The Seal King Murders Page 13

  Amos smiled. ‘You have my assurance on that, Mr Faro. Now I must bid you good day.’

  Leaving the house, Faro headed towards the police station to be informed that the sergeant was away in the gig and expected to be back at about four o’clock when his business was completed.

  What business? Did it concern the posters, or was Stavely seizing the opportunity of a couple of hours to visit his wife? Faro wondered, as he toured the streets and made a note of an impressive number of posters on display. Kirkwall was taking the matter seriously, with many shop windows displaying the artist’s sketch, with ‘One Hundred Pounds for Information’ heavily stressed in large black letters. A great deal more than most folk could hope to earn for a year’s hard work on the island, it was a substantial and tempting reward.

  On his way back he looked into The Orcadian, its walls well plastered with the poster. He was out of luck: Jimmy was absent, away on one of his investigations. There was a certain reluctance from the lad behind the desk to tell him more than that. However, Faro left hoping it concerned the missing girl.

  As he approached Kirk Green, with several hours in hand, and a dark rain cloud overhead accompanied by an unseasonable shrill wind, he decided to seek refuge in the rose-red cathedral. As always, the first impression when he set foot inside was one of infinity. Its immensity diminished him, an illusion due to the perfect proportions of the interior, to which the narrowness of the nave contributed an effect of loftiness.

  Besides the grandeur, what most seized his heartstrings was the beauty of mellow stonework: grey flags, combined with the warm reds and yellow of sandstone. This was comparatively new, and in the original parts of the church, walls and pillars alike had been richly painted, glowing with colour. As a child he had spent many hours looking at the paintings of angels and saints, eagerly searching the walls for any traces of this ancient pattern.

  Named after the patron saint of Kirkwall and all of Orkney, and more than seven centuries old, the cathedral’s history had always fascinated him, believing it to be named after his own father, Magnus.

  The story of the martyred saint, whose bones were first laid to rest in the chapel at Birsay and then transferred to the newly built cathedral, intrigued young Jeremy. Many years later, when a pillar was being repaired on the south side of the original altar, a skull came to light. Experts of Norse history recognised that the skull was cleft in the fashion used when a victim was of noble birth, according to the ancient Orkneyinga Saga.

  Enjoying the tranquillity and serenity of its ancient splendour, Faro was suddenly aware that he was not alone. The line of empty pews stretching toward the altar had an occupant.

  A man knelt in prayer, his face hidden by a large bonnet. Not wishing to disturb him, Faro continued his walk sheltered by the massive pillars. Glancing towards the figure something about him was familiar. A closer look, and he knew they had met before, less than an hour ago. The man was Josh Flett.

  Poor fellow, thought Faro, overwhelmed with compassion for that lonely, doomed man. Were his prayers for recovery? As his home was only a short distance away across the road, did he come here every day when the cathedral was empty, to sit alone and pray?

  Footsteps, and suddenly the man was alone no longer. A woman slid into the pew beside him. This time Faro had no difficulty in recognising the newcomer as Thora Claydon.

  Anxious not to intrude on a private moment, aware that his presence would embarrass them, he remained where he was, hidden by the pillar. To an unseen observer, it was obvious that they knew each other and, although he could distinguish no words exchanged between them, they sat close, their shoulders touching and as if they were holding hands.

  Her head nestled against his shoulder, her face turned towards him in earnest whispered conversation, her attitude pleading.

  Their closeness intrigued him, opened new avenues of thought. Friends, even lovers? Was it possible that he had stumbled on another tragedy in the making? That Thora Claydon, widowed, was in love with a dying man?

  At that moment, a door opened, voices announced new arrivals and, from his vantage point, Faro saw the two spring guiltily apart. She touched his arm and walked, head down, quickly towards the entrance. She could not, however, escape the newcomers, apparently choristers ready for practice, who obviously knew her, and greetings were exchanged.

  Faro looked back towards the now-empty pew. Josh was a shadow moving towards a side exit, swiftly for such a sick man, and one not wishing to be recognised.

