The Seal King Murders (7 page)

‘There’s been … an incident – down at the shore,’ said Stavely. ‘I’d like you to accompany me, Faro. Have a look at it.’

A stifled sob from Mary Faro. Stavely was regarding him intently.

‘Of course.’ Faro was puzzled, but without another word the sergeant turned on his heel and led the way out of the lodge, walking quickly down to the shore, ignoring Faro’s attempts at conversation as if he had suddenly turned stone deaf.

The fog shroud had lifted, leaving a
solid-looking
, heavy, iron-grey sea, a chilling wind. A scene so melancholy that it seemed the island was in mourning. The shore was deserted apart
from what appeared to be a bundle of clothes lying near the water’s edge.

Closer, the bundle suggested the fur of a drowned animal but, as they walked rapidly towards it, became a bundle of clothes which took ominous shape.

Faro’s sigh of relief was short-lived as he recognised, neatly folded on top, the elegant blue velvet cloak with its beautiful fur-lined hood that Celia Prentiss-Grant was wearing as she walked away from him on the beach less than twelve hours ago.

Speaking for the first time, Stavely turned to face him, asked sharply, ‘Recognise these, Faro?’ pulling the cloak aside respectfully to reveal a loose-fitting blue gown and a frilled petticoat. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Presumably these are what Miss Celia was wearing last night. But I don’t understand—?’

‘Exactly that,’ Stavely interrupted with a heavy sigh. ‘But you do recognise them?’

Faro shook his head. ‘Only the cloak.’ He looked at Stavely’s expressionless face, bewildered by the implications of such an unusual find on the beach that morning. ‘What’s going on, Sergeant?.’

‘That’s what I’d like to know and I rather hoped you might be able to enlighten me.’

‘How do you expect me to do that? I haven’t
the slightest idea how they got here. What about the girl – where is she?’

‘The young lady, you mean.’ It was a reproach for Faro’s informality. ‘We would like to know that.’ And staring out across the sea, ‘When I took the dog for his walk at seven this morning,’ he stretched out his foot delicately in the direction of the clothes, ‘I found these. Recognised the outer garment that Miss Celia was wearing when I saw her on our evening stroll. I knew I was not mistaken, for this is not the kind of wear a local lass could ever afford, and being of a naturally enquiring nature, I wondered what she was up to. I went to the big house, where Mrs Faro told me the maids had discovered that the young lady’s bed was never slept in last night.’

He paused, for breath this time, letting that information sink in before adding, ‘Then I recalled that you were accompanying the young lady on her walk along this very shore last night.’

His speech sounded so exactly like an official police statement that its awful significance was not hard for Faro to interpret.

‘Did it not suggest to you that she decided to take a swim?’ But even as he said the words, Faro realised how bizarre they sounded.

‘In such weather?’ demanded Stavely. ‘Here
we have a delicately reared young lady stripping off naked in a public place – on a beach? And apparently to swim on an evening not one of our hardiest diving lads would ever contemplate,’ he added scornfully. ‘And wearing her boots too.’

Faro had already noted their omission from the bundle of clothes and said, ‘In our short conversation, I gathered she was of a very independent mind, Sergeant, very modern, and in my experience, the kind who might do unconventional things.’ He did not point out that presumably she was wearing underclothes, and was therefore, strictly speaking, not completely naked.

‘Unconventional things, eh?’ Stavely repeated. ‘That is, in your own experience.’ He almost smiled. ‘You had met the young lady before?’

‘How could I? She arrived alone last night, before her parents were due to arrive later this week. We met quite by accident when I was, like yourselves, Sergeant, enjoying an evening stroll.’

Stavely was silent for a moment, regarding him doubtfully. ‘One would have gained the impression that you were well acquainted. Laughing and talking like that.’ He added, ‘Hardly the behaviour of strangers.’

Faro gave an exasperated sigh. How could he explain to this very conventional policeman
that it was not unknown for confidences to be exchanged between strangers without the formality of an introduction. How to tell him that ordinary folk who travel long journeys on ships and railway carriages were not unaware of the experience.

