The Seal King Murders (14 page)

Returning to his room in the servants’ lodge, Faro’s conversation with Gerald Binsley had given cause for considerable thought and reassessment and, in the kind of desperation he was enduring, in Binsley he had found it easier to talk to a perfect stranger.

One thing was clear. If Celia was indeed pregnant, then the man responsible was certainly not her old friend and confidant who was also quite unaware of this possible rival’s existence.

Using his remarkable ability of total recall Faro went over every detail of what Binsley had revealed about Celia’s rebellious nature – in the eyes of her parents, a tomboyish unnatural girl.

It confirmed Faro’s theory that womankind
in general was also on the move, undergoing a metamorphosis – evidence provided by the fact that a curious coincidence linked Celia
Prentiss-Grant
and Inga St Ola, two young women belonging to different strata of society who had nothing in common, except for one element. They represented a new kind of woman who no longer considered themselves as mere breeding machines or men’s chattels, but were preparing to face a future of sturdy independence; the words ‘free spirit’ came to mind.

If he married and had daughters, Faro wondered if they would, in turn, seem outrageous, bewildering, in attitudes which he would fail to understand, almost as if they belonged to a different species of women from his mother and her generation, upon whose ideals and beliefs he had been reared.

His own acquaintance contained one woman of this new breed. Lizzie had shown courage and proved herself indifferent to what society considered her shame. With Vince, a child the result of rape, she had not given in to despair or taken her own life, nor had she allowed society to brand her or put her into an asylum, as was the fate of so many unmarried mothers, with babies taken away from them and cast into the workhouse, doomed to a future of slave labour.

Lizzie had fought single-handed to survive
for herself and her child. She had refused to sell herself into prostitution but had sought menial jobs instead, determined that her baby should thrive and survive the stigma of illegitimacy.

Once again it seemed so unfair to Detective Constable Faro, who knew so much from his daily beat in Edinburgh’s Leith Walk of the behaviour of respectable upper-class men who could defy the rules, patronise brothels, take a mistress, and often as a result of their indulgences, pass on, while laying claim to their conjugal rights, venereal disease to an innocent wife. All this and still they kept their heads high in Edinburgh society, a man’s world where women remained an inferior species.

Faro shook his head. If Inga, Celia and Lizzie were three prime examples of new women from completely different classes, then there was a wind of change on the horizon, a change much overdue.

Stavely came back later that day, his arrival in Mary’s kitchen timed to a well-cooked supper; an excuse to see what results Faro had to report. His watchful regard for his son while residing under his uncle Hal’s roof was in temporary abeyance. Lily had gone down with summer fever and the devoted son had returned home to Kirkwall to take care of mother and siblings.

It was enough to endure the disappearance of Celia Prentiss-Grant without the anxiety of a son who might have criminal leanings. Stavely suspected that his brother-in-law indulged in a little smuggling, an activity regarded as harmless and almost a way of life by most of the inhabitants. He was not prepared to investigate further, bearing in mind the discredit its revelations might throw up by association. A smear on the reputation of a respectable sergeant with the Orkney Constabulary, to say nothing of Lily’s concerns for his future promotion.

Faro’s report of no claimants for the reward at Scarthbreck did not surprise him, as none but the bravest would have dared approach the formidable questioning of Sir Arnold.

Faro mentioned that he had met Gerald Binsley.

‘What was he doing here? Could he be—?’ asked Stavely eagerly. And darting a look at Mary Faro’s back attending to the stove, he whispered, ‘Could he be … er … responsible for her condition?’

Faro shook his head emphatically. ‘According to him, he is regarded by her merely as an uncle.’

‘An uncle, eh?’ And ignoring that cynical snort, Faro went on, ‘He’s a long-time family friend, known Celia since childhood, here to help them find her.’

Stavely was disappointed in this result. Sighing, he sat back in his chair, patted his stomach and hoped there was room for a second helping of potatoes and beefsteak pudding. He would stay the night with Hal and take the gig back to Kirkwall in the morning.

‘The lads back at the station can take care of any new developments.’ Considering that very unlikely, he regaled Faro with an account of the far-fetched sightings of claimants that morning, eager for the reward.

