[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals Page 3

  'To the Elrigg Arms.'

  'That is not my destination, I'm afraid. Drive on, if you please,' she instructed the coachman and left Faro standing, staring indignantly after the departing carriage.

  Patience was not one of the few virtues he was inclined to boast about and he paced the empty platform angrily, stamping his feet both to relieve his feelings and to keep them warm in the thirty minutes before the cab returned.

  He would have been surprised indeed to know that the lady had an ability to observe and deduce that equalled his own.

  But for a quite different reason.

  She had summed him up accurately as a man without vanity, a man who needed none of the accoutrements of fine clothes and superficial elegance to add false lustre to what nature had given him. And that, she knew from bitter experience, made him all the more dangerous.

  Bypassing that strongly male but admittedly attractive and appealing countenance, the straight, slightly hooked nose and the wide-set eyes that, shuddering, she thought resembled those of a bird of prey, she had immediately decided on his identity.

  He was a policeman.

  A breed of man she hated and feared. One she had learned to recognise, distrust and at all costs avoid.

  Chapter 4

  The hiring cab returned to the station, collected Faro and the horses set off again at a brisk pace on their uphill climb.

  When at last a church spire and a huddle of houses indicated a surprisingly modern town, the coachman pointed with his whip: 'Wooler, sir.'

  Faro had heard of Wooler as one of the baronies into which Northumberland was divided after the Norman Conquest. In the twelfth century a rich and prosperous centre of the woollen industry, three centuries later it had borne the full brunt of the Border Wars, with only a hilly mound, a rickle of stones, to mark those turbulent times.

  The houses in the main street were newly built and as Wooler disappeared from view the coachman said: 'Almost destroyed by a fire about ten years back, 1862 it was, sir. Second time in less than two hundred years. Eve the church over there, see, rebuilt in 1863.’

  A short distance from Wooler and the countryside changed dramatically. It was no longer soft and undulating as in front of them rose hills of grimmer aspect. Wild moorland, great crags and huge boulders were the legacy of some ice age when the world was still young.

  Now only a few spindly hawthorns, taking what shelter they could find, suggested that it had seen little in the way of human footsteps or endeavour.

  He was acutely aware that he was in an alien land.

  Used to the protection of city streets, Faro regarded the scene around him. This was an ancient battlefield which stretched from the Solway Firth to the North Sea, the Debatable Land of history, and he was right in the middle of it.

  As if all those ancient bloodthirsty ballads still lived, their battle cries still throbbing to the long and terrible violence that had soaked these hills and moors in blood. For this was the ring in which the champions of England and Scotland clashed arms, some armoured in splendour, proud and valiant, their clansmen running alongside, fighting loyally beside their Border barons.

  Here the victors robbed, slaughtered and made an end without quarter on either side.

  The ballads told it wrong. Many a battle had been lost not by defeat, but by raggle-taggle soldiers who seized the chance of pillage while their skins were still intact. While hungry mouths and empty stomachs awaited their homecoming with the spoils of war, there was no room for sentimental loyalty to lost causes.

  To add to Faro's sombre thoughts, the radiant day disappeared to be replaced by clouds hiding the sun. Now he was aware of boulders that moved. A tide of woolly sheep, followed by a shepherd and his dog, signalled a not far distant civilisation.

  There was something else too: mile upon mile of fences bordered the narrow road.

  'We're in the domain of the wild cattle, sir,' the coachman replied to his question. They don't like us and we don't like them.'

  'Dangerous, are they?'

  The coachman laughed uproariously at this naive question.

  'Kill you as soon as look at you, sir. I dare say they feel they have the right to it - the right of way, as you may say. Seeing they were here long before the Romans came. They've seen the killing times come and go - and many a fight that's gone badly for both sides.'

  'Could the cattle not have been moved?' he asked.

  The coachman thought this was even more humorous than his last question.

