Bury Her Deep (11 page)

‘It was opened?’ I said, my eyes wide.

‘Yes, just after the war,’ he said. ‘With all the interest in archaeology and all those eager pilots looking for excuses to stay in their cockpits, anywhere with an interesting name and a whiff of a past got used to the sight of a rickety little contraption overhead and someone hanging out of the side with a camera, and as soon as someone had taken a look at the place from up there they found the entrance. That much was to be expected.

‘Now, however, we move into the realms of pure fantasy – a mixture of pharaoh’s curse, an understandable confusion about the name of the place, and  . . . human nature, I daresay.’ He had the air of regret one might expect in a minister who sees so much of it. ‘When the news broke that the archaeologists were coming, decent God-fearing folk started barring their doors and demanding blessings and goodness knows what else. I had to preach on it more than once, and even in the kirk pews I saw a few stubborn looks thrown back at me.’

I could imagine. I have long thought that Hindustanis with their endless gods would feel quite at home in Scotland with the blasphemous jumble of saints, fairies, charms and omens which seemed to trouble neither priest nor congregation ever a jot.

‘You see then, Mrs Gilver,’ he said, ‘it is not really a surprise to find that a faction of my parishioners is willing to whip up a ghoulish fantasy about the next thing to come along. Willing to believe, that is, that our dark stranger is not of this world.’

‘I still think it’s very odd,’ I insisted, ‘but it might play into our hands. You see, if everyone half believes the dark stranger is some kind of phantom they might well ignore any clue that doesn’t fit. They will have been very interested in his snakiness and his ability to fly over walls and not at all concerned, for instance, with such mundane facts as where he flew from or what kind of boots he had on. Do you see?’

Mr Tait nodded.

‘That makes a good deal of sense, Mrs Gilver,’ he said. ‘A rationalist, I see.’

‘In this instance, I better had be, don’t you think?’ I countered, although one would not care to be accused of anything quite so cold as rationalism in the general way of things ‘So,’ I concluded, ‘leaving aside the exasperating Mrs Hemingborough, I have the three girls from the spring to talk to and then the farmer’s wife from the summer.’

Mr Tait screwed up his eyes in concentration and began to count them off on his fingers.

‘Elspeth McConechie, the Palmers’ dairy maid, was the first,’ he said. ‘You’ll find her at work this afternoon at the Palmers’ place: Easter Luckenlaw Farm. Then Annie Pellow. A Largo lass. She works in the kitchen at the Auld Inn in Colinsburgh but she lodges here with Mrs Kinnaird. The house on the green nearest the pillar-box. And the third one was Molly  . . . I forget her surname  . . . but she’s up at Luck House. Maid of all work, near enough.’

‘Luckenlaw House, do you mean?’ I said. ‘In that case I think I saw her this morning.’

‘You would have,’ said Mr Tait. ‘There’s just her most days now. Heaven knows how they run the place. There were a dozen indoor servants before the war.’

‘And then nobody for two months and then the farmer’s wife?’ I prompted. ‘Mrs  . . . ?’

‘Young Mrs Fraser,’ said Mr Tait. ‘From Balniel Farm down to the main road. She came straight to me, frightened out of her wits. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting her to tell you all about it.’

‘And then just one month of peace before Mrs Hemingborough,’ I finished up. ‘Bafflingly
not
frightened out of her wits by it and very unlikely ever to give me the time of day again, I’m afraid.’ Mr Tait said nothing. ‘I even wondered if she knew who it was and didn’t want to drop him in it.’ Mr Tait was silent once more. ‘Or perhaps Jessie Holland was not telling the truth after all. Perhaps Mrs Hemingborough stumbled and dropped her bundle and Jessie’s imagination supplied the rest. Except, of course, Vashti Howie’s sighting certainly does back Jessie up. Oh, bother it,’ I said, rising from the table and smacking down my napkin. ‘I refuse to be fuddled by this. I shall put Mrs Hemingborough and her mysteries out of my mind in hopes that when I get to the answer it will shed light on her extraordinary behaviour too.’ Mr Tait did not look at all convinced by my sudden optimism and I could hardly fault him for that but in truth I really was buoyed up by the prospect before me. If only I could keep my thoughts firmly on the facts and put aside all the nonsense I should surely prevail. I would start at Easter Luckenlaw Farm, where Elspeth would be in the dairy; I would take in the refreshingly normal Mrs Fraser and then hope to catch Mrs Kinnaird’s lodger in the pub kitchen at Colinsburgh. I did not see quite how I might organise a trip to Luckenlaw House to talk to the Howies’ maid but I had more than enough for one afternoon already and I had promised Hugh to be home for a late dinner, so she would have to keep.

