Ghost Walk (6 page)

Nearby a group of women were gathered, one of them Mrs Ward whom I had met earlier. She recognised me. With my hand on the church door, I lost my nerve.

It would be all around the village like wildfire. ‘Did ye see that? Ken where she was going? Dinna tell me that the lass who is to marry Jack Macmerry is an RC!’

I couldn’t quite face that imagined Greek chorus and fled in the opposite direction. There, by a stroke of luck, the priest’s housekeeper was emerging from the post office with a basket over her arm.

When I greeted her, she stopped, looked a little puzzled and then smiled at me apologetically.

‘You were wanting to see the Father? He’s been delayed. It often happens.’ And then with a curious expression, ‘You’re a
visitor
here?’

It was a great chance. Telling her that I was related to Father McQuinn by marriage, I had to repeat that several times as she listened with the intense watchfulness that indicated deafness. At last I was hearing what I most wanted to know. She had met
Danny.

‘Aye, long ago, when I was a lass. Only the once, he was on a case with an inspector –’

That would be Pappa, I thought.

‘– and he looked in for a chat.’ Pausing a moment, she added: ‘I heard that he had gone to America.’

At this stage I had no desire to embark on the sad story of my widowhood and merely asked if Father McQuinn still heard from him.

‘Letters, you mean.’ She frowned. ‘There might have been some – yes, I think there were –’

And there our conversation ended as a farm cart laden with produce rolled along the street. Presumably this was what all the women were waiting for and the housekeeper stared anxiously in its direction.

‘Come and have a cup of tea with me. I’m usually at home in the afternoons, and if you want to be sure of seeing the Father, after mass at eight o’clock is the best time –’

Her eyes fixed on the group of women round the cart, I asked, ‘If you could remember when Father McQuinn last heard from Danny –’

But she didn’t hear me. She was turning away, I touched her arm and she stared at me blankly.

‘It’s very important,’ I said, repeating it.

She nodded briefly, a puzzled look. ‘You can ask him yourself, when you see him later on.’

And with that I had to be satisfied as I made my way in the direction of the Abbey, a magnificent scene worthy of my
sketchbook
.

As I walked among the ruins, I thought I was alone.

I was wrong. A shadowy figure lurked, then, as if anxious not to be seen, ducked out of sight.

A moment’s unease. Was I being stalked? How absurd! I was certainly mistaken. With a shrug, I took out my sketchbook.

I had little idea of how long I had been drawing the Abbey ruins before I became aware that I was certainly being watched, my movements carefully followed.

Awareness might have come earlier except that, after firmly
dismissing
my overactive imagination, I had seemed to have the place to myself; alone with the lavishly decorated masonry far above my head, shreds of broken arches and empty windows imploring the heavens for those long lost days of grandeur.

A post near the entrance held a short history, that the original building had been founded during the reorganisation of the Scottish Church in 1126 by King David the First. Intended for the Cistercian church which, while dedicated to poverty,
contrived
as did the great abbeys of the period to create
unprecedented
wealth. The truth of this lay in the tiny hamlets and villages which had sprung up alongside.

The original abbey was a place of worship but after its
destruction
by the English army following the Scots raid over the Border in 1385, rebuilding was in stark contrast to its former simplicity and the new edifice’s ornamentation marked it out as one of the most opulent Border monasteries.

Now only the village of Eildon remained, a cluster of houses arising from a systematic pillaging of the Abbey’s scattered stones. There was something here for the philosopher in all this, I thought, choosing a broken cloister wall as the vantage point for a sketch of the ruined chancel.

Engrossed in my task, the silence was shattered by a bird rising screeching into the sky. I looked up and saw the faint outline of a watching figure high up, gazing down.

A tall man. The light behind him made identification uncertain.

But there was something in that stance – something
familiar
.

‘Jack!’

Had he come back unexpectedly and guessing where I’d be, was trying to surprise me?

Jack? No, that wasn’t Jack’s style at all.

Shading my eyes, I looked upwards. He immediately stepped back.

Definitely not Jack.

I went on drawing, curious but not in the least alarmed – not yet.

A few moments later, conscious again of distant eyes intent upon me, I looked up knowing that he was back once more.

This time I waved, called a greeting. Immediately he ducked out of sight. And that furtive gesture was enough to scare me. I no longer felt safe sitting alone in this vast ruin.

