Now time had obliterated all evidence of their savage rule, ancient cruelties and swift death were replaced by a breeze warm and soft about Faro's face. Had this been a social call at Elrigg Castle, he would have looked forward to such a prospect with considerable enjoyment.
Aware that they had travelled for some distance and that in an ever-changing skyscape the blue was being overtaken by a steel-like grey, Faro considered how he might tactfully ask the coachman if they were indeed heading in the right direction: 'Is this all the Elrigg estate?'
The coachman pointed to the hilly horizon: 'You'll see the trees first, sir. His Lordship's grandfather was very liberal with trees, planted them everywhere as a protection against the prevailing wind.' And pointing with his whip: 'Look, sir, over yonder.'
The skyline opposite was dominated by a ring of stones. At first glance they looked like the wasted torsos of women petrified in some forgotten dance to gods older than history.
'The headless women, they call them hereabouts,' the driver grinned.
'How charming.'
'You wouldn't say that, sir, at dead at night if you heard them crying.'
'Crying?'
'Aye, sir, that's right. Crying. When the wind's in the right direction,' he added matter-of-factly at Faro's disbelieving expression. 'Acts like organ pipes, though there's others prefer to believe differently.'
His story was cut short by a sudden flurry of rain. As Faro put up his umbrella provided for such an emergency, he was reassured that their destination was almost in sight.
Moments later he was relieved to see a church tower reaching into the sky, followed by a cluster of ancient houses and a twisting ribbon of river. On a hill overlooking the only street, a flag flew from battlements, hinting at the castle which had dominated Elrigg long before the present parkland hid it from the curious.
The Elrigg Arms was a coaching inn of ancient vintage. Time and natural subsidence had thrust its upper storey out of alignment with the lower walls, which also leaned gently but precariously over the paved road.
Instructing the coachman that he would shortly be continuing his journey to the castle, Faro saw his luggage carried into the inn and gave the man a pint of ale for his trouble.
Never willing to waste time on eating, a fact that Vince deplored since it added to his stepfather's tendency to digestive problems, Faro emerged twenty minutes later, reinforced by a rather heavy slice of pie and a dram of whisky.
The coachman sensing gentry and a larger tip, respectfully tucked a travelling rug about his knees as they resumed their journey. A half-mile up the steep road some dense trees gave way to iron gates and a lodge, which, by its air of neglect and overgrown garden, was unoccupied.
As they sped up the drive, Faro saw that Elrigg Castle was no Gothic edifice, in the current architectural fashion for the romantic but comfortable baronial hall that the Queen had made so popular at Balmoral. Protection from the elements by parkland had been a necessary and wise investment.
Here was the stark realism of a Border peel tower, an oblong castle house belonging to sterner days when the beasts were kept on the ground floor and in times of stress and danger (which was probably every other Thursday) the inhabitants were rushed in through that high door and the ladder raised so that they could be relatively safe from marauders.
A serious attempt might be made to burn down the tower, but although the laird and his clan would get very uncomfortable underfoot in the process, it was difficult to burn through a solid stone floor. Besides cattle and movable goods were of most interest to raiders, plus any females who happened to be wandering about and could also be carried off.
In the late sixteenth century when the Border was settling down to more peaceful activities, buildings were inclining to comfort first, with a projecting porch and staircase on the outside, three storeyed with small, square headed windows, a ridged roof and embattled parapet.
The tower's original stout doorway, no longer under threat, had been tamed into masquerading as a large and handsome window, replacing arrow slits which were now merely picturesque reminders of harsher times.
Ancient oaks now sheltered sheep and a few shy deer who melted into the trees at the carriage's approach. The medieval theme, however, was continued in a field with an archery course from which a young couple had just emerged. Armed with bows and arrows, they were leading their horses through the trees in the direction of the castle.
But they were in no hurry to reach their destination and Faro smiled indulgently. They made an attractive sight; the young man, tall and fair, put his arm about his companion's shoulder and said something that pleased her. Faro heard her laughter and as she threw back her head, a gesture that sent her bonnet flying and her light hair rippling over her shoulders.
The young man joined in this peal of merriment, and, leaning over, the girl put out a hand and, patting his cheek, gazed tenderly into his eyes. A moment later they were gone.
Who were they? Dark riding attire did not necessarily indicate mourning relatives. But there was a quality of intimacy about the pair and their mocking laughter that remained with Faro, striking that first incongruous note of warning regarding the house so recently bereaved.
Chapter 5
As the carriage rounded the drive, Faro saw another building crouching alongside the tower, invisible from the drive. Someone had attempted to turn bleak tower into homely mansion by the addition of two storeys, a few windows, a good sprinkling of ivy and not much imagination.
It was set around a square courtyard to house stables and servants, and Faro suspected that
