Bruar's Rest

by Jess Smith

  The pair chatted and discussed Scotland. ‘Although we hunted on friends’ estates, Glen Coe was my favourite place. I loved its seclusion, its mighty gliding eagles, the rugged beauty of the place left me breathless.’

  Megan could hardly contain her excitement. Not only was her companion a visitor to Scotland, but of all places she knew her very own birthplace—her ancestral home!

  ‘You’d not hunt the monarch of the glen there. It was forbidden. No one hunted in the Glen of Coe, maybe in the Rannoch or the Etive, but never the Coe.’

  ‘No, to be honest, we found the area far too dangerous with all those jagged peaks and sheer giants of mountains. It was hardly a safe place to stalk, but a wonderful place to dream. Look, those are the lights of Burnstall Hall, we’re nearing home.’

  Megan had seen plenty of stately homes, another one more or less meant little to her. Her heart was chasing the red deer back home. She was laid on her back staring up at the soaring eagle as it stretched its wings toward a powder-blue sky.

  The woman broke into her thoughts. ‘Please come in and have some tea before you go back.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, but the gypsies will be thinking I’m telling tales, so best I get away.’

  ‘I insist, it will only take a moment.’

  ‘Darkness is not a time to be upon the moor, any moor. I must say again, no thanks.’

  ‘Then Sam will walk you back, he has no fear of the moor.’ At that she called for the young stable boy who came instantly. He was quickly introduced, and said that of course he would take Megan back.

  Without a word she followed the lady inside, to be met by a rather stern housekeeper, who was obviously somewhat taken aback by a gypsy being allowed inside a stately house.

  ‘If looks could kill,’ was Megan’s first thought, noticing the housekeeper’s apparent disgust at being ordered to fetch some tea.

  ‘Surely Madam doesn’t expect the good china cups for this person, who, and if Madam doesn’t mind me saying, should be in the kitchen?’

  ‘Mrs Simms bring us a tray with—yes, china cups, cream and sugar. Now, if you don’t mind, I wish to discuss some matters of importance with this young woman.’

  Still the hard-faced servant, with her grey hair stretched across her head and tied tightly in a small bun, just had to have her say. ‘Madam, we in this house are in deep mourning. It is understandable you wish to find out who took the master’s life, but not by giving hospitality to a filthy gypsy.’

  Her employer stood up, stiffened her spine and ordered Mrs Simms to cease her offensive remarks.

  Mrs Simms clicked two black brogue heels together and marched off.

  ‘Pay no attention to her, dear, we are all in a state of shock.’

  ‘Mrs Newton, I am well aware you need to know who took your husband’s life but it’s more than I am worth to tell about that terrible night.’

  ‘Look dear, I know of the affair, and also that he was being blackmailed about it. But if the killer’s identity is known to you, then please tell me. I swear no one will be any the wiser as to who disclosed the information. Please tell me, for our children’s sake.’

  Before she could repeat her refusal, a small girl walked slowly into the room, followed by a pale-faced young boy. The girl hurried over to the lady and threw herself into her arms, sobbing. ‘Mummy, I want my Daddy,’ tears streaming down her elf-like face.

  ‘Daddy isn’t here anymore, Lavinia,’ said the boy trying not to do anything other than what was expected of a gentleman, albeit a seven-year-old one.

  ‘Where is he? Mummy all the servants are wearing black, why? Didn’t they do that when Grandma died? Daddy’s not dead, is he Mummy?’

  ‘There, there, my sweet child, so many questions. Mummy is very tired. In a moment I shall speak to you about Daddy. Now David, why don’t you take Lavinia upstairs and wait till Mummy comes.’

