[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals Read online

  When they continued to watch her, solemn as owls, she added, 'I suppose the one of the Prince of Wales with his foot on one of our wild bulls could possibly be of some value, of course - to anyone who had a personal concern.'

  Faro looked at her quickly. Did she know of the Queen's interest?

  Again she shrugged, a dismissive but elegant gesture. 'If a painting or an ornament is pretty and it pleases me, whether it cost a few pence or a few thousand pounds, well, that's all I care about. But Archie was different. Valuable things were his domain. He was so knowledgeable, a great collector. We have attics full of the weirdest assortment that took his fancy from every place he visited, I imagine, all over the world.'

  Pausing, she smiled at them, her sidelong glance impish. 'He couldn't resist beautiful things.' Her lip curled gently as, pretty as any picture, she added slowly, 'And he was prepared to pay a great deal for what he wanted, you know. One could say beauty was an obsession with him.'

  She gave Faro a slightly arch glance, daring him to come to his own conclusions about that strange marriage and turning from the empty spaces about them, she laughed again, that echoing sound at once carefree and infectious and totally inappropriate for a wife so recently bereaved.

  Unhampered by her voluminous skirts, she walked quickly ahead of them, long-legged and graceful, moving her hands in light gestures as she talked. She was, thought Faro admiringly, a sheer delight for any man to watch.

  The police were notified, I expect Archie told them, or you wouldn't be here,' she said, her quick glance demanding confirmation.

  As he nodded vaguely, Mark muttered agreement. 'Yes, of course. Talk to them.' He sounded suddenly eager, relieved to shed any responsibility for the pictures' disappearance.

  When his stepmother said nothing, leading the way towards the great hall, he fell into step after them mutely. But glancing suspiciously at Faro his manner was loyally protective, indication that should this strange man threaten her in any way, he was ready to spring to her assistance.

  Suddenly apologetic, Poppy Elrigg turned to Faro: ‘We should have made more of it, I know, but then... the accident - you know...' Her voice trailed off.

  The very next day. Put everything else right out of our minds,' said Mark with a glance of stern reproach in Faro's direction as Lady Elrigg took out a lace handkerchief and sniffed into it dutifully.

  Faro, watching the touching scene, murmured sympathetically and prepared to take his leave.

  ‘I shall be staying at the Elrigg Arms for several days, while my inquiries continue. My stepson is arriving at the end of the week, we plan to spend a few days walking. Presumably my business will be finished by then.'

  The two listened to him glumly, their faces expressionless, their minds clearly elsewhere.

  He had to go. There was nothing else for it. He could hardly expect to be invited to supper. A mourning widow, that lace handkerchief being twisted in delicate fingers was a reproach, a reminder of her grief which provided a very good excuse for terminating the interview.

  In a last stab at politeness, she smiled wanly, offering the pony trap to take him back to his hotel.

  He declined, saying that he preferred to walk. Their relief at his departure was so obvious he guessed that they were even less happy in their roles of grieving kin than he was at presenting himself as a noteworthy and really reliable insurance assessor of valuable works of art.

  Walking briskly down the drive, he went carefully over the scene he had just left. What evidence, if any, had been revealed during that brief meeting?

  First, and most important, he had seen enough to know that Sir Archie had left no grieving spouse and that some powerful emotion existed between his stepson and his young widow.

  As for the paintings, their disappearance during the Prince's visit confirmed Faro's earlier suspicions. Poppy Elrigg's statement that her late husband was obsessive about possessions had a certain kinship with the childlike greed that was one of the Queen's characteristics. As far as Her Majesty was concerned, merely to comment, to enthuse aloud, was to demand.

  Did her son also believe in the divine right of kings to their subjects' good and chattels? Was he on the wrong track and had the Prince's quarrel with his equerry been a wrangle over two paintings of indifferent merit but of sentimental value to Her Majesty?