There was worse to come. As I made my way towards the entrance, I passed the spiral stair which led to the ruined gallery and heard stealthy footsteps descending.

A braver woman would have stayed until the mysterious watcher appeared. But aware of the isolation and now certain that I was being stalked I hesitated no longer.

I took flight and did not stop until the gate clanged shut behind me. Only then did I pause to look back.

The abbey grounds were deserted and whoever was on that spiral staircase had not appeared across the lawns.

I am not nervous by nature, nerves of steel had been forged by the constant everyday dangers of a pioneering life, but there was something sneaky and furtive about this encounter that touched a raw edge of nightmare.

Conscious that my heart was beating fast, I was overjoyed to be hailed by Jack’s father in the pony cart.

He was taking the younger of his two collies, Rex, ‘to a farmer up-by’ he said, indicating the area I had explored earlier. There was a fine bitch to be served. Did I fancy coming with him?

Saying that I thought animals made their own arrangements
about such matters, as I jumped aboard, he said,

‘Valuable breeding bitch, great pedigree, had some wee trouble with her innards, while back. But I’ve managed to put it right, a few of the right herbs and a bit of nursing. Aye, she’ll have plenty litters yet awhile. This’ll be Rex’s first siring – officially,’ he added proudly.

Asked what I had been doing I told him I had explored the abbey and, listening to a full account of its history far outpacing the small notice I had read, I decided against mentioning my
sinister
watcher.

In fact, the further we travelled from the ruined abbey, the
sillier
it sounded, the product of an overwrought imagination. And what was more important, we had now reached a part of the track where his lordship’s mansion was faintly visible.

To my question he said: ‘Verneys have lived there for 200 years. From Ireland originally, they stayed loyal to the Stuarts. Loads of money, staunch Catholics – bit of a thorn in the side in a Church of Scotland area but they keep themselves to
themselves
.’

I said I could imagine that it might cause problems, having a local laird who is of a different persuasion.

He nodded. ‘Particularly when this laird also has connections with our Royalty by marriage. It doesn’t make good news to local folk either that a goddaughter of the Queen is about to become a nun.’

That must be the nun I had travelled with from Edinburgh.

He went on: ‘I have always tried to keep out of local politics, especially where religion is concerned. His lordship lets me run my sheep on his land and so I say live and let live.’

And with a ‘whoa’ to the pony-cart, ‘Well, lass, what do you think of the view from here?’

It was magnificent. We were so high that it felt almost like being a bird staring over the undulating landscape of the Border counties, right down to Northumberland and north to
Midlothian. Far below us, a great moving tide of sheep.

To my question he answered proudly, ‘Aye, they are ours. I suppose all sheep look alike to you, but this herd are different from the general rule. Our border Cheviots with their white faces and Roman noses take their names from these hills. The early Celts who settled in this area got the sheep as well and the Roman noses are thought be a throwback to sheep from the East, first domesticated by folk from the Mediterranean and brought north west through Europe.’

I said I promised never again to dismiss every sheep I
encountered
as a rather dull dumb creature, interesting from my
viewpoint
only for its wool.

He laughed. ‘Lass, no other creature has made anything like the same contribution to the prosperity of our land as sheep, although we know little for certain of the ancestry of the various breeds. Monastic establishments of the Cheviot area, like our Abbey back there, had their own flocks in the century with sheep runs over most of the area which evolved with traces of the Blackface from the Pennine hills.’

Pausing to urge on the ponycart down a twisting farm track, a mile further on and our destination loomed into view. Andrew said:

‘I’ll only be a wee minute, lass,’ and I watched Rex trot smartly ahead towards the farmhouse, occasionally pausing to sniff the air, ready and eager for what was expected of him.

A door opened, voices, a bark of greeting and then silence. As I waited alone once more, I wondered if I should mention the stalker in the abbey. Again it seemed quite ridiculous.

The thing that troubled me most was that fleeting second, an illusion of familiarity, that the watcher knew who I was. If so, and if this was an innocent encounter, why was he so anxious not to be seen?

And then to return again, to watch once more. But worst of all was the fact that there was no encounter at the foot of the spiral
staircase where our paths should have crossed.

Even if he did linger in his descent I should have seen whoever it was just behind me, as I turned at the exit gate. That vast empty stretch of green lawn, so innocent seeming, had taken on a
sinister
image.

