarded him bleakly, but perhaps consoled by the Orkney dialect into which Faro had lapsed, he said, ‘Aye, sad case it was. Jimmy wrote it up – he was at the funeral and, right enough, he’ll know her address. I’ll see if I can find him.’

At that moment the door was flung open and a large, untidy man dashed in. He had a mop of wild, greying hair, a bewildered look of frantic purpose and his general appearance suggested that all his clothes had been flung on in a great hurry.

‘Jimmy!’ shouted the clerk. ‘A mannie tae see ye.’

Jimmy slithered to a halt and regarded Faro breathlessly. ‘What is it? A fire somewhere – any casualties?’ he added hopefully, already conjuring up the next edition’s headline.

‘Yes … I mean, no.’ And to the man’s
ill-concealed
disappointment Faro retold the Edinburgh family connection with the drowned man.

‘Aye, aye – Dave Claydon, body washed up; he’s been buried already. One of my best features,’ said Jimmy puffing out his chest with evident pride since it was, in fact, his only important feature since his arrival on the newspaper five years earlier. Reluctant to relinquish his moment of importance, he obtained the best possible mileage by frequent reports, keeping readers in mind that the search for the drowned man continued without success.

‘Such a scoop,’ said Jimmy. ‘Body washed up on the shore. Sensational. Especially as the only other item of any interest to the locals was that Josh, Amos Flett’s invalid brother, was dying.’ He shook his head. ‘However, as everyone had been expecting that for years, it wasn’t exactly headline news.’

Meeting Faro had brought a momentary cheer to Jimmy’s dismal expression. In a dire
lack of news apart from the market day scenes in Kirkwall and the farming prices for various animals, an Edinburgh relative’s distress would stretch into another reasonably sensational headline, and rubbing his unshaven chin thoughtfully he said, ‘The widow Claydon bides up the road yonder.’

At Faro’s request Jimmy was delighted to produce copies of the last two editions. The first, containing the story of a Belfast man on holiday walking along the shore near Spanish Cove and his dismay at finding Dave Claydon’s mortal remains, and the second, an account of the funeral.

Thanking him with several pressing questions unanswered, Faro hurried back along the street to the address he had been given – a neat stone house about a hundred years old with a pretty garden, but Mrs Claydon was clearly not at home. About to leave, a curtain twitched on the house next door and an elderly woman emerged and looked Faro up and down suspiciously as if assessing his respectability.

Obviously, gentleman callers were of great interest to Mrs Claydon’s neighbours, Faro decided as he explained the reason for his visit once again. He wasn’t sure by her expression if she believed a word of it or not, but with a shrug of dismissal, she said, ‘Helps out in the
bakery in Main Street, they’re like to have a market stall today.’

The idea of approaching Mrs Claydon at such a scene with the sort of questions he had in mind had little appeal and, walking towards Kirk Green, he was considering a visit to the local minister who had conducted the funeral service and whether it would be advantageous to introduce himself, explaining Macfie’s connection.

‘What are you doing here, Jeremy Faro, looking so grumpy?’

The voice and the laugh belonged to Inga.

He grinned. ‘Not grumpy, just thoughtful – and delighted to see you. Such an unexpected treat.’

‘Not quite so unexpected. I did mention market day with the hope that you would take the hint. And so you did.’

‘And what brings you here?’

She shrugged. ‘Material, odds and ends. I’m a seamstress; I sew fine petticoats and underwear for the gentry ladies, and in my spare time I knit jerseys and stockings for the fishermen.’

Faro smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you were so domestic.’

‘Are you being sarcastic, Jeremy?’ she asked indignantly. ‘I can cook too, you know. Anyway, I’m finished for the moment,’ she added, indicating the basket over her arm. ‘A few
more items to collect and a customer to see this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘However, if you would like my company for a while …’ She added with an arch glance, ‘I’m good at company too, if you can remember.’

He laughed. ‘A long time ago, that was.’

‘Very well. Let’s walk for a while, down to the shore. There’s less folk about and we can throw stones at the seals.’

‘Do we have to be so drastic?’

