The Bull Slayers: Inspector Faro No 9 (25 page)

He heard the next arrow's flight and dropped to the ground.
Through the pain, he began coughing. He felt the warm blood
flowing and as the blackness of merciful unconsciousness
enveloped him he fainted away.

The blackness was invaded by light, sound and smell.

He opened his eyes. At least he wasn't dead, pain told him
that he was still alive. He lifted his head. It was an animal noise
that had stirred him, the pounding of hoofs reverberating on the
ground near him.

And then he saw it. Running towards him, the heavy head, the shining horns. For one second only, he thought he dreamed
again, that this was yet another return to childhood's
nightmare. But this was no shaggy red Highland beast. The animal that bore down on him with its acrid stench was the
terrible reality of a white king bull.

He could not rise, in the grip of that same paralysis of
nightmare. He was transfixed by fear, fear greater than the
searing agony in his shoulder.

If only he could leap up... run... run...

And then clearly across the years he heard the voice of his
aunt from that Deeside croft.

'Never run, lad. Never do that. The only way you can save
yourself is to lie as still as you can. Play dead. Don't even
breathe. He'll sniff at you and, if you don't move, he'll give up
and go away.'

Nightmare had blocked that memory, had turned it into a
screaming horror. Now in the face of death again, the words
had returned razor sharp, undimmed by the passing years.
Knowing this was his only hope of survival, he almost lost
consciousness again in those heart-stopping moments when the
beast's hoofs trampled the ground inches away from his face.

He felt its hot, stinking breath on his neck, drips of saliva on
his hair. Its nose touched the arrow shaft, questing, and he bit
his lip hard against the scream of agony.

The smell of blood. Was that what it sought before lowering
its horns into his back, lifting him bodily from the ground...

Every second seemed like an eternity as he waited for that
terrible death.

O God - God help me...

And like a miracle, his prayer was answered. By a single
gunshot. A second...

The animal grunted, lifted its nose from its quest over his
body. Then he heard the hoofs beating on the ground. Growing
distant.

Then no more.

No more.

When he opened his eyes, it was to pain. He screamed against
it but was glad even to feel pain. He was still alive.

Turning his head cautiously, he looked into the face of
Imogen Crowe who held the arrow she had dragged out of his
shoulder.

'I didn't know you could handle a gun.'

'Oh yes,' she smiled sarcastically. 'I use one all the time.
We're never without them where I come from in Ireland. But
surely you as a policeman know that.'

She lifted her head. 'Here they are. Hector's brought Dr
Brand. He'll soon have you mended.' She pointed towards the
fence. 'I don't know about Sergeant Yarrow. He's lying over
there. In a bad way, I'm afraid.'

The two men were supported into Hector's cottage and much
later, after a lot of blood and bandages, the doctor smiled at
Faro.

'You're a brave man and you'll live. That shoulder will be
sore for a while, but the arrow just skimmed the muscle, went
sideways. You were lucky.' He looked towards the bedroom.
'Luckier than poor Yarrow.'

'Is he -'

Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not yet. But it won't be long. Took a haemorrhage from the lungs. Wouldn't listen to advice. Are
you able to stand?'

'Of course.' Faro tried to swing his legs off the sofa, failed
and decided against another attempt.

Dr Brand smiled. 'I couldn't help noticing as I was patching
you up that you have many scars, you must have lived a very
dangerous life for an insurance assessor.'

'It has its problems.'

Dr Brand nodded towards the bedroom. 'Sergeant Yarrow
would like to see you.'

Faro nodded. 'Where's Miss Crowe?'

'She's in the garden. With Hector.'

'I owe her my life, you know. She scared that damned bull
away.'

'You're wrong on two accounts, lad. It was Hector fired the
gun. And it wasn't the king bull or you wouldn't be telling the
tale. It was a cow. Maybe a young heifer.'

'A cow?'

'Yes, but her horns are just as sharp, and she can be just as
dangerous. Fortunately, like all females, she suffers from curiosity.
Her mate might not have wasted so much time sniffing around
you.'

Faro shuddered. 'I must thank Hector.'

Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not now. See the Sergeant first.
There may not be much time before Dewar gets here.'

Faro went into the bedroom quietly. At first he thought he was
too late, that Yarrow was dead.

There was so little life in the face, so little difference from the
colour of the pillow on which he lay, that Faro was almost
taken by surprise when his lips moved: 'I should have killed
you.'

'Another murder? Harder to explain away than Sir Archie.'

'How did you know?'

'I didn't. Not until I saw Eric's portrait. He was the image of
you. Your eyes looked out at me. And then there was his grave
in Branxton kirkyard. But most of all were your own words,
first on the scene of the crime...'

Yarrow laughed soundlessly. 'You begin with what is certain,
what you are sure of, then you build on to it.'

'The first lesson in detection, I see you still remember that,'
said Faro. 'My only certainty was that the killer had to be first
on the scene. And after I'd ruled out the Prince of Wales, I was
left with only one man it could be - yourself.'

