The barman shook his head and looked at the clock. 'You'll not see him tonight, sir, he'll be busy about his own business by now. He'll have forgotten all about your arrangement and he'll be in as usual for his pint of ale at opening time tomorrow morning. If he's sober enough to walk, that is.'
Faro spent the rest of the evening making notes, bringing his log of the case up to date, carefully writing in dossiers of what he knew of the suspects, and of their movements.
Conscious that such an investigation had never been his responsibility and that he had no legal right to interfere, he threw down his pen at last.
The time had come to reveal his identity and confide his suspicions to Sergeant Yarrow. The rest was up to the Northumberland Constabulary who might well consider his observations of merely academic interest. If they felt there was not enough at this late date to follow his leads and reopen an inquiry into Sir Archie's death, he had done what he considered his moral duty.
When he undertook the Queen's Command regarding the future King of England, he had not expected to be landed with a murder case. In fact, the only conclusion he had reached was that the person least likely to have murdered Sir Archie was the Prince of Wales, despite his suspiciously hurried departure from Elrigg Castle.
Whether he had been guilty of that gravest of British sins, cowardice, could, however, be settled only by that most unsatisfactory of Scottish verdicts: 'Not proven'.
Faro slept badly that night, haunted by his old nightmare. Pursued by Highland cattle, the bull's hot breath on his heels as he ran, screaming...
He awoke screaming, but the bull's bellowing was merely the gentle lowing of the dairy cows on their way to milking.
Now fully awake, he was aware of sweeter sounds of birdsong that filled his open window. Shaking free from the web of nightmare, he washed and dressed for the day, aware that the weather beyond the window looked promising. He might as well make the most of this good fresh air before returning to the grime of Edinburgh's smoke-laden High Street and the Central Office of the City Police.
Concluding that dreams were contrary things signifying nothing, he tackled with promptitude the hearty breakfast set before him and contemplated Vince's imminent arrival.
Not for his stepson the train to Bedford and an undignified scramble for the only hiring carriage. Vince would arrive in style in the comfort of the Gilchrists' own carriage, since their family coachbuilding business had accommodated Midlothian's gentry for two generations.
In a decidedly cheerful frame of mind, Faro checked with Bowden that there was a vacant bedroom should Dr Vincent Laurie require it. Then he set off into the village in search of Sergeant Yarrow and a vague hope of buying a suitable birthday gift for the twins' great-aunt Gilchrist.
He had noted that the local shop, in addition to supplying everything from food to farming implements, also displayed in its window pretty lace caps with ribbon streamers, a fashion that the Queen had initiated and that widows and old ladies everywhere had eagerly adopted.
He was hesitating, undecided over the merits of a bewildering selection, when a voice at his elbow said: 'The one with more lace and less streamers, if it's for your mother. Sure, she'll like that, now.'
The Irish accent, the smiling face, was that of Imogen Crowe.
As he mumbled his thanks and handed the cap to the shopkeeper, she said: 'You'll not regret it. That's the one I'd have bought for my own mother. She'll be pleased too that it's good value. The rest are somewhat expensive,' she added in a whisper. 'And they won't launder as well.'
'I'm most grateful to you...'
But turning, he saw she had paid for her own purchases, which looked like a bag of groceries, and was leaving the shop.
What miracle had caused such a change of heart in this chilly lady, he wondered as, with his purchase pocketed, it remained only to hand over his notes to Sergeant Yarrow.
The station door was locked and bore a well-worn notice that anyone in need of the police should apply across the road. A printed hand helpfully pointed in the direction of the Dewars' cottage.
The door was opened very promptly. Mrs Dewar beamed on him. 'Do come in, sir.'
As he followed her into the kitchen, she said: 'Sandy isn't here at the moment, but I have a visitor I'm sure you'd like to meet.'
Seeing Imogen Crowe seated at the table, Faro hesitated. 'I don't wish to disturb you.'
'Not at all, not at all. Miss Crowe came for a recipe and we're just having a cup of tea. Perhaps you'll join us.'
Despite their recent encounter, amiable as it was, Miss Crowe was the last person Faro wished to see at that moment, and in this setting. He felt his dismay was shared by Miss Crowe, since the glint in Mrs Dewar's eye, as she looked from one to the other with considerable sly satisfaction, unmistakably proclaimed the matchmaker at work.
Faro remained standing, while he and Miss Crowe eyed each other warily. Yes, they said, they had met before. A bow from him, a sharp nod from her.
'Sandy went up the road in the pony cart. Sergeant Yarrow's still abed.' Mrs Dewar raised her eyes in the direction of the ceiling. 'He was late in last night. It's his morning off and I always take his breakfast up and put it outside his door,' she added reverently. 'A gentleman like him needs a bit of spoiling.
'If you take a walk up the road to the hillfort you'll meet Sandy on the way back. Perhaps you'd like to come to supper -' she darted a look at Miss Crowe's glum face, 'both of you -on Sunday evening. I do a nice beef roast, too big for us now that our lads are away.'
Miss Crowe frowned, shook her head, glancing at Faro. He smiled and said: 'You are
