Killing Cousins (17 page)

He was interested to see Reverend Erlandson in his elaborate priestly robes; surprised, too, at the inspired oratory of this normally quiet unassuming man who so rarely appeared in the uniform of his calling.

The pulpit indeed endowed him with a new authority and his passionate delivery reverberated through the church, emphasising Faro's first impression of an Old Testament prophet from a medieval tapestry. As Balfray chaplain, John Erlandson also seemed to have a free hand in the matter of family worship.

As Mrs Faro had suggested the fashionably lengthy sermon was omitted and Faro sat back as comfortably as the hard pew would allow to enjoy and absorb this relatively new experience and let that splendid voice pour over him. A moment later, Erlandson's text from the Epistle of Paul to the Romans jolted him into immediate attention.

' "Recompense to no man evil for evil. If it be possible live peaceably with all men. Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest." Paul goes further, dear friends, he continues, "Consider man well. He owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Therefore, I beseech you, owe no man anything, but to love one another." Amen.'

As Reverend Erlandson solemnly closed his Bible and invited worshippers to join in the closing hymn, Vince observed a familiar air of excitement about his stepfather, an almost gleeful elation as they left the church. Vince sighed. Short as the service had been, he had found it somewhat trying, his main concern being to return to the bedside of Francis Balfray.

Greeting Erlandson in his handsome robes, shaking hands with his little flock, as he called them, a proud and doting Norma Balfray hovering at his side, Vince murmured to Faro, 'It would seem that the minister has a less active role in the Episcopal Church.'

'So you noticed that too?'

'Yes, one just needs to follow the order of service slavishly, that's all. Not much room for originality, or much work in preparing sermons, I should have thought.'

Faro didn't answer and Vince, walking between his two stepsisters who proudly clung to his hands, gave his stepfather a curious look. 'You seemed to enjoy it all, despite your reluctance. At least the sermon was gratifyingly short.'

'Short, yes. But an odd choice, don't you think?' was the reply.

'Indeed? Tell me, what was wrong with it?'

It was Vince's turn to be intrigued but there was little chance of discussing the sermon as Inga St Ola was welcomed into the family group.

Faro found that once again he was forgotten by his daughters. He was not alone this time. Their beloved stepbrother Vince was also abandoned and he exchanged a glance of mock despair with Faro as they watched the two little girls who, despite chidings from their grandmother to remember this was the Sabbath, rushed to Inga's side with gleeful cries.

She was looking particularly attractive and elegant, Faro thought, in her Sunday-best shawl with a velvet bonnet capturing the long black hair into a semblance of neat coiffure. The bustle, that rage of Edinburgh, with its tight corseting distorting the female form, had not yet made its appearance in Orkney where women wove their own cloth for homespun simple gowns and shirts for their menfolk. Most of the children wore cut-downs, turned and remade from the adults' outworn or outgrown garments.

Was he becoming used to Inga's place in his family, Faro wondered? Envy and resentment were fast-fleeting, fading. And he did not miss the speculative glances from his mother as he regarded, smiling gently, the pretty trio his daughters made with Inga St Ola.

'Inga usually takes them for a picnic on a Sunday,' said Mrs Faro, 'while I have my afternoon rest. Of course, they won't expect that when their papa is here.'

She was wrong. Even as she spoke, Rose and Emily darted back and seized her hands.

'Can we go with Inga? Please, Grandma.'

'Don't be asking me. Ask your papa.'

Aware of this family stir, Inga came forward and, regarding his unsmiling face, said sternly, 'There won't be any picnic today, not unless your papa comes too.' Then smiling at him she asked softly, 'Will you join us, please, Jeremy?'

Faro frowned, intent on eating his Sunday dinner as fast as his mother would allow and retiring to his room immediately afterwards. There he would spend the afternoon adding his recently acquired information to his notes, and considering some new and very disquieting theories about the Balfray murders.