  ‘Poor wee bairns,’ thought Megan, and to think bloody Buckley is prancing about somewhere in freedom. Probably sitting supping in a public house and boasting like a puffed cock.’ She watched them go upstairs, heads hung, weighted with aching sadness, poor little innocent mites. It was then she thought, ‘Well, I may be a gypsy of sorts, but I’m first and foremost a Coe Scot. She remembered her own mother telling the story of the ‘Massacre’. ‘If someone had forewarned the Macdonalds all those years ago that their neighbours, the Campbells, were on their way to slaughter them, then perhaps it never would have happened. Who’s to say Buckley won’t come to Burnstall Hall and terrorise this defenceless family?’ These thoughts twisted and turned inside her head. ‘Will I? Can I? Should I?’ Surely he should be caught, imprisoned, punished? Yes, it was only proper. So as she sipped tea with her host, she told her all she had heard and witnessed the night her husband was murdered, finally adding, ‘tell the police that Bull’s in York, wherever that is.’

  When she had finished her story, she asked the woman to promise not to inform detective Martin until two days had passed. That would give the gypsies time to conduct Lucy’s funeral and leave the quarry.

  The woman was strangely quiet as she rose to touch a silver photo frame with a small family photograph hidden among a dozen or more upon a grand piano. Her gaze stayed softly on her late husband’s smiling face.

  ‘It pains me deeply to say this, Megan, but it’s not who killed Mr Newton that is important, it’s the fact he was involved with the gypsies; sadly it is that we have to keep secret, even from the police. The future of his good name depends on it, and that of the children, of course. I promise that what you have told me will remain with me, and thank you so very much. I shall put my demons to rest, now that I know the truth, awful though it is.’ She laid her pale hand on Megan’s arm, adding, ‘I do realise the sacrifice you have made in telling me, but I had to know the murderer’s name.’

  Before leaving, Megan gazed round the massive, marble hall. The walls were hung with portraits of men in uniform, soldiers. While hawking her scourers in Kirriemor she had seen similar pictures. They reminded her of what Bruar would have looked like. ‘My husband was a soldier, was yours?’

  ‘Yes, a proud captain in the Queen’s Cavalry. That’s a portrait of him over there.’ She pointed to a large painting suspended above the curved turn of a broad winding staircase. Megan took a closer look. Indeed, he was a very handsome fellow. Tall, tanned skin, thin moustache above a firm lip, ocean-blue eyes, perfectly groomed brown hair. She could see how Lucy had fallen so heavily for him.

  ‘My lad, he too is a looker. Not nicely ironed like him. Wild and strong, that’s my Bruar.’

  Mrs Newton touched her arm again and asked where he was.

  She told her everything.

  ‘The dream disclosed to you that he sleeps above and not below the ground?’

  ‘Yes, missus.’

  ‘And you think “King’s Land” is in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It may be something or nothing, but I happen to know that in Sussex there’s a home for shell-shocked soldiers, called “Kingsland House”.’

  Megan’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. ‘He may well be there, then!’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, my dear. He might be in any one of the homes, and believe me there are plenty, but if I have given you some clearer hope, then this night we have helped each other, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh missus, little do you know how much of a misty veil your words have lifted from my eyes. Thank you so very, very much.’

  Her road ahead looked so much clearer, her heart was freed of a heavy load. However, standing on the doorstep saying farewell, she just had to ask the lady what she had really thought about Mr Newton going off with Lucy.

  ‘My dear girl, my husband, wonderful man though he was, did, like a lot of men have a weakness, and for him that was pretty young girls—mainly gypsy girls. I think it was their air of wild freedom; their windswept beauty drew him like a moth to a flame. Lucy wasn’t his first, and if it hadn’t been for
that awful man, she certainly wouldn’t have been the last.’

  ‘But they were going off together.’

  ‘Just as he had done before with the others. My dear, I knew his failings but loved him in spite of them. I think he paid the blackmailer, because the last time he ran off he promised me faithfully that it would never happen again.’ It pained her to continue talking of him, that was becoming obvious. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Simms to call on Sam, he’ll walk you back to the camp. Goodbye, and thank you so much.’

  Before she slammed shut the massive oak door behind her, Megan stared into the beady eyes of Mrs Simms and whispered, ‘I feel you don’t care for me.’

  Keeping an inch of open space between them she answered, ‘I hate you. If not for your kind, my master would be alive and well and sharing supper with those broken-hearted children.’