Jack’s father returned faster than I had anticipated. We set off again and he said: ‘Where was I? Oh aye, the sheep. It wasn’t until the century that scientific breeding began. When a Belford man, James Robson, bought three rams of the Lincolnshire breed – another ancient strain – and crossed them with native ewes according to the Cheviot Sheep Society, there was a vast improvement in the fore quarters, while the wool clip increased 20 per cent. The result was that Belford rams became very popular well beyond the Cheviot area.’

Glancing sideways to see that he still had my attention he added, ‘Wherever you go among these hills and see sheep
feeding
, one of the most interesting characteristics is that they show less inclination to stampede than the majority of other breeds and flocks can usually be seen working up the fell sides as evening approaches. Know why?’

I hadn’t the least idea.

Pleased, he pointed with his whip. ‘It’s believed to be bred in them, from the old days of the Border raiders when the sheep were herded well away from the vicinity of reivers’ tracks before nightfall.’

I was soon to learn that talking about animals was Andrew Macmerry’s favourite subject. As a man who, with further
education
and his inborn gifts of healing, might have been a successful veterinary surgeon, it did seem a waste.

When I said so, he laughed. ‘There’s advantages to living in the country, a simple life, lass. I never had any notion for the big cities. I’m well content here, like my fathers before me, but since the farm’s been in Jess’s family for a hundred years, she reckons it’s a pity there’s none to inherit after we go.’

Back at the farm, having done justice to a very substantial supper of roast lamb – I did not enquire its origins – I told them I would take a walk before retiring. I was glad they did not ask any
questions
and at eight o’clock I set off to visit Father McQuinn.

The old door creaked as I opened it. The sun had sunk behind the hills and the interior was dim, the steady line of pews and overall the smell of incense and wax candles.

A sudden movement, a flutter of candles in the dark area near the altar with its crucifix.

‘Father McQuinn?’ I called.

The response was a faint swish of a curtain on one of the closed booths which I guessed were the confessionals.

Embarrassed, I decided I had come too early but I called his name again.

No answer, no movement anywhere. A heavy and profound silence.

My scalp began to tingle. There was something wrong. I knew these feelings of old.

I went forward down the aisle towards the altar, footsteps
ringing
on the stones, my progress illuminated by candles fluttering under holy statues which gave those serene saintly faces sudden life and cast great shadows against the walls. At the altar steps, a figure lay prostrate, arms outstretched.

Father McQuinn in prayer.

I edged towards a seat in a nearby pew to wait discreetly for him to rise but, deciding he must have heard my approach, I cleared my throat gently to indicate my presence.

Although the sound was magnified and seemed to echo around the church, he did not move.

I felt I could hardly turn and retrace my steps. So again I
whispered
his name.

Again no movement.

I went closer, stood beside him. His face was turned towards me. One look and I knew that he was dead. I had seen too many dead people in my time to be mistaken about that.

As I knelt beside him, I saw blood on his temples. Had he had a heart attack, struck his head on the stone step? That was my first thought but then I saw the candlestick beside him. A thick trickle of blood led across to where the priest lay.

I stood up, shaken, horrified.

Father McQuinn had been murdered!

And recently, remembering the swish of a curtain, the
fluttering
candles. There was someone else in the church. I called out.

‘Who’s there? Will you help me, please.’

My answer was the faint sound of footsteps and the sound of the church door creaking as it closed.

I ran up the aisle threw open the door, rushed to the gate. But the street was empty. There was no one.

The local constable. I must find him. But where was the police station?

I must find someone to help. So I ran to the house across the path from the church, hammered on the door. There was no reply. The housekeeper was not at home.

I stood outside wringing my hands. What to do next?

My thoughts frantic as a rat trapped in a cage, I decided that I’d get Jack’s father. Surely he would know what to do.

Of course, questions would be asked about what I had been doing in the Catholic church. But I no longer cared about that. The prospect of Mrs Macmerry’s tight-lipped disapproval had ceased to matter.

A man, a relative of Danny’s, had been murdered.

As I ran up the track to the farm, there were voices raised. Mrs Macmerry’s shrill, protesting. Dogs barking.

Above them all, I recognised Jack’s deep voice.

Jack!

Thank God. Jack would know what to do.

The door was flung open. A huge grey shadow hurtled towards me.

I screamed!