The Prayer of the Night Shepherd (MW6)
Page 24
‘You mean it en’t already? Oh, I forgot, you en’t been shopping yet, did you?’
‘That’s unfair!’
‘Well...’ Danny turned away. ‘It’s bloody upset me, it has.’
‘It’s upset all of us,’ Mary Morson said, shameless.
Merrily checked out the pine bookcase. Not many changes here: The Hedgewitch Almanac, Green Magic, Britain’s Pagan Places, plus another fifty or so pastel spines confirming that Jane was still a vague supporter of the Old Religion, which, as the kid now admitted, was actually not very old at all.
The shelves were all full. No room here for the Bible, which had failed to address the issue of the mystical British countryside, but there was still a corner, Merrily noted, for the 17th-century Herefordshire cleric Thomas Traherne, who’d chronicled its God-given glories at length.
This was all about the need for direct experience, a confirmation of Otherness. And, of course, there was an area of operation where Christianity and New Age paganism came close together.
It was spiritual healing.
It was several days now since she’d been to see Alice Meek, suggesting that if there was to be a service of healing it should initially be directed towards the soul of nine-year-old Roland Hook. Telling Alice it all came back to Roland, all the guilt and the grief... and the pain of a young child who had died, very afraid, in the middle of a crime. Maybe the knowledge that Roland’s soul was at peace would bring some kind of harmony to the family.
‘Right, then.’ Alice had stood up, stiff-backed, fiery-faced. ‘You leave it with me, vicar. Half of them won’t understand what it’s about, dull buggers, but I’ll talk to my niece in Solihull, her as did the Alpha course. We’ll make this happen, somehow.’
Not a word since. Sophie, meanwhile, had been compiling a list of ministers in the diocese who had a serious, practical interest in healing, with a view to organizing a preliminary meeting. But it needed someone else to organize it; Merrily wasn’t good at admin.
She sat on Jane’s bed. Turning over the apartment was beginning to look like a waste of time. Had she really expected to find a ouija board laid out next to the collected works of Doris Stokes? She’d looked briefly in the wardrobe, flicked open dressing-table drawers, glanced under the bed. Not even much dust under there – amazing what changes a few weekends of chambermaiding could bring about.
Through the window, she could see wooded Cole Hill, with scattered snow up there, like grated cheese. There hadn’t been a serious fall this year; maybe it wouldn’t come this side of Christmas. After Christmas, Lol would go on tour for the first time since... well, since he was hardly older than Jane. Lol finally getting a life: where would that leave them?
Don’t think about it.
The only book on the bedside table was a scuffed old favourite: The Folk-lore of Herefordshire, by Ella Mary Leather, dead for three-quarters of a century and still unsurpassed for down-home authenticity. There was an orange Post-it sticker in the book, and Merrily let it fall open.
Cwn Annwn, or the Dogs of Hell.
Parry (Hist. Kington 205) gives an account of the superstitious beliefs of many aged persons then (1845) living in the parish.
It was the opinion of many persons then living in the out-townships that spirits in the shape of black dogs are heard in the air, previous to the dissolution of a wicked person; they were described as being jet black, yet no one pretends to have seen them. But many believed that the king of darkness (say the gossips) sent them to terrify mankind when the soul of a human being was about to quit its earthly tenement.
Kington: the final frontier, the least known, most hidden, of Herefordshire’s six towns, in appearance more like the Radnorshire towns of Knighton and Rhayader, but with streets more cramped than either. It was even on the Welsh side of Offa’s Dyke. It was entirely understandable that Kington folk, even in the nineteenth century, should have felt under the dominion of Welsh mythology. And inevitable that Jane, working weekends in the area, would be interested.
Mrs Leather added:
Hergest Court was, or perhaps still is, haunted by a demon dog, said to have belonged to Black Vaughan and to have accompanied him during his life. It is seen before a death in the Vaughan family. A native of Kington writes: ‘In my young days I knew the people who lived at Hergest Court well, and they used to tell me strange things of the animal. How he inhabited a room at the top of the house, which no one ever ventured to enter; how he was heard there at night, clanking his chain; how at other times he was seen wandering about (minus the chain!) His favourite haunt was a pond, the “watering place” on the high road from Kington. The spot was much dreaded, and if possible avoided, by late travellers. I knew many who said they had seen the black dog of Hergest.’
