Read The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 Online
Authors: Alanna Knight
The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (7 page)
'I could have been wrong. I admit that. The rescue party
from the castle with horses and the like would have covered up
any other tracks.'
He paused, looking back towards the village, remembering.
'I told Her Ladyship. She was very upset and there was a great
deal of bustle in the house. Maids rushing this way and that. The other gentleman, the one with the beard, that had been
riding with His Lordship, he was leaving. He seemed to be in a
great hurry.'
Dewar shook his head, at a loss to know how to continue but
with condemnation in every line of his face. 'A very important
guest, he was,' he said heavily. Again he hesitated, aware that
Faro was a stranger, then he continued: 'As you maybe know, sir,
His Lordship is - was - equerry to the Prince of Wales. You'd
have thought in the circumstances he'd have waited...'
His lip curled scornfully, indicating more than any words, his contempt for this very important guest who did not even
stay long enough to see Sir Archie carried home, to comfort his
bereaved family and respectfully see him laid to rest.
Did Dewar know the identity of the bearded gentleman? It
was quite outside the strict purpose of police procedure laid
down for the protection of royalty for the local police not to be informed of the Prince's incognito. It indicated that the
Northumberland Constabulary treated such visitors much more
casually than the Edinburgh City Police, where royalty brought
safety measures to a fever pitch of activity.
Presumably Sergeant Yarrow had been lulled into a false sense of security by the Chief Constable being kin to the laird
and subscribed to the view that in this remote village outside
time, where the Elriggs ruled supreme, assassins and murderers
never lurked.
Chapter 8
As he followed Constable Dewar across the field, Faro noticed on the other side of the copse an area roped off on the raised
plateau with evidence of an archaeological dig.
That's Mr Hector Elrigg's domain,' Dewar told him.
Faro looked at him. 'Another Elrigg?'
'Sir Archie's nephew,' said Dewar, and continued, 'the old
hillfort was built long before the Romans came - or anyone else
for that matter. Except the cattle, of course - they were roaming
about long before men set foot in the Cheviots. Mr Hector's
been digging there for years. I think he's hoping for buried
treasure...
'Claims that all this is rightly his, that his father was tricked
out of his inheritance. Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, it
was all wine, women and gambling with Mr Malcolm, the
young Master of Elrigg. He was not a good man,' said Dewar
reluctantly, 'and he'd have gone to prison and the estate sold, if it hadn't been for Mr Archie, his younger brother.
'Mr Archie was completely different. As he didn't expect to inherit the title he'd gone off and built up a fine shipping line in Newcastle. He paid off all of his brother's debts, but Mr Archie
was a keen businessman and the price was high - Elrigg was to
be turned over to him - and his heirs.
'No one believed that Mr Malcolm would agree to such
terms, but agree he did. He signed the document, took a boat
out at Almouth and was never seen again. Mr Hector feels
bitter about it. A man can understand that. Having to lose his
rightful inheritance, in payment of his father's sins.'
As the village came in sight, Dewar asked: 'Where shall I set
you down, sir?'
'I'll come back with you, if I may, and have a word with
Sergeant Yarrow.'
'As you please, sir.'
'What can I do for you, Mr Faro?'
Sergeant Yarrow smiled, his greeting friendly and, as he indicated a seat opposite, Faro decided that their first meeting must have taken him at a bad moment, his calm ruffled by the
stormy interview with Hector Elrigg.
'Has Dewar been helpful?'
'Indeed he has. We have just returned from the site of the
accident.'
Yarrow nodded. 'And he gave you a report on what
happened?'
'He did. There are just a few questions which you might be
able to answer, sir.' Faro paused and Yarrow nodded agreement.
'Of course, I'll be glad to help, if I can.'
'Sir Archie was already dead when you reached him?'
'Alas, yes, I was too late.'
'What did you think when you examined the body, Sergeant?'
'That he hadn't been lying there very long. Perhaps half an hour. After sending Dewar off for help, I didn't reach the copse as fast as I intended. My damned horse went lame and I had to
lead her the last part - very cautiously I can tell you, with the
cattle roaming about.
