[Inspector Faro 14] - Faro and the Royals

than ever he needed time to himself, to think over his talk and plan his next move. All his life, in times of crisis he had learned the value of his own society, of retreating into his own thoughts. Although he sometimes found it difficult to convince his family, and his two daughters in particular, that being solitary was not the same as being alone.

 Yes, it had been a good idea to keep his train's arrival time to himself, he decided, sitting back to enjoy the glory of a perfect autumn day and surprising the cab driver with his request to be put down at the college gates.

 ‘It’s a fair step, mister, a mile or more,' the driver said, looking his 'fare' over with the gimlet eye of long experience. ‘Another sixpence will see you to the very door.'

 Although in appearance every indication of a gentleman, smartly dressed and carrying hand luggage, in the driver's experience, well-to-do travellers were often the most ready to niggle over a few extra coppers. He looked slightly confused realising from Faro's shrewd expression that his thoughts had been rightly interpreted.

 ‘I like to walk, cabbie. And it’s a fine afternoon for it.'

 The entrance to Glenatholl was marked by a handsome lodge and a winding drive of rhododendrons. A riot of colour in summer, no doubt, but now flowerless, the unmoving mass of dark impenetrable green appeared gloomy and somewhat forbidding.

 Faro consulted his watch. Still almost an hour before he was due to give his talk. Time for a little exercise, time to breathe and stretch his long legs. Time, also, for that last invaluable glance at his notes, to commit as much as possible to memory.

 He hated the idea of standing at a lectern reading his almost illegible writing and he hated wearing the eyeglasses he needed for such tasks these days. It wasn't so much pride, the threat of increasing age and its toll on such faculties, he could deal with that, but he had a natural abhorrence of relying on anything, however trifling, that threatened his independence. And eyeglasses he regarded as such, a crutch for use ‘in extremis’, a weakness not yet for public exhibition.

 As he walked, the heavy green bushes opened into a vista of archery course and playing fields where boys were playing out-of-season cricket, doubtless using the time for valuable practice. Beyond the fields arose the turrets and roof of the college. Across an expanse of turf near at hand was a walled garden. Hoping to find a seat for his meditations, Faro found the gate open and was soon making his way down a terrace flanked by stern-visaged toga-clad Roman senators.

 Excellent! The right company for one making a speech, he decided, walking between the two lines of statues to a gazebo, in keeping with the style of ancient Rome overlooking an artificial lake. The swans on the lake, although the same ghostly white as the senators, were at least living and watched his approach with curiosity. Bathed in sunshine, the gazebo's stone benches would provide a tolerably warm place with enough light to read his notes.

 His profession of catching criminals unawares had taught him to walk noiselessly. ('Like a prowling cat,' was Vince's verdict.) He had not lost that ability and suddenly discovered that he was not alone. From the other side of the stone benches, which were high and placed back to back, a small figure emerged with a startled exclamation.

 A boy, aged about twelve he thought, with a book in hand. He had not heard Faro's approach and now, blushing scarlet, he bowed. The miniature frock coat, striped trousers, winged collar and college tie indicated a pupil.

 'My apologies, sir. I - I am just leaving.'

 Faro smiled. 'Not at all. I believe you were here first.'

 The boy came fully into the light, still clutching his book and Faro was amused to see, in large gold letters, ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’.

 Faro warmed to the young reader, for he had a similar edition it home, the last birthday gift from his beloved Lizzie. He never tired of the plays and sonnets and it was the companion of many of his travels. After so many years, travel-worn with loose pages here and there and generally dog-eared, its decrepit appearance managed to offend Imogen's sense of tidiness. She was constantly threatening to buy him an up-to-date edition and he, equally as constantly, saying he didn't want one. This was an old friend, its companionship older than her own and that was that!

 The boy, aware of his gaze, clutched the volume self-consciously. 'I have to learn Mark Antony's speech for tonight. We are to entertain a very important guest.'

 Faro smiled. 'Indeed.' He decided it would be unkind to add to the boy's embarrassment by revealing his identity. Instead he asked, 'Do you like Shakespeare?'

 'Oh, very much indeed, sir. I should like to be an actor.' A shake of the head. 'Although I don't care for learning speeches.'

 'Neither do I,' was the sympathetic reply.

 A good-looking boy with fair hair tending to curl, deep blue eyes, good features, tall and slim. Faro had seen someone who this boy reminded him of, something in his manner, but the devil of it was that he couldn't think where. He certainly had presence and looks enough to suggest he would make an actor, as in sudden confidence, he went on:

 ‘I have often thought I would like to run away and go on the stage. It would have been easy had I lived in Shakespeare's day, sir, when boys played all the female roles. Though I should not care greatly for that,' he added hastily. 'I'd rather be Julius Caesar than Lady Macbeth.'

 Faro laughed. 'Is there any reason why you should not be an actor when you leave college?'

 The boy coloured slightly. ‘My mother - she would never permit it - I have other obligations, you see.' That sounded like a set piece. 'But I do like Shakespeare very much. He is my favourite since I