The Darkness Within Page 12

  Next on the list was Yesnaby and yon ex-policeman Jeremy Faro, whose mother never let anyone forget that he had been personal detective to the Queen at Balmoral. Then there was his daughter, over forty she must be, but still girl-like and bonny, with not a grey hair yet in that wild, untameable yellow hair. They shook their heads conscious that not many island women these days, themselves included, stayed young-looking after thirty and a bairn a year.

  She didna’ look much like her sister, Mrs Emily Yesnaby, that was for sure, the poor widow lady with her peedie lad, Magnus, left without a father. They had been at his funeral, great man that he was, folk from all over the island and far beyond the mainland. Aye, and a great do it was, grand food and drink for everyone. A reminder to Bessie that their glasses were empty and a short silence and clearing of throats indicated the need for refills.

  Then Bessie asked: what would happen to the big house now? No one had an answer to that and Bessie said quickly: ‘Yon foreign lad, Sven. What do you think of him?’ Young and unmarried, they always hoped for some scandalous goings-on, especially as the novelty of having such a handsome foreigner in their midst had raised hopes in the hearts of many a local lass.

  A pause. ‘Is he all right?’ Heads swivelled towards Annie, who always had the latest news from that direction since she went to clean his wee cottage and do his laundry. But Annie said quickly, ‘I think he’s a bit queer.’ Asked how so, she came out with what she had been dying to tell them. ‘I think he likes dressing up in women’s clothes.’ More than any suggestion about fancying other men, often hinted and not completely unknown, although the well-off folk dismissed such matters under the heading of ‘confirmed bachelors’, this piece of news really shocked them.

  Eagerly, they awaited more details, but at that moment Bessie’s husband appeared in flourishing a dish towel: ‘Better get moving. Some customers have just arrived off the ferry. There’s ladies with them.’ As they all knew, real ladies were not to be seen in the common bar; they needed the parlour. Bessie hustled her two friends off the premises and prepared to return to her duties, ushering the newcomers into a saloon set aside for important visitors and indicating a room set aside for ladies, for the purpose of freshening up after a long journey, with toilet and washing facilities.

  One of the ladies, very upset, was being comforted by her companions.

  ‘What’s amiss wi’ her? Is she seasick?’ Bessie asked her husband.

  ‘No. Seems there was an incident on the ferry, there was a man in the sea as they were about to land.’

  ‘Close to the landing, that’s dangerous. He could have been drowned.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Aye, drowned he was. They thought at first he was just a swimmer. The passengers who spotted him crowded over, some shouting warnings that he was to get away, that he was too close. He took no notice and suddenly they were ushered away from the side. When they asked what was wrong, someone said one of the crew had realised that this was no swimmer. This was the corpse of a drowned man.’

  At the same time as Bessie and Frank were busy in the kitchen preparing a meal for the new arrivals and speculating on the dead man’s identity, the news was about to reach Yesnaby House, where Faro and Rose had decided to take the two children into Kirkwall. Meg wanted to buy some presents to take back to Edinburgh, and in particular one for Pa, while Magnus had some birthday money he had been unable to spend, since his birthday was the same as his mother’s but he had been too saddened by losing his beloved father to even consider such things.

  The main excitement today, however, was for them to travel on the Stromness to Kirkwall motor bus, still such a rare novelty in Hopescarth. Their departure coincided with the postman’s arrival. Sven was waiting to collect the letters from him and take them upstairs to Emily, who was making sure Magnus had everything for the Kirkwall journey and telling him to take care of Meg and show her the right shop to buy more notepaper and envelopes, their supply exhausted by condolences which continued to arrive from abroad.

  The two children had rushed downstairs and away along the road to be in plenty of time in case they missed the bus, whose times were somewhat erratic.

  Dave’s daily delivery was greeted by the usual question: ‘Any news?’ to which his usual reply ‘Not a lot’, was today somewhat more dramatic.

  ‘I have awfa’ news the day.’ He shook his head. ‘A man’s body’s just been washed ashore.’

  Faro and Rose looked at each other, the same thought in both their minds. This must be the man who fell overboard a few days ago from the yacht, whose identity Mr Smith had been so vague about, and they both looked towards the sea aware that the yacht would be well under way on its voyage south, with the unenviable task of reporting a missing passenger, drowned off the coast of Orkney.

  Faro’s frustration regarding Mr Smith returned once more. If only the man had been more forthcoming with him. He said so to Rose, who realised that her father was still angry with this mystery man with the false identity who had wasted his time, still pondering on the purpose behind it, some urgent private reason, which Mr Smith had declined to reveal.

  Such were his thoughts as the bus rolled across the miles towards Kirkwall. The two children seated behind were enjoying this new experience with occasional shouts of: ‘Look, Grandpa, see over there.’ And ‘Mam, did you see that porpoise?’

  At last, the rose-red spire of St Magnus Cathedral appeared on the horizon and minutes later they were set down in the main street. Faro had decided to call in at the police station and ask Sergeant Hatton whether there was any information regarding the identity of the body washed ashore, curious to learn how the police here would deal with sending the remains down to England, and particularly how they would communicate the dire news to the royal yacht.

