Ghost Walk

by Alanna Knight

  I said yes, I had noticed.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t like that the last time I was in the house a week ago and she would never have let it go unmended. She always used to say ninety per cent of prevention is better than ten per cent of cure. And that went for what she called accidents that were waiting to happen.’

  Twisting her handkerchief, she stared miserably at the window. ‘I don’t know how Father Boyle will manage without a housekeeper, especially one as efficient as Maggie Aiden. What a welcome for him, poor soul. But I dare say the ladies in his congregation will all get together and see him right until he finds someone –’

  The village clock struck the hour.

  ‘Oh, is that the time? I must go. Ned will be home and wanting his tea. He’s on the train for London. Gets off that one and a couple of hours later, he’s back on the next heading back to Edinburgh.’ Smiling wryly she stood up, put away her handkerchief.

  ‘It’s been so nice to talk to you. Thank you for listening to me so patiently.’ Then, with an embarrassed laugh, ‘Going on, unburdening myself to a complete stranger. My name’s Ina Fraser, by the way.’

  I said I was pleased I could help and she looked at me quizzically. ‘Do lots of people tell you all their troubles? I’m sure they do.’ She laughed. ‘There’s something about you that invites confidences.’

  It was my turn to look embarrassed and she smiled. ‘Thank you anyway, it’s been a great relief to talk to you. Remember me to Jack. God bless you both with a happy future together.’

  A happy future seemed like a distant dream as she left and, with no desire to linger in that dark cheerless room, I went into reception, rang the bell, paid my bill to the surly lad and went out into the wet street.

  The sudden storm had moved on and there was a gleam of blue in the sky. I took a deep breath, enjoying the delightful fresh smell of greenery, as if every bush and tree had bathed and enjoyed the heavy shower.

  As I walked back to the farm I had much to occupy my thoughts. The conversation with Mrs Aiden’s friend had been a revelation, another clue in the puzzle.

  Who was her mystery visitor? Not Father Boyle, since he did not arrive until the following morning in time to discover her body.

  That left only one obvious answer. If Mrs Aiden did not have a secret lover, which seemed unlikely, since her good friend who had just left would have known about that for sure, who was the man in her kitchen?

  I decided that I knew he was undoubtedly the stranger who had arrived so fortuitously a few hours earlier and helped her carry the dead priest into the house.

  And then promptly disappeared – to return again a few hours later to murder her.

  It all fitted in. But the main obstacle remained.

  The tantalising unanswered question – Why?

  What was the motive for these two murders? Where were the missing pieces, the vital clues?

  Another baffling question to share with PC Bruce.

  I hurried back along the wet street but once again found the police station deserted.

  What policing did he find in Eildon? I thought of his enthusiasm and the frustration of not being able to share my new theories with him.

  Could he be relied upon to help me find an answer to this puzzle which seemed to have no logical solution?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday was Father McQuinn’s funeral. Men from the Protestant kirk also followed his coffin up to the little Catholic burial ground on the Verney estate, out of respect and liking for a good kind man highly esteemed by the community.

  I walked at Andrew Macmerry’s side, conscious of strange glances and whispers as it was unusual for women to go to the graveside. However I felt that Danny would have wanted me to represent him.

  Father Boyle, in his new role as parish priest, conducted the short service. Difficult for him since they had never met, it amounted to little more than reading the appropriate passages from the prayer book. As it was, his words were almost drowned out by the heavy shower of rain which Eildon had been saving up as a suitable accompaniment for such a sombre occasion.

  It added to its brevity as umbrellas were hastily raised while Father Boyle in his thin robes got thoroughly soaked, as if someone up there had been maliciously saving buckets of water to pour down upon the mourners.

  As we scampered back down the hill, the ladies kept dry in the village hall while preparing a cold collation. I suspected that few of the non-Catholics would go along and Jack’s father excused himself on the grounds of ‘animals to see to.’