  'I wouldn't like to try any of that sir. Wouldn't want their horns in my backside - begging your pardon, sir. Besides, His Lordship says it's best not to interfere with nature...' He stopped suddenly, remembering that His Lordship had also lost out in the end.

  As the road descended once more, Faro felt that the legends and the ballads had never said half enough. They only skimmed the surface of a brutal reality.

  The men this land had once supported had lived by the law of the jungle, the same law that saw the survival of the wild cattle hadn't worked for them.

  While his beloved Shakespeare was penning the most exquisite prose the world had ever known, or perhaps ever would know, paving the way to an enlightened culture that would last for centuries still unborn, while Elizabethan seamen kept the might of Spain at bay, the monarchs of Scotland and England had emerged from the darkness of the Middle Ages to live in a fair approximation of luxury and culture.

  But both were helpless to rule their borders or the men who lived on them. A race apart, their laws were made and their swords wielded by tribal leaders who would have seemed outmoded in the Roman Empire. They were intent on only one thing: blood feuds, the perennial excuse to annihilate one another.

  Not all were peasants, or smallholders, or cattle rustlers. Some were educated gentlemen; a few were peers of the realm. All had in common that they were fighting men of great resource to whom the crafty arts of theft, raid, ambush and sudden death were inborn talents. Men born not with a silver spoon in their mouths but with a steel sword in their hands, the only language they or their enemies understood.

  Now time had obliterated all evidence of their savage rule, ancient cruelties and swift death were replaced by a breeze warm and soft about Faro's face. Had this been a social call at Elrigg Castle, he would have looked forward to such a prospect with considerable enjoyment.

  Aware that they had travelled for some distance and that in an ever-changing skyscape the blue was being overtaken by a steel-like grey, Faro considered how he might tactfully ask the coachman if they were indeed heading in the right direction: 'Is this all the Elrigg estate?'

  The coachman pointed to the hilly horizon: 'You'll see the trees first, sir. His Lordship's grandfather was very liberal with trees, planted them everywhere as a protection against the prevailing wind.' And pointing with his whip: 'Look, sir, over yonder.'

  The skyline opposite was dominated by a ring of stones. At first glance they looked like the wasted torsos of women petrified in some forgotten dance to gods older than history.

  'The headless women, they call them hereabouts,' the driver grinned.

  'How charming.'

  'You wouldn't say that, sir, at dead at night if you heard them crying.'

  'Crying?'

  'Aye, sir, that's right. Crying. When the wind's in the right direction,' he added matter-of-factly at Faro's disbelieving expression. 'Acts like organ pipes, though there's others prefer to believe differently.'

  His story was cut short by a sudden flurry of rain. As Faro put up his umbrella provided for such an emergency, he was reassured that their destination was almost in sight.

  Moments later he was relieved to see a church tower reaching into the sky, followed by a cluster of ancient houses and a twisting ribbon of river. On a hill overlooking the only street, a flag flew from battlements, hinting at the castle which had dominated Elrigg long before the present parkland hid it from the curious.

  The Elrigg Arms was a coaching inn of ancient vintage.
Time and natural subsidence had thrust its upper storey out of alignment with the lower walls, which also leaned gently but precariously over the paved road.

  Instructing the coachman that he would shortly be continuing his journey to the castle, Faro saw his luggage carried into the inn and gave the man a pint of ale for his trouble.

  Never willing to waste time on eating, a fact that Vince deplored since it added to his stepfather's tendency to digestive problems, Faro emerged twenty minutes later, reinforced by a rather heavy slice of pie and a dram of whisky.

  The coachman sensing gentry and a larger tip, respectfully tucked a travelling rug about his knees as they resumed their journey. A half-mile up the steep road some dense trees gave way to iron gates and a lodge, which, by its air of neglect and overgrown garden, was unoccupied.

  As they sped up the drive, Faro saw that Elrigg Castle was no Gothic edifice, in the current architectural fashion for the romantic but comfortable baronial hall that the Queen had made so popular at Balmoral. Protection from the elements by parkland had been a necessary and wise investment.

