Killing Cousins (2 page)

Oblivious of scientific progress they remained happily ensconced in the Middle Ages. No marvels of machinery for them. They were content, even considering it a virtue, to live and die in smoky hovels, merely because that was the way of life of their fathers and grandfathers before them.

Rising from his uncomfortable pallet, he lit a pipe and prepared himself for his two daughters' onslaught upon his emotions and those feelings of neglect which he sought to assuage by lavishing expensive gifts on them. Gifts, alas, which were the choice of Mrs Brook, his housekeeper and left him guiltily aware of his own neglect.

He was also certain that after a polite reception and a loving letter, all were relegated to a seldom-opened cupboard, to join a regiment of dolls entirely unwanted or dresses entirely unsuitable. Their only emergence was at the annual spring clean when they were graciously donated to one of his mother's innumerable charities and good causes.

He ought to remarry. He knew that perfectly well. The girls needed a mother, as their grandmother and Mrs Brook were never weary of reminding him. Only once since Lizzie's death had he met anyone he would have cared to spend the rest of his life with, but fate had decreed otherwise, both confirming and gratifying his own opinion that he was doomed to remain a widower.

An unexpected sparkle of sunlight fanned the sea with bright diamonds and momentarily raised his spirits. But, as the ship slid into Kirkwall harbour, the clouds regathered ominously, leaving a sorry welcome of rain-dark streets and tight-packed iron-grey houses.

At the shipping office, enquiring for Balfray and fearing the worst, the clerk beamed on him. 'You're in luck, sir. Old Jamie is at this moment collecting parcels and supplies. He'll be heading for Balfray first. And I dare say he'll be glad to have a passenger.'

As the tiny rowing boat strained against the tide, Faro felt that 'glad' was something of an exaggeration since his companion was of a taciturn disposition, acknowledging his presence with the briefest nod.

Faro, however, soon had problems more pressing than popularity to dwell upon. Only by a valiant struggle to occupy his mind with an intense concentration on his own boots could he manage to retain his breakfast. All around them a wildly seesawing horizon bestowed upon passing islands the interesting ghost shapes and sea-sprayed outlines reminiscent, in a more imaginative man, of basking whales. In a sea world of charcoal grey against a sky only several shades paler, the short crossing seemed endless.

Passing close by a tiny island inhabited by a seal colony, the occupants turned in their direction faces curiously human and bearing remarkably more expression than the stolid boatman.

'Hullo there!' Faro's wave and his cheery greeting caused a nicker of alarm and astonishment in his dour companion. It clearly indicated misgivings that he had a madman aboard who laughed out loud as the seals stared back, mildly indignant, like haughty and outraged old gentlemen. Who could doubt that such resemblance had given rise to legends of mermaids and seal people? Faro smiled, remembering the child he had once been, when he had believed in such myths and begged his parents for more. But not in Edinburgh. There he preferred not to remember what was patent absurdity.

Through the spray, an island larger than the rest loomed hopefully. Yes, those tall turrets visible through the twisted shapes of trees must be Balfray Castle. High above the tiny landing stage, the sea-bitten outline of one wall was all that remained of the original castle.

His sudden decision had left no time to alert Vince to his arrival and now, as landfall approached, he wondered anxiously whether Vince had managed to avert disaster and produce some miracle cure for Thora Balfray.

Returning his attention to the headland, he saw an unlovely squat building with a bell tower. The church which had arisen recently from the disused castle's purloined stone, no doubt, but lacking a spire. Such embellishments were prudently omitted from these gale-tossed islands.

His eye travelled upward to where, perched perilously and alarmingly insecure, stood one wall of an old priory and a kirkyard, whose ancient tombstones leaned at mad angles and tumbled in a rickety progress to the very edge of the steep cliffs.

'Aye, there's one body whose head'll no be sore this night,' was the boatman's first laconic comment since they had started out.

Following the direction of the pointing finger, Faro observed the tiny black shapes of a trail of mourners.

'You'll have just missed the funeral, man,' the boatman added with a shake of his head. A certain relish of tone hinted that this was a matter of infinite regret.

Then waxing voluble, 'Won't be many more up there. Hear tell the laird intends closing up the kirkyard and the family vault. Sea's eating away the cliff. Not enough soil there to keep the dead decently in their graves. Bones always falling on to the rocks and being washed away. Hands and feet and all. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, like the old rhyme says,' he added with a chuckle of unmistakably gruesome delight.

Shading his eyes against the sea spray, Faro studied the tiny band of mourners and, with a growing dread, asked the name of the deceased.

'Nay, I dinnae know who it might be,' was the reply.

As the boatman threw all his efforts into steering them towards the shore, Faro discovered that landing was a matter of launching oneself forward at that brief instant when boat and quayside met. Choosing the right moment was imperative, the penalty for mistiming a very uncomfortable drenching, and Faro felt inordinately proud of his achievement in 'stepping ashore' as it was called, dry and clutching his luggage.

Indecisive for a moment, he hovered, about to head in the general direction of the castle's ornate gates.

'Stepfather...wait...wait!'

Vince was hurrying down the cliff road to greet him.

'I thought it was you, Stepfather. You did get my telegraph about Thora then?' And, without waiting for a reply, he said, 'I'm here to collect a box from Aberdeen.' And to the boatman, 'Have you something for Dr Laurie? Ah yes, that's it.'

And, acknowledging the small wooden box placed in his hands, he said, 'Come along, Stepfather. How clever of you to arrive at exactly the right time,' and set off along the road at a jaunty pace.

'What about Thora Balfray?'

'As I told you, she died last week. Poor Thora. It was in the wire I sent to you at Sheridan Place.'

'I haven't been home, Vince. I've been trailing Noblesse Oblige all over Aberdeen. A thoroughly abortive pastime, I might add.'

