Ghost Walk Read online

  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!

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Thane!’

  Even on three of his four feet, he was much faster than Jack, desperately clinging on to the rope around his neck.

  ‘Thane,’ I yelled again as he reached me, threw out those three anchors and stopped just in time, at my feet. There he sat down. Even sitting he reached my shoulder as he gazed at me adoringly and blissfully attempted to lick my cheek.

  ‘Thane – what on earth –?’

  As Thane, however willing, was incapable by nature of human speech, it was Jack’s turn. Regardless of his parents at the door, he pushed Thane aside and swung me off my feet in a lingering passionate embrace.

  Thane regarded this with the human equivalent of a heavy sigh. He had seen all this before. He yawned.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ said Jack tenderly. ‘How have you been?’ he added glancing nervously over his shoulder at his approaching parents while the two labradors, Whisky and Soda, who had been roused from their apathy by the arrival of Wonder Dog, peered out of the kitchen door like disgruntled dowagers.

  ‘Jack, for heaven’s sake. Are you mad? What on earth is Thane doing here?’

  Thane, who was following this comment closely, held up a heavily and somewhat inexpertly bandaged paw by way of explanation.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘You might well ask,’ said Jack. ‘Just look at him. I couldn’t leave him in Edinburgh. He has a badly cut paw, caught in a snare or something. You weren’t at home, so who was to take care of him?’

  As he spoke, a series of images floated rapidly through my mind. Thane, whose habitat was Arthur’s Seat, brought into a strange environment miles from home. How he lived on Arthur’s Seat, who fed him and groomed him was one mystery we had never solved. How would he react and live in Eildon was immediate and our responsibility, as imagination prompted a ghostly tribe of panic-stricken woolly sheep streaking across the fields –

  ‘Jack, what have you done?’ I wailed.

  Jack stamped an impatient foot. ‘You aren’t listening to me, Rose. I’m tel
ling you I couldn’t leave him. He was at the back door when I called at the Tower, and I’m pretty certain he’s been sitting there every day, waiting for you to come home.’

  Pausing to stroke Thane’s neck, he said, ‘Looking so poorly, too. You wouldn’t have wanted that, you’d have been worried sick.’

  That at least was true.

  I made no comment and Jack beamed. ‘Then I had a brain wave. All I could think of was that Da is fantastic with animals, a real animal doctor, he missed his vocation. As anyone around here would tell you. So I knew exactly what I had to do,’ he added firmly.

  I looked at Thane who was studiously avoiding my eye. I patted his head. He turned and winked at me, and Jack said in wounded tones. ‘I thought you’d be pleased’.

  I was trying to think of a suitable reply when his parents decided to join us. His mother said quickly, in a no-nonsense tone, firm and decisive, ‘That Dog can’t stay here.’

  Thane and Jack both looked at her and Jack said patiently but rather proudly. ‘He isn’t a dog, Ma, he’s a deerhound.’

  Mrs Macmerry considered this correction, shrugged and said, ‘Whatever he is, he can’t stay in my house, that’s for sure. He’s far too big for one thing, for another, Whisky and Soda wouldn’t tolerate it.’

  And neither would Thane, I thought as Jack’s father beamed on us, rubbing his hands in an excited way.

  ‘What a fine chap he is. We haven’t seen a deerhound in this neighbourhood for donkeys’ years, have we, Jack?’

  Thane gave him an approving look, that injured paw thrust forward once again.

  ‘Aye, aye, a great animal. He can sleep in the stable with Charity.’

  Thane and I exchanged nervous glances. Who was Charity? Then I remembered the old mare who pulled the pony cart.

  I wasn’t sure how Thane would react to this strange bedfellow as Jack, a latter day Pontius Pilate, washed his hands of the whole affair, the problem solved as far as he was concerned.

  ‘That’s settled, then. It’s just for a day or two.’ This for his mother’s benefit, ‘Then we can take him back with us.’

  ‘Leave it to me, son. We’ll have that paw sorted in no time at all, won’t we, Thane,’ said Mr Macmerry with comforting reassurance.

  ‘There now, Rose,’ Jack, all smiles, repeated. ‘I knew you’d be pleased. After all I couldn’t leave him back at the Tower – to die –’

  ‘To die.’ The terrible words echoed the shocking event that Thane’s unexpected arrival had banished completely from my mind.

  ‘– Sorry for not being here when you arrived, Rose, but things have been tricky and Glasgow took longer –’

  I was no longer listening. I clutched his arm.

  ‘Jack, I’m so glad to see you. You must come with me, right now! Now. Father McQuinn – the Catholic priest down the road. He’s dead –’

  ‘Dead,’ echoed Mr Macmerry. ‘Sad, that.’

  ‘Not just dead,’ I shouted. ‘Someone killed him!’

  From Mrs Macmerry a shocked exclamation of disbelief.

  Mr Macmerry recovered first and asked. ‘What makes you think that, lass?’

  ‘Because I’ve just been there. I found him in the church.’ And aware of Jack’s warning hand on my arm, I added lamely: ‘I wanted – to talk to him.’

  These words said, I could see questions like ‘What on earth for’ forming in balloons above their heads.

  ‘Never mind about that.’ I could hardly tell Jack that according to the Little Sisters of the Poor there was a strong chance that Danny might still be alive. And in danger of being branded a bigamist, I wanted to talk to his only relative, the priest who had brought him to Scotland on the off chance he might know the truth.

  ‘Please, Jack – let’s go. I’ll explain later.’

