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 the 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
