also presented a hidden feeling of melancholy and depression. Again he was conscious that although newly built, the house was already haunted. Haunted by the past on which it had been built, by shadows of the Viking war lords, by torture and terror. Shadows seeped through the barely dried paint, and penetrated every corner of those determinedly luxurious indications of wealth.
It was as if ghosts of that earlier house had been incarcerated in the very walls and moved restlessly behind the velvet curtains. You could imagine them lying in wait, peering from inside elaborate gold-framed portraits, the formidably life-sized images of past generations gazing down from every wall.
It was not a good feeling and was one Faro knew that he could not convey in words for his mother to understand. Her air of bewilderment indicated that she was clearly disturbed by this lack of enthusiasm, as she added reproachfully, ‘I suppose all this is nothing compared with all those grand Edinburgh houses you’re acquainted with.’
He shook his head. Nor could he find words of explanation beyond saying that he did not have access as a humble policeman to these mansions of her imagination. Sadly he realised, not for the first time, that it was as if they spokeacross a vast precipice, and although the same words were uttered, both interpreted them in a different way.
‘No matter,’ she sighed. ‘This will be something to remember when you’re back in yon lodgings.’ She had never seen them but they were always dismissed as gloomy and shabby, which he could not deny. ‘This will be something to tell your friends, how rich folk live in Orkney,’ she added with pride.
What friends? he wondered. He had so few.
His mother continued, ‘I expect they think we all live in caves.’
He laughed. That at least was almost true. But he was glad to return to the servants’ lodge, those impersonal barrack-like rooms, no longer stalked by Scarthbreck’s uneasy wraiths of the past.
Determined to see Inga again after their brief meeting in Kirkwall, still drawn to her, he sensed that the attraction was mutual. But it was not until he met Baubie Finn that he realised this was the one person with whom he could have walked around Scarthbreck and shared his feelings.
Perhaps this extra sense, so alien to Mary Faro, was something he had inherited from his long-dead selkie grandmother; an awareness ofthe thin veil separating past from present, an awareness that city living obliterated – even a city with Edinburgh’s bloody past. It was also a sense that would serve him well in years to come as his career advanced.
Certain that he had learnt all that was to be found out regarding the drowning of Dave Claydon, satisfied that he had kept his promise to Macfie, he decided he might as well enjoy the rest of his holiday, especially as he firmly decided that it should include Inga St Ola’s fair presence as much as possible.
He would respond to her invitation and call on her that Sunday afternoon, a time he calculated that she was most likely to be at home. Sunday was a day of rest regardless of one’s religious inclinations, and began for most working folk with church in the morning.
So Faro followed the general pattern, dutifully accompanying his mother, hoping that Inga might be there. Looking round the congregation, there was no sign of her. Only a little disappointed but not completely surprised, he suspected that Inga worshipped the older pagan gods of Orkney, more akin to those ancient Neolithic dwellers than nineteenth-century Christianity.
The Scarthbreck servants all walked together the mile to the local church. An uninspiring,gaunt, box-like modern building, the only indication that this was a place of worship a kirkyard, whose slanting tombstones, inscriptions long lost, hinted at earlier occupants of this area within sight of Spanish Cove.
Mary Faro as housekeeper was in charge of the maids; paying no heed to a more- than-usual amount
It was as if ghosts of that earlier house had been incarcerated in the very walls and moved restlessly behind the velvet curtains. You could imagine them lying in wait, peering from inside elaborate gold-framed portraits, the formidably life-sized images of past generations gazing down from every wall.
It was not a good feeling and was one Faro knew that he could not convey in words for his mother to understand. Her air of bewilderment indicated that she was clearly disturbed by this lack of enthusiasm, as she added reproachfully, ‘I suppose all this is nothing compared with all those grand Edinburgh houses you’re acquainted with.’
He shook his head. Nor could he find words of explanation beyond saying that he did not have access as a humble policeman to these mansions of her imagination. Sadly he realised, not for the first time, that it was as if they spokeacross a vast precipice, and although the same words were uttered, both interpreted them in a different way.
‘No matter,’ she sighed. ‘This will be something to remember when you’re back in yon lodgings.’ She had never seen them but they were always dismissed as gloomy and shabby, which he could not deny. ‘This will be something to tell your friends, how rich folk live in Orkney,’ she added with pride.
What friends? he wondered. He had so few.
His mother continued, ‘I expect they think we all live in caves.’
He laughed. That at least was almost true. But he was glad to return to the servants’ lodge, those impersonal barrack-like rooms, no longer stalked by Scarthbreck’s uneasy wraiths of the past.
Determined to see Inga again after their brief meeting in Kirkwall, still drawn to her, he sensed that the attraction was mutual. But it was not until he met Baubie Finn that he realised this was the one person with whom he could have walked around Scarthbreck and shared his feelings.
Perhaps this extra sense, so alien to Mary Faro, was something he had inherited from his long-dead selkie grandmother; an awareness ofthe thin veil separating past from present, an awareness that city living obliterated – even a city with Edinburgh’s bloody past. It was also a sense that would serve him well in years to come as his career advanced.
Certain that he had learnt all that was to be found out regarding the drowning of Dave Claydon, satisfied that he had kept his promise to Macfie, he decided he might as well enjoy the rest of his holiday, especially as he firmly decided that it should include Inga St Ola’s fair presence as much as possible.
He would respond to her invitation and call on her that Sunday afternoon, a time he calculated that she was most likely to be at home. Sunday was a day of rest regardless of one’s religious inclinations, and began for most working folk with church in the morning.
So Faro followed the general pattern, dutifully accompanying his mother, hoping that Inga might be there. Looking round the congregation, there was no sign of her. Only a little disappointed but not completely surprised, he suspected that Inga worshipped the older pagan gods of Orkney, more akin to those ancient Neolithic dwellers than nineteenth-century Christianity.
The Scarthbreck servants all walked together the mile to the local church. An uninspiring,gaunt, box-like modern building, the only indication that this was a place of worship a kirkyard, whose slanting tombstones, inscriptions long lost, hinted at earlier occupants of this area within sight of Spanish Cove.
Mary Faro as housekeeper was in charge of the maids; paying no heed to a more- than-usual amount
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