  Faro said: ‘In fatal accidents we call in the procurator fiscal. I imagine that is not easy in the islands with long distances to travel and subsequent delays.’

  The sergeant agreed, and recognising his visitor’s one-time importance wondered why he was showing such an interest in a dead body washed ashore.

  Hatton was not a happy man; he felt instinctively that there was trouble ahead, especially after he had received official instructions earlier that week that Chief Inspector Jack Macmerry of the Edinburgh City Police, and this retired policeman’s son-in-law, was to steer clear of the Victoria and Albert III and to remain in Hopescarth awaiting further instructions.

  The sergeant enjoyed an easy life, a tranquil existence with set hours in his office, every day untroubled by subversive activities, like riots and no domestic crimes worthy of the name. He had a sudden awful feeling that there was something seriously amiss, something to do with the reason why the royal yacht had anchored near the Castle of Yesnaby instead of coming into Kirkwall; if, as had been hinted to the river pilot, they had merely been taking shelter from bad weather, their later delays vaguely described as minor repairs.

  The river pilot had shaken his head, considered it an unlikely story and immediately suspected smuggling activities of some sort. But he didn’t care to dig deeper, sharing with the sergeant the desire for a quiet life with as little disruption as possible. The hint of anything to do with royalty filled him with considerable unease, especially on those occasions, mercifully rare, when the yacht came into Orkney or Shetland and all island systems went immediately on to high alert, although it was usually no more than the ladies in the royal party wishing to step ashore to purchase local knitwear, and for the men, Orkney whisky.

  Now sitting opposite Faro, the sergeant wondered again why such an important ex-policeman should take this sudden interest in a local affair, although he hoped it was not a serious matter, having been told by Faro that he had just looked in for a chat while his daughter took the Yesnaby boy and her peedie lass shopping in Kirkwall.

  Now, Faro was being sympathetic, shaking his head over what he called such an unfortunate occurrence as a man being washed overboard from the royal yacht. Had the body been long in th
e water, he asked, as they both knew that even a few days’ immersion was enough to cause considerable damage to a corpse given such wildly manic seas beating against such cruel rock-strewn cliffs.

  The sergeant shook his head. He had seen the body, and considering the few days’ submersion, its state of preservation was remarkable, with no more than the normal bloating of human flesh after a few hours in the sea. Nevertheless, he told Faro, the local doctor, who was also the police pathologist, was greatly relieved that the man’s family, wherever they were, would be saved such a distress.

  Obviously an accident, he said. Probably had too much to drink at one of those wild parties since the body was still in a good suit, with a wallet and papers in his pocket. A fine watch, although it would never tell the time again. His only other jewellery, a signet ring, had fared better.

  ‘What age was he?’

  ‘Oh, in the prime of life. Middle-aged, perhaps early sixties, and well preserved. About six foot tall, a good head of greying hair and obviously a gentleman,’ Hatton concluded. ‘Although that was only to be expected being a passenger on the royal yacht.’

  ‘Any idea of his identity?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The sergeant opened a drawer in his desk and produced a paper. ‘This is from the ferry office. A list of the passengers on the Victoria and Albert III.’

  He pushed it across to Faro, who scanned through the names, some of which he recognised. Names he had read in the newspapers or had encountered at embassies or on state occasions in Edinburgh or Balmoral, guests when he had been the Queen’s personal detective in Scotland. There were also ones on the outer fringe of the royal circle: viscounts, honourables, a couple of barons. Mr Smith, whatever his real name, could have fitted any one of them. A man of substance, a voice of authority.

  ‘What about the name of the man who fell overboard?’

  The sergeant leant over. ‘That’s him, sir.’ He pointed to a cross against L. Minton. ‘Sounds English.’

  Minton sounded British all right, but not one from the higher echelon and no name on that list stood out to confirm Mr Smith’s claim that he and Faro had met on some embassy occasion. He sighed, laying aside the list. When the royal yacht reached London, he did not envy the captain having to account for the drowned passenger, Minton, whose corpse was lying here in Kirkwall waiting to be formally identified and sent home for interment.

  Something else was bothering Faro. Although there had been no means of identification on the body, neither passport nor, more significantly, money in the wallet, its miraculous condition after several days’ immersion was causing alarm bells to ring, a deadly suspicion at the mention of that watch chain and signet ring as well as the condition of the body.

  He said to Hatton, ‘I might be able to help you. Is the mortuary nearby?’

  ‘Just across the road, sir.’ The sergeant thought this rather curious but a bit of help with an unidentified corpse was not to be dismissed. He scribbled a note and Faro said: ‘This should not take long but if my daughter comes, please keep her here. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Give her a cup of tea, she will probably need it after all her shopping with the two children.’

  His mission grimly accomplished, he arrived back at the police station just as the door opened and Rose entered. Hatton sprang to his feet to greet the new arrival.

  He was delighted to meet Chief Inspector Macmerry’s very attractive wife, especially with her connections to the island and the Yesnaby family, who had lived here for generations, as far back as anyone on the island could remember. They were almost legendary, he told her.