In truth, however, he also found it impossible to believe that, after leaving him, the girl had decided to go swimming and – the implications were horrific – had subsequently drowned. There was something else at the back of his mind, a whisper refusing to be banished.

The seal king legend.

Although every ounce of common sense he possessed knew it to be a myth, the fact remained that this was not only Lammastide, but that Celia Prentiss-Grant had disappeared at the identical place where Thora Claydon had vanished ten years ago.

Was Stavely thinking the same, he wondered? There were ships on the sea now, small fishing craft, patrolling an area not far from the shore. Stavely had been busy and efficient. These were not fishermen out for a day’s catch. The only catch they had in mind, and hoped their nets would not encounter, was the body of the only daughter and heiress of Scarthbreck.

Soon the story of her disappearance would be all over the island and in the local newspaper,
possibly even making news in the small paragraphs of the national press.

Stavely’s expression was dismal indeed as he regarded the little fleet. ‘Let us hope that there is some innocent explanation.’

‘Although it is hardly the innocent explanation you desire, Sergeant, we must not dismiss the possibility of suicide.’

‘Suicide!’ Stavely stopped in his tracks, his very mobile eyebrows shot heavenward. ‘A young lady like that! With all the world’s goods at her command. Impossible!’ He would have laughed at the suggestion had it not been so ridiculous. ‘It is beyond belief you could even consider such an idea.’

Maybe impossible to reconcile with Sergeant Stavely’s reverence for riches and luxurious living, but Faro knew of many reasons why an eighteen-year-old might take her own life. The first that came readily to mind was not unknown even in Edinburgh’s high society – a suitor rejected by a daughter’s parents as unsuitable, or worse, an unwanted pregnancy resulting from an unhappy love affair, ended with a leap over the railway bridge.

‘Before you dismiss the idea, Sergeant, it would be as well for us to learn what brought her back to Orkney in such a hurry, without her parents.’

In answer Stavely made an impatient gesture. He had already leapt to his own conclusions and Faro was clearly aware that in the absence of anyone else on the scene, in Stavely’s mind he figured as the prime suspect. Ridiculous as it seemed from his point of view, he felt numbed by the implications and asked warily, ‘And what happens next, Sergeant?’

‘Her parents are being notified, a telegraph has been sent to London.’

Faro thought of their anguish, the tragic end of a holiday. Again he returned to that important question of what had driven her to return to Scarthbreck last night. Completely alone, when girls in her class never went anywhere unaccompanied by a personal maid – an omission to which only she could supply the reason.

A couple of constables had appeared on the beach and Stavely indicated they gather up the clothes carefully and take them back to the station. He watched them perform this task with the utmost reverence, bewildered by the implications of the missing girl and what lay in store for a local policeman, whose island duties lay in the region of minor thefts, occasional arson and perpetually unresolved smuggling activities.

As they walked back to the road where
a police carriage was waiting in melancholy anticipation of a drowned victim, it became clear that Stavely had not the slightest notion of how to deal with such a situation when he turned and said in a tone of righteous indignation, ‘Nothing like this has ever happened here before.’

Heading in the direction of Scarthbreck, Faro’s moment of compassion for the sergeant was replaced by irritation. Had he forgotten the Thora incident ten years ago, the notorious matter of the seal king’s bride, the mystery of where she spent that year and a day still unresolved?

As they approached the servants’ lodge, Faro said encouragingly, ‘Perhaps they have some more information.’

Stavely shook his head. He did not seem hopeful and, turning to Faro as he opened the door, he said sternly, ‘I’m afraid you will have to remain here. You won’t be at liberty to return to Edinburgh until we have all this sorted out.’

And leaving Faro no longer in any doubt of what he was thinking regarding a suitable prime suspect, he added, ‘If the worst should happen, you will have been the last person seen with the young lady before …’ He paused for a moment, then reminded him, ‘Witnesses will be sought and you will recall that Mrs Stavely and I saw you both together, as did one of the maids
out walking with her young man,’ he concluded heavily.