  Most important of all, what was the relationship between the Prince and Lady Elrigg? He would need to know a great deal more about the stage that had reached before he could set the scene with accuracy. One would have imagined that the recent Mordaunt divorce might have given the Prince reason for caution, especially when he was named in Sir Charles's petition against his twenty-one-year-old wife. Lady Mordaunt had thereupon tearfully confessed that she had 'done wrong with the Prince of Wales and others, often and in open day'.

  The press had leaped with joy upon such a scandal and the Prince's letters had been printed in The Times. There were many prepared to read very diligently between the lines of what appeared to be simple gossipy letters and come to conclusions that did little to enhance the Royal reputation.

  Faro sighed. In common with that other less fortunate royal family, the Bourbons, it seemed that the Saxe-Coburgs learned nothing and forgot nothing.

  Chapter 6

  The supper room at the Elrigg Arms sported ancient oak beams, dark panelling and a regiment of anders as well as an assortment of glass-entombed tiny animals. Their bright eyes followed Faro as he walked across a floor on which only the sturdiest of tables could rest all four legs at the one time.

  A cheerfully cracking log fire shed a glow of welcoming hospitality but any hopes Faro had of meeting fellow diners inclined to local gossip were doomed to failure. The two gentlemen who shared one end of the oak refectory table greeted him politely and hastily resumed a conversation that revealed them as business acquaintances travelling north to Edinburgh.

  Another diner entered. The chilly lady from Faro's railway encounter. As her presence suggested she was also staying at the inn, he felt a resurgence of indignation that she had deliberately left him standing on the station platform when they might have shared the only hiring carriage.

  Her brief acknowledgement of his cold bow declined admission of any earlier meeting. Firmly opening the book she carried indicated to her fellow diners that she intended keeping her own counsel.

  Despite her formidable attitude, the lamplit table revealed what veils and scarves kept hidden, an abundance of dark auburn hair and slanting green eyes, which suggested in her less disagreeable moments capabilities of appeal, even enticement.

  Observing the secret glances exchanged by the two other gentlemen, Faro decided that such looks might encourage the attentions of predatory males and that her chilly reception was perhaps a necessity for a female travelling alone.

  As the plates were passed round he observed ink-stained fingernails. An artist or some clerkly occupation, school teacher or governess? Even as he pondered, she wasted no time over eating but tackled each course in a hearty businesslike manner, far from the polite toying with food in public that characterised genteel members of her sex. Eager to be gone, with a murmured excuse she rose from the table so abruptly that the capacious leather bag she carried slid to the floor and disgorged a quantity of papers.

  As Faro helped her to retrieve them, they were snatched from his hands, with hardly a word of thanks. He sat back in his chair and realised that he had been correct in his suspicions. Such rudeness, however, was inexcusable. He hoped he had seen the last of this formidable travelling lady as he devoted his attention to the increased buzz of voices that issued from the public bar.

  There might be valuable information to be obtained regarding his mission by mingling with the tenants and he carried though his pint of ale.

  A few farmers were playing cards and although his greeting was politely received, by no stretch of imagination could it be called encouraging. It was neither as warm nor even as mildly curious as the flurry of tail-wagging t
he scent of a stranger stirred among their farm dogs.

  He patted a few heads and distributed liberal 'good fellow's but this failed to play him into their owners' confidences. Resolutely they devoted themselves again to their game, having called their fraternising animals sternly to order.

  Refusing to be daunted, Faro threw in some cheerful remarks about good weather, to be greeted by grunts and at most a few disbelieving headshakes. He had almost given up hope of any success and was about to retreat to his room when the door opened.

  The man who entered was clad in an indescribably dirty, voluminous greatcoat which contained more than his large frame and Faro realised he was face-to-face with the local poacher. The huge garment wrapped tent-like about him was composed of inside pockets large enough comfortably to stow away a variety of game birds and small animals for the pot and, by the smell of it, included an interesting range of fish.

