Ghost Walk (20 page)

The house wore all its attraction on the outside. Despite a
gallant
effort at furnishing by Lady Verney, the result was a
curious
atmosphere of trembling uncertainty as if the house itself might find some difficulty in coming to terms of living in a state of harmony with antiques and bric-a-brac that might vanish in a puff of smoke.

I have a curious awareness not, alas, shared by everyone, that houses absorb the personalities of their occupiers and I wondered if someone had died here recently. Perhaps the last tenant had expired before Lord Verney’s modern refurbishments and the melancholy atmosphere of a funeral wake still lurked about the walls.

I was relieved to find that Annette was quite oblivious of
anything
in the least disturbing. She was beside herself with
excitement
, rushing from room to room, thrilled beyond measure for what was to be her ‘honeymoon home’ as she shyly referred to it and turning to me from time to time for agreement, so that I conjured up the polite and enthusiastic responses that were expected of me.

Alexander remained outside throwing sticks for Thane who was obliging him in taking part in this somewhat degrading
pastime
for a deerhound.

My eyes widened as I glimpsed them from out the window. Here was a Thane new to me, the existence of a Thane I had never dreamed of. I would never have considered throwing sticks for him to retrieve. However, he seemed to be enjoying the new
experience
and perhaps thereby proving how wrong I had been and that my mysterious deerhound who came from Dear-
knows-where
and was able to survive on the heights of Arthur’s Seat was just an ordinary animal after all.

Watching the boy with the hound many sizes too large for him, I realised sadly that time was running out for Alexander and
all the joy of these last few days would depart with Thane.

At that moment I wished with all my heart that Thane was mine, that I owned him and could give him as a gift to Alexander, or at least on extended loan till Jack and I came back from our honeymoon.

As we said goodbye to Annette, she told me again how excited she was that I should meet her new husband at my wedding. I smiled. Had she ever mentioned his name and I had missed it, I wondered, or did she, after so many tribulations, obtain intense satisfaction in defying her guardian – and everyone else – by referring to him in the proud title of ‘my husband’.

My thoughts drifted compassionately towards the unfortunate Dr Blayney and his earache – and his heartache too, the latter of which could not be cured by a phial of Dr Dalrymple’s drops but might lessen when Annette’s daily presence was removed.

As I reached the drive by a short cut through the wood, there was something else nagging at the back of my mind, something vital I should be remembering in connection with the unhappy secretary but it was banished by the appearance of Father Boyle.

I emerged from the rhododendrons just a few steps away from him. We were obviously heading in the same direction towards Eildon. I guessed he had been returning Alexander’s birthday party guests to their respective homes on the estate and he was walking head down, clearly either praying or preoccupied with his own thoughts.

He did not look overjoyed at this interruption of his
contemplation
and looked askance at Thane who, taken by surprise, moved swiftly in his direction.

‘Shouldn’t your dog be on a rope of some kind?’ He sounded alarmed.

Thane came back to my side immediately and I said, ‘He is quite safe, I assure you. Remember how well-behaved he was at the party.’

Boyle made a grumpy sound of disapproval. I felt sure that he
did not want to walk with us, but a measure of politeness demanded that unless he had some ready excuse for speeding ahead, he must accompany us to the village.

Feeling guilty that I was a relative stranger, not of his religious persuasion, when he would rather have been alone,
embarrassment
is always the surest thing to make me tongue-tied.

My mind went blank about some topic to engage his
attention
.

I began with ‘All your charges are safely back home again?’

He merely nodded but I persevered with remarks about how well behaved they were, such nice children, etc. etc. He merely smiled, a trifle grimly I thought, keeping his opinion to himself, his silence indicating that it had been no mean task.

I tried again and asked how he was enjoying Eildon and his new calling.

‘Tolerable,’ he said, ‘tolerable.’

‘Have you succeeded in finding a housekeeper yet?’

‘Early days.’ His mouth clamped shut on that topic and as
further
enquiries obviously were not encouraged, the alternative was to end all conversation and walk silently back. So I decided as a last resort to mention his predecessor.

‘Father McQuinn was a fine man,’ I said.

That interested him. ‘He was indeed. A difficult man to
follow
. I did not have the pleasure, but I have heard a great deal about his sterling qualities.’ A pause. ‘You knew him then?’

‘I met him briefly on my arrival at Eildon.’ I did not care to throw cold water over this promising topic of conversation by adding that I had found him dead in the church and that I believed his death was no accident but murder.

‘As a matter of fact, we were related.’

‘Indeed?’