In the housekeeper’s parlour Mary Faro sat at a table, sobbing and quite beyond reason, certain that Miss Celia had drowned, and how were they going to tell her parents?

Both men tried to reassure her that there was no evidence of such a dire occurrence and for her benefit insisted on an innocent explanation which, alas, temporarily failed their imaginations.

But Mrs Faro remained beyond comfort or comprehension, and when Stavely asked her how Miss Celia had arrived, she merely stared at him.

‘A hired gig, I expect.’ And she jumped to her feet, rushing to the window, staring out and stifling sobs, red-eyed with weeping. ‘It’s terrible, just terrible. I can’t believe it – that this should happen. I’m in charge in their absence, you know,’ she moaned.

In vain they rallied to impress upon her that, whatever happened, the servants, particularly herself, could in no way be held responsible for their daughter arriving home alone.

At last, Stavely got a word in and produced an official-looking notebook. ‘I need a formal statement from you both.’ And to Faro, ‘After we met you and the young lady, I gather that
you returned with your mother and remained here for the rest of the evening. Is that correct, Mrs Faro?’

Mrs Faro darted a sharp, warning glance at Faro. ‘Of course, of course, Sergeant. We neither of us left the house – a terrible evening like that … the fog … Isn’t that so, Jeremy? We were here until bedtime and—’

Stavely cut her short. ‘Very well – if you will just sign a statement to that effect.’

Faro held up his hand. ‘A moment, Ma. My mother had gone to bed, but I went out again.’

He was conscious of a reproachful hiss from his mother. Stavely glanced at her, then turning to Faro, unable to restrain a look of satisfaction, asked slowly, ‘And where did you go?’

‘Back down to the shore.’

‘The shore, eh?’ A gleam of triumph in the sergeant’s eye.

Another stifled gasp of protest from Mary Faro.

‘I had dropped my pocket telescope and went in search of it.’

‘And did you find it?’

‘I did. It was on a rock where I had been sitting.’

It sounded like a lame excuse and obviously Stavely thought so too, as he nodded vaguely and asked, ‘How long did this search take you – how long were you absent?’

‘Naturally, I did not pay any attention to the time, but I should imagine no more than twenty minutes, once I’d found what I was looking for.’

‘And did you meet anyone by chance?’ Stavely demanded sharply.

‘No one. Besides, it would have been difficult to see in that fog. Anyone else present could have been unnoticed only an arm’s length away—’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Stavely interrupted, writing the words in his notebook. Pausing, he looked hard at Faro. ‘Perhaps you might have been out for an hour or more, since you have no exact idea of the time and no one to testify to how long you were absent.’

‘I can only tell you that I came back as swiftly as possible, I had no desire to linger in such weather,’ Faro said, trying to restrain his impatience. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance?’ He paused, angry that it was becoming all too clear that the sergeant’s notion that he had done away with Miss Celia was no longer just a possibility.

‘Really, Sergeant, that is quite absurd!’ But he did not feel like laughing and Stavely did not look amused. And being an Edinburgh policeman did Faro no favours. Policemen could be killers too, and Stavely’s imagination was painting a scene of Faro in a frenzy of lust, tearing off Miss
Celia’s clothes, raping and then drowning her, with the fog as alibi. ‘Be reasonable, Sergeant, I had just met the girl,’ Faro appealed, hoping a lightness of touch would render Stavely’s suspicions preposterous. ‘Why on earth should I wish her any harm?’

Stavely shook his head sadly. ‘It can happen, Faro. It can happen. There’s the beast in all of us, just lurking there. We’re all just like that villainous seal king of yours, under the Queen’s uniform.’

They took Mary Faro with them and walked round to the house, explaining that the first place to look for clues relating to someone missing was their last residence. In this case Miss Celia’s bedroom.

The first clue was that her bed had not been slept in. The maid Jenny had taken up her breakfast that morning and was also in a fine state of nervous weeping.

Dismissing her, Stavely’s demand that they search the bedroom was countered by an outraged cry from Mary Faro. She blanched at the suggestion, firmly stating that she could not allow anyone such access without Sir Arnold’s permission.