‘Up to now,’ he added diving happily into treacle pudding, ‘all we have to do is wait. The ransom note, that’ll be the next thing.’

It was indeed. Stavely rode across, ready to depart for Kirkwall, when they were summoned to Scarthbreck. The ransom note had arrived by the morning mail, posted in Kirkwall the day before.

Written in block letters on a map showing the interior of St Magnus Cathedral offered as a visitors’ guide, a pillar was marked with a cross. ‘After Sunday morning service, hidden under the adjacent pew, deposit an envelope containing one thousand pounds in promissory notes. Do not fail if you wish to see your daughter alive again.’

Sir Arnold’s face was even redder than usual.
He said hoarsely, ‘This is worse than we expected.’ And to his wife, hand-wringing, in floods of tears, ‘Try to be calm, my dear.’

‘Calm!’ She screeched with terror, thrusting the note at Stavely, ‘This note is in our daughter’s handwriting. Do you understand what that means? God only knows the indignities she has had to suffer writing this, with a pistol at her head.’

‘You are certain that this is in her hand?’ Stavely asked Sir Arnold.

‘No doubt about that. We fear that she has been forced by her kidnappers to write it,’ he added, accompanied by howls of terror from Lady Millicent.

This was indeed a grave situation. While Stavely assured the terrified parents that there would be every available constable stationed in the vicinity in plain clothes ready to make an arrest, he obviously had not thought of the difficulties involved.

Faro considered the reality of attempting to catch the kidnappers in a cathedral with the congregation milling out after morning service. One man could easily lurk and make his escape.

The note also revealed something of the kidnapper’s identity. He obviously knew the cathedral well, also the placing of the side chapels, and might well be one of the Sunday
worshippers. Aware that the Prentiss-Grants would expect a solitary lonely stretch of road, perhaps with a few trees, favoured by kidnappers when collecting ransoms, he had also taken into account the precaution that, most likely, the police would be lurking somewhere out of sight.

As for the constables, they were well known to everyone locally and, even out of uniform and in their Sunday best, would be readily identifiable.

The kidnapper was clever. What better place than his choice of a crowded Sunday morning service at the cathedral, which would conceal his identity and make the uplifting of the ransom easier? Even with uniformed constables stationed outside the doors, ready to search everyone who emerged, this unexplained activity would not be kindly received. Consternation, anger and indignation would reign from those innocent churchgoers delayed and eager to get home to Sunday dinners.

To Stavely, examining the note, Faro said, ‘This is no spur-of-the-moment ransom demand. We are dealing with someone local, who has worked it out very carefully, down to the last detail.’

Stavely sighed. ‘You’re right about that. Well, we won’t have long to wait until tomorrow morning.’

They would both be in place at the service, the plain-clothes constables in position, and Stavely decided that Faro and one of the strongest constables, Willy, known for his prowess in the prize ring, should sit together in a pew concealed by the pillar, ready to leap out and arrest the kidnapper.

As agreed with Sir Arnold despite Lady Millicent’s pleas, there would be no money, only an empty packet.

It was going to be a long morning service, Faro decided, keeping a close eye on the pillar from the pew across the aisle. Those nearest were a family with five somewhat unruly children of assorted ages, the eldest at the end of the line, a lad in the traditional woollen bonnet. The adjacent pews were occupied by better-behaved small families, young and elderly couples, and two black-clad widows. Perhaps one was Thora, impossible to identify under the heavy veils.

The ferryman, Rob, came in alone, and quickly knelt in an adjacent pew across the aisle, motionless, praying earnestly until the service began. Of his friend, Amos, there was no sign, perhaps the demands of his invalid brother excluded churchgoing on Sunday mornings.

Watching the family with the naughty children took Faro back to his own early days,
constantly admonished to sit still. At his side now, her mother’s tender sideways glance said she, too, was remembering his childhood days. She had insisted on accompanying him in the carriage which Sir Arnold, aware of the plan to capture the kidnapper, had placed at the disposal of Faro and Stavely.