‘He was a relative of mine – by marriage.’

That got his attention. ‘Related to your family here?’

‘No. He was cousin to my late husband.’

He frowned. ‘Your – husband?’ He managed an unsteady laugh. ‘Forgive me, but I have heard about your wedding – at the end of the week, is it not?’

‘Yes, but in actual fact I am a widow. My husband was Danny McQuinn. His cousin, Father Sean, brought him over from Ireland as a young lad. He used to visit him here from time to time.’

Father Boyle stopped in his tracks and looked at me, as if he was seeing me for the first time. ‘This is very unusual. Why does everyone refer to you as Miss Faro and not by your married name as Mrs McQuinn?’

I decided that I had better explain. ‘I assure you it is not my wish that I should be presented under my maiden name. It is a whim of my future mother-in-law who, for reasons of her own, preferred that I should be known as Miss Faro. Let us say she did not care for the idea of her only son marrying a widow woman.’

Father Boyle looked taken aback. ‘There is nothing in the Bible against widows marrying again. Had you been divorced or something of that nature, or have some discreditable association in your past, there might have been an excuse for your mother-
in-law’s
reactions. But this is quite extraordinary.’

‘And very uncomfortable too for me, I assure you.’ I did not add that I suspected my future husband was extremely jealous of my late husband and rather approved of his mother’s
behaviour
in this delicate matter.

The priest managed a smile but had he been the clergyman in charge of our nuptials I realised that he could not have been more surprised by this disclosure.

‘So you are Mrs McQuinn and your husband Danny was Father McQuinn’s cousin,’ he repeated. ‘Well, well,’ he added with a dry laugh.

‘I presume you are used to confidences, Father.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then I will be greatly obliged if you keep this information to yourself. It would greatly upset and severely embarrass my future
in-laws. Besides, in a few days I will have yet another name – Mrs Macmerry – and everyone will have forgotten there ever was a Mrs McQuinn.’

The village was in sight, the main street with its decoration of flags strung across the road in preparation for the Jubilee
celebrations
.

‘How pretty,’ I said. ‘Eildon is quite transformed.’

The priest merely nodded and we parted, with mutual relief I suspected, but leaving me with some qualms. It had been unwise to confide in anyone, but to confess to a priest or a doctor could not do any harm surely, I told myself, remembering his last words of consolation:

‘Feel free to confide in me at any time, Miss – er Mrs McQuinn. Your secret is quite safe with me.’

As I walked up the farm road towards the house, I wondered how the ladies of Father Boyle’s congregation felt about their new priest, so different from Father McQuinn, who had been loved by everyone.

I remembered Father Boyle’s reactions to their gallant efforts to take care of him when he took a fever after conducting the funeral of his predecessor, his first official duty, in the heavy rain. No doubt he also had sterling qualities behind that
unprepossessing
exterior. Perhaps being brought up by Jesuits had something to do with his long silences and his disinclination for social
conversation
with the opposite sex, but I certainly did not envy his future housekeeper.

Leaving Thane in the barn where it was no longer
considered
a necessity to keep him tethered by a rope, I hurried across the yard, still troubled with guilty feelings about my
revelations
to the priest although I could not see him in the role of a gossip who would spread the news all round Eildon like wildfire.

But as soon as I opened the kitchen door, all thoughts of Father Boyle were swept from my mind.

Jack had arrived home.

Jack was laughing, seated at the table before an immense plate of food, benignly watched over by his doting mother.

He sprang up to greet me, a great hug and kiss. ‘Where have you been, what have you been doing with yourself? How’s Thane?’ A dozen questions in quick fire without giving me a chance to reply. More kisses and cuddles.

His mother’s reproachful, ‘Your food’s getting cold, Jack,’ brought him – and me – down to earth again. I sat opposite him at the table while he demolished that plate of food, occasionally stopping to take my hand and devour me with a loving glance while I kept thinking how wonderful it was to have him here again.

How much I had missed him. As Jess went on to tell him all about the wedding preparations, the little gathering for me on the eve of the wedding as well as his stag night at the local, I was
suddenly
delighted that come Saturday I would be Mrs Jack Macmerry and we’d be away to London on our honeymoon. Andrew appeared at the door and, seizing her shawl, Jack’s mother said, ‘We’re away to see the Johnstons. For a couple of hours,’ she added tactfully.

I was grateful to the Johnstons for the prospect of time alone with Jack when Andrew said, ‘The Wards are both down with this influenza, so it looks like they’ll miss your wedding.’ Remembering Mrs Ward’s heavy cold and Dr Dalrymple’s
warning
, I hoped they hadn’t spread the infection.