Faro realised that he had been especially privileged to have that brief tour. She informed Sergeant Stavely that he must await the owners’ return, which would be doubtless as soon as transport allowed, once they heard of their daughter’s disappearance.

‘I respect your orders, Mrs Faro,’ said Stavely, ‘but by awaiting her parents’ arrival, valuable time in tracing the young lady is being irretrievably lost.’ Letting that sink in for a moment, he went on, ‘And I do not think her parents will thank you for that. Speed is of the essence in these matters. We, the police, will take full responsibility for any dissension this may cause between you and your employer.’

A shake of the head, a despairing sigh and Mary Faro led the way up the handsome oak staircase to a bedroom, its magnificent view, the best in the house, overlooking the shore where Miss Celia had vanished.

Faro accompanied the sergeant, and as the two men stood in that pretty, very feminine room, Stavely shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Clearing his throat, he glanced around nervously, an intruder in intimate surroundings, as if the young lady might be hiding behind the curtains, ready to rush out and demand to know what they were doing.

But despite an overflow of frilly lace and satin,
the room was clinically tidy. The postered bed pristine, its covers bearing only a faint impression where Miss Celia had sat down, perhaps to change her footwear. Her sole luggage, a small trunk, lay solitary on the rug, waiting to be unpacked.

Perhaps in the hope of some clue, the sergeant bent down, tried in vain to open it, and accompanied by Mrs Faro’s shocked sigh of disapproval, discovered it was locked.

Impatient now, frowning, he gestured sternly that she should leave them to get on with their search. She did so, but with every indication that this was seriously out of order, allowing them to remain without supervision in Miss Celia’s bedroom.

Faro nodded towards his mother, trying to convey that he would keep an eye on the sergeant, who did not feel that any apology was called for.

Mary Faro stared at him reproachfully and slammed the door with more noise than was necessary as Stavely sighed and returned to the small trunk, rattling the lock to no avail.

Faro said, ‘She would carry the key in her reticule.’

Aware that this was the one essential item without which no woman ever travelled, near or far, both men searched, but there was no evidence of a reticule.

Stavely turned to Faro, ‘So where is it, then? It wasn’t with her clothes when we found them. Hardly an article a lady would wish to carry on a moonlight bathe. But then, nor is she likely to go for a swim without removing her boots.’

There had been no moon, just a bolstering fog and Stavely’s attempt at humour took on a grisly significance.

‘You were talking to her, Faro – did you not observe anything?’

Faro shook his head. ‘I did notice her boots, which looked very delicate and expensive. Her hands were free but the reticule could have been concealed under that voluminous travelling cloak. Perhaps a little old-fashioned now, but some are still provided with secret pockets for ladies to conceal their jewels and money. A precaution dating from the time before railway trains, when carriages were held up by highwaymen.’

Stavely stared. ‘We never had anything like that here in Orkney. Smugglers, yes, but highwaymen …’ he shook his head in disbelief.

Faro was thinking ahead. Under Stavely’s watchful gaze, he looked into the wardrobe and, withdrawing a dress, decided that the shapeless one they had found more resembled a nightgown. With no knowledge of ladies’ fashions he concluded that it must be the latest Paris mode.

He said, ‘It is most unlikely that she drowned, but there is another alternative.’

Stavely regarded him sharply. ‘See what you mean. I’m thinking the very same. She could have been abducted and her kidnapper has the reticule in his possession.’

With another attempt at lightening the situation with a mite of nervous humour, he grinned. ‘Seal king wouldn’t have much use for that in his kingdom under the waves.’ Then grimly, ‘Kidnapping is something we must keep closely in mind, and if that is the case, then we’ll be hearing soon enough. A ransom note delivered to Scarthbreck. After all, she is an heiress, a valuable commodity.’

There was only one drawback to that theory. Why should a kidnapper strip her down to her underclothes and leave her outer garments neatly piled on the shore? Faro felt all indications were meant to suggest to the finders that she had walked into the sea and disappeared.

And the question was there – a legend which no one really believed, but which obstinately refused to be dismissed. It hung in the air unspoken, while the rest of the day passed in great activity, now stretching far beyond Scarthbreck.

