Read The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 Online
Authors: Alanna Knight
The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (4 page)
A veiled bonnet concealed most of her face from all but
occasional glimpses and her slim figure suggested that she was
probably in her early thirties. There Faro knew he was on shaky
territory, the first to confess he usually erred on the side of
gallantry where ladies' ages were concerned.
He studied her carefully. Even in the simple matter of reading
there was something purposeful and decisive about the way she
turned the pages. Here was no nervous, unsure female unused to travelling alone and about to visit a sick relative. She did not
look in the least anxious but, suddenly aware of his scrutiny,
she looked up from her book and fixed him with a fierce stare.
Embarrassed, he hastily pretended to sleep while continuing to observe, through half-closed eyes, her reflection conveniently
provided by the compartment window.
When the train arrived at his destination, he was surprised to see the chilly lady push open the door ahead of him, spring
lightly along the platform and claim the hiring cab which Faro
soon discovered was the only vehicle the station provided.
One long road disappeared westwards into the hills. According
to his map, in that direction lay Elrigg and he leaped forward:
'We are possibly heading in the same direction, madam.'
Head averted, she did not seem to hear him.
He persisted. 'May I be permitted to share your carriage, we
appear -'
But before he could explain further, she cut him short with a
withering look. 'And where might you be going?'
'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 the 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.
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.