  Looking round for Mrs Fraser, the dead housekeeper’s friend, I told Andrew of our earlier meeting and said that I would stay in the hope of seeing her again. He seemed surprised at my decision and laughed a trifle cynically. ‘Ina Fraser, the village gossip. Well, well. You can be sure that anything you tell her will be all round the village before you get home to the farm.’

  Removed from his soaked robes, Father Boyle looked most unhappy. His hair still wet, cold and bedraggled, he was short with sympathisers, a little angry and impatient with the mourning ladies who fussed anxiously around him.

  His emotions weren’t hard to guess and I, for one, felt compassion for the irony that his first service should have been the funeral of the priest he had come to assist.

  Doubtless the implications of what that assistance now involved weighed heavily upon him. He didn’t stay long and Mrs Fraser, having rushed in at the last minute, watched his departure.

  ‘The poor man, he’ll be lucky not to have caught pneumonia.’

  Her prediction wasn’t far wrong. I was to learn the next day, meeting Mrs Fraser in the village, that there had been no service that Sunday.

  ‘Poor Father Boyle caught a fever from his drenching and completely lost his voice. He’ll be lucky if it doesn’t turn into something worse,’ she added as she continued the tale of woe.

  Accepting only sympathetic offerings of soup from his female parishioners the priest then speedily sent them on their ways, saying he would retire to his bed and stay there until he recovered. Worse was to follow. They were absolutely forbidden to fuss over him. All offers of helping out until a new housekeeper arrived were firmly rebuffed.

  Mrs Fraser went on about how he had emphasised that he had been managing his own life for many years now. As requested, I gathered that the ladies had retired crushed and disappointed, shaking their heads and sighing that this was so different from dear Father McQuinn’s appreciation of their efforts.

  I thought I would be expected to go to church with Jack’s parents that Sunday morning. I was wrong, unaware that it was known to invite bad luck for a bride-to-be to hear her banns being read. This was news to me and although Jack’s mother looked askance, I came downstairs putting on my gloves and defying tradition on the grounds that I didn’t hold with superstitions.

  When I said we made our own luck, good or bad, she looked heavenward in alarm, as if I might be struck down on the spot.

  There were hints from Jack’s mother that the congregation who hadn’t already seen me in Eildon would be very interested and curious, and so that his parents would have no need to feel ashamed or embarrassed, I dressed with more care than usual.

  At last I was satisfied that I presented the picture of decorum in my best dress and jacket. With some difficulty and considerable use of hairpins, a major operation, I had managed to confine my unruly mop of curls under a staid navy blue straw bonnet.

  As we walked the short distance to the kirk, Andrew Macmerry led the way with Bible tucked under his arm, his wife and future daughter-in-law on either side of him and on a perfect summer’s morning that had never heard of yesterday’s violent storm, we were greeted by birdsong on the outside of the church echoed by a good choir within.

  I enjoyed the hymns and Reverend Linton gave a fairly innocuous sermon on the Good Samaritan, smiling kindly down upon us from the pulpit and putting at rest my fears that he might be a devotee of the present fashion of ‘hell-raising’ preachers.
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  My arrival had caused a flutter of excitement and a swift turning of anxious heads in my direction followed the reading of the banns for Rose Elizabeth Faro and Jack Andrew Macmerry.

  At that moment, I experienced a sudden chill of fear, the note of reality – and finality. That I was trapped, with less than two weeks left, the door of my cage was closing. Suddenly conscious of being among strangers, I wished with all my heart that Jack could have been at my side for support.

  Sunday dinner at the farm followed, with long-time friends, the Johnstons and the Wards. Their conversation excluded me, full of ‘remember when’ and teasing personal innuendoes, the air thick with strange names, sons and daughters and grandchildren.

  Then, as if suddenly aware of my presence and what it predicted to the Macmerrys with their one and only son, Mrs Johnston said slyly:

  ‘Aye, you’ve waited a long time, right enough, Jess, but it’ll be your turn to be a granny next,’ at which sentiment Mrs Macmerry’s blush outdid that of the bride-to-be.