I opened the front door of the manse moments later to let myself out – all hands appeared to be on deck in the kitchen safeguarding the clarity of the jelly – and was confronted by a face. I stepped back sharply and then stayed back, for this face was not only unexpected but, even after a second and a third look at it, extremely unnerving. It was a thin, white face, indifferently shaved, and boasting a pair of narrow eyes and a lantern jaw, grimly set under pursed lips. It sat above a high-buttoned and rather rusty black suit and below an equally rusty black bowler hat worn so far down on the bony skull beneath it that it must surely have been crammed on in a moment of violent rage, in lieu, perhaps, of throwing something through a window.

The jaw unclenched.

‘I’m here tae see the meenister,’ said an accusing voice. ‘I’ve something to say.’

With that the man stalked past me, rather insultingly careful to make sure his garments brushed against none of mine, and made for the study. He clearly knew Mr Tait’s habits, and was sure where to find him.

I hesitated before following; after all, parishioners must visit all the time – that must be amongst the heaviest of a priest’s burdens – and so this individual could be here about anything at all, but surely such an air of offended outrage could not spring from an everyday matter and it was not too fanciful to imagine that
his
business with Mr Tait might also be mine. Perhaps, although he did not look like a farmer in his black suit, this was Mr Hemingborough come with information. Perhaps – as I had the thought I broke into a trot – he had come with a confession. I sidled into the study just in time to see Mr Tait lay down his book and fold away his spectacles with a patient air, although with his customary sunny expression somewhat dimmed.

‘And whae’s this?’ said the man, turning to look at me from the perch he had taken up in a chair opposite the desk.

‘This is Mr Black, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait, very properly ignoring the query and presenting the man to me. ‘One of my parishioners. This is Mrs Gilver, from Gilverton in Perthshire, Dick, she’s my guest here.’ He did not carry on and say that he would thank Dick Black to keep a civil tongue in his head, but I understood it and gave him a grateful smile.

‘Aye, I ken all about you,’ said Mr Black. ‘You’d be as well to hear this too.’

Thus given permission to stay, I subsided meekly into a chair and waited.

‘I tried again last nicht, Mr Tait,’ said Mr Black. ‘While those Jezebels were carousing and cavorting in that schoolhouse, I tried again and again I failed. You have to take a stand, now, before the very pit opens under our feet and swallows us all.’

‘Mr Black is no fan of the Rural, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait with breathtaking understatement. ‘He always drops in the day after the meetings. It’s getting to be quite a tradition.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Black,’ I said, ‘there was no cavorting and carousing last evening. I was there myself.’

‘I ken you were,’ he said. ‘I heard you. The lot of you  . . . chanting!’

‘We did recite a little poetry,’ I said. ‘Did we disturb you? I shouldn’t have thought it was loud enough to carry to another house.’ Mr Tait was sitting back, enormously entertained it appeared to me.

‘I was ootside in the lane,’ said Mr Black. ‘I heard it as plain as day. Chanting.’

‘You were outside?’ I said, my interest aroused.

‘On my mission,’ he announced, startlingly. ‘As how I wouldna have to if them as should
would
.’ With that he turned away from me and addressed Mr Tait once more. ‘I went as far as the Frasers’ last nicht. I thocht he’d be sure to give me his ear what with his wife seein’ the licht, and him stayin’ at his own fireside since she did, even if he was as bad as the rest for wanderin’ beforetimes. And he should ken to listen to his elders and betters, but do you know what he said to me?’

‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mr Tait.

‘He said, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.”’

‘Well, Dick,’ said Mr Tait, ‘you can hardly expect me to disagree with that.’

‘Not one sorry soul did I bring back to the richt way o’ thinkin’ last nicht,’ Mr Black went on. ‘For most o’ them were nowhere to be found, Mr Tait. The men as bad as their wives, everybody oot in the nicht, givin’ the devil an easy job tae find them.’ Mr Tait was trying to interrupt the flow, but Mr Black spoke all the louder and drowned him out. ‘Right roond the lanes and not a soul could I raise,’ he said. ‘Logan McAdam, Drew Torrance, Jim Hemingborough, Bob—’

‘It’s no crime, Dick,’ said Mr Tait. ‘When the cat’s away, you know.’