  He was accosted at the entrance by the fellow Faro recognised as Rob, Amos Flett’s assistant. Faro stood back as the two exchanged a few urgent words, before Josh pushed past the ferryman.

  He had to stand aside quickly as Rob went into the nearest pew and knelt down in prayer. He realised that the delay had cost him the opportunity of following Josh. Outside he was nowhere to be seen and was presumably back home again.

  On the Kirk Green, Faro lingered until Thora appeared, freed of the choristers. Bowing as though this was an accidental encounter, he greeted her. She looked at him quickly and with no change of expression, wished him good day and hurried away, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  He watched her go. He had stumbled accidently on a tragic tale. Having just gone through the agonies of a drowned husband, recently buried, it appeared Thora was now without any hope of a happy ending with the ferryman’s brother, whose fate was sealed by the scourge of consumption.

  Poor Thora, his heart went out to her. This meeting with Josh must have caused her indescribable distress.

  With time on his hands before meeting Stavely, there seemed little more to be done until the posters worked and man’s high principles or greed for a reward blossomed into revealing the present whereabouts of a missing girl.

  He walked towards Tankerness House, remarkably well preserved for its three hundred years. Progress, in the shape of a modern town hall and post office, had mercifully passed it by. With a splendid ancient gateway and crow-stepped gable ends, characteristic of Kirkwall’s architecture, its paved quadrangle retained the charm and dignity of a historic university.

  His contemplation was interrupted as a familiar figure emerged in the comely shape of Inga. Their delight in this unexpected meeting was mutual and regardless of passers-by they hugged one another, and at Inga’s suggestion adjourned to the Lamb & Flag for a pot of tea.

  Seated at a table, Inga demanded, ‘What brings you here?’

  Faro explained about the posters, to which Inga reiterated her cynical response that everyone who knew the informer would want a share of the reward.

  ‘Where do you think she is?’ Faro asked.

  Inga laughed. ‘If I knew the answer to that I wouldn’t be wasting time talking to you. I’d be heading to Scarthbreck and claiming the reward.’

  Faro ignored that and went on, ‘Do you think she is hiding, or is she being held by a kidnapper?’

  Inga nodded. ‘I see you have wisely abandoned the suicide idea, the pregnant girl putting an end to it all.’

  ‘I think there is a darker side to all this.’

  Inga laughed. ‘That’s dark enough for most folk.’

  ‘I’m sure no one will believe me, but I’m certain there is a link somewhere with Thora Claydon.’

  Inga laughed. ‘Are you considering that the seal king has claimed a second bride? That handsome reward wouldn’t be much use in his kingdom under the waves, would it?’

  ‘I’m being serious, Inga.’ And he told how he had witnessed the meeting of Thora and Josh in the cathedral and how intimate they looked.

  Inga looked puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine Thora wanting to take up with Josh Flett. It’s a miracle he’s still here. Been consumptive for years. According to Amos, just weeks ago he was on his deathbed.’

  And Faro thought again of the dying man in prayer. Perhaps his miracle was happening, although he didn’t expect Inga to believe that as she continued, ‘Doesn’t sound like Thora at all. More likely, with Dave gone,
she’d be on the lookout for a rich gentleman. Hardly likely to waste her charms on Josh Flett, unless he’d leave her a wealthy widow, second time round.’

  ‘Was she happy with Dave?’ Faro asked, remembering the circumstances of that strange marriage.

  Inga shrugged. ‘They were fairly comfortably off with Dave as an excise officer, but there were no bairns and Dave was fond of the bottle and had a reputation as a keen gambler who’d bet on anything.’ Pausing she smiled. ‘But who knows? Josh is quite different. He doesn’t drink or gamble and he’s always been a bookish sort of lad. Maybe second time lucky.’

  Faro remembered Thora outside the cathedral in obvious distress as he said, ‘You’re very cynical, Inga. Don’t you believe in true love?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Oh yes, I believe in true love. That certainly exists, a bonus in our frail human lives. But marriages are more often calculated on a financial basis. It has always been that way, history will tell you so if you have any doubts.’ Touching his arm gently, she whispered, ‘Don’t look so shocked, Jeremy dear. You still have a lot to learn if you think that true love ends happily ever after with the wedding bells.’

