‘I’d like to know a great deal more about Mark's relationship with Sir Archie. From hints dropped by Aunt Molly to Olivia, which she has now confided in me, I suspect that he may well have been illused by him. She didn't call it that, of course, and I doubt whether he ever spelled it out even to her. But there was certainly a curious relationship between them.'
If that was so, it was indeed a motive for murder, Faro decided gloomily.
Chapter 25
Vince was to leave for Branxton with the twins and Miss Gilchrist. The latter, enchanted to learn that Miss Crowe was an authoress, had included her in the party.
Two extra passengers plus the luggage that had accompanied the twins from Edinburgh created a difficulty for the carriage, which comfortably accommodated only four people.
Heads were shaken but the problem was not insurmountable. Vince, who was required to drive the carriage, should take the twins and Miss Gilchrist. Lady Elrigg would be delighted to put the governess cart at Mr Faro's disposal if he would be good enough to take Miss Crowe with him.
Faro concealed his emotions carefully. But his sharp look in Vince's direction asked clearly as any words: if this is yet another plot to throw us together then they are in for a disappointment. He had already decided that Hector was enamoured with Miss Crowe and she had shown no evidence that she resented his attentions. In fact, through dinner at the castle, she appeared to be encouraging him.
Faro was happy to keep such observations to himself and wished the pair good fortune since it would seem to be a very suitable match - if any man were found brave enough to take on the formidable Miss Crowe.
And so the two set off for Branxton with Faro determined to be agreeable and cautious in his conversation, risking nothing that would ignite the temper that seemed to match the lady's flaming hair.
The weather was in their favour, sunny and pleasantly warm, a day to loiter in the grandeur of hill and dale. Just clear of Elrigg village, they had to pull into the side of the road to allow a troupe of gypsy caravans passage.
'On their way to Kirk Yetholm,' said Imogen, who seemed pleased at the sight of them and greeted the leading caravan in their own language.
Faro was surprised at that and she laughed. 'The Irish tongue has its uses. Besides I was brought up among their kind in Kerry. My grandmother was one of them.'
The caravans had stopped while she was speaking. A withered old woman, her hair in long white braids, leaned across so that she was level with Imogen. Toothless, she smiled, obviously demanding her hand.
Imogen gave it to her reluctantly and Faro watched that dark hand holding the white long-fingered one. The gypsy said some words and Imogen gave an anxious cry and tried to withdraw her hand.
When she succeeded, the old woman shrugged and, turning eyes milky pale in that dark heavily seamed face upon Faro, she held out her hand in a demanding way.
Misreading the gesture he took out a coin from his pocket and gave it to her. With an indignant cry, angrily she hurled it to the ground.
'What on earth -
'You have insulted her,' said Imogen Crowe quietly. 'She wanted to tell you something important - something written in your hand.'
'My apologies, please give her my apologies...'
'Oh, she understands English quite well, they just don't care to speak it if Romany will do.'
Faro turned to the old woman. 'I am sorry, I did not mean to insult you.' And, although he also didn't believe in such nonsense as fortune-telling, he gallantly held out his hand and smiled at her.
The smile won the old woman. She shrugged and took his hand, stroking it, her eyes closed, her palms surprisingly soft and warm for one so old, he thought. The soothing hands of a healer.
But he knew when she looked up at him that healing was not what she saw. Her eyes were sad, full of tears. And he knew without any explanation or translation from Imogen that the cold feeling filling his bones was the presence of death.
His own. The silence and the stillness of that moment seemed to last for an eternity.
'No,' said Imogen sharply, as the old woman murmured. 'No,' she repeated. Then, realising that Faro did not understand the words, she spoke to the gypsy in her own language, very gently, pleadingly.
It was enough. The cloud that had been hiding the sun vanished, the road was again filled with the noise of rattling carts, of jingling pots and pans, the smell of horses, dogs barking and children's laughter. The shadow of death had passed by and he and Imogen Crowe continued on their way as if their journey had never been interrupted.
But Faro was conscious of Imogen Crowe watching him intently, speculatively. Catching her eye, he turned away sharply.
'What was the old woman babbling on about?' he asked lightly. 'What did she want to tell me?'
'Nothing.'
'It didn't sound like nothing. Tell me what she said, I want to know, Imogen.'
She looked startled. It was the first time he had used her given name. She shook her head.
'She said I was going to die, didn't she?'
'No. No. Just that you were in terrible danger. But I could have told you that,' she added.
Faro laughed. 'Could you indeed?'
She shrugged. 'I have the sight.'
'Have you now?' Faro asked with a lightness he was far from feeling. 'Then let me tell you, young lady, there is nothing in the least remarkable about such an observation. I am a policeman and I've been in some kind of danger practically every working day of my life and I will continue to be so until