  Jack needed no second bidding. Thrusting Thane’s rope into his father’s hands he raced at my side across to the church.

  The door was closed. I was sure I had left it open.

  Inside the candles still fluttered. We ran down the aisle. But there was no man lying prostrate in prayer, alive or dead, by the altar steps.

  ‘Well, Rose, where is he?’ whispered Jack.

  I took in the scene. The huge candlestick was still there, but where was the body? The bloodstain too had gone, washed away very energetically by the look of the still wet stone floor.

  At my side, Jack sighed. It was a familiar sigh, long-suffering and patient but implying that he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Rose, what’s this about? Is this some kind of a joke?’

  ‘A joke! Jack Macmerry, you know me better than that.’

  He sighed again. Again I knew what he meant.

  History was repeating itself. Once I had found a dead woman at the ruin of St Anthony’s Chapel on Arthur’s Seat. Summoning Jack, by the time we got back to the scene, the body had disappeared. Refusing to accept any logical explanation that might be forthcoming I went stubbornly headlong into an investigation that almost cost me my life.

  Jack had gone strangely quiet. ‘Well, what are we supposed to do now, Rose? Any ideas?’

  He saw my frightened expression, took pity on it and put his arm around me. Leading me to the nearest pew, he said gently, ‘Let’s sit down for a moment, shall we?’

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘I’m all right. If you’ll be patient and listen I’ll tell you exactly what happened.’

  ‘Go ahead. You have my undivided attention.’

  I pretended not to notice the hint of mockery. ‘I came in to see Father McQuinn to – to talk to him about Danny.’

  I ignored that familiar wince, the sudden coolness as he said:

  ‘An odd time of night for a social visit.’

  ‘No, it was the right time. I’d been told he would be here after Mass. I came in, the church was empty but I heard movement and thought he was in the confessional. Over there, those boxes. A curtain moved. I called out but when he didn’t answer I came down to the altar – the light was very dim –’

  ‘Still is,’ said Jack looking round, his tone denoting that anyone could make a mistake.

  ‘So I came down to the altar and then I saw him. He was lying – just there.’ I indicated the wet place on the floor with my foot. ‘He was dead.’

  ‘How could you know that?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Because maybe it has slipped your mind, Jack Macmerry, but I have considerable knowledge and experience in that direction. In America, long before we met, remember, I saw plenty –’

  I walked over to the altar candlestick. ‘This was lying beside him. There was blood on it and a trickle of blood leading from his forehead, the blow that had killed him.’

  As I spoke Jack inspected the candlestick ‘Is this the same one, do you think?’

  I said of course it was and Jack shook his head. ‘No sign of any blood here, Rose. Or on the floor. But it’s a mighty heavy object,’ he added weighing it in his hand. ‘It could do some damage if you got hit over the head with that –’

  I was intrigued by that still damp area near where the priest’s body had lain. Someone had cleaned up the blood not only efficiently but very recently.

  Shivering at what that implied, I said, ‘I think I missed his killer by seconds. When I opened the door I called ‘Father McQuinn.’ As I told you there was movement from the direction of the confessionals. At first I thought he was still hearing Mass and I didn’t want to interrupt. So I thought I’d wait.’

  Pausing I looked at Jack. ‘You realise that it must have been his killer. As I knelt beside the body, I heard footsteps. Someone ran out of the church.’

  Jack tried not to look sceptical and failed. ‘All right, Rose, so where is the body then?’

  ‘We’d better try to find out, hadn’t we?’

  Jack sighed. ‘Maybe we should have brought Thane with us. Used to scenting blood and that sort of thing –’

  I had personal doubts about Thane’s expertise in that area and said, ‘He can’t be far away. I wonder where th
ey took him –’

  That mystery was soon solved. When we got outside there was considerable activity around the church house.

  The door was open. Mrs Aiden came out wringing her hands.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Faro.’ In her agitation she had forgotten that I was Mrs McQuinn. ‘Something awful has just happened. The Father – the Father is dead.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said.

  She gave me a surprised look, shook her head from side to side. ‘So sudden. So terribly sudden. He must have had a heart attack after the Mass. I went in to tell him his supper was ready and – and there he was – lying by the altar.’

  In a state of shock, she obviously didn’t want to add that he had been murdered.

  Suddenly she broke down, gave way to heavy sobs. ‘Oh the poor dear man, God rest his soul. He was kneeling at the altar steps, as he always did before he came home, a final prayer. He’d hit his head on the stone steps as he fell forward. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t carry him. I ran outside for help and a man who was passing by carried him here, into the house. He went for the doctor.’

  ‘What was he like?’ I asked.

  She stared at me frowning, shaking her head. ‘Who – the Father?’

  I had to repeat it. ‘No, this man who helped you.’

  Leaning her head forward, listening intently, she seemed surprised by the question. ‘I didn’t take much notice of what he looked like. Just an ordinary-like man.’

  ‘He must have been strong to carry Father McQuinn into the house.’

  She shrugged. ‘Yes, I think he was quite tall and strong looking.’

  ‘You didn’t know him, then? He wasn’t from here.’

  ‘No. I’d never seen him before.’ She kept watching me as I spoke, dazed and distressed, and wondering what all these questions were about. ‘I expect he had been visiting the Abbey.’

  At eight o’clock, when it closed at four? I thought that very doubtful and my stalker leapt to mind. He was tall. But before I could ask any more, a door opened across the passage and a distinguished looking man emerged closing his bag, presumably the local doctor.