  After listening to her words, Faro decided that he was learning a lot more about Inga ten years after he left the island lovesick and yearning for her. Now, before his eyes, many of his illusions were being destroyed. He had loved her so much, all the other women he ever met paled before his dream of her, his first love. A love that had seemed to be mutual.

  Now he knew that, had he stayed in Orkney, it would not have ended in a lifetime together. But had he been a rich man, instead of a poor youth with nothing to offer but his love and a struggling existence as a policeman’s wife in Edinburgh, what then?

  Suddenly the laughter and delight of this unexpected meeting had turned sour. Wounded by this new Inga, he decided to change the subject. ‘I called yesterday and was pleasantly surprised when Baubie Finn answered the door. You were the subject of our conversation, your kindness nursing her back to health when she had been so ill.’

  Inga shrugged. ‘What else could I do? Fever that was going into pneumonia. There was no one to take care of her, and I was glad to help. I couldn’t just leave her at death’s door. She was – and is – quite frail, and I’ve loved sharing my little house with her.’

  Faro was silent, wondering how to phrase his feelings regarding Baubie. ‘Do you find her quite strange sometimes?’

  Inga looked at him frowning. ‘What do you mean “quite strange”?’

  Embarrassed, Faro said, ‘I had only seen her seated in the Orkney chair. Walking, she seemed quite different, very slow-moving.’ He thought of those oddly sliding footsteps. ‘She’s an odd shape for a female, I mean.’ He stopped there and Inga laughed.

  ‘Men notice such things, but I’ve never given it a second thought. Now that you mention it, I can understand why people think she’s a selkie.’ She paused. ‘She has webbed toes and fingers, incidentally – hence the mittens she always wears.’

  Faro thrust away the remembrance of fingers with odd-shaped, claw-like nails as Inga continued, ‘Do you know she never mentioned your visit? Not a word that you had called when I was out.’

  It was a chance to mention the memory of one incident that bothered him. ‘You do get a lot of visitors, Inga. The first time I called on you, I met Amos just leaving.’

  Inga looked at him and smiled. Rather secretively, he thought.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ he said lightly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think of Amos?’

  She shrugged. ‘What I think of Amos is no one’s concern to anyone but Amos and me.’

  Seeing the look on Faro’s face, she relented and sighed. ‘I hardly think of Amos at all, except that he’s a very caring man devoted to an invalid brother. That’s the reason he’s never married. Because he’s very handsome all the lasses love him. Men like him too. If he had more than a ferryman’s pay to offer, he’d be the most eligible bachelor in Kirkwall.’ She looked at him again, head on one side. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You never mention him; I wondered if you were friends when I saw him leaving your house.’

  She gave him a scornful glance. ‘We are. Rob, his friend, lives a few doors away.’ She paused. ‘If you really want to know why he was in my house that day, although it’s no business of yours, Jeremy Faro, I make his shirts and he’d come about that. I’m a seamstress, remember, that’s how I earn a living.’ She paused and added slowly, ‘I am also a free spirit, no man owns me – or ever will.’

  There was no doubt that this held a warning note not lost on Faro as she continued, ‘I doubt that I will ever marry. I have no inclination to be a slave to any man.’ And, echoing his earlier misgivings, ‘Or to be a policeman’s wife living in a dusty city far from the island.’ Then wagging a finger at him, ‘So don’t waste any sleep getting ideas about a future for us. It doesn’t exist and never will. I’m very fond of you, Jeremy, but fondness isn’t enough for marriage. The most we could have is just a pleasant interlude together.’

  Pausing to allow him to assimilate what amounted to a proposition, when he did not respond, she shrugged, ‘If that doesn’t satisfy you, you’d better go back to Edinburgh and forget all about me.’

  ‘I assure you, I won’t ever do that.’