  As the door was bolted and noisily locked, Megan, although totally innocent, felt pangs of guilt at having been part of Lucy’s secret, contributing to a heartbroken family’s pain. But her new-found knowledge sent a wave of energy surging through her body. Looking for Bruar would be a lot easier now, and that was her only reason for existence.

  Sam smiled and offered an arm, which she refused, saying there was none more capable than she on the moor. ‘I have the eyes of a cat and can see for miles in pitch darkness.’ Having just uttered those words, they both laughed as she stumbled and fell over a water barrel at the far end of the stables. ‘Well, even a cat has its moments,’ she said as he helped her up from the cobbled courtyard.

  Sam had none of the other servant’s disgust at gypsies, and said he knew and liked most of her quarry friends. He faced a problem, though, because Mrs Newton had informed her staff that she planned to sell Burnstall Hall and move away from the Dales.

  ‘Surely whoever buys the place will need staff to run it,’ Megan asked.

  ‘Might do, but who can say? Sometimes property in these parts changes hands and new owners bring their own workers. Some even get shot of horses, don’t use stables, and leave them empty. I have a big problem, lass, ’cause me Mam, ye see, she’s real sick. Takes all me wages to pay for her medicine. What’ll I do?’

  ‘Get another job—say with a blacksmith or horse breeder. Surely someone will employ you. Mrs Newton told me you’re a dab hand with her mares.’

  ‘Aye, she’s good to me. Hell, listen to me rambling on. I hear the quarry will see the burning of the gypsy girl tomorrow.’

  ‘Burn! No, she’s to be buried. After her funeral the gypsies are breaking up, after all that’s happened.’

  ‘Well, unless my knowledge of local gyppos is wrong, a funeral means the body and all it owns is to be burned.’

  Megan felt her flesh crawl at the very idea of Lucy burning, and was certain Sam was pulling her leg. She spoke no more on the subject, opting instead to listen to the night creatures calling all across Bleak Fell as she walked back with the stable boy. In a short while, fire smoke drifted into their nostrils, telling them the quarry was near.

  Ruth, who’d been watching for her return, came running up to meet them. ‘Hello Sam, how be your mother these days?’

  ‘Oh, you know, some days are worse than others. I’ll get off home now, Megan. It was nice meeting you.’

  She wished there was something she could give him for his kindness. Having a sick mother to care for was a heavy burden. She searched deep in her coat pocket, hoping a penny or two might have lodged in the stitching. There was a piece of paper and as she felt it a memory flashed into her mind. It seemed so long ago, but she recalled that when Father Flynn had given her a tiny piece of paper she’d put it deep in her pocket. When she unfolded it, she was astonished to find a ten shilling note. She smiled and gave it to Sam.

  ‘I can’t accept this, it is a whole week’s wage, that is.’

  ‘Well, it’s yours. Now, cheerio.’

  ‘First time a gyppo ever gave me money,’ he called to her.

  ‘I’m not a gyppo, Sam, I’m a clan tinker!’

  She thought to herself, as she sauntered down the quarry path arm and arm with Ruth, ‘Now, if I’d known I had that money, then I’d have got a ticket further south, and would never have been involved in the downfall of these gypsies.’

  Not believing what Sam told her about burning, she asked Ruth, ‘What manner of funeral will send Lucy to her rest tomorrow?’

  ‘We burn our dead,’ was the horrendous answer.

  Ruth noticed how she’d turned quite pale. ‘Don’t fret, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Listen, I’ve helped Mother Foy to bed, she ain’t got the energy to sit up the night, but she insisted you go to her when you got back. I think she’s afraid if any mention of Buckley took place, we all are.’

  Megan noticed anxious-looking faces; they’d waited for her to see what had happened, what would she do? If Mrs Newton kept her word, and after all she was a lady, then she wouldn’t reveal the truth of the murder, and all the gypsies would be gone the next day, none the wiser. She had no choice but to lie.

  A great sigh of relief spread through out the campsite when they heard her say she’d not spoken Buckley’s name. One by one they touched her shoulder, thanking her and saying, ‘You done good, girlie.’ Buckley would dig his own grave one day. With all the men he fought, sooner rather than later he’d take on one who’d whip him good.

