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