'Fortunately I knew exactly where to find him. The copse is
the only bit of shelter this side of the hill. But the gentleman's
directions were very precise, considering the state he was in.
White as a sheet and very upset he was. Almost in tears.'
He sighed. 'Alas, by the time I got there, it was too late.
There was no sign of Sir Archie's horse. The cattle - they were
grazing nearby - and someone, presumably the gentleman in his
panic, had left the gate open.'
'And you think a bull had been attracted by the noise and
had charged the man on the ground?'
Even as Faro said the words, he found such a statement most
unlikely. The beast, he thought, was more likely to have been
scared off.
'You see, sir, the old bull, the king bull, would be enraged by
the blood, they smell blood - and fear, too, so I'm told.'
'Blood? I didn't know Sir Archie was bleeding.'
Yarrow shook his head. 'Not His Lordship's blood - his
own. Dewar probably mentioned that there had been a shoot
earlier in the week. It happens from time to time when guests
who want a shoot come to the castle. It was the same procedure
as in olden times, until lately. Like a hunt in the Middle Ages.'
'What do they use? Bows and arrows?' Faro asked in
amazement.
'That's right, sir. And crossbows. And everyone comes, a
regular festival with a feast afterwards. A notice goes up that a
wild bull will be killed on a certain day. The men - and some
of the women too - come on horse and foot and then the
horsemen ride off the bull that's the intended target.'
'Ride him off?'
'Yes, try and get him away from the rest of the herd. And
when he stands at bay, the chief marksman, usually His Lordship
or the most honoured guest, dismounts and fires the arrow. That goes on until the old bull succumbs. You can imagine that the old
fellow gets wilder and wilder, in pain as he is.'
'I can imagine,' said Faro sourly.
Yarrow gave him a quick glance. 'I - see you don't approve,
sir. No more than I do. I'm a town man myself but in the
country these traditions are hard to break. Everyone comes along who is capable of shooting an arrow, even little bairns.
The Elrigg family are born to it. Experts - Mr Hector and Mr
Mark were trained from when they could first hold a bow.'
He paused and smiled proudly. 'Everyone is encouraged to
take up the local sport and I'm now quite a good marksman myself, so is Dewar. But I prefer to stick to the archery field.
We'll be having our annual contest - for the Golden Arrow -
next week.'
'Really? With the castle in mourning?'
'Her Ladyship's decision. She said Sir Archie would have
wanted everything to go on as normal. He would have wished to have the contest and not disappoint all the tenants.'
'That was very far seeing of her,' said Faro as he wondered
at her motives.
'Come if you can. You'll be most welcome. The proceeds go
to the Elriggs' favourite charities.'
'I doubt whether I'll be here then. With all these arrows
flying about it might be a dangerous pastime for an observer.'
Yarrow frowned. 'The bull slaying was - for some. Not
always fatal but like the ones used in the Spanish bullfights,
they could turn very nasty. And that was when Sir Archie's
grandfather decided most humanely that the beast should be
finished off by rifle fire.'
'And that was what happened last week?'
'Yes. But some of them are not very good on the guns...'
He was silent, frowning before he continued: 'They thought
they wounded one, but not the king bull. They were probably
wrong and if His Lordship wasn't dead in the fall, and struggling
to get to the road, the bull might have seen and set about him
with his horns. It looked to me like that was the case -'
'What makes you think that?'
'He was gored in the back.' He shrugged away the unpleasant
picture. 'And that was the end of him.'
Again he fell silent, his face bleak, his expression harsh with
suffering. And Faro remembered that Yarrow had been seen
many deaths and had almost lost his own life.
'Did you see anyone else in the area - who could have helped
perhaps?'
Yarrow regarded him curiously. 'Not in the immediate
vicinity,' he said heavily.
'But near enough?' said Faro eagerly.
He looked away. 'Hector Elrigg, Sir Archie's nephew. You -
almost - met when you came to the station,' he added with a
wry grimace. 'When I found Sir Archie, Hector was working at
the hillfort.' He drew a deep breath. 'I shouted to him for
help...'
'And ...' said Faro softly.
Yarrow gave him a glance of desperate appeal. 'Look, there
is probably nothing in this at all. I just didn't care for his
attitude. He was rather flippant about the whole thing. A
downright refusal, sir, that's what I got from Hector Elrigg,' he
added in shocked tones.