  Here was the stark realism of a Border peel tower, an oblong castle house belonging to sterner days when the beasts were kept on the ground floor and in times of stress and danger (which was probably every other Thursday) the inhabitants were rushed in through that high door and the ladder raised so that they could be relatively safe from marauders.

  A serious attempt might be made to burn down the tower, but although the laird and his clan would get very uncomfortable underfoot in the process, it was difficult to burn through a solid stone floor. Besides cattle and movable goods were of most interest to raiders, plus any females who happened to be wandering about and could also be carried off.

  In the late sixteenth century when the Border was settling down to more peaceful activities, buildings were inclining to comfort first, with a projecting porch and staircase on the outside, three storeyed with small, square headed windows, a ridged roof and embattled parapet.

  The tower's original stout doorway, no longer under threat, had been tamed into masquerading as a large and handsome window, replacing arrow slits which were now merely picturesque reminders of harsher times.

  Ancient oaks now sheltered sheep and a few shy deer who melted into the trees at the carriage's approach. The medieval theme, however, was continued in a field with an archery course from which a young couple had just emerged. Armed with bows and arrows, they were leading their horses through the trees in the direction of the castle.

  But they were in no hurry to reach their destination and Faro smiled indulgently. They made an attractive sight; the young man, tall and fair, put his arm about his companion's shoulder and said something that pleased her. Faro heard her laughter and as she threw back her head, a gesture that sent her bonnet flying and her light hair rippling over her shoulders.

  The young man joined in this peal of merriment, and, leaning over, the girl put out a hand and, patting his cheek, gazed tenderly into his eyes. A moment later they were gone.

  Who were they? Dark riding attire did not necessarily indicate mourning relatives. But there was a quality of intimacy about the pair and their mocking laughter that remained with Faro, striking that first incongruous note of warning regarding the house so recently bereaved.

  Chapter 5

  As the carriage rounded the drive, Faro saw another building crouching alongside the tower, invisible from the drive. Someone had attempted to turn bleak tower into homely mansion by the addition of two storeys, a few windows, a good sprinkling of ivy and not much imagination.

  It was set around a square courtyard to house stables and servants, and Faro suspected that it had never seen an architect's plans but had been thrown together by an enthusiastic laird directing an army of loyal tenants who were even less sure of what was required of them. Dwarfed by the original castle, it would have presented no difficulties for any aspiring brigand or determined Border raider.

  Faro climbed the steps to the main door, where an ancient butler asked his business and ushered him somewhat breathlessly up a wide stone staircase, considerably worn, not only by many generations of human feet but doubtless by processions of horses and sundry animals.

  'If you wait in here, sir, I will see if Her Ladyship is able to receive you.'

  Faro looked around. This then was the Great Hall. A stone fireplace stood at each end, massive enough to have comfortably roasted an ox. The high, vaulted ceiling was of rough stone, as were the walls with sconces for illumination by burning brands or torches. At one end a raised stone dais, for this was the scene of the barony courts where the Elriggs dispensed justice.

  And everywhere, suspended if by magic, a legion of ragged flags from which all colour and delineation had long since vanished. Tributes, he guessed, to every battle that warrior Elriggs of former glory had borne triumphantly from the field.

  The sound of light footsteps on stone announced the arrival of Her Ladyship. Her sudden presence was as if the sun had come down to earth.

  Later, Faro remembered his quick intake of breath at her radiance. Honey-coloured hair, richly dressed, eyes startlingly blue in a flawless complexion, all enhanced by a jet-encrusted black-velvet gown, which he later described to Vince as fittingly medieval in design.

  Expecting the ex-actress to put on a decent performance of Sorrowing Widow, he found instead that he was bowing over the hand of one of the young riders he had seen dallying in the grounds, a young woman who exuded warmth and laughter.

  When she spoke her voice was resonant with a marvellous cadence, the lyrical quality of pure music. He thought how beautifully she might have played Shakespeare's heroines. She held out hands untouched by that chilly hall, so soft and welcoming that he found himself clinging to them longer than politeness dictated.

