Read Online Bury Her Deep by Catriona McPherson - Free Book Online
Authors: Catriona McPherson
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keep your name out of it, Jessie, I assure you,’ I told her. I had no clear idea how I should manage this, but I trusted to think of something. ‘Now,’ I went on, ‘this is very important. Tell me everything you can remember about this fellow. Tell me everything you could see.’
Jessie shuddered but spoke up gamely. ‘He was a’ dressed in black, I ken that for sure.’
‘Tall, short? Thin, fat?’ I said. ‘Could you tell if he was a young man or was he stiff and elderly in the way he moved?’
‘Oh no,’ said Jessie. ‘He was anythin’ but that. No’ very tall, I dinna think. He wasna loomin’ over Mrs Hemingborough and she’s no’ much taller than me. And no’ fat. He was . . . snaky.’ She seemed almost as startled to have said this as Mr Tait and I were to have heard it, but after blinking she nodded. ‘Aye, that’s it. He was snaky. The way he moved, you ken? He wasna like a man in heavy boots moves, he was jist snaky. The way he come over the dyke and the way he was all over Mrs Hemingborough.’ She shuddered again. ‘It was horrible.’
‘It sounds it,’ I said. ‘Now come along. I’m going to run you home.’
When I stopped the motor car at the Hollands’ cottage gate and stepped down to let Jessie out, she pointed to the great mess of feathers lying on the lane and caught in the bare branches of a hawthorn bush a little way along. In the moonlight, they were as plain as day and I could see no possibility for Jessie to have imagined the scene she had described to me. The sound of the engine brought a young man to the cottage door – John, I guessed – and since he frowned in puzzlement, I called to him.
‘We ran on late at the Rural, Mr Holland. I’m delivering Jessie home.’
He nodded, although still frowning slightly, and Jessie scurried past him into the house. Perhaps my presence and the lift in a motor car would, in John’s eyes, tip the Rural firmly over into the realms of gadding about and young Jessie’s monthly excursions would be over. I hoped not, but then one had to question whether after the experience this evening she would ever cross her door in the dark again. I drove on a little way – I had to turn in a field entrance – and stepped down to look at the scene in the light of my headlamps. There were a great many trodden and over-trodden footprints in the muddy lane just by the hawthorn bush with feathers pressed into them here and there, but much as I should have liked to point to two distinct sets of vastly different sizes, nothing so clear presented itself to me. Anyway, the ‘snakiness’ of the dark stranger had to have its origin somewhere in his physique or deportment even if Jessie could not put her finger on its source and I imagined that anyone light enough in his movements to earn the description must have rather neat little feet. Full of questions and utterly empty of answers I got back into the motor car and drove home.
In the morning, I had a rare brainwave. I was at the washstand in my bedroom, shivering in my petticoat despite the fire which had been relit at seven by a cheerful little maid, and admiring the scene outside the window; the spare bedroom of the manse was at the back and looked out over fields towards the law. It was the hill, naturally, which held my attention at first but then movement in the foreground caught my eye and I saw a farmer on a cart, precariously laden with turnips, making his careful way along between the hedgerows one field’s distance from the house. After gazing at him until he was out of sight again in the usual witless fashion of the early morning, I suddenly realised several things: that this lane must be the one which led to Hinter Luckenlaw Farm; that since I could see the lane from my bedroom window I could perhaps – had I been looking out at the right moment last night – have seen the scuffle with the stranger; and that the wiry little man on the cart whom I had just watched lumbering along
Jessie shuddered but spoke up gamely. ‘He was a’ dressed in black, I ken that for sure.’
‘Tall, short? Thin, fat?’ I said. ‘Could you tell if he was a young man or was he stiff and elderly in the way he moved?’
‘Oh no,’ said Jessie. ‘He was anythin’ but that. No’ very tall, I dinna think. He wasna loomin’ over Mrs Hemingborough and she’s no’ much taller than me. And no’ fat. He was . . . snaky.’ She seemed almost as startled to have said this as Mr Tait and I were to have heard it, but after blinking she nodded. ‘Aye, that’s it. He was snaky. The way he moved, you ken? He wasna like a man in heavy boots moves, he was jist snaky. The way he come over the dyke and the way he was all over Mrs Hemingborough.’ She shuddered again. ‘It was horrible.’
‘It sounds it,’ I said. ‘Now come along. I’m going to run you home.’
When I stopped the motor car at the Hollands’ cottage gate and stepped down to let Jessie out, she pointed to the great mess of feathers lying on the lane and caught in the bare branches of a hawthorn bush a little way along. In the moonlight, they were as plain as day and I could see no possibility for Jessie to have imagined the scene she had described to me. The sound of the engine brought a young man to the cottage door – John, I guessed – and since he frowned in puzzlement, I called to him.
‘We ran on late at the Rural, Mr Holland. I’m delivering Jessie home.’
He nodded, although still frowning slightly, and Jessie scurried past him into the house. Perhaps my presence and the lift in a motor car would, in John’s eyes, tip the Rural firmly over into the realms of gadding about and young Jessie’s monthly excursions would be over. I hoped not, but then one had to question whether after the experience this evening she would ever cross her door in the dark again. I drove on a little way – I had to turn in a field entrance – and stepped down to look at the scene in the light of my headlamps. There were a great many trodden and over-trodden footprints in the muddy lane just by the hawthorn bush with feathers pressed into them here and there, but much as I should have liked to point to two distinct sets of vastly different sizes, nothing so clear presented itself to me. Anyway, the ‘snakiness’ of the dark stranger had to have its origin somewhere in his physique or deportment even if Jessie could not put her finger on its source and I imagined that anyone light enough in his movements to earn the description must have rather neat little feet. Full of questions and utterly empty of answers I got back into the motor car and drove home.
In the morning, I had a rare brainwave. I was at the washstand in my bedroom, shivering in my petticoat despite the fire which had been relit at seven by a cheerful little maid, and admiring the scene outside the window; the spare bedroom of the manse was at the back and looked out over fields towards the law. It was the hill, naturally, which held my attention at first but then movement in the foreground caught my eye and I saw a farmer on a cart, precariously laden with turnips, making his careful way along between the hedgerows one field’s distance from the house. After gazing at him until he was out of sight again in the usual witless fashion of the early morning, I suddenly realised several things: that this lane must be the one which led to Hinter Luckenlaw Farm; that since I could see the lane from my bedroom window I could perhaps – had I been looking out at the right moment last night – have seen the scuffle with the stranger; and that the wiry little man on the cart whom I had just watched lumbering along
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