'From what you heard when you arrived earlier on, you'll
realise he's a difficult sort of young devil, but I try to be fair—
minded. And I'm certainly not suggesting that Hector seriously
wished his uncle dead or would have tried to bring it about.
Not at all.'
Wondering whether he should have revealed his true identity to
Yarrow, Faro returned to the inn. In the empty bar he had a
good look at the bull's magnificent de-horned head and decided
that in life he must have been an ugly customer to face.
No doubt the Prince, despite his readiness to mow down everything in sight on a shoot, completely lost his nerve when he was unarmed - and left the gate open in his hasty retreat.
And Faro would have given much to know more about that
quarrel between the Prince and his equerry, the reasons for
which he had delicately omitted in his letter to the Queen. Had Poppy Elrigg been the reason, or had the Prince lost at cards?
Whatever the quarrel, it had been serious enough for him to
cut short his visit to Elrigg. Was his anxiety to escape scandal or blackmail the only reason why he had been reported as
'abroad' and unable to attend the funeral of his equerry?
But Faro now had another strand leading into the labyrinth.
Yarrow's revelations regarding Sir Archie's nephew, who was
also in the vicinity, had posed yet another question over the
events of that day.
As he made notes of his interviews with the local police, Faro
was left with an uneasy feeling of something he had missed.
Something of vital importance. And what began as a personal
command from Her Majesty, to prove for her anxious pride
that her son, the future King of England, was not a coward, was already showing unmistakable signs of developing into a worse
scandal.
Murder.
As he walked briskly in the direction of the castle to talk again
to the devoted couple who had been his prime suspects, Lady
Elrigg and her stepson Mark, Faro was already adding one
other name. That of Hector Elrigg.
Even as he did so, he realised his behaviour was one of habit.
But it was also quite out of order and he must not give in to
temptation but merely regard it as an exercise in detection to fill in the few days before Vince's arrival, an investigation dictated
by personal curiosity and the challenge set by a long-buried victim, no clues and some very vague suspects.
If murder was involved then he had no rights beyond turning
over any evidence he found to Sergeant Yarrow, who would
doubtless stir himself out of the torpor of Elrigg village and its
feudal system and, remembering his old skills, do an efficient
job of seeing justice done.
As for himself, he must return to Edinburgh, report to Her
Majesty that her son was guiltless - of cowardice. She need
never know that he had narrowly escaped being involved in a murder inquiry, much more difficult to live down for a future
King of England than a divorce scandal.
Chapter 9
Later that morning, Faro was retracing his steps along the
Castle drive. He was in no very good temper, for it had been a
wasted journey. The ancient butler had informed him quite
firmly that there was no one at home and, in terms that
suggested shocked effrontery, no, he had not the least idea when
Her Ladyship and Mr Mark might be expected to return.
The weather too fitted Faro's mood of exasperation. How on
earth did one bring any possible criminal investigation to a
satisfying conclusion in such circumstances as he faced at
Elrigg? Small wonder policemen like Dewar and Yarrow were
only too glad to accept 'accidental death' and close the inquiries
as fast as possible.
Rounding up suspects over a wide area, much less trying to
interview them, faced with ancient retainers like the Castle
butler, was a daunting prospect for even the most experienced
detective.
Police procedure in Edinburgh's Central Office, well
documented and with carriages on hand, had never seemed
more agreeable to Faro as he walked past the archery field, the
scene of the Elriggs' medieval pursuits.
He quickened his steps as, on both sides of the drive, storm-tossed rhododendrons shivered and swayed in the rising wind. If those swift-gathering rain clouds broke, he reckoned he was
in for a thorough soaking long before he reached the inn.
Seconds later, the warning patter of heavy raindrops on the
trees above his head had him running towards the gate lodge.
But the wooden porch he hoped would offer temporary shelter
was already leaking badly.
As he leaned back against the door, it yielded to his touch.
Presumably the cottage was not empty after all and, anxious
not to alarm the occupants, he applied his hand to the brass knocker. When there was no response, he stepped inside.
A woman's voice from upstairs greeted his entrance.