Faro turned round painfully and touched the sleeve of
Yarrow's uniform jacket hanging over a chair. 'See, there's a
button missing.'

'I know. I must have lost it.'

'And I found it. Clutched in Duffy's hand when I pulled him
out of the water. The final piece of evidence, of course, was
your name on the gravestone in Branxton.'

'And enough to hang me,' said Yarrow slowly.

Faro looked at him. 'Was it revenge? A eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth?'

'Not only for my lad's death, shot by that drunken devil, but
for my wife and the end of my marriage. Eric's death killed her
as surely as if the bullet had struck her heart.'

He sighed, staring out of the window. 'She was never strong after he was born and he was her whole life. After he died I
watched her creep steadily away from me month by month,
then week by week, then each day, each hour.'

Breathless again, he paused. 'I wanted to die too when I was
shot up in the Covent Garden massacre. I was pretty smashed
up and they didn't expect me to survive. I was a long time in
limbo, at the gates of death and to be honest I was very
disappointed when they told me I would live.

'But I knew my career, my glorious future they had talked
about, was over. I'd never be fast on my feet again. I hated
London after that and when I got the chance to come to Elrigg,
it seemed that fate had taken a hand. I'm not a superstitious
man, I don't believe in ghosts, but Eric started to haunt me. I
dreamed of him constantly - I was obsessed, convinced that he
wanted me to avenge him.

'As for Sir Archie, I was sure he'd see it on my face whenever
we met - arrogant bastard that he was and me so servile: yes, sir, no, sir! But there were never any opportunities of getting him alone. I've waited years, sometimes I was with him alone but, without using my bare fists, I couldn't kill him.

'The first real opportunity came when we were riding escort
to the Prince of Wales. We saw them disappear towards the
copse and then the Prince left alone. You know the rest, Dewar
set off for the village and I went to - help - Elrigg. He was
unconscious and I knew I'd never get such a chance again. But
what to use for a weapon? And then I remembered that the day
before I'd found Bowden's horns in a ditch and shoved them in
my saddle bag. Evidence to nail Duffy, I thought.'

He smiled wanly. 'Now it seemed like fate, for I held in my hands a weapon to avenge my lad and make it look like an
accident. I broke one of the horns off, didn't even check to see
that he was still breathing in case he opened his eyes - just
thrust it - hard - with both hands - into his back. It went in
easily, like a stiletto. I don't know where I found the strength
but he had a soft fatty body,' he added in a tone of disgust.

'I thought he groaned, but even if he wasn't dead then he had
never seen my face. I hid the horn in the stone wall - '

'Where I found it.'

Yarrow smiled wearily. 'I might have guessed. And that it
wouldn't take long for you to guess the rest. I hadn't bargained
on Duffy either. He'd been lurking around and knew there was
never a bull in sight.'

'Blackmail.'

'Yes. I paid him a few pounds but it wasn't enough and then
he said he'd tell you - the insurance mannie - what he knew. I
overheard him asking you, leaving messages with Bowden and
knew I had to do something about it - quick. So I arranged to meet him, promising him more money for his silence. Had a
bottle with me - whisky this time. As we talked he was already
drunk - and very abusive when he realised I didn't have a
hundred pounds on me.

'He hit me. We both fell and struggled on the ground. I
pushed his face down into the water - held him till he was dead.
Then I poured the rest of the whisky over him.'

'What about Miss Halliday?'

Feebly he held up his hands. 'Not guilty. I never attacked her.
I liked the woman, respected her. I'd called to collect the
quarantine papers. I'd never been inside her house before. She
gave me some tea, and as I sat there I saw Eric's face smiling at
me.'

And Faro remembered that the abandoned cup of tea and Eric's
likeness to Yarrow had helped him guess the killer's identity.

'That painting, dear God, like he was trying to speak to me. Such a likeness, tears came into my eyes. I had to have it. So I
went back late that night intending to steal it. I was clumsy in
my eagerness, knocked an ornament down in the dark. It
smashed, she heard the noise, came downstairs, tripped and fell headlong. She never moved. I thought she was dead, took Eric's
picture and ran.'

He shook his head, pale and exhausted, his voice growing
fainter. 'I wasn't sure how much you knew or guessed - I didn't
want to kill you - I don't suppose I'm the first.'

'By no means, Sergeant. But they were usually criminals, not
honest policemen.'

'Honest,' Yarrow repeated mockingly. 'I was tired of being
honest. It had got me nowhere and now I was a goner anyway. Dr Brand told me my time was up, that I could go any day. It would have been something, some small compensation to have written on my tombstone: "Here lies the man who murdered
Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police." Quite an epitaph.
After all those famous criminals, he'd been bested by a lowly
sergeant in a country police station.'

He shook his head. 'At least there won't be enough of me to
hang,' he added, indicating the silver button.

Faro handed it to him. 'Get Mrs Dewar to sew it on again.'