'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.
Pride, however, forbade any dwelling at length on his personal weaknesses of foot and mouth to his young stepson. After all, a man in his early forties wasn't all that old. There were politicians and a monarch ruling the country who were much older than himself, not to mention policemen still walking the beat. Men like Constable Dewar.
Over a pint of ale and a game pie in the almost deserted dining room of the inn, Faro returned to Sir Archie's fatal accident - or was it murder? Glancing over the notes
