by Jess Smith
She held a crumpled pillow to her body and said, ‘I’ll never relax until I see his lifeless remains. But thank the heavens you had the good sense to use Beth against him today, or else you and I might both be smouldering on Mother Foy’s funeral pyre.’
‘He would have to fight me first. I’m not just a stable lad, you know.’
Thinking back to the quarry and remembering the rolling head of Moses Durin, she said, ‘Bless you, Sam, but Buckley has no soul. I’m pretty sure he’s made of devil-skin with a lump of coal for a heart. Now, if you ever have the nightmare task of facing him, make sure there’s nothing wrong with your legs, because you’ll need them to run.’
After a bath and some warm food, the confusion of the past events began to clear in her mind. She felt much better; perhaps not stronger, for strength had deserted her, but silently relieved that maybe one day she’d live to fight again.
Later that afternoon, when the Irish came home, they were horrified to hear that their dear old friend had been murdered at the hands of Bull Buckley. Sam’s detailed account of Megan’s near-death experience left them aghast and speechless.
Poor little Nuala had been so eager to show off Fiddler’s foal, but on hearing that her favourite person was dead, she became inconsolable, and blamed the angels for not looking after the old woman. Bridget, to protect her child, simply said that Mother Foy had slept away peacefully, and being so young, Nuala accepted this.
In view of the fact that there was a murderer on the loose, she refused to allow Megan to leave. ‘Stephen has gone to fetch the police, so you have to tell them everything,’ she sternly insisted.
‘If I’d kept my mouth shut about a certain wayward landowner and done as the gypsies said, then I would be fine, and Mother Foy would have passed away as nature planned. Because of my blabbering tongue, choice is denied me, I have to tell them all I know. I feel in my bones it will take more than the law to finish Bull Buckley, though.’
‘He’s had a free hand far too long that one; they’ll get him, and before those bruises have healed on your body, we’ll hear news of him dangling from a rope.’
Megan had suffered a devastating experience; she might have died at his hands. She longed to lie in her man’s arms, protected and cared for. At that moment she ached for him. Was he waiting for her in a high-walled asylum? Did he look to the North Star at night, wondering if she’d ever come for him? If he was alive, that is. It seemed there was not a single person in the world apart from Sam and these good people who cared if she lived or died. Yet she had come through a terrifying ordeal, and she wondered once more if some unseen force was looking after her. And if there was, then it was surely done for a purpose. A clearer picture emerged; her mission had to be to find and bring her husband home.
Finding her surroundings comfortable and secure, she divulged to Bridget, as she’d done to her deceased friend, the quest she had undertaken, and why her journey had taken her to their door.
‘You dear, poor thing, what a burden sits on those bruised shoulders! Stay in bed now, I’ll be back in a minute.’ She hurried off, muttering and shaking her head, and presently she was back, smiling. ‘I have brought a friend, will you allow a visitor?’
‘Bridget,’ she told her, ‘is this not your bedroom and me just a tinker guest? Of course, now who is it that hides behind your back?’
She stepped aside, and standing there like a shy child was Michael.
‘Megan, why in heaven’s name did you not tell us about Buckley? We would never have left you and Mother Foy at his mercy if we’d known.’ He sat on her bed with no hint of the shame that their brief encounter in the barn had once put on his conscience. All that concerned him was that she had survived a terrible ordeal. He continued, ‘I’m going home to Ireland next week again, and you’re coming with me.’
If life was to throw her once more against its rocks, could she survive another shock? ‘Hasn’t Bridget told you about Bruar, and why I have to find and take him home?’
‘Yes, but what good are you to anyone in this state?’
She cried, the strain of the day’s awful events, of seeing him again and now waiting for the police proved overwhelming. Burying her head under the pillow, she demanded to be left alone. Bridget walked quietly out of the bedroom and summoned her brother to follow, but he couldn’t; he needed to speak to Megan. Her pain seemed to penetrate his heart. He felt her agony; gently he touched her limp hand, held it firmly, and then whispered, ‘Come for a few weeks’ holiday as my friend, it’s the least I can do. Oh Megan, what wonderful dreams I’ve had since last we met. When the bloom returns to that bonny face of yours I’ll pay your fare home. Come to Ireland with me, no strings.’
He was talking with two tongues, yet at that moment as his body touched hers, she didn’t care. ‘Hold me someone, anyone,’ she thought, ‘Whoever leads me to Bruar, lift the veil from my heart and help me find the right answer.’ Instantly her wedding photo flashed before her and drove away the hazy pictures in her tired mind; she knew what to say.
He was a proper gentleman, but there was no way she’d go anywhere without Bruar. Bull Buckley had it in for her, time was a luxury now, and one she couldn’t afford.
