He shook his head, pale and exhausted, his voice growing fainter. 'I wasn't sure how much you knew or guessed - I didn't want to kill you - I don't suppose I'm the first.'
'By no means, Sergeant. But they were usually criminals, not honest policemen.'
'Honest,' Yarrow repeated mockingly. 'I was tired of being honest. It had got me nowhere and now I was a goner anyway. Dr Brand told me my time was up, that I could go any day. It would have been something, some small compensation to have written on my tombstone: "Here lies the man who murdered Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police." Quite an epitaph. After all those famous criminals, he'd been bested by a lowly sergeant in a country police station.'
He shook his head. 'At least there won't be enough of me to hang,' he added, indicating the silver button.
Faro handed it to him. 'Get Mrs Dewar to sew it on again.'
Yarrow looked at him in wonder. 'You mean - '
'I mean that I am going to assist a miscarriage of justice. Life has dealt you enough blows, Yarrow, blows that you are paying for dearly. You had a splendid career, an unsullied reputation. And that's how it will be remembered as far as I'm concerned.'
There was a message from Vince at the Inn. 'Returning to Edinburgh immediately. Had a telegraph that Balfour is in hospital. Sorry about the holiday. In haste.'
Yarrow died that night, mourned by all who knew him, especially by the Dewars who spread the word that while practising for the archery contest he had mistaken a moving shadow for one of the wild cattle looming out of the mist towards him. The arrow misfired and hit Faro a glancing blow. A sick man, the effort of pulling back the bow had caused a fatal haemorrhage.
Only Imogen Crowe and Hector Elrigg knew the truth and if Dr Brand had his suspicions then he kept them to himself.
As for Faro, it seemed an unlikely explanation that might have satisfied Dewar but would have opened up an immediate inquiry for any detective inspector. The insurance mannie was a different matter.
Dr Brand signed the death certificate and the Sergeant was laid to rest. The Metropolitan Police he had served so gallantly in London most of his life as a police officer sent a representative to the funeral at Elrigg kirkyard.
No connection was ever hinted at concerning Eric Yarrow's grave in Branxton. At least, Faro thought, father and son lay only a few miles apart, to rest for all eternity under the same windswept skies, the same bird-haunted hills.
Imogen Crowe did not attend Yarrow's funeral. When they met, Faro expected that she would be announcing her engagement to Hector Elrigg.
She laughed. 'You are quite wrong: for once your deductions have played you false, Inspector Faro.'
'You would be surprised how often you are right about that,' he said bitterly.
'Just be glad you are alive - that we were in the vicinity when you fell into Yarrow's trap, his lure to get you there. You want to know why I was there that night. Hector has been courting me each time I have come to Elrigg. Perhaps this past weekend I was tempted for a while and then... well,' she looked at him and quickly looked away again as their eyes met.
'I intended telling him that I couldn't marry him as we drove back from Branxton. By the time we reached the hillfort the mist had got worse and I went into the cottage with him. One thing led to another, I insisted on leaving - and I wanted to walk - alone.'
She paused, embarrassed. 'Hector said if I insisted on walking back across the pastureland in heavy mist, he'd better get his gun. He carried it as a matter of course in heavy mist, when the cattle come down from the hill. A shot is all they need to scare them off. I waited for him, I heard you calling. The mist lifted for just a moment, like a swirling shroud, and I saw Yarrow, creeping along by the fence. He was heading in your direction, loading a crossbow.'
They were both silent and then Imogen said: 'When are you leaving?'
'Tomorrow, I'm going back to Edinburgh. I wouldn't be much use on a vigorous hill-walking holiday with my arm in a sling. What about you?'
'I'm going to Ford Castle for a little while, to continue my book. I'm leaving this afternoon.'
'So am I. By train. May I offer you a lift this time?'
She smiled, remembering. 'That would be most kind. But I insist on seeing you to the station.' When he began to protest,
'I have to go into Berwick anyway. I need some more writing materials.'
On that journey they spoke little to each other.
'Will you be returning to Elrigg?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'I think not.'
There was another silence. Handing her The History of Civilisation, he said gently, 'Your book. Tell me about Philip Gray.'
Turning, she smiled. 'What do you want to know?'
'Was he your lover?'
'You make that sound uncommonly like an accusation, Inspector Faro,' she said mockingly.
'None of my business,' he shrugged, trying to sound casual but sure she lied, as he saw again the words on the flyleaf. 'To my dearest Imo, with my love always, Philip G.'
'As a matter of fact,' she said slowly, 'I did love him. He was my cousin.'
'Your cousin?'
'Yes. His name was Phelan Crowe. Uncle Brendan brought us up. I went to gaol for him,' she said bitterly. 'And friends urged Phelan to change his name because of the association, so when he came to London, he became Philip Gray.'
'Was the fact that he died here what brought you to Elrigg in the first place?'
'Yes. He was more brother than cousin, you know. I had an idea someone had killed him. I was like Yarrow. I wanted vengeance but I had no idea how to go