'What rotten luck,' Vince sighed sympathetically. 'Even if you had been at home, I've discovered that the word urgent means nothing here, so I doubt whether you would have got my message. Anyway, I'm delighted to see you and I can hardly wait to see Grandma's face when you walk in.'

'Rose and Emily?'

Vince shook his head. 'Staying in Kirkwall now that school has started. Grandma only has them for the weekends. They love that, I hear. Enchanted by living in a real castle, every little girl's dream come true.'

'It can't be a very happy place just now.'

'True,' said Vince, frowning at the tree-lined horizon.

'Tell me, how are my wee lasses?' Faro's smile was tender.

'Not wee - peedie's the word. You'll have to get used to that in Orkney. Oh, they're in splendid spirits.' And Vince warmed to this change of subject. 'And Grandma too. There's nothing like a funeral to bring out the best in her. The life and soul of this whole wretched business. Organising everyone. I don't know how Thora would have ever got kisted without her.'

Faro looked at him sharply. Vince's humour tended towards the macabre.

'I mean it, Stepfather. Francis is utterly devastated. Just like a dazed child. Locked himself in his room. Went to pieces completely.' Vince sighed. 'You can pay your respects to the poor chap at the funeral wake. I've made arrangements for you to stay at the castle, by the way.'

'Is there room for me?'

Vince laughed. 'There are about thirty bedrooms, so you can take your pick. And I'll find you a nice black cravat for the wake. All you need. You needn't appear unless you want to, of course, but it would be considered a mark of respect.'

At his stepfather's questioning look, he added, 'It's traditional when one of the laird's family dies for the whole island to be invited to the castle to speed the deceased on their way with oatcakes and drams. That,' he continued soberly, 'can take rather a long time and I gather no one is sober enough to be in charge of a boat back to the mainland for several days afterwards. Here, let me carry that.'

There followed a slight argument over who should carry Faro's luggage.

'It isn't heavy,' Faro protested.

'Heavy enough,' said Vince. 'Transporting the Immortal Bard as usual, are we?'

Faro laughed. 'My favourite travelling companion, present company excepted,' he added with a grin.

'I should have imagined you knew most of the plays by heart, Stepfather.'

But behind Vince's gentle mockery was remembrance that
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
had been his mother's last present to his stepfather on his birthday, just weeks before she died. Since then he had carried it everywhere with him, sad memento of a happy marriage and dear Lizzie herself.

'Please yourself, Stepfather, but it's a longish walk,' said Vince, tucking the small wooden box under his arm.

At the lodge gates, he shook his head. 'No, not straight up the drive. If you aren't too tired.'

Faro's blunt reception of this concern for his well-being was in keeping with his refusal to be pampered by his doctor stepson.

'Good,' said Vince and led the way up the steep cliff path. On the rocks far below and in the shallows offshore the seals barked like maddened dogs.

Faro paused and looked down. 'I'd swear they were keeping pace with us. It's really quite uncanny.'

'They always behave like that at this time of year, or so I'm told.'

'Of course,' said Faro. 'This is St Ola's Summer.'

'Quite. When they remember the saint who lived as a hermit on Balfray. That is the Christian interpretation. There are others.'

Faro laughed. 'In pagan days, they used to believe that this was when the seal king returned to his kingdom under the waves, with a mortal bride. A grand finale to his quest, after having taken human shape and lived with men at Lammastide.'

'Used to believe, did you say? Let me tell you that they still believe every word of it They all do lip-service to Christianity of course, but you couldn't get any lass to walk along these cliffs alone after dark, not for a handsome prince or a purse of golden guineas.'

At his stepfather's disbelieving glance, Vince added firmly, 'I mean it.'

Faro shook his head. 'Some people will believe anything.'

Such beliefs he regarded as yet another part of the islands' refusal to enter the nineteenth century. The kind of ignorance and superstition which had sent him hurrying away to make a life in Edinburgh twenty years ago.

As they entered the sea walk which separated them from the castle Faro marvelled at the stretch of trees, an extension of those he had observed clustered round the castle as the boat approached. Their gnarled appearance gave testimony to an uneasy grip on life, as they fought for survival against the elements, clinging together, huddling in tight groups against the autumn winds which yearly stripped the new growth and kept them permanently stunted.

A leafy tunnel emerged into an arbour where a former Balfray laird had thoughtfully provided stone seats. The addition of a quartet of contemplative Greek statues established the illusion of a restful sheltered spot. Here the ladies from the castle might exercise their dogs and children on winter days, the cambered walk protecting the hems of their dresses from contamination by the never-absent damp.

'Let's sit here, shall we?'

'Splendid idea,' said Faro, lighting his pipe.

Vince watched this operation in silence. 'I need a breather before we face Francis again - and the house of mourning. At least Grandma will be so surprised, and delighted, to see you.'

Faro winced at the prospect of his mother's delight which would include a refusal to allow him to do anything for himself, or admit the possibility that he might also be competent to think for himself.

When she was not persuading him that he was, like all men without a woman in their lives, utterly helpless, she indulged in an unending tide of gossip. This mainly concerned people her son had never heard of, nor, on the strength of their entire life histories, had any wish for further acquaintance.

Once again Vince glanced cautiously over his shoulder. 'We can be quite private here. I have rather a lot to tell you, Stepfather, before we reach the others. This is the one place where I suspect we won't be overlooked or overheard.'

'For heaven's sake, lad, you're being very mysterious.

Overlooked indeed. I thought I was the policeman in the family.'

There was no answering smile from his stepson who merely nodded, frowning. 'I must say I'm heartily glad to see you here. I was in the devil of a fix. Have been ever since Thora died. You see, I was certain from almost the moment I examined her that she wasn't suffering from a wasting illness.'