Right. This was the legend alleged to be the source of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Ben Foley hosted murder weekends at Stanner, appearing as Sherlock Holmes, on the basis – unproven – that Arthur Conan Doyle used to stay there.
This would be Jane helping out with background research.
Of course, despite being a doctor, a man of science, Conan Doyle had been very deeply into spiritualism and psychic matters in general. Merrily recalled reading how he was convinced that the escapologist, Harry Houdini, was using psychic powers to dematerialize, which Houdini denied to the end. Doyle had also championed the Cottingley Fairies photographs – fakes.
Hmm.
Merrily shut the book and arranged it carefully on the bedside table, the way she’d found it. She went back to the bookcase, crouched down and re-inspected the titles, one by one this time. Definitely nothing here suggestive of a new interest in spiritualism.
When you thought about it, the only place Jane could realistically have encountered a medium – the only place, apart from school, she’d been to in weeks, in fact – was Stanner Hall.
Was, or perhaps still is, haunted by a demon dog.
But that was Hergest Court, not Stanner. Stanner wasn’t old enough to be haunted by a demon dog. A ‘demon dog’, anyway, was probably no more than an imprint, or a projection. Nothing demonic about dogs.
Merrily checked out the little room which, due to cash flow, was still only halfway to becoming Jane’s private bathroom. Found herself lifting the lid of the toilet cistern.
Nothing but brownish water. Feeling stupid and treacherous, Merrily replaced the cistern lid. As she left the apartment she looked around the upper landing, full of shadows even in the early afternoon, and a few trailing cobwebs she ought to get around to removing. She cleared her throat.
‘We’re all right, you know. We can manage, Lol and me. And you must have things to get on with, Lucy. A woman like you.’
She went downstairs, shaking her head. Madness. All priests were prey to madness.
And then, on reaching the bottom, she immediately turned and went back up and said a small prayer outside Jane’s door. Paranoia.
That night it all came back, like something she’d eaten, when the kid said, ‘Would it be OK if I spent all next weekend at Stanner? Friday till Sunday?’
Merrily went still, hands in the washing up bowl. She didn’t turn round.
‘Weather doesn’t look too promising, flower.’
‘Well, I can always cadge a lift with Gomer in the truck if it looks bad. The thing is, they really need me – there’s a conference on.’
‘An actual conference.’
‘Don’t be like that. They’re doing their best.’
‘What kind of conference?’
‘Oh... . something called the White Company. It’s the title of an historical novel by Conan Doyle so I expect they’re into, like, the non-Holmes side of it. Which sounds boring, but Ben thinks it’s great. Like, anything at all to do with Conan Doyle, he’s up for it. And the money, naturally.’
‘Interesting man,’ Merrily said, ‘Conan Doyle.’
‘Er... yeah.’
‘Progressive thinker. Although he lost a lot of credibility towards the end of his li
fe through his support of spiritualism.’
‘Well, he would wouldn’t he?’
‘Would he?’
‘It was all bollocks.’
‘Ben Foley’s not interested in that side of him, then?’
‘Ben’s got his credibility to think about.’ Jane stood up. ‘Tell you what... just to make sure it’s OK for the weekend, how about I walk down to Gomer’s and ask him if he’ll be around Kington, with Danny. And the truck.’
‘Why don’t you just give him a ring?’
‘I’ve tried. Always leaves his answering machine on at night. Look, if you light the fire, I’ll be back in no time.’
Through the half-open kitchen door, Merrily watched Jane throwing on her fleece and slipping out the front way.
Oh, there was something.
22
Whoop, Whoop
‘COMES A TIME,’ Gomer said, ‘when you gotter decide whether seven grand’s worth gettin’ your face stove in for. Naw, they en’t been back, them Welshies, ’course they en’t.’
Gomer’s kitchen was still like a monument to Minnie, who had died on him: very clean and bright with shiny pots and cake tins, lurid curtains with big red tulips on them and a tea cosy in the shape of a marmalade cat. Nothing added, nothing taken away; maybe a shrine or maybe Gomer just wasn’t interested in kitchens.