As the door closed on his parents Jack hugged me and sighed. ‘The trial finished last night, thank God. It’s strung on and on and for a while I was sure that I was going to have to miss my own wedding.’

‘The same thought occurred to me,’ I said and kissed him.

‘I just missed the last train, so I spent the night at Solomon’s
Tower,’ and putting his hand in his pocket he took out three
letters
. ‘These were waiting for you.’

I scanned the handwriting. From Emily in Orkney, from Paris – Pappa and Imogen. Brief letters, saying what I knew already, how sorry they were to have to miss the wedding – Emily was sending a present and Pappa enclosed a very generous bank draft to buy ourselves something we needed.

Jack was interested in the one without a postmark. ‘This must have been pushed through the door.’

I didn’t recognise the handwriting but suspected it might be from Sister Angela, a reply to my note and knowing how
persistent
Jack could be when his curiosity was aroused, thrusting it into my pocket I said casually, ‘It will be from the nuns at St Leonard’s, in connection with their summer fete.’

The frown that crossed Jack’s face told me to be careful, that the words ‘nuns at St Leonard’s’ conjured up Danny McQuinn for him.

So with a hasty change of subject: ‘Only two days now, Jack. We had better go over the sequence of events,’ I said firmly.

‘A good idea. What have you been doing while I was away? How are you getting on with Ma?’ he added anxiously.

‘Improving considerably. We seem to be coming to an
understanding
. And she’s making me a bridal wreath to wear instead of a bonnet.’

‘She likes you a lot, you know. It’s just that you are – well, a bit different from the lasses here at Eildon. Not quite what she expected. But you’ve won her over. As I always knew you would,’ he added as we went upstairs to pack for a fortnight’s honeymoon in London.

Jack watched as I spread my wedding gown along with my shoes and the rest of my trousseau on the bed. He sighed deeply. ‘We could do with an old-fashioned trunk.’

‘Do you like these?’ I asked proudly, laying down the new shirt and tie I had been hoarding secretly for him.

‘Great! They look very expensive.’

‘They were. Nothing but the best in the circumstances.’

And with his head in the wardrobe. ‘Where did you put my suit, by the way.’

‘Your – suit?’

‘Yes, the one I bought for the wedding. You were to collect it from Solomon’s Tower.’

‘I – I haven’t seen it, Jack.’

‘You must have seen it, Rose. It was in the cupboard next to the wardrobe in our bedroom.’

I sat down heavily. I had never even opened the cupboard.

‘Jack,’ I whispered in horror. ‘When it wasn’t in the wardrobe, I presumed you must be wearing it for the Glasgow trial.’

‘Then you presumed wrong!’ he snapped and stared down at me angrily. ‘Why should I wear my new suit for a crime trial in Glasgow, for heaven’s sake? And the reason it wasn’t in your – the wardrobe was that there wasn’t room for it. You have every
available
inch of space.’

Letting that sink in for a moment, he added dolefully, ‘And another thing, our tickets for London and the wedding rings are in the jacket pocket.’

‘Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.’ I couldn’t bear to argue that I could
hardly
be blamed for that and near to tears I said: ‘What will we do?’

‘I take it you mean what will I do?’ he demanded, angry again. ‘There is only one solution. I will damned well have to go back on the train to Edinburgh tonight and collect it – and come back again – the day before our wedding. Dammit, dammit!’ he added furiously throwing a pair of shoes on to the floor.

I burst into tears, said I was sorry, it was all my fault – even though I believed it wasn’t. But he believed me, and contrite, hugged me and said it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after all. He’d pick up the train from London to Edinburgh when it stopped at Eildon, spend the night at the Tower and be back tomorrow on the night train. ‘Maybe I should take Thane with
me,’ he concluded.

I hadn’t considered Thane being freed again on Arthur’s Seat, back to his old haunts. I suddenly thought of him spoilt by all his new friends in Eildon and missing them. How would he readjust without us? Had we ruined him for ever by introducing him to this new world?

We heard Jack’s parents arrive downstairs and dear Jack saved my face by explaining that he had to return to Edinburgh and
collect
his wedding suit which he had forgotten. So gallant of him, I thought as he added:

‘I thought I might take Thane with me –’

There was a positive storm of protest from Andrew. ‘Why do that – we were hoping that you’d let him stay here with us until you got back from London. He’s happy here, you know.’