  ‘A wee lad would be grand,’ said Jack’s father and there were nods and smiles in agreement all around as the fate of the Macmerry farm, long in the balance, might thereby be decided.

  As Whisky and Soda waddled closer to the table, salivating for scraps of roast meat, the conversation switched to the Annual Dog Show and Mrs Johnston, a lady of imposing proportions, who was in charge of catering, revealed that Mrs Ward could be relied upon once again to take first prize for her retriever bitch.

  The talk turned to local farmers with sheepdogs who were to display their talents at the trials and gladden their owner’s hearts while weighing down their mantelpieces with further trophies.

  When I was upstairs removing my bonnet, Jack’s father had taken them out to the stables to meet his remarkable patient Thane and I was regaled with stories of animal lives saved by Andrew Macmerry’s remarkable cures.

  Thane had made an impression on the visitors.

  ‘Perhaps Rose might enter him for some of the events,’ Mrs Johnston suggested sweetly. ‘He would be sure to win first prize,’ she added with a sly look across at Mrs Ward.

  I was glad Thane could not overhear such a remark since he would have regarded that suggestion with even less enthusiasm.

  ‘He is such a splendid animal, you must enter him,’ Mrs Johnston said to me, ignoring Mrs Ward’s dagger-like glance in her direction.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I cannot do that. After all, he is just a visiting dog. It would not be proper.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said a relieved Mrs Ward with a beaming smile. I was now her friend for life.

  ‘He isn’t a locally bred animal, ye ken,’ said Mr Ward.

  But Mrs Johnston staunchly refused to be defeated, and said to her husband, who was a Justice of the Peace, ‘Of course we could adopt him, put him in a special category.’

  Before Mr Johnston could pronounce judgement on this idea, I shook my head firmly and looking across at Jack’s father, appealed for his intervention.

  He smiled. ‘Rose is quite right. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be legal.’

  Danger averted, I yearned to make my escape before the roast lamb and an abundance of vegetables followed by sherry trifle depleted all energy and thrust me in the direction of what I most longed for. An afternoon nap!

  Instead, I opted for an afternoon walk and making my escape collected Thane and my sketchbook.

  Walking through Eildon, the main street was busier than usual. The good weather had brought out carriages and a horse-drawn omnibus from Edinburgh full of visitors to the Abbey.

  I tagged on to the group, following them across the field from which the cows had been removed but signs of their recent occupation remained a constant hazard to the walkers.

  Thane was well-behaved, docile on his lead and I decided to linger on the outskirts of the group. Although after five minutes I knew I was learning nothing new, the official guide did credit to an account of the Abbey’s history.

  An actor born, he gave vivid life to the past, parading the ghosts of long dead bishops and monks, while the now smooth grass echoed with the bloody footsteps and battle cries of long-ago. Their shades marched through the quiet ruins, past empty stone coffins overlooked by gargoyles of devils and angels. Occasionally I glanced upwards at the shadowy heights of the Tower from where I was certain I had been closely observed upon my first visit to the Abbey. As if he read my mind, Thane was suddenly restless, eager to explore that nearby spiral staircase from which the group had just emerged.

  Keeping him close on the lead rope, I let him lead the way quickly up the stone steps. He was quivering with excitement.

  ‘What is it, Thane?’ I asked. ‘What’s up there?’

  The sentry-room was dingy and horrible. Empty and not smelling any sweeter than the last time, but once more Thane was intrigued by the stone floor, sniffing with dog-like – persistence at the cracks between the paving-stones.

  Allowing him to explore, I could see nothing and said somewhat impatiently, ‘Oh, do come away.’

  He stopped, gazed at me imploringly and then at the paving. I went closer.

  At first glance, nothing. Then I noticed a tiny bright glint of metal.

  ‘What’s this? Buried treasure?’

  He wagged his tail furiously and kneeling down, I took out a hatpin from my reticule and scratched away at the accumulated dirt.