'Go through to the kitchen. The back door won't close
properly and the cupboard door has jammed. I'll be with you in
a minute.'
Faro did as he was bid. The cottage obviously had not been
lived in for some time. It felt damp and unwelcoming; the
furniture stood shrouded in attitudes of neglect that he felt
often characterised inanimate objects in deserted houses.
In the kitchen, a fire recently lit crackled feebly and a book lying open beside provisions scattered on the table suggested a
new tenant had taken possession.
Insatiably curious about other people's reading matter, from
which Faro believed there might be much to be gained in the matter of observation and deduction, he picked it up and read:
We hear every day of murders committed in the country. Brutal and treacherous murder; slow, protracted agonies
from poisons administered by some kindred hand;
sudden and violent deaths by cruel blows, inflicted with
a stake cut from some spreading oak, whose every
shadow promised - Peace. In the country of which I
write, I have been shown a meadow in which, on a quiet
summer Sunday evening, a young farmer murdered the
girl who loved and trusted him; and yet, even now, with
the stain of that foul deed upon it, the aspect of the spot
is - Peace. No species of crime has ever been committed
in the worst rookeries of the Seven Dials that has not
been also done in the face of that rustic calm which still,
in spite of all, we look on with a tender, half-mournful
yearning, and associate with - Peace.
The passage was heavily underscored, the word 'Elrigg?' written
in the margin. But what surprised Faro most of all was its title:
Lady Audley's Secret. Written by Mary Elizabeth Braddon in the
1860s, it belonged to the category of 'Sensation' novels, whereby
authors came by their plots from real-life murders and
sensational crimes reported in the newspapers.
'Have you found the problem?' called the voice from upstairs,
obviously wondering at his silence.
'I believe so,' Faro called and tackling the back door
discovered the cause to be rusted hinges. Such a domestic
challenge was always calculated to put him on his mettle, as his
housekeeper Mrs Brook was well aware.
On a shelf beside the kitchen dresser, he found what he was
looking for, an oil can. A liberal application soon had the
offending door working nicely again and, encouraged by this
success, he was turning his attention to the cupboard door
when light footsteps in the passage announced the occupier's
approach.
There are some other jobs you might tackle now that you've
deigned to put in an appearance.'
Half turning his head in the gloom, with sinking heart Faro
recognised the acid tones of the chilly lady who he had fondly
imagined was now travelling far from Elrigg.
She was not a prepossessing sight, her abundant hair tied
loosely in a scarf and clad in a capacious and none-too-clean
apron. She regarded him curiously.
'So, you are the new factor. Well, well,' she added as if
surprised by the discovery. 'They said you might look in.'
Indignant, Faro stood up and drew himself to his full height. Unperturbed, she looked him over and taking in every detail of
his appearance she said: 'Or am I mistaken? Is it the new
gardener, you are?'
This was too much for even Faro. Notoriously uncaring in
sartorial matters, he decided that although his clothes were by no
means new, they did not merit such an outrageous assumption.
'No, madam,' he said coldly. 'I am neither gardener nor
factor. I happened to be passing on my way from the Castle
when the rain began -I was simply taking shelter -'
'Spying -' she interrupted, pointing a finger at him.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Spying,' she repeated accusingly. 'Of course, you're a
policeman.'
Taken aback, he stared at her. 'What makes you think -?'
'Oh, don't bother to deny it. I saw you going into the police
station this morning. I guessed right, didn't I?' she demanded
triumphantly. 'You're here about Sir Archie?'
Faro remained speechless as she continued: 'You'll get no help from Constable Dewar, I'm afraid. He's not very good at
his job. Or that poor doomed fellow Yarrow, who's in charge -'
'What makes you say he's doomed?'
She looked at him strangely. 'I just know such things. I can
see them written in people's faces.'
'Indeed. Psychic, are you?' he said mockingly.
She shrugged. 'Sometimes. I know things. I get flashes about
people. Like you - like policemen,' she added sourly.
With the kitchen table between them, they glared at each other, adversaries poised in anticipation of the next move.
Finally, she gave way, and with a shrug walked over to the
back door. Opening and closing it a few times, she nodded and
said grudgingly: 'You did a good job, I'll say that for you.