  Faro's greeting to the newcomer was cordially but toothlessly received, its warmth strengthened by the offer of a jug of ale. The poacher's eyes glistened and he responded cheerfully to Faro's careful overtures about the weather for the time of year.

  'Travelling in this area are you, sir?'

  'Briefly,' said Faro.

  'Fisherman, are you?'

  'Alas, no.'

  The poacher regarded him, head on side. 'Naught much for a gentleman to do, to fill in his time, like.'

  Refusing to be drawn and hoping to direct the conversation towards the castle, Faro asked: 'I presume there is much casual employment hereabouts during the shooting season?'

  'Just for the young lads, the beaters. But I'd never let one of my lads go - dead dangerous it is, those high-nosed gentry are awful shots,' he added confidentially. 'Few years back, there was one killed...'

  'What are you going on about, Will Duffy?' The enquiry came sharply from the barman who had edged his mopping-up activities on the counter a shade nearer. 'That was an accident,' he said sharply to Faro. 'Such things do happen.'

  'Mebbe,' was the poacher's reply. 'Mebbe like the horns over yonder.' So saying he nodded towards a bull's head among the decapitated trophies adorning one wall.

  Caring little for the present bloodthirsty fashion in wall decoration, Faro had given this evidence of sporting skill scant attention. Now he observed for the first time that the splendid white bull's head lacked horns.

  'You probably know more than most what happened to them,' the barman said heavily to Duffy, who thereupon leaned across the counter, his fists bunched in a threatening manner: 'Are you saying that I pinched them, Bowden?'

  'It wouldn't be the first time something had gone amissing from my walls...'

  Duffy stood up to his full height, bulging pockets giving him monumental stature.

  'Are you accusing me?' he said in menacing fashion.

  Faro and the other drinkers stood by, fascinated by what promised to be a fists-up between barman and poacher, men of equal height and weight.

  'Duffy!' At that moment the door behind them was flung open and an elderly man with the look of a prosperous farmer glared in. 'Gossiping again, are you? Am I to wait all night while you fill yourself with drink?'

  'Coming, sir.'

  The poacher, suddenly deflated, tipped Faro an embarrassed wink and allowed himself to be meekly led away.

  'When did this happen?' Faro asked Bowden, nodding towards the bull's head.

  'A while back. Duffy can't keep his hands off anything that might fetch a few pennies.' And, refusing to be drawn into any further conversation with a stranger, the barman returned to polishing the counter as if his life depended on a shining, stain-free surface.

  * * *

  Faro's bedroom boasted a cheery fire and a large four-poster bed, plus the uneven floor of antiquity which creaked at every step. His door added to this orchestra of rheumatic boards. Testing the bed gingerly, he was pleased to find that the mattress was of a more modern vintage than the faded velvet canopy and ragged, brocade curtains.

  Drawing the oil lamp closer, he took out his notebook and logged the day's events, ending: 'Wild bull's horns missing from public bar. Duffy might know something about the Elriggs and be willing to talk for a fee? Talk to him again!'

  * * *

  He slept well that night and awoke to the appetising smell of ham and eggs. He was relieved to find that his digestion was not hampered by the presence of the chilly lady at the breakfast table, and ten o'clock was striking on the church clock as he walked down the main street.

  Between the post office and barber's shop, a one-time cottage bore on its window the words POLICE STATION. A narrow hallway ended in a door with a heavy bolt and a heavily barred square cut out of the central panel. It might serve as an imposing warning to the local inhabitants, but Faro doubted whether it had ever held a criminal with violent inclinations and uncongenial habits.

  Opening the door marked ENQUIRIES, PLEASE ENTER, he stepped into what had once been the parlour. A large desk sat uneasily against one wall while a wooden form opposite offered uncomfortable seats for inquirers.

  The constable on duty had the healthy look of an elderly countryman who has had a good life: white-haired, apple—cheeked and overweight. He nodded in reply to Faro's question and pointed to the closed door.