Now he saw three anxious and very pretty faces regarding him. 'Perhaps I might come along later. How would that be?'

'You do mean it, Papa? Promise.'

'I can't promise, Rose, but I'll do my best.'

'We go to the Troll's Cave, along the shore.'

'We discovered it, didn't we, Em?' said Rose.

'It's our secret,' said Emily. 'But we share it with Inga, 'cause she's special.'

'And Vince and Papa, too, Em. They can come.'

'This Troll's Cave, is it safe?' Faro demanded.

Inga smiled. 'Of course it is, or I wouldn't take them there,' she added reproachfully.

Rose took her hand defensively. 'And we aren't allowed to go there on our own. We promised Inga and Grandma that we wouldn't ever go without a grown-up.'

'There's a fairy wishing pool, Papa,' said Emily temptingly.

Inga put her arm around Rose's shoulders. 'It's a very sheltered spot, even in winter. And they do love it so.'

Faro smiled. 'Very well, I'll try and come later.'

Inga looked pleased. 'Now I must go and give Saul his dinner and pack the picnic basket.'

As she turned to go, Faro murmured in what he hoped was a whisper inaudible to his mother, 'By the way, I'd like another look at Mrs Bliss's notebook, if I may.'

'I thought you had got all the information you needed.' She turned and pointed to the porch where Captain Gibb and the minister were deep in conversation.

'The Captain looked in after you'd gone. He saw the notebook still sitting on the table and he got very agitated. As I told you, he was very upset when Mrs Bliss had her accident. He told me he had given her the notebook and seeing it there brought it all back again. He was quite tearful.'

She shrugged. 'I let him have it, and he said he would hand it to John to put with her other possessions. I rather think he'll keep it, though, a sad memento, poor man.'

'Come along, Inga. 'Bye, Papa.'

"Bye, Vince.'

Faro looked across at his two daughters standing in the kirkyard, their hands raised in farewell, their bonnet ribbons fluttering in the sea breeze. Time had suddenly stood still and they had become lifeless portraits painted in a medieval age. The sight made him shiver.

Without them, I am nothing. I am a dead man.

With the feeling of death's angels fluttering near, he was suddenly overwhelmed by his love for them, his yearning to rush over, take them in his arms and protect their gentle trusting innocence against all the world's dangers and evils.

Danger. That was it. That was why the feeling was so familiar and he knew that it was imperative that he crack this case. He must get away from this island of sweetness and light with its underlying cesspool of corruption and hypocrisy. There was no time to be lost, he knew the urgency of the next few hours. At least his daughters weren't in danger, they would be safe with Inga.

When they reached the castle, Vince followed Faro upstairs, where both men were anxious to change into more comfortable clothes and Faro searched for a shabby tweed outfit, somewhat out of date and once sold in Edinburgh under the misnomer, where Faro was concerned, of 'sports costume for gentlemen'.

'This should be suitable for the picnic.'

'So you've decided to go after all,' said Vince. 'In that case, I'll come with you.'

'I have to make some notes, but with luck I'll be ready to bring you my latest findings on our murderer.'

Vince nodded absently. 'I hope Francis is well enough to be left. I'm very worried about him, and I feel the next few hours might be crucial.'

'Crucial? In what way? I didn't realise he was seriously ill, Vince.'

Vince looked unhappy. 'He isn't. I feel it has more to do with the mind than the body. And that is why I don't want him to wake up and find himself alone.

In his terrible despair, he might... well...' With a

gloomy shake of his head, he left the sentence unfinished. 'Tell me about your findings, Stepfather. Some new developments?'

'Yes, Vince. On three deaths. And all of them were murders, beginning with Mrs Bliss—' He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and Mrs Faro looked round the door.

'Your dinner is ready. Come along.'

'I'll go and take a look at Francis,' said Vince.

'You'll have your dinner first,' said Mrs Faro. 'Dr Francis has just woken up and he is having a glass of warm milk.'

