The Prayer of the Night Shepherd (33 page)

‘He didn’t recognize the man,’ Mary said. ‘He couldn’t see him very clearly, because he...’ Mary looked away. ‘I expect she was on top of him. But then he doesn’t know many local people, anyway.’

‘In which case—’

‘But he
does
know Jeremy! And he knows
her
.’

Danny shut his eyes.
Shit
.

‘Somebody ought to tell him,’ Mary said quietly. ‘Somebody who knows him well.’

‘When?’ Danny said harshly. ‘When
was
this?’

‘Night before last.’ Mary Morson stood up in front of him. ‘There’s no mistake about this, none at all, Danny. It was her. It was Natalie Craven and a bloke, and they were—’

‘All
right
!’

‘We’re just telling you,’ Greta said, ‘because you’re the nearest he’s got to a best friend. None of us wants to see him hurt.’

‘Hurt? It’ll kill him! You really expect me to go tell him? Like he don’t got enough on his plate?’

‘Who else is going to? You wanner wait till it’s all over Kington?’

‘You mean it en’t already? Oh, I forgot, you en’t been shopping yet, did you?’

‘That’s unfair!’

‘Well...’ Danny turned away. ‘It’s bloody upset me, it has.’

‘It’s upset all of us,’ Mary Morson said, shameless.

Merrily checked out the pine bookcase. Not many changes here:
The Hedgewitch Almanac
,
Green Magic
,
Britain’s Pagan Places
, plus another fifty or so pastel spines confirming that Jane was still a vague supporter of the Old Religion, which, as the kid now admitted, was actually not very old at all.

The shelves were all full. No room here for the Bible, which had failed to address the issue of the mystical British countryside, but there was still a corner, Merrily noted, for the 17th-century Herefordshire cleric Thomas Traherne, who’d chronicled its God-given glories at length.

This was all about the need for direct experience, a confirmation of Otherness. And, of course, there
was
an area of operation where Christianity and New Age paganism came close together.

It was spiritual healing.

It was several days now since she’d been to see Alice Meek, suggesting that if there was to be a service of healing it should initially be directed towards the soul of nine-year-old Roland Hook. Telling Alice it all came back to Roland, all the guilt and the grief... and the pain of a young child who had died, very afraid, in the middle of a crime. Maybe the knowledge that Roland’s soul was at peace would bring some kind of harmony to the family.

‘Right, then.’ Alice had stood up, stiff-backed, fiery-faced. ‘You leave it with me, vicar. Half of them won’t understand what it’s about, dull buggers, but I’ll talk to my niece in Solihull, her as did the Alpha course. We’ll make this happen, somehow.’

Not a word since. Sophie, meanwhile, had been compiling a list of ministers in the diocese who had a serious, practical interest in healing, with a view to organizing a preliminary meeting. But it needed someone else to organize it; Merrily wasn’t good at admin.

She sat on Jane’s bed. Turning over the apartment was beginning to look like a waste of time. Had she really expected to find a ouija board laid out next to the collected works of Doris Stokes? She’d looked briefly in the wardrobe, flicked open dressing-table drawers, glanced under the bed. Not even much dust under there – amazing what changes a few weekends of chambermaiding could bring about.

Through the window, she could see wooded Cole Hill, with scattered snow up there, like grated cheese. There hadn’t been a serious fall this year; maybe it wouldn’t come this side of Christmas. After Christmas, Lol would go on tour for the first time since... well, since he was hardly older than Jane. Lol finally getting a life: where would that leave them?

Don’t think about it
.

The only book on the bedside table was a scuffed old favourite:
The Folk-lore of Herefordshire
, by Ella Mary Leather, dead for three-quarters of a century and still unsurpassed for down-home authenticity. There was an orange Post-it sticker in the book, and Merrily let it fall open.

Kington: the final frontier, the least known, most hidden, of Herefordshire’s six towns, in appearance more like the Radnorshire towns of Knighton and Rhayader, but with streets more cramped than either. It was even on the Welsh side of Offa’s Dyke. It was entirely understandable that Kington folk, even in the nineteenth century, should have felt under the dominion of Welsh mythology. And inevitable that Jane, working weekends in the area, would be interested.

Mrs Leather added:

Right. This was the legend alleged to be the source of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Ben Foley hosted murder weekends at Stanner, appearing as Sherlock Holmes, on the basis – unproven – that Arthur Conan Doyle used to stay there.

This would be Jane helping out with background research.

Of course, despite being a doctor, a man of science, Conan Doyle had been very deeply into spiritualism and psychic matters in general. Merrily recalled reading how he was convinced that the escapologist, Harry Houdini, was using psychic powers to dematerialize, which Houdini denied to the end. Doyle had also championed the Cottingley Fairies photographs – fakes.

Hmm
.

Merrily shut the book and arranged it carefully on the bedside table, the way she’d found it. She went back to the bookcase, crouched down and re-inspected the titles, one by one this time. Definitely nothing here suggestive of a new interest in spiritualism.

When you thought about it, the only place Jane could realistically have encountered a medium – the only place, apart from school, she’d been to in weeks, in fact – was Stanner Hall.

But that was Hergest Court, not Stanner. Stanner wasn’t old enough to be haunted by a demon dog. A ‘demon dog’, anyway, was probably no more than an imprint, or a projection. Nothing demonic about dogs.

