Killing Cousins (4 page)

As they entered the kirkyard, tombstones leaned dangerously in the direction of the cliff edge and wreaths of flowers marked the melancholy site of Thora Balfray's recent interment.

Near the Balfray vault Vince pointed to a large flat stone obviously of great antiquity. 'Another valuable artefact. According to Francis this once marked the centre, the place of sacrifice, of a prehistoric stone circle. The rest I presume has vanished into the sea long ago.'

Running a finger over the crude tree branches cut deep into the stone which led to a circular hole at the base of its trunk, he said, 'Interesting carvings, amazing how they've survived wind and weather. The Odin Stone, Stepfather. You must have heard of it?'

'Ah yes. I was brought to see it once, long ago, when I was a small child. I could have been no more than three when my father told me its grisly history, that the hole was reputedly to catch the victim's blood. I was very impressed and scared.'

Vince smiled. 'It had its good side, too, right up until recent times. According to Francis, the stone had magical powers of life-giving and resurrection. The islanders carried their sick and dying folks here and held vigil.'

Faro shivered. 'What a splendid test. If exposure to the elements didn't kill them off then they would have survived anyway.'

'You're very cynical, Stepfather.'

Faro shook his head and said drily, 'I was merely thinking, how unfortunate that Francis did not try it on his wife.'

Vince gave him a hard look and said reproachfully, 'Francis has strong feelings for this place and its history. He would like to remove the Dwarfie Ha' stone by stone and have it taken to a safer site inland. But that would cost a lot of money. He had the same sort of idea about the family vault.' He sighed. 'Thora's will be the penultimate burial. When he dies, he has left orders for it to be sealed up for good.'

A sixteenth-century sarcophagus emblazoned with all the paraphernalia of death, skull and crossbones, weeping angels and hourglasses, had been almost obliterated by time and weather. Below, the Balfray vault was entered by a few steps leading down to an ancient iron-studded door.

Vince pointed to the sea-bitten wall behind them. Only the arched window indicated the remains of a religious house. 'Hard to picture it now but at one time the Balfray tomb was in the nave of the abbey. Its policies were bounded by a wall which stretched for some considerable distance towards the cliffs. Now only these few stones remain.'

Faro remembered the taciturn boatman's grisly tales about dead bodies as Vince continued, 'Worse than that, skeleton bones are sometimes found on the rocks below. There are apocryphal tales of skulls wearing diadems or hands still wearing rings worth a queen's ransom.'

Observing his stepfather's look of disbelief, he said, 'It's true enough to bring treasure-seekers rowing across from other islands. Word gets around. All it needs is for one fisherman to find a semi-valuable ring or brooch and flourish it in the local tavern at Kirkwall. In no time at all you'll have a fleet of the curious setting sail.'

Faro could see the reason in that. 'Quite understandable, since one small diamond or pearl would be worth more than a whole season's fishing.'

Vince nodded. 'And much less effort, much less danger to life and limb involved.'

'I shall bear it in mind. Perhaps some of these rock pools might be fished to advantage before we leave.'

'But don't you ever be tempted to go out on your own, Stepfather, unless you know about the tides. The sea comes in at the very devil of a lick, no gentle lapping the shore by way of warning, just one wild demoniac rush. So be warned. That was how Mrs Bliss was drowned.'

'Mrs Bliss?'

'Yes, the last housekeeper at Balfray. The one Grandma replaced. It was all a tragic and quite unnecessary accident. Went out to rescue her little dog who got into difficulties and was cut off by the tide.'

'How very unfortunate. I thought all dogs could swim.'

'Not this one. No bigger than a squirrel and terrified of its own shadow. Apparently it had wandered out at low tide chasing something and once the sea came rushing in it was too scared to do anything but leap on a rock and bark.'

'And the housekeeper heard it?'

