As Faro continued on his way, he made a mental picture of the scene in the copse. Mark, Hector and a few anonymous 'estate folk', any of whom could ride a horse and might have found Sir Archie lying injured. From what he had learned, all the tenants were expert archers. It didn't take much stretch of. the imagination to realise that the bull's horn might be used as a murder weapon.
He considered the time factor. Although it took the best part of thirty minutes to walk briskly to the copse from the Castle, ten minutes on a swift mount was all that was required, taking well-known short cuts over fields and fences.
Luck had been with the murderer, since Sergeant Yarrow's arrival had been delayed by his horse going lame. A murderer who was clever - or desperate - who had discovered the bull's horns and realised the possibilities or re-enacting the death of the actor Philip Gray by blaming it on the wild cattle.
His thoughts were irresistibly drawn once more to Hector Elrigg. He could not dismiss him from his list of possible suspects. He spent most of his working days at the hillfort with the copse in clear view, his cottage less than a hundred yards away.
And Hector was an expert archer.
Chapter 18
Deep in thought, Faro was halfway between the Castle drive and the village when the rain began. A few preliminary warning spots became a torrential downpour. Taking refuge in the only available shelter offered by a large but still leafless oak tree whose branches hung over the estate wall, he gazed longingly towards a cottage on the other side of the road.
Smoke issued from its chimney bringing the scent of a peat fire. Lamplight gleamed in its windows. Suddenly the door opened and a lady beckoned to him.
'Won't you come and take shelter, sir? It is only a shower, and it will soon pass...'
Faro recognised the schoolteacher Miss Halliday. And needing no second bidding, he raced across the intervening ground and followed her into the kitchen where a kettle whistled merrily on a large fire.
The room was well filled with bookshelves, every inch of wall covered by framed paintings, every foot of floor by sofas and soft-cushioned chairs. The hands of the needlewoman, either her own or those of her pupils, had been industriously employed through the years.
She pointed to the kettle. 'I was about to make myself a cup of tea when I looked out of the window, thinking my poor plants - how they would welcome a drink. And there you were, poor gentleman - getting absolutely drenched. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea while we try to dry you off.'
Faro insisted that he wasn't very wet, thanks to her timely intervention, but the tea would be most welcome.
As he introduced himself as Mr Faro, Miss Halliday smiled wordlessly and held out her hands for his coat. 'Wait a moment till I set a place for you at the table - oh yes, I insist,' she said and, indicating the papers she bundled on to the sideboard: 'Two of our little girls, sisters, have gone down with scarlet fever, poor dears. I have to fill these in for Sergeant Yarrow.' She sighed. 'I do hope we don't have to be quarantined and our little school closed.'
Faro murmured sympathetically as she set before him a plate of scones.
'By my cookery class,' she said proudly. 'They are quite excellent. Do try them.'
His initial misgivings were quickly set aside and he accepted a second helping.
She looked pleased. 'The dear children, all of them have their own special gift, there isn't one of them who doesn't shine at something. If they aren't clever at sums then they are usually very good with their hands. Do you have children, sir?'
Faro told her about Emily and Rose and she listened, smiling, and nodded sympathetically when she heard he was a widower.
'I can tell you are very proud of your daughters, a pity they cannot live in Edinburgh with you, but I think you have made the right decision, the countryside is a much better and safer choice for children to grow up in. Won't you came and sit by the fire?'
As he sank into a comfortable chair, he sighed. 'What a pretty house you have, Miss Halliday.' Noticing how some of her movements were slow and rheumatic, he added, 'Would it not be more convenient to live on the school house premises?'
She laughed. 'I know what you're thinking, Mr Faro, a big barn of a house for one elderly lady without any servants. But you see this has always been my home. I was born in this house, so were my parents and grandparents. It was a farmhouse in those days. Do you know, Sir Walter Scott once stayed here,' she added proudly. 'We have his letter.' And she pointed to a framed letter among the many watercolours.
'How fascinating, Miss Halliday. Why, Sir Walter is one of my heroes. I've read all his books.'
'And so have I. Well, he most likely sat on that very same chair you are occupying now, Mr Faro. Here you are -' and so saying she took down the letter. 'Read it - aloud, if you please, I love to hear his words.'
Touching through the glass that well-beloved handwriting which had brought so many hours of pleasure, Faro began:
Behold a letter from the mountain, for I am very snugly settled here in a farmer's house, about six miles from Wooler, in the very centre of the Cheviot Hills, in one of the wildest and most romantic situations... To add to my satisfaction we are midst places renowned by the feats of former days; each hill is crowned with a tower, or camp, or cairn; and in no situation
