This was the area in which McQuinn excelled. The boy who had left Ireland in the disastrous years after the potato famine had grown up to be a man of the people. There was no class barrier for Danny McQuinn. He could be relied upon to ferret out confidences that would never be given, tongue-tied and scared, in the awesome presence of a senior detective inspector. Servants felt at ease with McQuinn with his homely Irish wit, his charm with the humblest of maids, each one of whom he treated like a well-born lady. Such methods would be sure to find a way to get - and to keep - them talking.
Closing the church door behind him, Faro made his way slowly through the tombstones, reading the inscriptions
'Good day to you, sir!'
The vicar, a tall figure in flowing black robes and white bands, hurried towards him.
'Perhaps I can help you, sir. Are you searching for someone in particular?'
As Faro murmured that he was just interested in old stones, Reverend Cairncross's natural curiosity about this stranger in their midst showed a disarmingly human side to the man of God whose ascetic face and lean frame were that of a medieval monk. His appearance suggested that he had been only recently removed from penning illuminated manuscripts in Melrose Abbey.
'You are, I believe, Mr - Faro - the insurance assessor?'
Thus confronted, Faro did not feel up to the direct lie. Yes, indeed, he was here in connection with Sir Archie's death.
That was strictly true.
Reverend Cairncross murmured sympathetically but the word 'death' had injected a sudden chill into his manner. The sudden tightening of his lips and his brooding gaze in the direction of the Castle hinted louder than any words that the Elriggs were not the most popular of his parishioners.
The uncomfortable silence between the two men was broken as a plump middle-aged woman appeared round the side of the church carrying a large basket.
She was introduced as Mrs Cairncross and Faro smiled. The bevy of children at her side indicated the danger of taking people at their face value. The priestly countenance, which suggested monastic celibacy, was gravely in error.
Mrs Cairncross greeted him warmly, talked kindly but anxiously about the weather. These civilities were interrupted as a young woman appeared from the direction of the church gate.
As she was introduced as 'our eldest daughter, Miss Harriet Cairncross', Faro noted that she had inherited her mother's comely looks and curves.
'Are you a bowman, by any chance, Mr Faro?' said Mrs Cairncross.
'Alas, no.'
'A pity,' said her husband, eyeing him narrowly. 'You have an excellent sturdy frame, strong about the shoulders -'
Mrs Cairncross interrupted laughingly, 'Alfred is a great enthusiast. He won the coveted Gold Arrow three years ago and has never forgotten it. I almost said it went to his head,' she giggled helplessly and Reverend Cairncross patted her arm affectionately.
'I can recommend archery to you, sir. A grand healthy relaxation and I tell myself much more in keeping with the Bible than guns.'
'Even if you are not an archer, sir, you must come to the fete in the church hall afterwards,' insisted Mrs Cairncross.
'Mr Faro is an insurance assessor, my dear. He is engaged at the Castle at present.'
Faro observed that the vicar's grip on his wife's arm tightened perceptibly. His words, spoken lightly but with a hint of warning, suddenly changed the scene from being warm and welcoming. It was as if a chill wind had blown over the little group. The daughter stepped back as if taking refuge, hiding behind her mother, and Faro's quick ears detected a strangled sob from the girl as her father bowed a dismissal in his direction.
Seizing her arm as if to restrain her from flight, his head close to hers, chiding or comforting, he propelled her in the direction of the manse.
Mrs Cairncross darted a helpless look at the pair of them, turned to Faro, opened her mouth as if to say something and, unable to think of anything to fit the occasion, turned on her heel and hurried after them.
Left standing, Faro regarded their swift departure thoughtfully. Curious behaviour indeed, remembering that warning tone clear as a bell as he was being introduced by the vicar to his wife and pretty daughter.
As he continued his perusal of the tombstones, he stored away in his excellent memory the picture of the consternation that the vicar's words 'at the Castle' had struck. A chord that the ominous words 'Detective Inspector Faro' normally aroused in those whose consciences trembled with guilt.
Now he wondered what the Cairncross family had to hide. Their reactions could hardly have been more dramatic had they known his real identity. The blight that mention of Elriggs or Castle brought into the most friendly and ordinary conversations was becoming uncomfortably familiar, swiftly changing listeners' attitudes from geniality to suspicious alertness, tense and watchful as the wild cattle on the hill.
Experienced as he was in the nuances of criminal attitudes, such strange behaviour fascinated him, as he wondered how many more village folk would be thrown into panic and consternation by the innocent announcement of his business at Elrigg.
Continuing his inspection of the gravestones, which was proving singularly uneventful, he was once again seized by a fit of sneezing. Aware of being tired and hoping this was not the prelude to a fever, he sat down on a rustic seat sheltered by the church wall.
Taking out his handkerchief, he encountered the book Miss Crowe had dropped. The History of Civilisation by Henry Thomas Buckle. A curious choice, he thought, for a young woman whose main reading was of the sensational kind. Opening it at the bookmarked page he read:
Of all offences, it might well be supposed that the crime of murder is one of the most