'Why yes, she was out searching the shore for the poor beast' Vince shook his head. 'As I said, all tragic and unnecessary. Seems she hadn't been at Balfray long enough to take seriously the treacherous floodtide.'

'She was alone?'

'I imagine so.'

'Remarkable,' said Faro, and Vince looked at him sharply.

'It was an accident, I assure you.'

Faro nodded absently. A moment later he asked, 'Had she any family?'

'Not that I've heard of. From the Highlands somewhere. She's buried in the kirkyard. Grandma knows all about it. She'll fill you in on all the details. What's wrong?'

Faro had seized his arm. 'Take care. Someone's there...by the vault. Listen...'

Chapter Three

They were not in any danger.

As they listened, the sound became audible as stifled sobs from the far side of the Balfray sarcophagus.

A man crouched, arms cradling his knees, his head against the stone and, oblivious of their presence, he wept in abject misery.

Suddenly conscious of their shadows, he sprang to his feet and with one startled glance leaped away through the tombstones.

A bizarre eldritch figure, Faro caught one glimpse of a dead white face, huge haunted eyes and tangled hair streaming in the wind.

'Who on earth was that?' he asked, with a startled glance in Vince's direction. 'Not the bereaved husband, I hope.'

'No. That was Troller Jack, the blacksmith's brother. Not quite right in the head, alas. Thora Balfray was very good to him, patient and kind. She never dismissed him, as most folk did, as a simpleton to be mocked.

'Francis told me once that to her Troller was victim of some horrible disorder of the brain he could not control. She spent hours with him, even managed to teach him his letters. And, I gather, he worshipped her. He must have been here since the funeral, paying his own last respects. We must have given him a terrible fright.'

'No more than he gave us,' said Faro. 'He was like some demon rising from the tomb. I'm glad you were with me.'

Vince laughed. 'Good heavens, Stepfather. Troller wouldn't harm a fly. You'll get used to his strange appearance.'

' "Selkie born and selkie reared," ' said Faro.

Vince asked him to repeat it.

'I don't know where it came from, lad. Something from my childhood, games we used to play. Nasty things we used to shout after folk who were daft. That they were seal people.'

'I'm glad you outgrew that, Stepfather. Sounds like Grandma's nonsense. Not quite in keeping with a detective inspector of police. What would Superintendent McIntosh say?' he added mockingly.

The grey skies erupted into a sudden fine drizzle and Faro was aware of being chilled to the bone. Disenchanted by his introduction to Balfray, he longed for a warm fire and a good dram inside him.

As they hurried in the direction of the drive, he asked, 'What was this about her being ill-wished, some nonsense like that? Did Francis ever explain?'

Vince hesitated for a moment. 'You're not going to like this, Stepfather.'

'Try me,' said Faro impatiently.

'When you asked me about the Balfray household and retainers, I didn't mention someone who is almost a member of the family, by habit and repute, constantly at Thora's side, her dear friend and companion.' He hesitated.

'Go on.'

'This friend is also reputed to be a witch. Most of the island gives her a wide berth.'

'Sensible, I suppose. But who the devil is she?'

Again Vince hesitated. 'As I said, Stepfather, you won't like this. I'm sorry, but it's Inga St Ola - our cousin Inga.'

Faro felt as if the breath had been knocked out of his body. His father Magnus and Inga's father had been remote cousins, boon companions and close as brothers. Like many other islanders who could trace their families back a few generations, they shared the same greatgrandfather.

Inga and Jeremy had been childhood friends. There was a time while he was deciding whether to go to Edinburgh and join the police force when Faro considered asking her to be his wife.

Two years his senior, Inga had been his first love. She had adored him, and had given him - a secret known only to themselves - his initiation into the mysterious world of sex. After that he felt honour bound, knowing he was leaving Orkney, to suggest marriage.