  She knew, however, it would take a lot of disguising the truth to convince her wise old friend, who thankfully was asleep by the time she tiptoed into the wagon. Wrapping herself in a heavy wool blanket, she went outside to sit alone at the fire, and glanced around at the others who also sat in solemn silence. It was a long, cold night, and by dawn it was clear by the whiteness that lay around that the first winter’s frost had covered the ground and the wooden wagon tops.

  Lucy’s mother began sad and mournful singing as she finished preparing the pyre.

  ‘Here, girlie, pay respect.’ Megan took the black scarf from Mother Foy, who didn’t ask about Mrs Newton’s questions, and covered her head.

  The strongest of the men pulled Lucy’s wagon out of the circle. All her bits and pieces, including scarves, headwear and shoes, were intertwined with colourful dresses and undergarments. Then each article was arranged methodically across the small barrel-shaped wagon. Everyone gathered round. Lucy’s mother stooped and retrieved a burning stick from the blazing campfire. Firstly she lowered it, whispered her final farewell, and pushed the stick under the wagon, where firewood had been piled. Anna and Ruth both pushed clenched fists up toward the calm, early winter sky and said, ‘may he who stole your young life soon perish. And let his ghost wander this earth, never to find peace.’ It took several minutes but soon the whole wagon was engulfed in flames that leapt and burned into the small home. All heads stayed bowed, and holding hands they said goodbye in their own gypsy way.

  Megan remembered how Father Flynn, when burying Rory, said in melancholy tones, ‘And into God’s hands...’ but she couldn’t remember the rest, so mumbled under her breath incoherently.

  Ruth was right, the burning wasn’t such a horrible sight, in fact it seemed peaceful and proper. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes.

  Lucy’s distraught mother, now homeless, was taken in by a cousin. They were the first to leave. Then, one by one, the womenfolk said farewell to Mother Foy. They warned Megan to take extra care of the old woman whom they held in high esteem, as the men harnessed up the big shire horses to their wagons.

  Watching them go, she wondered if she’d they’d meet again, especially her two special friends, Ruth and Anna. They hugged and kissed, then soon they too had gone. Before parting, Anna whispered, ‘Once a friend, always one. When me and my Tate Boswell meet at Appleby, I’ll be wanting to introduce you, so make sure you find a way of getting there come next June.’

  ELEVEN

  Under the watchful eye of her old friend and following strict instructions, their wagon, the last to leave, was harnessed and yoked for the open road. Mother Foy’s was, without doubt,
one of the sturdiest horse-drawn wagons ever to fill an English country lane. Built by both herself and her late husband, it was every bit a labour of love. However, unable now as she once was to hold the leather reins between her arthritic fingers, she asked Megan to take them. But she hadn’t a clue how to drive. Oh yes, horses she loved, and they responded likewise, but this was a different matter. At first the poor horse was drawn up, then trotted on and so forth, until the old woman managed to exert a form of verbal control (of which a large part was expletives) and was able to teach Megan the basic skill of straight line driving.

  ‘God, whoever you are, keep our way on a line without bends or hills, and we might just make it,’ prayed the new driver.

  Three long weeks later, after much swearing and sweating, the area where they were to winter settle appeared on the horizon. In a field edged by a forest on one side and an open plain on the other, they snuggled the wagon into a sheltered spot.

  ‘My man and me came here many times to winter stop. Folks calls it ‘the gorse field’. It’s near enough to village and town for hawking and dukkering [fortune telling]. There’s a farm a mile up the way, nice people run the place who deal in a pound or two of good horse flesh. I know them who own it.’

  ‘Not horses for the slaughter?’ Megan curled her lip in disgust.

  ‘No, racers they be. I’ve heard there’s been many a top runner come from them. If you take yourself there I’m a certain you’d enjoy it, with you liking a horse. Maybe tomorrow when chores are finished, we’ll visit the couple who own the place. In past days I always found a pleasant welcome. Now I have just enough power in these twisted fingers to unharness me dear old grai [horse]. Hold the shaft handles until I’ve finished.’