I left them to it and went out to the barn. To ask Thane what he thought about it. I realise that may seem very odd, but I was sure he always understood what I was saying to him. He listened, intelligence gleaming in his eyes and when I explained that we would be back in two weeks, would he be happy to stay here with Andrew, he licked my face. In a human I could only call it a smile of assent.

Hugging him, I went back into the house where Jess was
making
sandwiches for Jack to take on the train, a quantity sufficient to see him to London and back rather than the hour’s journey to Edinburgh.

I decided to walk with him to the station and there we found that the train had been delayed at Newcastle by a derailed goods van and was running late. In exposed parts like Eildon a waiting room, however bare and chilly, is a necessity for winter travellers and even the summer ones are abundantly grateful.

As we waited I told him about Ned Fraser’s extraordinary story about the suicide who had first removed his jacket and shirt and carried no luggage. I mentioned it with a certain diffidence expecting my account to be met with Jack’s usual cynicism.

However Jack, who obviously did not heed Ned’s reputation as a gossip merely nodded and said, ‘We know all those details, Rose, and the police are looking into it. They are regarding it as death in suspicious circumstances.’

‘A Fenian plot?’

He shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

I considered this noncommittal response. Jack’s discretion was even worse than Vince’s, at times it could put a clam to shame.

‘Do you agree with me now that Father McQuinn and his housekeeper were also murdered?’

‘That has been added to the equation,’ was the enigmatic response.

‘At least you don’t think I imagined it,’ I said sharply. ‘About the suicide – have they a suspect in mind?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Let’s just say there were some very odd passengers travelling on the train that night, sharing the dead man’s compartment. Extensive enquiries are being made, I assure you.’

‘Odd passengers indeed –’

I thought of the ones Ned had described. A man muffled up to the ears. A mere thought, that might have no relevance at all.

But at that moment the train steamed into the station. Jack was kissing me goodbye and it was too late to tell him –

‘See you tomorrow evening.’

‘Hope you’ll be in time for your stag party.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about that. Goes on all night – see you at the church. Bye!’

The train moved off and from the steam Ned Fraser emerged having changed places with the waiting guard.

He was exactly the man I wanted to see right now.

As we walked back towards the village, I asked him to describe again the events relating to the suicide and he confirmed that the police were very interested in his story.

He had been asked for a full statement. He sounded delighted
at this sudden popularity.

‘Tell me again about the passenger with his face all muffled up,’ I said.

‘The one I thought had the toothache or something, you mean, miss.’

‘Yes. Was he tall or short?’

‘Couldn’t tell you that, miss. He was sitting down.’

I left him at the farm road, certain in my mind that I had the solution to the suicide. Remembering Dr Blayney and his
earache
, I only wished I had Vince to go through his visit to the Verneys again. Especially the bit about the don who had a remarkable collection of scars for a scholar.

Was Blayney the man who was muffled up to the ears, who had for some reason, as yet unknown officially but most probably
concerned
a Fenian plot, attacked the real Dr Blayney who was sitting opposite ‘reading a book in a foreign language’?

Having spotted his victim shortly after leaving Edinburgh he had waited for the right moment just past Berwick and had thrown him off the train, after first removing, for some reasons unknown, the man’s jacket and shirt.

If only I had time to investigate. If only the wedding was a still week away.

Jack’s parents had retired so I sat at the kitchen table and made careful notes of all that I had discovered. All that was lacking was the real identity of Dr Blayney’s impostor and – since every
murder
must have its motive – the reason why?

As I was writing I remembered that heavy Irish brogue and throwing down my pen, thought I had the reason at last.

The bogus don from Dublin was a Fenian terrorist who had sneaked into the Verney household. To make plans to assassinate a member of the Royal family who, according to Vince, was
coming
on a secret visit at, or around, the time of the Jubilee
celebrations
.

Tomorrow I must tell Constable Bruce, surely this would arouse him from his lethargy – here was a chance for promotion, a chance to shine in the annals of Eildon.

Almost too excited to sleep, I remembered the note that had been put through the door of Solomon’s Tower. As I suspected, it was from Sister Angela and read:

‘Dear Mrs McQuinn. I regret that we could not meet on your recent visit. I thought you would like to know that dear Sister Mary Michael had made a mistake. She confused Danny McQuinn with a message she had received from Daniel McLynn, an unfortunate youth once under our care and now serving a prison sentence.

I do hope this eases your mind. Yours in Christ, Sister Angela.’

What joy, I thought. Now at last, I can believe that there will be no just cause or impediment to my marriage to Jack. And that Danny McQuinn’s ghost is laid to rest at last.

At last? Not quite. But how wrong can one be?