Thanks. I didn't feel very secure or very comfortable with it
open to the four winds.'
'So you're a town lady?'
'Ye-es. How did -?'
'Country folk don't lock doors.'
''Touché.’ For the first time she smiled, an expression, Faro admitted reluctantly, that quite transformed her face.
As he walked towards the front door, she said: 'What about
the cupboard then?'
Faro looked at her and went over to the offending door. A
vigorous tug and it responded. Turning, he gave her a grin of
satisfaction. 'That's all it needed.'
'I see,' she said slowly. 'Brute strength! That was the answer.'
Faro merely nodded and preparing to take his leave, he
asked: 'How long have you been living here?'
'Oh, about a month - on and off. I come and go.'
'You're not from these parts, are you?'
'Neither are you,' she said sharply.
Again Faro was taken aback, but before he could reply she
said: 'I'm Irish. I took you for a Scot at first, but your accent
isn't quite right.'
Faro smiled. 'That's very perceptive of you. I'm from Orkney.'
She opened the door. 'I've never been there.'
On the doorstep he turned. 'Are you staying here long?'
'Depends,' she said suspiciously.
Faro was about to ask 'On what?' As if reading his thoughts,
she added: 'Depends on when my money runs out.' Poking her
head out, she looked at the sky and dismissed him with the
words: 'The rain's stopped. You can go now.'
As he stepped outside, she said, 'Name's Imogen Crowe.'
'Pleased to meet you, Miss Crowe,' he said, feeling hypocritical.
'How do you know I'm "Miss"?' she demanded.
'That's easy.' He pointed to her hand. 'No ring.'
And as he walked away, she called, 'What's your name?'
'Faro. Jeremy Faro.'
'Is that Sergeant or just plain Constable Faro?'
'Just plain Mister will do nicely. I'm an insurance assessor,'
he said acidly, in time to see a grin of mocking disbelief on
her face as she banged the door behind him too quickly for
politeness.
Going over that brief conversation, he didn't even give her
credit for guessing he was a policeman, although that was
extraordinary. He must take more care in future. There might be others about Elrigg as sharp as Miss Crowe, but he doubted that.
He didn't like her. He had no logical reason except hurt male
pride and something about her that quite illogically nettled him.
And almost angrily he shook his head, in an attempt to dismiss
her completely from his thoughts.
At the inn a letter from Vince awaited him. 'Have managed to
get an invitation to Miss Gilchrist's eightieth birthday
celebration. Arriving with Owen and Olivia on Saturday. Plan
to take an extra couple of days off, give Balfour a chance to become better acquainted with the patients! If you're not too
busy with crime, I'd appreciate the opportunity of some decent
tramping about, go to Hexham and walk the Roman Wall.'
Faro groaned. Vince never considered distances, while he
became less agreeably aware that his feet, like his teeth, were
not what they had been twenty-five years ago when the young
lad from Orkney, Constable Jeremy Faro, had joined the
Edinburgh City Police. To wear and tear of the damage done by
years of ill-fitting boots, time had added sundry injuries
acquired during many an altercation with villains.
Old stab and gun wounds to various parts of his body still
plagued his extremely robust frame. Sore feet were more easily
dealt with. He had found a temporary cure, and liked nothing
better than pleasurably soaking them in a basin of warm soapy
water which Mrs Brook sympathetically provided for him after
supper. With a pipe of tobacco and a book propped before him,
he was quite addicted to this secret vice. Such bliss - as he
wriggled his toes, his joy was complete.
He preferred not to think of that other bane of his life.
Toothache. That too was becoming more frequent, although he
was consoled by the dental surgeon on his good fortune in
having all his front teeth, top and bottom, and most of his back
molars in fine condition (the result of good heredity and rare
indulgence in sweet things).
Vince found his attitude extraordinary. That a brave man who fearlessly faced death and injuries inflicted by violent
criminals would suffer any agony rather than the inevitable
extraction of an aching tooth. As for Faro, he seldom
considered the miraculous human machine that carried him
through day after relentless day, except when it threw out an
occasional warning that chasing criminals had a definitely
ageing effect.