The island had been alerted with its own particular method of conveying gossip and
news. And this was sensational news. Ten years after Thora Claydon’s mysterious disappearance into the seal king’s kingdom under the waves, another young girl had disappeared at almost the same spot.

Speculation was rife. Thora had survived, had reappeared walking along the shore, lost and bewildered, in the very clothes she had been wearing, with that missing year and a day blanked out of memory. Soon she would marry her faithful fiancé, Dave Claydon, who had waited so patiently, and the couple would live a perfectly normal, but sadly childless, island life.

The question in everyone’s mind now was, would Celia Prentiss-Grant also survive to return and live a perfectly normal life as the heiress of Scarthbreck?

But this time the seal king’s bride had left her clothes behind, an awkward matter for the police to explain, especially to her parents.

Stavely said sternly, ‘We must keep this to ourselves. It must not be made public, at all costs. Once the newspapers get hold of that abandoned clothes story, can you imagine the whispers among the island’s
salacious-minded
citizens? Calendars will be consulted and a lookout kept for the anniversary of her disappearance.’

He shuddered. ‘The curiosity must have been
enough ten years ago. But she wasn’t practically naked. This time I can see a great crowd gathering to watch a young woman walk out of the sea in her underwear. Practically an occasion for selling tickets,’ he added grimly.

It was an image to toy with in a society where clothes were rarely discarded except in the privacy of the marital bedroom. Even then not always, as most children were conceived under a modest sheltering of bedclothes. As for undergarments, they were a luxury reserved for rich folk.

There was a stir in the newspaper office too. The weekly edition was due to be published on the day following Celia Prentiss-Grant’s disappearance and Jimmy Traill was grateful indeed for a truly new and sensational headline.

On his way to the scene of the disappearance, he appeared at the servants’ lodge and Faro wasn’t entirely surprised to see him. It was difficult to know which was more breathless, Jimmy or his exhausted horse, which had been ridden hard from Kirkwall.

‘Glad to find you, Faro. Right on the spot where it all happened. Have you a story for me?’

Endeavouring to calm the newspaperman down by offering him a cup of tea in Mary’s kitchen, Faro related the arranged story that the girl had disappeared without trace, omitting
any mention of the abandoned clothes.

Jimmy shook his head vigorously. Snapping his notebook shut, he gave Faro a delighted smile. ‘Splendid, splendid. This is just what our readers will love. The seal king legend revived once more in full detail. Something to give them the shivers.’

As he departed for the shore to take a closer look at the scene, Faro closed the door on him, realising that in the forthcoming edition of the newspaper the seal king would receive more than his fair share of gratuitous publicity.

Jimmy had excelled himself, and even he was unprepared for the immediate outcry from readers who believed every word written in the press was gospel truth.

They demanded that all seals be killed immediately. Had seals been capable of reading newspapers they would have found this very offensive indeed.

As for Stavely, he had problems of his own concerning the nocturnal activities of his son. Ed had not returned from the evening stroll with his parents, announcing that he had other plans, namely that he wanted to see some action. They heard him come in very late, stumbling about in the dark as he went to the bedroom he was sharing with his uncle Hal.

At breakfast the next morning, he failed to appear and Hal, who Stavely decided was never a good influence on his nephew, made light of it, and said laughingly that he had probably met some of the local farmers’ lads and had too much to drink.

‘Lads of that age, what can you expect?’ he added. ‘We all have to sow our wild oats when we get the chance.’

Sowing wild oats was one thing but Ed had not shown the slightest interest in Miss Celia. His boorish behaviour was hardly within the bounds of politeness. A consoling thought, but Lily, gathering Ed’s clothes to wash, discovered a bloodstained shirt.

Thinking that he had fallen down, poor lad, she asked anxiously, ‘Did you hurt yourself last night?’

He looked at her in amazement and said, ‘Of course not, Ma.’

She held out the shirt and he shrugged. ‘Bit of a tussle, my nose must have been bleeding.’

And when his father heard that story, he was a very unhappy man indeed.