  The heavy words of condolence he had rehearsed faded. As he stammered them out, she smiled and, as if aware of his embarrassment, she patted his arm gently, as one would offer a small child a gesture of consolation.

  Thank you, sir. I shall miss Archie. He was a kind man.' And, as if that was her last word on the subject, 'I am sure you would like tea, or perhaps something a little stronger. It is a cold, tedious journey from the railway station.'

  A tall, thin maid with the same colourless anonymity as the butler appeared silently and put down a tray set for the ritual of afternoon tea.

  Faro, invited to sit down opposite Lady Elrigg, prepared to leave the talking to her. A shrewd detective, he knew from experience, can learn a lot about character from apparent irrelevancies. People give much away in trivialities, if one is sharp enough to observe. Gestures too can be revealing.

  She talked fondly about the countryside, deplored the weather, loved springtime. There was nothing there for Faro who watched as he listened and had to bite his lip on what he was best at - asking questions.

  Suddenly the door opened and the young man, her archery companion, strode in. Faro did not miss the frowning glance the two exchanged, a warning from Lady Elrigg could not have been more clearly expressed if the words had been shouted across the room.

  Then smiling, calm, she was introducing Faro to the newcomer.

  This is Mark, Archie's stepson.'

  'My mother was an Elrigg cousin,' Mark explained.

  As they shook hands, Faro realised that not only were the years between the two less than a decade but also that they brought into that bleak cold hall a substantial aura of affection and intimacy, which they made no attempt to conceal.

  If this was illicit love, was that devotion strong enough for murder? Oh yes, Faro knew it was. He had learned through twenty-five years of criminal cases, that love was the strongest of human passions, one ruthlessly to stamp out ties of blood and duty. From the dawn of history man had been fully aware of its potential long before Cain destroyed his brother Abel.

  Frowning, Lady Elrigg handed Mark the card which had been hastily printed for Faro in Edinburgh.

  'Mr Faro's here about t
he missing pictures, Mark,' she added rather loudly with a slight emphasis on the words.

  Mark opened his mouth but, before he could speak, she said, still smiling: 'Archie apparently told the insurance assessors - this gentleman's people - that the pictures were missing.'

  And to Faro: 'This is all rather a surprise to us.'

  It was indeed, thought Faro, for Mark continued to look not only surprised but quite dumbfounded.

  Taking up the theme of the missing paintings and hoping to sound businesslike and convincing, Faro had a very nasty moment as Mark, studying the card, looked at his stepmother and said sharply: 'He never mentioned any insurance people to me.'

  Lady Elrigg shook her head and smiled at Faro. She did not seem in the least perturbed that the paintings had not yet been recovered and her manner of indifference confirmed Faro's own growing suspicion.

  'I can show you the place where they used to hang, if you like. There is still a mark on the wall.' She laughed as he and Mark followed her upstairs into the dining room with its massive refectory table stretching the entire length of the room.

  As they entered, from every wall the faces of ancestral Elriggs glared down at them. Expressions of arrogance, suspicion, mild astonishment and rarely any degree of pleasure suggested that the steely-eyed gazes of these ancient warlords might have set the digestion of sensitive diners at a disadvantage.

  'Over here.' Lady Elrigg pointed to the space between several sporting prints of indifferent merit and two large unhappy landscapes suggesting that Northumberland existed in the eternal gloom shed by a forest of Caledonian pines.

  Faro pursed his lips obligingly and stared at the blank wall in what he hoped was the manner of an insurance assessor giving his subject deep and earnest thought and doing a careful assessment by a process of mental arithmetic.

  Poppy Elrigg helped him out. 'I can't help you, I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing about paintings, valuable or otherwise. The one of old King George was of historic importance, I expect, but he was such a clown - all that ridiculous tartan on such a figure.' Her giggle was infectious, looking from one to the other, inviting them to abandon their sober expressions and join in her mirth.