‘All the husbands were out?’ I said.

‘Aye, a corpse rots fae the heid doon,’ said Mr Black. ‘What can we expect o’ a pack o’ women if their men are lost to sin?’

‘Come now,’ said Mr Tait, hoisting a smile out of his seemingly bottomless store of goodwill. ‘Lost to sin? Lost, perhaps, to a quiet game of cards or a glass of ale but no more.’

This, I concluded, was pure mischief and right enough Mr Black’s white face began to change to a mottled purple and he struggled with himself in silence for quite some time before he spoke again.

‘And what can we expect fae the common fowk when their meenister and their masters see Satan comin’ and jist wink at him?’

‘What masters are these?’ said Mr Tait.

‘They feckless eejits up by Luck Hoose,’ said Mr Black. ‘Sodom and Gomorrah on our very doorstep, Mr Tait. I saw it with my ain eyes last nicht.’

‘You went up to Luck House?’ said Mr Tait. ‘You should know better than that, Dick. You’ve overstepped yourself there.’

‘Steeped in it,’ said Mr Black. ‘Soaked in whisky, the pair o’ them. I wasted my time even tryin’. And I see I’m wastin’ more of it here today.’ He stood up and glared down at Mr Tait.

‘You are that, Dick,’ said the Reverend. ‘That you are.’

Cramming his bowler back onto his head as tightly as before, Dick Black stalked from the room without a goodbye and without so much as a glance in my direction.

‘I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait, when he had gone. ‘Our Bible tells us that “whom the Lord loveth He correcteth” but He hasn’t worked His way round to Dick Black yet as far as I can see.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was rather useful. I’ve learned – if Mr Black can be believed – that the Howie brothers are in the clear, as is Mr Fraser, although I suppose we knew that, since Mrs Fraser has “seen the licht” and given up the meetings and her husband could hardly be out without her knowing. But, it seems, other husbands have no alibis for yesterday evening and countless other evenings too. And of course, I’ve learned that Mr Black himself is wont to prowl around on Rural nights.’

‘Oh come! Mrs Gilver!’ said Mr Tait.

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I know he’s one of your flock but you can’t deny that he’s  . . . peculiar enough.’

‘He’s not peculiar at all,’ said Mr Tait. ‘He’s all too common, him and the likes of him. And anyway, Dick Black was born in Luckenlaw and lived here all his days. If he was the stranger, he wouldn’t
be
a stranger, would he?’

I had to admit that there was a great deal of sense in this, but still I determined to mention his name to the victims.

To the victims, I now turned my thoughts once more. I said goodbye and, with no more encounters on my way, I left the village and strode out along the farm lane, a pad of writing paper and a pencil clutched in my hand, all practicality and purpose, all thoughts of secret chambers and snaky strangers far from my mind. The going was not nearly as dirty as Lorna had feared and the view was, if anything, better: a long sweep of flat fields all the way to the coast where the Forth lay glinting like a bolt of grey silk held in place by the great stud of the Bass Rock. Or was that the Isle of May I could see? Before I had decided I found myself past the Hemingboroughs’ place and turning away from the sea, around the bottom of the hill, to Easter Luckenlaw Farm beyond.

It was an agreeable spot. The square, grey farmhouse faced to the south with its long garden laid out before it and the yard and buildings, as was usual, tucked away behind out of sight. In the sunshine this afternoon, the drying green and vegetable patch inside the garden wall were a feast of cheerful ordinariness to my eyes and I thought I recognised from the Rural meeting of the evening before the woman who was busy at the washing-line, pressing the clothes against her lips to see if they were drying. I stopped and watched her for a while, hoping for her to notice me and let me strike up conversation in an unobtrusive way, but she was intent on her task, working her way along, smoothing, stretching and repegging the succession of petticoats, winter camisoles and knickers, woollen stockings and jerseys, all in strict order on the line. When she was finished, she turned to seize a stretching pole and spotted me at last. She nodded politely.

‘I hope the wind picks up for you,’ I said.

‘I doubt it will,’ she called back. ‘And the sun’ll be ahint the law soon enough.’ She gestured and following her pointing finger I could see she was right. The outline of the hill was already dazzling a little and it would not be long before the afternoon, here at least, was over.

‘I was at Mrs Hemingborough’s this morning,’ I called to her. ‘She has a contraption in her kitchen and she was ironing already.’