‘Ghosts it is,’ I said. ‘Are there any materials I might consult which would cover-’
‘Oh, we’re very well off for ghosts!’ she exclaimed. I wished she would not keep declaiming the word at full volume. ‘That’s not an unusual request at all. Why it’s only a matter of weeks since I was telling the last reader who wanted to know all about them.’
‘Indeed? Are there many?’
‘Oh yes, madam. Well there’s the Haunted Ram, of course.’
‘A public house?’ I asked.
‘A ram,’ she corrected. ‘Haunted. And the Devil’s Beef Tub is notorious.’
‘Haunted cows?’
She sailed on. ‘And then, let me see, there’s Yellow Mary at the well, although she’s not been seen so much since the new wee housie was built there. I always fret that she’s trapped underneath it, you know. And not a soul that belongs to Moffat would go up the Gallow Hill at the full moon. Will I write these down for you, madam? I could draw you a wee map too.’
Fifteen minutes later, I came reeling out into the uncertain sunshine with my wee map in my hand and my head swirling with phantasms too many to number; Moffat most certainly was a place where the dead seemed to go about their business unimpeded by their change of state and with no thoughts of lying down quietly and mouldering.
The Devil’s Beef Tub was not haunted by cattle after all, but by the spirits of the marauding Johnstone clan – the infamous Border Reivers – and by the spirits of such of their enemies as had tried and failed to besiege them there and grab the stolen herds back again. The problems of the Gallow Hill spoke for themselves. Apparently the earth turned red with the blood of the hanged in the light of the full moon each month (I had forborne to mention to the little librarian that hanging does not cause much bloodshed and that I happened to know that the dark of the moon is the time when nights get really tricky). Even leaving aside Yellow Mary at the well, since she had evidently been squashed, that still left quite a parade of the usual suspects. To wit: a century ago either William Burke or William Hare had stopped the night at the Black Bull Inn, a century before that Bonnie Prince Charlie had watered his horses and left a soldier to die on the banks of the stream. Bloody Mary, of course, had passed a few nights in a nearby castle and her grief and sorrow had seeped into its walls. Reaching back into history, Bruce and Wallace and even Malcolm had paused at Moffat on their travels, watering their horses again (a thirsty lot, the mounts of these Scottish warriors) and imbuing the hills and fields with the sort of vanquished hopes and tragic disappointment which inevitably end up as grey ladies and headless pipers.
I consulted the map and decided to start with the Ram, since it was closest to me. Almost too close, I decided a few minutes later, standing in the middle of the High Street and staring up at it. If Mrs Addie had collapsed here, with scores of houses all around and, even in the evening, plenty of passers-by walking to and from the many inns and public houses, someone would have seen her. Of course, I was hoping that someone would have seen her – corroboration of Sergeant Simpson’s story was my purpose in this ghost hunt after all – but this spot, halfway up the busiest street in town and only a stone’s throw from the water trough where every carter rested his horses like all of his kings before him, was far too unguarded a setting for a death which had been so carefully bowdlerised. If a woman had clutched her heart and dropped to the ground here in front of Moffat’s most famous ghost it would surely have been in the papers and the Addies’ feelings could not have been spared no matter if the Lord Chief Justice himself joined the Fiscal in wishing them so.
Besides, no one would die of fright from this haunting. The librarian had told me the whole story and there was not enough in it to cause a decent shriek never mind a heart attack. The statue – an impressive bronze of a large full-coated and fully horned ram, standing proudly on a soaring stone base (which might have looked like a mountain crag if the mortar between the stones had not been picked for contrast) – had been commissioned by one William Colvin, a prosperous local farmer, in honour of the town where he had prospered. All was well until, after his death, the statue had been moved from the spot he had so carefully chosen to this one and, displeased, he took up residence inside it and manifested his presence by ‘ghostly tapping’. I lifted one side of my hat brim – current fashions worked hard against efficient eavesdropping – edged around one of the four basins set about it and laid my head against the base.
There was silence within. Without, there was laughing. I straightened up and turned to see a pair of housewives, their shawls crossed over their breasts and their full baskets hefted high, giggling at me.
‘Colvin’s ghaist only comes oot at nicht,’ said one.
‘Aye, so does mice,’ said the other. And I nodded, for I agreed. Tapping noises from inside a hollow stone plinth and the hollow bronze sheep above it would always suggest nesting rodents and not unquiet spirits to me.
I looked once again at the pencilled map the librarian had sketched for me. The Devil’s Beef Tub was a fair walk out of town. The well where Yellow Mary lay under the new wee housie was a shorter walk but a stiffer climb, up past the Hydro and around the back of Gallow Hill. Gallow Hill itself I could see looming up to the east and I quite simply was not shod for it. I let my eyes come down the slope to where the Hydro sat, flags flying, windows twinkling, and I was aware of a shift of unease inside me. A house near a church is favoured by villagers, whether for the respectability conferred by such neighbours or for the sanctuary near at hand, should the devil ride, but I always wonder at those cottagers whose gardens abut the graveyard walls, as they often do. Does it ever occur to them as they look with pride at their soaring beans and swelling roots that the rich earth which feeds their crops is fed in its turn? Similarly now, I had to question the placing of a hydro, supposed to offer complete relaxation, in the lee of a gallow hill. Would not exactly those who thought a sulphurous drench would cure their arthritis also believe that the shadow of such a place would disturb their rest? If it came to that, I wondered how many knew that the sulphurous waters themselves came from a well where a Yellow Mary once was found. If she were yellow from the sulphur it suggested she had fallen in and drowned there. If she were yellow from fever then, even if she only lived nearby, it was hardly a testimonial. Or was I getting confused between yellow fever and Typhoid Mary and making more than I should out of nothing? I turned away and surveyed the High Street instead. I was admirably shod for a stroll to a tea shop. Perhaps there was a better way to discover which ghost Mrs Addie had met in the night. Perhaps Regina, who thought it was to the hills and woods that Mrs Addie had gone, would know a little more and could tell me at least which hill or which wood was most likely.
I stopped in my tracks. Of course she knew more, my little round pummelling friend. She must have heard Dr Laidlaw or Dr Ramsay or someone say ‘Gallow Hill’ or ‘the Beef Tub’ or something when they brought the invalid back again. How else could she have a view on the matter at all? I abandoned my plans for tea, thinking that there was bound to be a substantial offering at the Hydro very soon, and retraced my steps up the hill.
I should have to find another way of communing with Regina very soon, I thought as I shrugged out of my clothes again. I wondered if I could discover her afternoon free, if Grant could be made to invite her to tea, and if I could gatecrash their party and grill her.
In the meantime, I settled down on the little velvet-covered bench in the changing cubicle with my robe about me, to listen for the squeak of her rubber-soled shoes on the polished boards. I wanted to speak to her but not enough to brave the heat again. I tucked my feet up and made myself very comfortable, except for a faint rumbling in my middle.