Faro feared there might be danger but could think of no plausible excuse to make her stay behind at Scarthbreck, since other arrangements had been made for the servants to go to the local church escorted by the factor’s wife.

Mary sighed: she did so miss morning service at the cathedral and this was an unmissable chance of an extra day off; an excuse for calling on the artist Emil to collect her overdue rent.

‘Even on Sunday?’ said Faro, but she refused to be shocked by his admonishing tone.

‘I’ll look in on some of the neighbours, have a cup of tea with them.’

And no doubt, thought Faro, she would be eagerly received for the latest gossip about Scarthbreck’s owners and the posters of the missing girl displayed everywhere.

As they made their way into the cathedral, she did not have to go in search of Emil Latour. He was there already seated in an adjoining pew. He bowed cordially.

‘Strange, seeing him here,’ she whispered to
Faro. ‘I thought he’d be a Catholic, that crucifix in the bedroom and everything.’

The sermon seemed longer than any Faro remembered. Over at last, the congregation stood for the last hymn. The procession of choir and ministers moved towards the nave, and as the worshippers filed out, among them were Faro and prizefighter Willy, who edged closer to the pillar.

There was no movement towards the pew and as the cathedral emptied, Stavely rushed over. Regardless of holy ground, he cursed softly. Their wait and their preparations had been in vain. The packet was still there. Their plan foiled.

They exchanged glances. The kidnapper must have guessed, or been warned in advance.

At least Mary Faro’s visit had not been in vain. Emil had awaited her outside and had handed over his monthly rent with sincere apologies.

‘Wasn’t that thoughtful? Nice chap,’ said Mary. ‘He has invited me to have luncheon with him.’

She sounded delighted. ‘I might as well seize the chance of such a nice invitation. Not often I get a Sunday off.’

‘How will you get back?’

‘Don’t worry about me, dear. Mistress Blake’s
man has the local stable. He’ll see me right.’

Kissing her and telling her to take care, advising the Scarthbreck coachman where to wait for him, he hurried towards a side entrance of the cathedral where Stavely, having dismissed the constables, including Faro’s colleague, was pretending to examine the tombstones, anxious to escape to a family Sunday dinner: an afternoon with Lily and the children, and in particular some carefully phrased questioning regarding any dubious activities of his wayward son.

‘There’s nothing to be gained by lingering, Faro,’ he said shortly. ‘Our man must have guessed. We’ll have to think of something else. Go back and tell Sir Arnold – he won’t be best pleased. Take the carriage.’

‘I think I’ll remain here for a while longer.’

Somewhere a clock struck the hour. Stavely stared at him. ‘Please yourself, lad, but it’s a waste of time.’

‘Nevertheless, just an idea, Sergeant.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe we’re looking for the wrong person.’

Stavely regarded him sternly. ‘Well, you’re on your own; if there’s a fight, you’re not armed, remember.’

‘I’ll survive, without a gun.’

Stavely shook his head and repeated, ‘A complete
waste of time.’ And with a contemptuous shrug, watching Faro vanish into the side door of the now-empty cathedral, strode briskly homewards.

Taking up a position concealed by the pillar near the pew, Faro prepared to wait, aware that he was taking a gamble, but his instinct had never failed him, nor had his remarkable memory.

He had made careful notes, right back to the fatal night of Celia’s disappearance. The curious fact that Celia had vanished into thin air without her clothes; why? And more important, how?

Certain that she had not gone into the sea, or that any boat would have risked the dangers of such a fog to collect her at the fragile Scarthbreck landing, and certain that she had not taken refuge in the nearest croft, which was Hal’s, where Stavely would have found her, he thought she could have returned to pick up Blossom. But the mare had never left the stable.

If not by sea, then the only other exit from the area would be heading in the direction of Stromness and Kirkwall, but the hiring stable at Spanish Cove had verified that no young woman came in that night. For Faro’s benefit, the stableman had described the elderly gentleman who had booked a gig, and the young man who had hired a horse. He had watched them each leave, and checked that the equipages and the
horse were duly paid for, and as was the custom, had been returned safely from the Kirkwall stable.