'Stop a moment, sir,' Miss Halliday interrupted, her face gleaming with excitement. 'That dairy maid was my great-grandmother. Sir Walter was only twenty years old when he wrote that. He was still a law clerk in his father's office.'
She sighed happily. 'I like to think he might have been a little in love with that pretty girl. I do beg your pardon, sir, please continue.'
All the day we shoot, fish, walk and ride; dine and sup on fish struggling from the stream, and the most delicious health-fed mutton, barn door fowls, pies, mild-cheese, etc. all in perfection: and so much simplicity resides among these hills that a pen, which could write at least, was not to be found about the house, though belonging to a considerable farmer, till I shot the crow with whose quill I write this epistle.
Miss Halliday sighed. 'Thank you, sir. I do love to hear a man's voice read that letter, although I know every word of it. And you did it so nicely.' And rehanging it, she added: 'I like to think that perhaps he found his inspiration as a great author while staying in this house. I have been very fortunate today.' She smiled.
'Indeed?'
'Yes, I must confess that you are the second person who has so indulged me. A young lady, Miss Crowe.' She shook her head. 'A young lady of mystery, I might add. She comes and she goes. Perhaps you have met her? She lives at the Castle lodge.'
'She occasionally takes meals at the inn where I am staying.'
'Does she really?' said Miss Halliday eagerly. 'And what do you think of her?'
'I really haven't paid her much attention, to be honest.'
As Miss Halliday refilled the teapot, Faro sensed that she was disappointed with his answer, and that she would have very much enjoyed a little speculative gossip about the mysterious Miss Crowe.
Faro, however, was more keenly interested in the treasures that surrounded him, the walls with their watercolours. Photographs too, for this new fashion had obviously seized Miss Halliday's enthusiasm.
There were several paintings of pretty young children and in place of honour an outstanding watercolour portrait of a handsome young boy who stared out at them with large enquiring eyes and a slight shy smile. He seemed ready to speak, his expression reminding Faro of someone he had met recently.
'One of your paintings, Miss Halliday?'
She clasped her hands in delight. 'Indeed yes, I'm glad you approve of my little painting.'
'A relation perhaps?'
He expected to be told that this was indeed a favourite nephew but instead she shook her head sadly.
'Merely a favourite pupil.' She sighed. 'Poor dear little Eric, he was at school a few years ago, and I must confess that he was exactly like the son I would have wished for had I ever married.'
She paused and Faro asked; 'Where is he now? Grown up and away, I expect.'
'If only that were so.' She bit her lip and turned away, near to tears and Faro guessed the answer before she spoke.
'He is dead, sir. Killed on the estate here, a most tragic accident. He was with the young beaters, when a gun that one of the party was loading misfired.'
She shook her head, her eyes tragic. 'We could hardly believe such a thing could happen. You can imagine how everyone felt, we were heartbroken - guilty even, for the boy was only a visitor but we were all fond of him, he had made so many friends. And, of course, we all blamed ourselves for not taking better care of him.'
Faro looked at her. Loyalty obviously demanded discretion and according to Hector Elrigg, the gun had been in the hands of Sir Archie who had been drunk at the time.
As he was leaving, he realised sadly that this handsome young boy who had won his way into her spinsterly heart and tragically died had been Miss Halliday's nearest encounter with motherhood.
But the person the boy reminded him of remained stubbornly obscure.
Chapter 19
Six o'clock was wheezing from the inn's ancient clock as Faro sat down to his supper. The dining room was empty and he was pleased that he had the table to himself for his meeting with Duffy. He would put a pint of ale in front of the poacher just to loosen his tongue a little, with hopes that this eagerness for a meeting signalled enlightenment on the mystery of Sir Archie's last hours.
But his meal was finished, seven had struck with no sign of Duffy, and Faro returned to the bar where Bowden, polishing the counter with his usual eagerness, did not share his anxiety.
'Not the most reliable of chaps,' he said. 'If something better comes along, isn't that so, Sergeant?' he asked Yarrow who was seated at the far end of the counter.
Yarrow's smile indicated that Duffy was not one of his favourites. 'Care to join me, Mr Faro?'
Faro did so but with some diffidence since the bar was directly overlooked by a window. If Duffy chanced to look in and saw the insurance mannie chatting to the law in the shape of Yarrow, this might well scare him off.
As time passed in desultory talk with the Sergeant, Faro was certain this must have happened, despite his efforts to keep a watchful eye on the door.
At last Yarrow buttoned up his tunic and announced that he was back on duty. Faro was relieved to see him depart and with a final word to Bowden to let him know when Duffy arrived, he prepared to go up to his