There was no possibility of further discussion with Vince who left the table, as soon as decency would allow, to attend Francis. Meanwhile, Faro retreated to his bedroom where he wrote out a comprehensive report on the three murders on Balfray Island.

By the time he laid aside his pen, he was almost certain who had murdered Mrs Bliss and why Troller had met his untimely end. Only the motive remained obscure and where it connected with Thora Balfray, linking the three murders.

He had decided to put his new theory to Vince when he was distracted by the sound of rain drumming on the window. With the suddenness that characterises weather changes in Orkney, the golden afternoon had vanished into mist.

Sighing, he went downstairs to the kitchen, wondering why it was so quiet. He smiled at the sight of his mother enjoying one of her rare periods of silence. He stood looking down at her, overwhelmed by a rush of love for his so-often exasperating parent. But even his gentle kiss on her forehead did not awaken her.

At that moment he heard Vince on the stairs.

'How is Francis?'

'He's responding well, but I didn't feel that I ought to leave him for the afternoon.' He smiled. 'So you missed the picnic, too, Stepfather?'

Tm just on my way there now...'

The chiming clock behind them struck four.

'Is that the time? It can't be,' said Faro, taking out his watch. With the same thought in mind the two men exchanged glances.

'Shouldn't the girls be back by now?' Faro asked.

They should have been ages ago, considering the weather.' Vince pointed to the windows. 'It's been pouring down for the past hour. And blowing up a gale too.' He made a helpless gesture. 'Look, I was sitting with Francis, reading. Naturally I presumed you had gone off without me.'

Faro fought rising panic which began somewhere in the region of his heart. 'Inga has probably taken them home with her.'

'With a wake in progress under her roof? I don't think that's very likely—'

'Listen... listen...' Even above the wind, they could hear a rhythmic beating, the boom of an angry sea.

Faro gripped Vince's arm. 'The tide's in. That's the high tide.'

He was aware that Vince's face had drained of all colour. 'Dear God... you know what that means, Stepfather? The Troll's Cave must be under water...'

But Faro hardly heard as he threw open the front door.

Chapter Fourteen

As they raced along the cliff path the sea was already roaring over the rocks, throwing up a boiling fury of spray which, allied to the rain, drenched them.

'Where is this Troll's Cave, anyway?' Faro panted.

'Up there, see that batch of arched rocks ... near the lighthouse.'

'Dear God ... it's miles away.'

Vince drew alongside. 'Don't worry, Stepfather,' he gasped. 'I'm sure we're worrying quite unnecessarily... Inga will have them sheltering somewhere ... they'll be perfectly safe ...'

Faro had no breath left for an answer, saving every ounce of effort for the steep incline. But, before he reached the path where the lighthouse towered above the shore, he knew with a sickening jolt of terror that the cave where his children played was under water and had been for the past hour.

Panic seized him, the ground shaking, the water roaring, the sound of doom, funnelling up the rock chimney, covering him with spray.

'Rose! Emily!'

But their shouts were in vain. The two men exchanged horrified glances for below them everything had ceased to exist and nothing remained but the sea. A grey sea, with billowing white-crested waves. Even the seals had deserted this angry monster, and only the sea-birds screamed above their heads, an endless litany, a mocking requiem for the folly of man's struggle against the elements.

Both men were now incapable of reason. All they could think of was the two children drowned, drifting out to sea, hurled back and broken on the savage rocks below. As men have done since the beginning of time and upon these very shores, many a time and oft, they ran back and forward up and down the path, waving their arms, shouting.

Stopping occasionally to peer out into that deadly implacable enemy, the sea, they were not only beyond reason, but beyond control. Few of their friends would have recognised Vince or Faro in their sodden clothes, in their extremes of grief their countenances distorted with fear as the tears ran unchecked, spurting from their eyes, blinding them, but brushed aside unheeded.