‘I did try to phone you a few times.’ Jane took off her fleece. ‘I rang Danny last night, but I got Greta so I had to pretend it was a wrong number. Anything I can do while I’m here?’
Gomer gave her a sharp look. ‘I en’t an ole pensioner yet, girl.’
‘I know that. It’s just that when you’re a weekend maid it’s the way you think.’ She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘It’s a lot of money, Gomer.’
‘Oh hell, aye. Even for Sebbie Three Farms, now. Lost a fair bit five year or so back. Wife divorced him. Had to do a bit o’ jugglin’ to hold on to all his ground.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Sebbie? Standard ole Border gentry. Certain kind seems to thrive yereabouts – talk posh but rough as a sow’s hide underneath. Can’t say I likes the feller, but can’t say I dislikes him as much as some of ’em. En’t figured it out, mind, why he brung in shooters from Off.’
‘Because he didn’t want local people gossiping.’
‘But if he’s got a beast at his flocks, why en’t he out there ’isself? Been around guns all his life. Why en’t Sebbie out there ’isself takin’ a pop? Tea, Janey?’
‘No, thanks, I can’t stay long.’
‘Well, I’m gonner have one.’
Gomer went to put the kettle on. Jane looked at the crack of night between the drawn curtains. For three nights, she’d lain in bed dwelling, with no pleasurable frissons, upon the beast, the participants in the event in the kitchens at Stanner. And sometimes feeling Lucy Devenish watching her from the corner by the bookcase – this solemn, hawk-nosed figure in a poncho, rebuking her for her lies, deceit and despicable selfishness.
‘Gomer...’ She hesitated. Gomer plugged in the kettle and turned and looked at her. ‘The Hound of Hergest,’ she said.
Gomer came and sat down. His smile was sceptical. ‘I won’t say I en’t never yeard of folk supposed to’ve seen him, Janey. But the ole Hound of Hergest – do he kill ewes, this is the question?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yere’s the situation. Dogs kills sheep. Sheepdogs kills sheep – one o’ your big myths is that stock with their throats ripped out, that’s all down to Mr Fox. Truth is, whole load of lambs gets savaged every year by sheepdogs. Thin line between snappin’ at sheep to round ’em up and picking one off. Point I’m makin’, Janey, if you got a mystery beast preyin’ on ewes, chances are it’s a big sheepdog – mabbe two – that’s got the taste for blood.’
‘So why’s this Sebbie Dacre so scared of going out there himself with a gun?’
‘I say scared?’ Gomer squinted at her.
Also, at night, she’d thought of Nathan. What if he’d died? What if he’d died there in Danny’s van, leaving Ben facing a manslaughter charge, at the very least, and Gomer and Danny and her as accessories?
What if he’d died after they’d got him to the hospital? What if he was dead now?
‘I wouldn’t know why Sebbie’s scared,’ Gomer said. ‘Man like Sebbie, he don’t confide to the likes of we. Don’t confide to nobody, that family. He also don’t scare that easy.’
‘They were related to the Chancerys of Stanner, weren’t they?’
‘Who you year that from, Janey?’
‘Woman who’s booking a conference at Stanner. Mrs Pollen.’
‘From Pembridge?’ Gomer nodded. ‘Me and Nev put her a septic tank in once. Husband used to be County Harchivist for Powys.’
‘So Dacre is related to the Chancerys?’
‘Small world, girl, terrible inbred. Sebbie’s ma was Margery Davies, second daughter of Robert and Hattie Davies – Hattie Chancery as was. After Stanner was sold, Margie ’herited most of the ground on the Welsh side and some money, and her married Richard Dacre, who was the son of a farmer on the English side. So, overnight, like, they become the biggest landowners yereabouts. And they had just the one son and that was Sebbie, and a younger daughter. So when Richard died, Sebbie got the main farms and all the ground and a fair bit of cash. And then he bought up Emrys Morgan’s farm across the valley, when Emrys died, and so that’s why they calls him Sebbie Three Farms. See?’