Her rejection of his stammered proposal hurt his pride but also brought an enormous sense of relief. Her reason? Yes, she did love him and there was no other man she would ever wish to marry but sadly she shook her head. He had one rival. The island. She loved it better man any man and could never ever leave Orkney. She would die, she told him solemnly, if she ever tried to cut that invisible tie which bound her to this land.

Faro's memory presented a vivid picture which had remained with him through the years of her rapt countenance as she said the words. He remembered too that loving her, while it made him feel so proud, so big and strong and manly possessing that fragile delicate body, he was afraid of her spirit.

Afraid of her dark powers, for even in those days she was already a selkie, a self-styled white witch, dabbling in all kinds of herbal mysteries and what she smilingly called her magic spells.

Her boast was that she could whistle up a wind, which was a profit if a sailor should find his bonny boat in the doldrums. But such abilities, as well as an undeniable talent for foretelling the future, only widened the gulf between herself and Jeremy Faro.

Such psychic gifts as second sight made him uncomfortable, at a loss for appropriate words. And they were too unnerving for the practical policeman in the making, who wished to cut himself adrift from his superstitious island upbringing.

In the early days, lonely in Edinburgh, he missed her, but he also realised that if word had got around that Constable Faro had a practising white witch as wife, this would have been a considerable handicap to his advancement.

Later he learned that after his departure from Orkney, Inga seemed to change her mind about leaving the island. His mother and the neighbours presumed that she had followed the handsome young policeman. Shaking their heads, they smiled indulgently. The next news would be of a wedding in Edinburgh, mark their words.

But Inga returned alone at Lammastide with the seals barking on the shore as if in a delirious chorus of welcome. Where had she been all that spring and summer, demanded the curious? But smiling, so happy to be home, she evaded all their questions, merely shaking her head as if bewildered, puzzled to know what all the fuss was about. Until at last they began to feel foolish, for it was as if she had been away on an errand to the mainland and absent for only a day and a night.

Faro was aware of Vince's hand on his arm. 'Look, Stepfather.'

Faro blinked against the rain. A girl was hurrying down the drive to meet them, shouting a greeting. His heart thudded in recognition, for it was as if his thoughts had uncannily conjured up Inga St Ola exactly as he had last seen her. Miraculously unchanged from his youth, tall, slim, she now stood before him.

He felt a sudden sickness, a feeling of doom at the pit of his stomach.

'Jeremy? Jeremy Faro, I thought it was yourself. The years have been good to you.' She laughed, pushing back long black hair unstreaked with grey. It was a gesture he remembered. Staring at him, hands on hips, her mouth and eyes wide open as if this was a huge joke, he noticed that her teeth, small and even, were still excellent.

She held out her hands. Here was a difference. These were not a young girl's hands, silken and thin-boned. These hands were no strangers to hard work, aged with toil, heavily veined, rough and calloused, freckled with what his mother called 'the flowers of death'.

But, apart from those work-worn hands, time had passed her by. While he stammered heaven only knew what platitudes and took in every detail of Inga St Ola, Faro was acutely aware of Vince's silent, somehow accusing presence at his elbow.

Inga was forty-two years old. Unlike the normal island wives who became shawled old women in their thirties, sea-wrinkled, bent with continual child-bearing and a bitter struggle against the elements, Inga with her long black hair unbound seemed little more than a girl.

Later Vince told him, 'Her youthful appearance goes against her too. All it does is add to her strange and sinister reputation. Envy, malice, the women hate her for it, especially those of her own age who have worn less well: this island woman has no right to be still beautiful past forty - unless she has sold her immortal soul to the Dark One.'

Added to physical beauty, Faro was aware of a swift-moving animal grace, still unfettered by time's passing. Did she still swim naked in the sea, he wondered, laughing at those who talked of seal people? He was curious, wanting to know what her life had been. Had she ever married? If not, then had she known many lovers?

While they mouthed trivialities at one another, his mind was burning with questions unasked. He was suddenly aware that the rain had steadily increased and with it Vince's hand impatient on his arm, urging him towards the front door.