  With a shrug of unmistakeable indifference she said, ‘Maybe. But I can see you married to your Lizzie, who’s probably waiting patiently for you to ask her. She sounds the right kind of woman to make you happy in a way I never could. I’d soon get bored and I couldn’t guarantee to be faithful to one man for ever.’

  And on that fateful note, their conversation ended with the abrupt appearance of Sergeant Stavely, who said impatiently, ‘I’ve been waiting for you at the station and I guessed you’d be here.’

  A glance at the teacups and acknowledging Inga with a slight bow, ‘Ready to leave now. Gig’s outside’.

  Faro and Inga exchanged polite ‘good days’ and Faro was silent on that drive, telling himself that she was right to warn him, and that sensibly putting aside this infatuation was long overdue. His return to Orkney, and meeting her again, had aroused all those emotions of first love. Now he knew he must see it through her eyes and cast aside all hopes that she would suddenly change her mind. Having solved the mystery of Dave Claydon for Macfie’s satisfaction, the main reason for this visit, all his efforts must now be directed to help solve the sinister disappearance of Celia Prentiss-Grant. Then he would be free to return to his duties in Edinburgh.

  The last hour had sadly convinced him that he would have liked to leave tomorrow, but he was trapped. As the last person to see Celia, if the worst had happened and the girl had met with a violent end, the reason for his restraint was a sobering thought.

  Even if the killer’s identity came to light, he felt certain that having momentarily been a prime suspect in Stavely’s report would cast a shadow on his future career in the Edinburgh City Police.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The posters for the missing girl took immediate effect. The police station in Kirkwall had a small queue next morning. Harassed constables busily taking down details, overseen by Stavely, who had set up a reception area to interview claimants, it soon became obvious that their information had little hope of revealing the present whereabouts of the missing girl.

  ‘A lass like that walked past our farm last week.’ Dismissed by Stavely since Celia had not even arrived in Orkney last week.

  ‘Saw a lass walking past the cathedral here last night.’ Further details revealed that she had red hair and walked with a limp.

  Next, ‘A woman moved in next door last week, a stranger she is, and looks like the poster.’ This woman was about thirty-five, dark hair going grey, and she had a husband.

  ‘Saw a lass with a bairn down by the Peerie Sea. Age? About twenty. Aye, plump she was. I didna’ ken her hair colour, she was wearing a bonnet.’

  And so it continued. A
ll prospective claimants had one thing in common: they were eager to know if the reward was to be given before or after their valuable information had been revealed.

  Stavely threw down his pen. He was fairly certain that the sightings were a waste of his time, as each disappointed claimant was turned away with the stern instruction that further proof was necessary.

  While the Kirkwall constables were so employed, Faro was to remain at Scarthbreck, as Stavely believed there was a strong possibility that further claimants might descend directly on the Prentiss-Grants with their demands for the reward offered.

  By lunchtime that day none had appeared. The only gig to drive up to Scarthbreck had been the Hon. Gerald Binsley, from Binsley Hall in East Sussex.

  His arrival had Mary Faro in a great state of excitement. A room had been prepared, the maids rushing to and fro under her guidance, menus were to be approved and Mary, breathless at last, sat down at the kitchen table and beamed on Faro, who had laid aside his notebook.

  ‘Is this man a prospective claimant for the reward?’

  ‘Of course not, Jeremy. He’s a friend of the family. According to the maids, that is. He often accompanies them on their travels.’ And in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘And what is more, like I told you, rumour is that he’s sweet on Miss Celia. Well, what do you think of that?’

  Faro’s immediate thought – one he was not prepared to share with his mother – was that, considering what might well be Miss Celia’s unfortunate condition, the Hon. Gerald had rushed up from the south of England in order to make an honest woman of her.

  At the house, he made a brief appearance before the anxious parents to inform them that Sergeant Stavely was in Kirkwall and at this moment would be testing the success of the missing-person poster – hastily rephrased ‘missing young lady’ – returning immediately to report any success.

  Sir Arnold received this information in his usual unyielding manner with a brief dismissal gesture, while Lady Millicent wrung her hands in a manner Lady Macbeth would have envied.