  Scribbling a note regarding his findings at the mortuary, Faro was suddenly aware of two small faces at the door. Realising that Hatton’s animated conversation with Rose could continue for some time, he said: ‘Read this when you have a moment,’ and shook hands with the sergeant, who said it had been a delight to meet Faro and his family; such interesting and exciting mainland people rarely came his way these days and regrettably few women as attractive as Rose Macmerry, though he failed to put that into words. He added wistfully to Faro the hope that they might share a dram one evening, perhaps the next time he was in the vicinity.

  ‘That might be sooner than we intended,’ Faro replied.

  Hatton was clearly disappointed that the short interview must end and Faro wished he could see his face when he read the contents of the brief note.

  Rose smiled and said to Hatton: ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, but the children are waiting. There is a motor bus to catch for Hopescarth, the last today.’

  The sergeant bowed over her hand. The pleasure had been mutual.

  Closing the door, Faro crossed the road with Rose to join the children. Eager as they had been for Kirkwall, they were now keen to be home again to show all their purchases to Emily and Mary.

  As they boarded the bus and took their seats, Rose said, ‘Well, Pa, was your visit worthwhile?’ He was silent and she added: ‘I know you too well; I realise this was more than a social call. You must have learnt something and I’m dying to hear all the details.’

  Faro was looking out of the window, his expression grave. ‘Come along, Pa,’ she said eagerly, ‘who was that passenger who fell overboard? Do we know that now? Was he someone important?’

  He turned to her, shook his head. ‘The man who fell overboard according to the list of passengers was a Mr L. Minton. The body that was washed ashore was also a passenger, Rose. According to his description and his jewellery, I had my suspicions, so I went to the mortuary and identified him as Smith.’

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Your Mr Smith? The man you met in Kirkwall?’

  ‘The same. And after I left him last night to have supper with Jack, that’s when it must have happened.’

  ‘You think he was murdered,’ she whispered.

  Faro said grimly, ‘Whoever pushed him into the water first carefully removed from his wallet, passport and money. They didn’t want him to be recognised. But they weren’t clever enough. This was no accident; Smith was a frightened man and this, I fear, was murder.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I am, indeed. And the corpse of that other drowned fellow, Minton, is still to turn up.’

  ‘Poor Mr Minton,’ said Rose, ‘he could be drifting anywhere between the Scottish mainland coast and Scandinavia.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back at the police station, Hatton had just read Faro’s note that the body just recovered and in such good shape was not in fact the body of Mr L. Minton washed overboard several days ago from the royal yacht. Faro had identified the corpse in the mortuary as a Mr Smith whom he had met the previous evening.

  Mr Smith had also claimed acquaintance with the royal yacht but there the coincidence ended.

  PC Flett was called in and together they went over the report from the mortuary. There had been nothing on the body or in the wallet to provide an identity. Indeed, in view of Mr Faro’s revelations there was only one conclusion.

  Flett looked across at Hatton. ‘The fact that the wallet was empty suggests that any contents had been removed.’

  Hatton nodded. ‘It does, indeed. But if this was a simple act of robbery, then the presence of that gold watch and chain and a valuable signet ring does not quite fit murder with intent, does it now?’

  Similar dismal thoughts regarding murder had been going through Flett’s mind, while waiting by Jimmy’s bedside in the hospital. As there were hopeful signs that he might be recovering from the murderous blow, it seemed to him that the injured man’s revelations might also point to the grim possibility that there was now a killer lurking on the island.

  Flett tut-tutted silently, this was something new on the island; a murderer at large was something he had never encountered in his twenty years’ service and he sighed. Were his hopes of awaiting peaceful retirement doomed, with nothing disturbing his sleep at night and sitting at his desk by day reading books of fictional crime?

  The sergeant had inform
ed him that this was now a matter for the mainland police and he would get on to it straight away. A letter to this effect was immediately delivered to Faro, thanking him for his assistance and adding that having made a statement, he was not likely to be required any further.

  When it arrived, showing it to Rose, she said: ‘What do we do now?’

  Faro sighed. ‘Nothing. We go back to Edinburgh at the end of this week, sad visit over, leaving mysteries yet to be unravelled, which we are made to understand are none of our business. I am out of it, anyway, but as you know I hate unsolved crimes.’

  Rose sighed. ‘I wonder if they will solve it and if we will ever hear who Mr Smith really was and if they will catch whoever tried to kill Jimmy.’ She paused. ‘If he is caught, then there is a strong possibility that he might confess to attacking Archie as well.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘I have an odd feeling that these two incidents are quite unconnected, but somehow I am certain that the royal yacht is at the bottom of it all.’

  ‘In which case,’ Rose added solemnly, ‘knowing how tight they are about publicity, we can be certain of one thing: we will never know the truth.’

  There was much to do with the end of Faro and Rose’s visit to Yesnaby as well as the cheerier prospect of Emily and Magnus returning to Edinburgh with them. With a great deal of activity scheduled, the two children felt left out of everything, especially as Magnus had been hoping for that visit to Birsay to show Meg Skara Brae, which had to be postponed by the grown-ups too.