  'It's Sergeant Yarrow you'll be wanting, sir. He has a visitor - if you'll just take a seat.'

  Pondering on the hierarchy of two policemen in charge of a village station, Faro heard men's voices raised angrily from behind the half-glassed door on the other side of the room.

  'You'd better do something about it, then.' The first voice was cultured, authoritative.

  'I'm doing all I can -' The second voice was slow, weary.

  'Which isn't half good enough. I demand permission to excavate the site,' was the reply.

  'I cannot grant that. You know perfectly well it was refused by your late uncle -'

  'Who is happily no longer with us,' said the first man, cutting short the weary man's shocked exclamation. 'It was just his pig-headedness after all, his sense of possession. Scared that I might find a treasure trove or some such nonsense. And, dammit, on what is, if there was any justice left in this country, my own land after all.'

  'Look, sir,' there was an attempt at mollification in the other speaker's voice. 'Not a bit of use going on like this. I know you have a right to feel resentment, but the police can't help you here. It's lawyers - good ones - you're needing.'

  'Lawyers, you say. I've wasted years trying to prove my inheritance. I've lived in a cramped, damp cottage when my rightful place should have been up there - in the castle. Damn you, man, you know all this, you know how unjust he's been, but you're on his side. He bought the law just as he bought everything else.'

  The other man's protest was cut short by a sound suspiciously like a fist thumping a table followed by a crash.

  The constable regarded Faro nervously, suspected this scene was making a bad impression and decided to intervene. Taking the law into his own hands, he marched to the closed door and rapped loudly on it.

  'Visitor to see you, Sergeant.'

  The door opened and, with a final curse, a young man exploded into the office and vanished out of the hallway.

  'I seem to have come at an awkward time,' said Faro, aware that his words were a masterpiece of understatement.

  Sergeant Yarrow did not rise to greet him. Perhaps this was due to the vexation caused by the angry young man's hasty exit, but Faro felt that his reception was less than cordial.

  Closer to Faro in age than the constable at the desk, he did not look nearly as fit. There was nothing of the rosy-cheeked countryman about his sallow complexion and heavily lined face. Only his eyes were remarkable, a bright pale blue with the iris clearly defined.

  As Faro introduced himself in his assumed role, he realised that the sergeant must once have possessed outstanding good looks with such eyes and black curling hair, now thin and grey.

  Even as he wondered what suffering had broug
ht about this premature ageing, with a weary sigh Yarrow began impatiently rustling the papers on his desk, his gesture indicating that such callers as Mr Jeremy Faro were wasting his time.

  Put out by his attitude, Faro was almost tempted to reveal his true identity but thought better of it instantly. The whole point of his mission was to remain incognito. An insurance investigator was within his rights to interview the policeman who had examined the deceased after the accident and talk to the doctor who had signed the death certificate.

  'Was there a coroner's inquest?'

  Yarrow stared at him. 'Of course. A verdict of accidental death was recorded. You had better talk to Constable Dewar about it,' he added sharply, eyeing his piles of paper as if straining to get back to really important business. 'He has all the details and can let you see the statements.'

  So saying, the sergeant stood up to speed this tiresome time—wasting enquirer on his way. As he walked across the floor, Faro observed that he was lame and that the effort cost him some discomfort.

  He decided he would like to know a lot more about the Elrigg police and their curious hierarchy.

  Chapter 7

  Constable Dewar's reception of Mr Jeremy Faro, insurance assessor, was considerably more encouraging than that of Sergeant Yarrow. His eyes brightened, his eagerness to be helpful confirmed Faro's suspicions of a daily round with nothing more exciting than stranded animals or pursuit of the local poacher.

  Faro produced an official-looking notebook and said he wished to be taken to the scene of Sir Archie Elrigg's demise. Dewar regarded this activity with nervous anxiety. His eyes widened on being informed that this was the usual procedure when violent death was involved to which there had been no witnesses.