'The patriotism Scott believed in never existed,' she said as if she read his thoughts. 'All they knew was the law of the jungle, of every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. If patriotism of any kind existed, it was well down on their list of priorities.'
She pulled out a piece of grass from the fence and began to shred it. 'Patriotism that men die for - that's a different game, far removed from your fairy tales. Some of us know that only too well.'
He looked at her. The Irish accent she tried to suppress was stronger now, released by her passions.
'You are an authoress, are you not?'
She turned quickly to face him. 'How -'
'Ink stains on your fingernails, a valise full of papers -'
She held up her hand. 'I should have known - you being a policeman. Just my luck,' she murmured, turning away from him again.
'What brings you here?' he asked.
'What do you think? I'm writing a book, of course. One of your dreaded romances,' she said so mockingly he knew it to be a lie.
Staring at the horizon as though seeing a secret pageant of weeping ghosts, her eyes widened. Suddenly she shivered. 'I've had enough of this place. Can we go down now?'
It was a slow, silent journey; step by tortuous step, she leaned heavily on his arm.
When at last they set foot on the road, she looked pale and exhausted. Faro looked at her anxiously. How was she to manage the long walk to the lodge? The alternative was to carry her.
'Listen,' she said. 'Someone's coming.'
A pony trap bustled round the bend in the road.
Dr Brand stopped, raised his hat, looked from one to the other, smiling.
Miss Crowe limped towards him.
'An accident? Dear, dear.'
As she explained, he was already helping her into the cart with Faro's assistance.
'You too, Mr Faro. You're lucky I was along the road. Called out to a difficult birth. Yes, yes, both well and doing fine now. I'll see Miss Crowe safely home, bind up that ankle. I'll set you down at the inn, sir.'
But Faro had spent enough time in Miss Crowe's uncomfortable company. She was impossible. He hadn't changed his original opinion of her and was left quite unmoved by the common bond they shared in his hero, Sir Walter Scott.
As they drove off he was seized by a fit of sneezing. Putting his hand in his greatcoat pocket for a handkerchief, he encountered Miss Crowe's book.
Waving it, he called after them, but they were too distant to heed him.
'Damn and blast,' he said, returning it to his pocket. He sneezed again.
Chapter 14
Faro decided to visit the kirkyard. Vince might laugh at what he called his stepfather's morbid addiction but Faro found that such dalliance in the past had often saved him a considerable amount of walking. Many pieces of information could be gleaned and questions answered where there was no written evidence regarding past inhabitants.
As he walked his attention was drawn to a babble of shrill childish voices. It issued from the playground of the local school and indicated an earnest game of hopscotch.
The sound of a whistle blown by an elderly lady, grey-haired and pince-nezed, imposed immediate silence as the children swiftly formed a crocodile at the school door. Faro applauded the dominie's speedy control over forty or more pupils and he guessed that she had taught and disciplined, stern but kindly, at least two generations of Elrigg children.
Here was a contact worth following, he thought, as he continued on his way to the kirkyard where the lichened tombstones leaned at dangerous angles as if occupants rested uneasily in their graves. Surrounded by ancient cottages, it confirmed his awareness of being under observation. By now, his presence was known to the entire population, his identity a matter of tireless speculation. As, no doubt, was his appearance today with Miss Crowe, and equally distasteful as it might be to both, already interpreted as a budding romance.
At least he would prove them wrong, for, in the matter of Imogen Crowe, nothing was further from his thoughts as he concentrated on the task in hand.
Entering the church by the Norman door, he found himself facing a twelfth-century rounded chancel arch leading to the altar with its handsome rose window.
He knew enough about old churches to hazard a guess that Elrigg St Mary's with its square tower and narrow slit windows in the belfry tower had been built with defence as well as worship in mind, an additional place of security for the priest and worshippers to take refuge from raiders.
Never a religious man, Faro limited his appearances in the kirk of St Giles in Edinburgh to christenings, marriages and funerals but standing before the tiny altar surrounded by these ancient stones brought a feeling of peace and tranquillity, a sense of benediction.
If he had been a praying man, he would have seized the opportunity to beg for an audience, but he felt uncomfortable calling upon God's assistance when he was not a communicant of the Christian church. He looked up at the figure of Christ on the crucifix above the altar and, for one fanciful moment, it seemed that the Son of God's wry expression saw right through him and understood his problems very well indeed.
With a sigh, he wandered over to the stone effigies of the Elriggs who had dominated this piece of Northumberland for more than five hundred years. Elaborately carved and marbled, with a profusion of weeping angels, their tombs told him nothing and he wished, not for the first time, that he had with him his Sergeant, Danny McQuinn of the Edinburgh City Police.
He had never thought the Queen's mission would be simple, but the answers were turning out to be far more difficult than he had imagined. Living at the inn and carrying out inquiries at the Castle without proper authority to do so was fraught with frustrations. He felt that,
