'Coming, sir.'
The poacher, suddenly deflated, tipped Faro an embarrassed wink and allowed himself to be meekly led away.
'When did this happen?' Faro asked Bowden, nodding towards the bull's head.
'A while back. Duffy can't keep his hands off anything that might fetch a few pennies.' And, refusing to be drawn into any further conversation with a stranger, the barman returned to polishing the counter as if his life depended on a shining, stain-free surface.
Faro's bedroom boasted a cheery fire and a large four-poster bed, plus the uneven floor of antiquity which creaked at every step. His door added to this orchestra of rheumatic boards. Testing the bed gingerly, he was pleased to find that the mattress was of a more modern vintage than the faded velvet canopy and ragged, brocade curtains.
Drawing the oil lamp closer, he took out his notebook and logged the day's events, ending: 'Wild bull's horns missing from public bar. Duffy might know something about the Elriggs and be willing to talk for a fee? Talk to him again!'
He slept well that night and awoke to the appetising smell of ham and eggs. He was relieved to find that his digestion was not hampered by the presence of the chilly lady at the breakfast table, and ten o'clock was striking on the church clock as he walked down the main street.
Between the post office and barber's shop, a one-time cottage bore on its window the words POLICE STATION. A narrow hallway ended in a door with a heavy bolt and a heavily barred square cut out of the central panel. It might serve as an imposing warning to the local inhabitants, but Faro doubted whether it had ever held a criminal with violent inclinations and uncongenial habits.
Opening the door marked ENQUIRIES, PLEASE ENTER, he stepped into what had once been the parlour. A large desk sat uneasily against one wall while a wooden form opposite offered uncomfortable seats for inquirers.
The constable on duty had the healthy look of an elderly countryman who has had a good life: white-haired, apple—cheeked and overweight. He nodded in reply to Faro's question and pointed to the closed door.
'It's Sergeant Yarrow you'll be wanting, sir. He has a visitor - if you'll just take a seat.'
Pondering on the hierarchy of two policemen in charge of a village station, Faro heard men's voices raised angrily from behind the half-glassed door on the other side of the room.
'You'd better do something about it, then.' The first voice was cultured, authoritative.
'I'm doing all I can -' The second voice was slow, weary.
'Which isn't half good enough. I demand permission to excavate the site,' was the reply.
'I cannot grant that. You know perfectly well it was refused by your late uncle -'
'Who is happily no longer with us,' said the first man, cutting short the weary man's shocked exclamation. 'It was just his pig-headedness after all, his sense of possession. Scared that I might find a treasure trove or some such nonsense. And, dammit, on what is, if there was any justice left in this country, my own land after all.'
'Look, sir,' there was an attempt at mollification in the other speaker's voice. 'Not a bit of use going on like this. I know you have a right to feel resentment, but the police can't help you here. It's lawyers - good ones - you're needing.'
'Lawyers, you say. I've wasted years trying to prove my inheritance. I've lived in a cramped, damp cottage when my rightful place should have been up there - in the castle. Damn you, man, you know all this, you know how unjust he's been, but you're on his side. He bought the law just as he bought everything else.'
The other man's protest was cut short by a sound suspiciously like a fist thumping a table followed by a crash.
The constable regarded Faro nervously, suspected this scene was making a bad impression and decided to intervene. Taking the law into his own hands, he marched to the closed door and rapped loudly on it.
'Visitor to see you, Sergeant.'
The door opened and, with a final curse, a young man exploded into the office and vanished out of the hallway.
'I seem to have come at an awkward time,' said Faro, aware that his words were a masterpiece of understatement.
Sergeant Yarrow did not rise to greet him. Perhaps this was due to the vexation caused by the angry young man's hasty exit, but Faro felt that his reception was less than cordial.
Closer to Faro in age than the constable at the desk, he did not look nearly as fit. There was nothing of the rosy-cheeked countryman about his sallow complexion and heavily lined face. Only his eyes were remarkable, a bright pale blue with the iris clearly defined.
As Faro introduced himself in his assumed role, he realised that the sergeant must once have possessed outstanding good looks with such eyes and black curling hair, now thin and grey.
Even as he wondered what suffering had brought about this premature ageing, with a weary sigh Yarrow began impatiently rustling the papers on his desk, his gesture indicating that such callers as Mr Jeremy Faro were wasting his time.
Put out by his attitude, Faro was almost tempted to reveal his true identity but thought better of it instantly. The whole point of his mission was to remain incognito. An insurance investigator was within his rights to interview the policeman who had examined the deceased after the accident and talk to the doctor who had signed the death certificate.
'Was there a coroner's inquest?'
Yarrow stared at him. 'Of course. A verdict of accidental death was recorded. You had better talk to Constable Dewar about it,' he added sharply, eyeing his piles of paper as if straining to get back to really important business. 'He has all the
