The Seal King Murders Read Online Free PDF

thanked him and said, ‘Rare specimens. I gather tiny orchids that grow on the cliffs back there. Taking them to be labelled and identified by a government botanist.’
    Faro learnt that Mr West was a retired schoolteacher. Disposed to be friendly, he said, ‘I am a widower, for many long years. But I am not entirely alone. I have my homing pigeons – I know all their names. They are more than a hobby – very precious companions and I am quite devoted to them.’ He smiled. ‘My pigeons and my plants. Indeed, the very reasons I have no wish to ever leave Spanish Cove. It has some of the best botanical specimens on the island. Such an interesting area, the tiny harbour too. I spend hours watching the ships and the local lads practising their diving.’
    ‘Are they looking for the Armada galleon?’ Faro asked.
    ‘If it still exists somewhere down there. Theyobviously keep hoping for buried treasure. But I hear there are underground caves and that’s the sort of thing lads like to explore.’ He laughed. ‘I expect you were the same when you were a lad.’
    Faro smiled wryly and made no comment, remembering that he had once almost drowned and that Dave Claydon’s body may have drifted into one of the dangerous caves to remain undiscovered until some sea fiercer than usual swept it on to the shore.
    Leaving West and the carters near the market stalls in front of St Magnus Cathedral, he breathed deeply, joyfully. This was always for him a moment to look forward to, a moment of nostalgia fulfilled, back in Kirkwall, where he had grown up. Seeing his childhood home again, the cottage near the rose-red cathedral. His earliest memories were waking to bells on a Sunday morning, listening to the choir practise on still evenings, being one of the Christmas carol singers.
    And there up the hill was his old school. Everything looked the same, the children shouting in the playground, leaping about, could have been himself again, the clock turned back, shedding the passing years, leaving no scars.
    He was glad Ma intended keeping the cottage, having providently let it to a visiting artist for the summer.
    ‘He’s from Paris, very elegant and foreign in his ways. But he speaks good English,’ she added, proud to boast of an illustrious tenant.
    Faro decided that whatever she had said to the contrary, although so impressed by Scarthbreck, she had made up her mind already not to remain as permanent housekeeper if asked, and that once the summer was over, the ‘Big House’ emptied of guests, she would return home.
    He had no difficulty in spotting the ferry boat, the sole occupant a young man staring out to sea. He turned round, wishing Faro a polite good day.
    ‘Is the ferryman around?’ asked Faro.
    The man grinned. ‘That’s me, sir.’
    Faro was taken aback: the name Amos suggested an old salt, rich in experience of all the seasons and the vagaries of tides, but the ferryman was possibly younger than himself, with a mop of dark-red curls, a roguish smile and, quite alarmingly, although the surname was as common as Scarth or Faro in Orkney, or Smith and Brown elsewhere, Amos bore a strong resemblance to Erland, a friend from his schooldays. Fletts were all distantly related and in a small community could trace their origins back to a distant or not-so-distant common ancestor.
    ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Amos asked. ‘We leave in twenty minutes, sir. Bound for the Hope?’
    Amos was not what Faro had expected but seemed eager to be friendly. He had none of the guarded manner of the island folk in the presence of a stranger. Perhaps it was only the thought of business at last, and Faro had to disappoint him.
    Shaking his head, he said, ‘Not today, I’m up here seeing my ma, but I’d like to have a word with you, seeing as you are not too busy.’
    The lack of a promising customer cast a moment’s gloom over Amos’s face, but he rallied quickly and grinned. ‘Go ahead, sir.’
    So Faro began to explain.