‘So Dacre is Hattie Chancery’s grandson. And great-grandson of Walter Chance, who built Stanner Hall.’
‘Correct. Hattie, her had two daughters, but Paula, the oldest, got sent away, and Paula was left the Stanner home farm, The Nant, which was leased long-term to Eddie Berrows, Jeremy’s dad, who was Hattie’s farm manager’s son.’
‘So Jeremy’s farm was originally part of the Stanner estate, too.’
‘Not much wasn’t. Now Paula, after what happened with Hattie and Robert, her was brung up by Robert’s sister up in Cheshire. Growed up and married a feller up there and just took the income from the lease. But her died youngish, see, and Richard Dacre, he kept trying to buy The Nant off Paula’s husband, but Paula, her had a soft spot for the Berrows from when her was little, and her husband knew the Berrowses didn’t want the Dacres as their landlords, ’cause the Dacres’d likely have ’em out on their arses first possible opportunity. So he signs another lease with Eddie Berrows – under Richard’s nose, so to speak. And the Dacres was blind bloody furious. So that split the family good and proper. Plus, it explains why Sebbie Dacre got no love for Jeremy.’
‘It’s not short of feuds, is it, this area? You need an up-to-date feud-map just to find your way around.’ Jane was imagining a large-scale plan of the Welsh Border hills, with arteries of hatred linking farms and estates, pockets of old resentment, dotted lines marking tunnels of lingering suspicion.
‘’Course, quite a lot of folk don’t think too highly of Sebbie,’ Gomer said. ‘Do he care? Do he f— No, he don’t, Janey. He don’t care.’
‘So, what happened – I mean I really think I ought to know this, working at Stanner – what exactly happened with Hattie Chancery? Or is that something people don’t talk about?’
‘They don’t talk about it,’ Gomer said, ‘on account there en’t that many folk left round yere remembers it.’
‘What about you?’
‘I was just a boy then. Just a kiddie at the little school.’
‘So you’re saying you don’t remember it either?’
Gomer dug into a pocket of his baggy jeans and slapped his ciggy tin on the kitchen table. ‘’Course I remembers it. All everybody bloody jabbered about for weeks.’
Jane beamed at him. ‘Maybe I will have a cup of tea after all, if that’s all right.’
And she sat quietly and watched Gomer making it. Could tell by the way he was nodding to himself, lips moving, that he was replaying his memories like a videotape, and maybe editing them, too.
Last night, from the apartment, she’d rung Natalie to ask how things were going, like with Ben. Nat hadn’t been all that forthcoming. ‘He’s all right.’
Jane had pressed on anyway. ‘But is he? That guy thought Ben was going to kill him. He was terrified, he— It’s like... it’s a side of Ben I’ve never seen.’
‘He’s a man,’ Nat had said, offhand. ‘Men can’t be seen to back down. I really don’t think he meant to do that much damage.’
‘Nat, was he—?’
‘It happened very quickly, Jane. I didn’t really see anything.’
‘Well, obviously, that’s what you’d tell the police.’
‘Police?’
‘I mean if the police were involved. If that guy’s injuries—’
‘Jane...’ Nat’s voice had gone low. ‘That really isn’t going to happen. So I think it’s best we all forget about this incident. It was a one-off, and if it gets round... you know what this area’s like. We don’t want Ben to get a reputation. Best if we don’t talk about it any more. All right?’
Nat had sounded nervy. Not herself at all.
And Jane was still hearing, Thick, barbaric yobs. No subtlety... Where I come from, we have real hard bastards.’
Time to investigate Ben’s history. This morning, Jane had got up early, gone down to the scullery, switched on the computer and fed Ben Foley into Google. Hard to remember what life had been like without the Net. Now everybody was a private eye.
The results had been disappointing. All she’d found were references to the various TV series Ben had been involved with, no personal stuff at all. It had been mildly amusing to discover a Web site for The Missing Casebook, his series about what had really happened to Sherlock Holmes post-Reichenbach. It had become a very small cult, the Web site set up by a hard core of fans furious that it hadn’t run to a second series. But the site didn’t seem to have been updated for a while.