Merrily checked out the little room which, due to cash flow, was still only halfway to becoming Jane’s private bathroom. Found herself lifting the lid of the toilet cistern.

Nothing but brownish water. Feeling stupid and treacherous, Merrily replaced the cistern lid. As she left the apartment she looked around the upper landing, full of shadows even in the early afternoon, and a few trailing cobwebs she ought to get around to removing. She cleared her throat.

‘We’re all right, you know. We can manage, Lol and me. And you must have things to get on with, Lucy. A woman like you.’

She went downstairs, shaking her head. Madness. All priests were prey to madness.

And then, on reaching the bottom, she immediately turned and went back up and said a small prayer outside Jane’s door. Paranoia.

That night it all came back, like something she’d eaten, when the kid said, ‘Would it be OK if I spent
all
next weekend at Stanner? Friday till Sunday?’

Merrily went still, hands in the washing up bowl. She didn’t turn round.

‘Weather doesn’t look too promising, flower.’

‘Well, I can always cadge a lift with Gomer in the truck if it looks bad. The thing is, they really need me – there’s a conference on.’

‘An actual
conference
.’

‘Don’t be like that. They’re doing their best.’

‘What kind of conference?’

‘Oh... . something called the White Company. It’s the title of an historical novel by Conan Doyle so I expect they’re into, like, the non-Holmes side of it. Which sounds boring, but Ben thinks it’s great. Like, anything at all to do with Conan Doyle, he’s up for it. And the money, naturally.’

‘Interesting man,’ Merrily said, ‘Conan Doyle.’

‘Er... yeah.’

‘Progressive thinker. Although he lost a lot of credibility towards the end of his life through his support of spiritualism.’

‘Well, he would wouldn’t he?’

‘Would he?’

‘It was all bollocks.’

‘Ben Foley’s not interested in that side of him, then?’

‘Ben’s got
his
credibility to think about.’ Jane stood up. ‘Tell you what... just to make sure it’s OK for the weekend, how about I walk down to Gomer’s and ask him if he’ll be around Kington, with Danny. And the truck.’

‘Why don’t you just give him a ring?’

‘I’ve tried. Always leaves his answering machine on at night. Look, if you light the fire, I’ll be back in no time.’

Through the half-open kitchen door, Merrily watched Jane throwing on her fleece and slipping out the front way.

Oh, there was
something
.

22

‘C
OMES A TIME
,’ Gomer said, ‘when you gotter decide whether seven grand’s worth gettin’ your face stove in for. Naw, they en’t been back, them Welshies, ’course they en’t.’

Gomer’s kitchen was still like a monument to Minnie, who had died on him: very clean and bright with shiny pots and cake tins, lurid curtains with big red tulips on them and a tea cosy in the shape of a marmalade cat. Nothing added, nothing taken away; maybe a shrine or maybe Gomer just wasn’t interested in kitchens.

‘I did try to phone you a few times.’ Jane took off her fleece. ‘I rang Danny last night, but I got Greta so I had to pretend it was a wrong number. Anything I can do while I’m here?’

Gomer gave her a sharp look. ‘I en’t an ole pensioner yet, girl.’

‘
I
know that. It’s just that when you’re a weekend maid it’s the way you think.’ She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘It’s a lot of money, Gomer.’

‘Oh hell, aye. Even for Sebbie Three Farms, now. Lost a fair bit five year or so back. Wife divorced him. Had to do a bit o’ jugglin’ to hold on to all his ground.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Sebbie? Standard ole Border gentry. Certain kind seems to thrive yereabouts – talk posh but rough as a sow’s hide underneath. Can’t say I likes the feller, but can’t say I dislikes him as much as some of ’em. En’t figured it out, mind, why he brung in shooters from Off.’

‘Because he didn’t want local people gossiping.’

‘But if he’s got a beast at his flocks, why en’t he out there ’isself? Been around guns all his life. Why en’t Sebbie out there ’isself takin’ a pop? Tea, Janey?’

‘No, thanks, I can’t stay long.’

‘Well, I’m gonner have one.’

Gomer went to put the kettle on. Jane looked at the crack of night between the drawn curtains. For three nights, she’d lain in bed dwelling, with no pleasurable
frissons
, upon the beast, the
participants in the event
in the kitchens at Stanner. And sometimes feeling Lucy Devenish watching her from the corner by the bookcase – this solemn, hawk-nosed figure in a poncho, rebuking her for her lies, deceit and despicable selfishness.

‘Gomer...’ She hesitated. Gomer plugged in the kettle and turned and looked at her. ‘The Hound of Hergest,’ she said.

Gomer came and sat down. His smile was sceptical. ‘I won’t say I en’t never yeard of folk supposed to’ve seen him, Janey. But the ole Hound of Hergest – do he kill ewes, this is the question?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yere’s the situation. Dogs kills sheep. Sheepdogs kills sheep – one o’ your big myths is that stock with their throats ripped out, that’s all down to Mr Fox. Truth is, whole load of lambs gets savaged every year by sheepdogs. Thin line between snappin’ at sheep to round ’em up and picking one off. Point I’m makin’, Janey, if you got a mystery beast preyin’ on ewes, chances are it’s a big sheepdog – mabbe two – that’s got the taste for blood.’