  The tiny bright spot emerged as gold.

  A gold wedding ring.

  Wiping it clean on my handkerchief, my heart beat fast.

  This was not just any wedding ring. What I held in my hand was the Irish betrothal ring: two hands clasping a heart. I knew it well, Danny had always worn the Claddagh that had belonged to his grandfather.

  With Thane at my side, I knelt there shocked by my discovery. Of course, it was ridiculous, a coincidence. Such rings weren’t all that common in Scotland but a visitor from Ireland might have dropped it.

  I looked out of the window following the group’s progress, decided that the ring must belong to one of the men. They were gathered round the guide making their way toward the exit gate.

  Clutching the ring, I was halfway down the stairs when sense questioned that it was unlikely to have been dropped only minutes ago. Its condition, down a deep crevasse and embedded in soil, suggested that it must have lain there for some time.

  Nevertheless, breathless, I raced toward the group.

  ‘Have any of you lost a ring – up there in the Tower?’

  They turned towards me anxiously, fingers were quickly examined. Sighs of relief as heads were shaken.

  No, not ours.

  The guide smiled. He didn’t want to be involved. ‘Just hand it in to the custodian, miss. Lost property is her concern.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ They drifted off through the gate.

  Thane was sitting down, staring hard at me, whining gently. What was he trying to convey? There was something urgent, something he wanted me to understand. But for once, our telepathy failed.

  All I could think of at that moment was that I must be holding in my hand Danny’s ring that I had placed on to his finger when we exchanged our marriage vows in Arizona more than twelve years ago.

  Danny was dead.

  I felt ill, confused. If it were true, how had his ring come to be buried in the ruined Abbey in Eildon?

  My mind raced back to the old nun at St Anthony’s, Sister Mary Michael, who had been certain Danny had asked for her prayers less than three weeks ago.

  True, she was over ninety years old and I remembered that Sister Angela had whispered soothingly: ‘Mistakes regarding time are easy to make at that age. It happens all the time.’

  She had given me other examples and I had gladly taken refuge in such consolation. But was it enough?

  My legs suddenly weak, I sat down on the stone wall and there in the bright innocent sunshine of a summer’s afternoon, I knew I was haunted.

  Danny – was – dead.

  D
ead but not forgotten. His ghost still clung to me, never letting me go and in less than two weeks I was to marry Jack Macmerry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the following days I tried to get a grip on reality. I talked to Constable Bruce who, after our hopeful start, had made no progress at all on the suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of Father McQuinn and Mrs Aiden. Suspicious circumstances which I was sure were murders.

  The constable was shamefaced, full of apologies, murmurs of domestic matters, sick children to look after while Mary was in Peebles where her mother had been taken into hospital. It appeared that the entire household was thrown into disarray.

  As I was leaving, he said reassuringly, ‘I haven’t forgotten, you know. I’ll get around to it as soon as I have a minute to spare.’

  That wasn’t quite consoling enough and left me feeling that as far as Constable Bruce was concerned, good intentions and police work came a poor second to his domestic life. Which was sadly, perhaps, the reason why, despite all those lofty ambitions, he had remained the village policeman and was unlikely to change now.

  I had considered telling him about the Claddagh ring and changed my mind. He seemed to have enough matters to confuse him and how was I to explain sensibly and rationally my horrified reactions concerning its discovery? The ring had nothing to do with the two murders and I decided that it should remain in my possession until the Abbey was open again to visitors when I would hand it over to the custodian. I hoped to lay my fears at rest, to find that there was an innocent explanation, a coincidence that had nothing to do with Danny: some visitor had lost it on a previous visit.

  Meanwhile l did my best to concentrate on the main reason for my being at Eildon. Namely helping Mrs Macmerry with the wedding arrangements, the list of guests who would be coming, the presents which arrived almost daily and had to be acknowledged, the seating in the village hall – and all the preparations such matters involved.