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
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
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