‘Only if you cannot think of interesting chat to keep me from dying of boredom.’ And with a complete change of subject, the question he dreaded. ‘What brings you here, anyway? I saw you lingering outside the police station a while back, I was in a shop.’ Pausing she smiled. ‘Thought you were having a holiday from being a policeman and chasing criminals.’

‘And so I am. Seeing Mamma again.’

And clinging to his arm, with another disconcerting change of subject she demanded, ‘Found yourself a wife yet?’

‘Of course not.’ Instantly regretting that emphasis, he added cautiously, ‘I do have a young lady.’

‘A young lady, eh?’ Inga repeated. ‘How nice. Any thoughts about a wedding emerging?’ She stopped and pointed to a bench. ‘Do let’s sit down. I’m exhausted. Your legs are far too long,
I can’t keep up with you.’ Sitting close to his side, she looked up at him, chin on hand. ‘All right, Jeremy. Tell me all about her.’

And so he told her about Lizzie and Vince.

‘What a horrible small boy. Can’t she have him adopted or something?’

Faro explained that Lizzie loved Vince and was determined to keep him with her. She had made great sacrifices, was prepared to work hard on menial tasks, and accepted her role as an outcast in decent Edinburgh society.

‘As for me, I am certainly not going to part them, that has never been my intention.’ At Inga’s rather cynical laugh, he went on, ‘As a matter of fact I have hopes of winning over that obnoxious brat some day. He’s a clever little lad, right enough. Wants to be a doctor.’

‘A doctor,’ Inga repeated. ‘Eleven years old – what a weird ambition.’ She added seriously, ‘It’s a long time for you to wait for your Lizzie and if you want my opinion, you’re wasting your time there, Jeremy.’

Despite Inga’s negative advice, Faro found it a great comfort talking to her, sitting there in the sunshine, with a chorus of seabirds and seals barking like excited dogs from the rocks.

‘What else do you do, besides sewing?’

‘I work in the bakery over yonder, occasionally – feast days and so forth.’

‘Doesn’t look as if you eat much of the profits,’ he chuckled with an admiring glance at her trim figure. But mention of the bakery reminded him of his quest.

‘Do you by any chance know a Mrs Claydon?’

‘Thora Claydon. Certainly do. Comes in
part-time
as well. What’s your business with her?’ Inga demanded suspiciously.

‘Just a promise to an Edinburgh colleague. Her late husband was a relative. Said I’d call in and give her greetings and their condolences.’

‘Make sure that’s all you give her,’ Inga murmured and added, ‘I doubt you’ll make much progress there. She’ll be quite resistant to your charms. Keeps herself very much to herself since Dave died. Nobody gets to know anything about her. Never were what you’d call a sociable couple. Dave was popular, though – there was a large turnout for his funeral.’

Faro remembered the newspaper’s long list of mourners as, pausing, Inga looked across at the seals with a faint shudder. ‘Just listen to them barking! It’s that time of year!’

Her remark recalled for them both that August was also Lammastide.

‘Remember the seal king legend?’ she said. ‘Being a girl it used to terrify me. However, he never came and snatched me up. Thora,
however, had a very interesting experience, a past that everyone, including herself, hopes to forget. Never talks about it, but it was quite a sensation that will go down in history as one of our island myths.’

And Faro found himself hearing again of the seal king’s annual rising from the sea and carrying off a girl walking on the shore to be his bride in his kingdom under the waves. But in this case the girl was Thora Harbister, Dave’s fiancée.

‘She returned, just like the legend said, found walking along the shore, lost and bewildered, at the very spot where she had disappeared, a year and a day later. Claimed she couldn’t remember a thing about the experience, no matter how everyone tried to get the truth of what had happened.’

‘What about her parents?’

‘Didn’t have any. She and her sister Elsa were orphaned when they were peedie bairns.’

‘No aunts or uncles?’

‘No one. Anyway, although Dave must have been upset, loyally he stood by her, married her, just as they had planned. That is what most folks called being exceptionally faithful; some were deeply shocked, and to this day it’s still a talking point.’

‘Her memory never came back?’

‘Not a whisper.’

It was an intriguing story, a tale of unswerving devotion and now its sad link with the present.