Whistling, he closed the door to his room and descended the stairs. He was not concerned the old lady would venture into town to announce the assault, and even if she did the village so clearly thought her touched that her story would never be believed. The bicycle ride, and the eight-mile hike across the moors and back, had sharpened his appetite, and for the first time in weeks that appetite was not dulled by anxiety.
He entered the dark and fragrant confines of the Half Moon and settled onto a bar stool with satisfaction. Jennie Prothero and MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, were there in their usual positions: one before the bar, one behind.
“Afternoon, Mr. Draper, sir,” said MacFlecknoe as he drew a pint of the usual for Esterhazy.
“Afternoon, Paulie. Jennie.” Numerous rounds purchased by Esterhazy over the last week had earned him the considerable right of calling them by their Christian names.
Mrs. Prothero nodded and smiled. “Hello, luv.”
MacFlecknoe set the pint before Esterhazy, then turned back to Jennie Prothero. “Odd we haven’t seen him around before,” he said.
“Well, he did say he’d been over at the Braes of Glenlivet.” The old woman sipped her bitter. “Think he ever went to the constable about it?”
“Nae. What’s to tell? Besides, last thing he’d want would be to get mixed up in something, on vacation and all.”
Esterhazy pricked up his ears. “Have I missed something?”
MacFlecknoe and the shopkeeper- cum-laundress exchanged glances. “Clergyman,” the barkeep said. “You just missed him. Stopped in for a dram.”
“Several drams,” said Jennie, with a knowing wink.
“Nice old fellow, he was,” said MacFlecknoe. “For a Welshman. Has a little church down in Anglesey. He’s been up here in the Highlands the last month.”
“Gravestone rubbing,” said Jennie Prothero, shaking her head.
“Now, Jennie,” said the barkeep. “It’s a respectable pastime enough, especially for a man of the cloth.”
“Perhaps,” the old woman replied. “Said he was an aquarium, he did.”
“Antiquarian,” MacFlecknoe corrected.
Esterhazy gently interrupted. “I’ll have the steak-and-kidney pudding, please, Paulie.” He added, in his most disinterested tone: “What’s this about the constable?”
MacFlecknoe hesitated. “Well, now, Mr. Draper, sir, I don’t know as I should say. He’d already had three whiskies by the time he told us the tale, you know.”
“Oh, don’t be daft, Paulie!” Jennie Prothero scolded. “Mr. Draper here’s a good sort. He’s not going to go making any trouble for the old fellow.”
The barkeep considered this. “Right, then. It was some weeks back. The priest had just come into the area and was on his way to Auchindown. He spotted the churchyard of Ballbridge chapel — it’s a bit of a ruin, hard by the Inish Marshes — and stopped to examine the gravestones. Well, no sooner was he inside the churchyard when a man came out of the mists. Drunk and sick he was, shivering, blood and muck all over.”
“The poor cleric felt sure he was a fugitive,” said the shopkeeper, putting one finger to her nose. “Running from the law.”
Esterhazy knew of the ruined chapel — it was situated between the Foulmire and Inverkirkton. “What did the man look like?” he asked, his heart suddenly rattling in his chest like a rat caught in a tin can.
MacFlecknoe thought a moment. “Well, now, he didn’t say. He was desperate, though, raving about something. The cleric thought the man wanted to make a confession, and so he listened. He said the chap was nearly out of his wits. Trembling all over, teeth chattering. He told the man some sort of story and needed to know the way around the marshes. The vicar drew him a bit of a map. Made the vicar promise not to whisper anything about the encounter to a soul. The poor old priest went back to his car to get a spare blanket from the boot. But by the time he got back to the churchyard, the fellow had vanished again.”
“I’ll be locking my door tonight, and all,” said Jennie Prothero.
“What story did the man tell the priest, exactly?” Esterhazy asked.
“Now, Mr. Draper, you know how the clergy are,” the barkeep said. “Sanctity of the confessional, and all.”
“And you said his parish was in Anglesey,” Esterhazy said. “Was he on his way back?”
“No. He still had a few days left of his holidays. Said he was going to stop over at Lochmoray.”
“A wee bit of a village over west,” said MacFlecknoe, his tone implying that Inverkirkton was a metropolis by comparison.
“Plenty of old gravestones to rub at St. Muns,” Jennie Prothero added, with another shake of her head.
“St. Muns,” Esterhazy repeated, slowly, as if to himself.
CHAPTER 24
Lochmoray, Scotland
JUDSON ESTERHAZY BICYCLED UPHILL, leaving the little town far behind. As the road wound back into the granite hills, all signs of civilization dropped away, and in another ninety minutes a gray stone steeple appeared in the distance, just poking above the folded landscape.
That could only be the chapel of St. Muns, with its historic churchyard, where — with any luck — he would find the priest.
He stared at the long, winding road, caught his breath, and began the ascent.
The road went up through pines and firs before curving around the shoulder of the hill, dropping into a glen, and then climbing one last leg toward the isolated chapel. A cold wind blew and clouds scudded across the sky as he paused at the shoulder to examine the approach.
Sure enough: the priest was in the churchyard, all alone, dressed not in black but tweeds, with only a clerical collar to mark his calling. The man’s bicycle was propped against a gravestone, and the cleric himself was bent over a table-type tomb, involved in making a rubbing. Although he felt a little foolish, Esterhazy probed the reassuring lump of his pistol, assuring himself it was readily accessible, and then he remounted his bicycle and coasted down.
It was amazing. The bastard Pendergast was still making trouble for him, even from beyond the grave. It must have been Pendergast this priest bumped into, out there on the moors. He would have been weak from loss of blood, half mad with pain, just minutes from death. What had he told the man? Esterhazy could not leave Scotland without knowing.
The churchman rose awkwardly as Esterhazy approached, brushing twigs and grass off his knees. A large sheet of rice paper lay on the tomb; the rubbing was half complete. A portfolio of other rubbings lay nearby, spread out on a piece of canvas with crayons, pastels, and charcoal.
“ Ouf!” muttered the priest, adjusting his clothes and patting himself back into order. “Afternoon to you.” He had a picturesque Welsh accent, and his face was red and veined.
Esterhazy’s habitual caution evaporated as the priest extended his hand. His grasp was unpleasantly damp and not altogether clean.
“You must be the priest up from Anglesey,” Esterhazy said.
“That’s right.” The man’s smile gave way to a look of confusion. “And how might you be knowing that?”
“I’ve just come from the pub at Inverkirkton. They mentioned you were in the neighborhood. Making rubbings of gravestones.” Esterhazy nodded toward the tomb.
The old man beamed. “Quite right! Quite right!”
“What a coincidence running into you like this. My name’s Wickham.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
They stood a moment in amiable silence.
“They also mentioned you told them quite a story,” Esterhazy went on. “About a rather desperate fellow you encountered on the moor.”