‘Megan, in a couple of months the ground around my home will be blooming with the tiniest snowdrops. Buds will be sprouting from the ends of willow branches; birds singing to their mates in readiness for new life. Come home to my green isle to live without fear or worry. There will be no Buckley or hidden Bruar to weigh down your pretty head with worry. It will do you a power of good.’
He felt her push him back, both with hands and eyes. Thinking she needed more time, he left her to consider his offer, said he’d a week more before going home to Ireland.
The sleeping powder Bridget later gave her was a blessing; it emptied all worry and fear from her as she drifted into a deep slumber. It may have been after midnight when a slight tap on her door was followed by Bridget’s head peering inside the dimly lit bedroom, asking if she were awake. ‘The police have arrived to question you, and both Michael and I said we thought you too weak, but it’s up to you. Can you face them? If not, I’ll tell them to come back tomorrow.’
‘Give me a minute to wash my face and get dressed,’ she said before remembering she’d not got a stitch of clothing.
‘We’re the same size, so I’ve taken the liberty of hanging a few things in the wardrobe.’
‘You read my mind, Bridget.’
Ready to face the police, she hugged and thanked her host just as Michael entered the room.
‘Well, thank God you’re smiling. I’ve been worried Buckley’s scars have gone deeper than we could see.’
His eyes were bright, his concern genuine. It touched and warmed her, she felt safe. She was dressed in a fine tweed skirt, cosy brown twin-set and nice dark leather shoes. A quick flick of the comb through her black curls and she was prepared to meet the police. Immediately on seeing the uniformed men with a mean-eyed detective, her old tinker fears flooded back. To give eye contact was beyond her, never mind speak with them. ‘Hello,’ said the plain-clothes detective rising from a hard-backed chair to greet her, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, it’s the gowpie!’
Of all the policemen in Yorkshire it just had to be Inspector Martin.
Her strength returned and that same old flash of anger at all law officers with it. ‘I’m no idiot and fine you know it, now where do you want me to start?’
‘Look, Megan, let me speak as a friend and not, as your lot think, an enemy.’
He told her to sit, and even went as far as to take her arm and help her gently to a chair. When settled she looked at the others. Bridget sat in a large settee; Stephen sat close to her and over by the window Michael stood beside Sam. By the door were two policemen. Any other time she would have felt like a trapped fox, surrounded by six bloodthirsty hounds, but not now. These were nice people, concerned for her well-being. She’d been seriously assaulted, a defenceless old woman killed. They all shared
her sense of injustice, wanting the same thing—the imprisonment, and eventual hanging, of Bull Buckley.
‘Seriously, Megan, it is imperative we find this beast. Never a week goes by when his name isn’t linked to some crime of major proportions. He’s thrown folks, not just weak people but healthy ones as well, into a world of fear. Mothers tell their children if they don’t go to sleep, the “Bogey Bull Man” will get them. He is terror with a capital T. Please, lass, if you can help us catch this brute you’ll be doing a great service.’
Bridget laid a gentle hand on her shoulders in support, and asked if she wanted a drink before giving her harrowing account of events.
She nodded. ‘Make it a big one! Blame it on Mother Foy, because she was the one who said a whisky opens gates and closes eyes.’ She certainly had gates to open. When the whisky was downed, she opened the floodgates and told the company all the sordid details. She began, ‘I was so proud of my handiwork on Mother Foy’s body, even down to the bonny braided plaits but if I’d looked closer at her neck I would have seen the black and blue marks that beast left on her tired old frame. He even stole her money pouch. All the while we stayed in the gorse he was listening to our conversations, coming and going whenever he pleased. Yet not once did I sense his presence, not a single sound. Back in the quarry I lay terrified listening as he murdered Mr Newton.’ She wanted to tell the inspector about Moses Durin as well, but that might have involved the gypsies, so she said nothing. One thing that was of vital importance was his ability to disguise himself. Inspector Martin agreed that this was the reason he’d evaded capture—the police had no definite picture of Bull Buckley.
Knowing how Megan had suffered, it was young Sam who interrupted them. ‘Inspector, hasn’t she given enough? Can’t you see how tiring this is for her?’
‘That’s all right, Sam, I don’t mind. If it puts him away, I’ll sit here all night.’
‘Well now’, said Michael butting in, ‘it is four o’clock in the morning, and that is, as far as I’m concerned, all night. So if you are quite finished, Inspector, we all need our beds.’
‘I’ll come back later,’ the lawman told Megan. ‘Better we continue this here, rather than you come to a police station.’
She smiled and nodded in agreement, then said, much to everyone’s surprise, ‘I gave him a right slap in the face with a piece of heavy firewood. I’d arrest everybody with half their face bruised.’
‘Did you hear that, lads?’ the inspector called to the policemen who were dizzy with lack of sleep, ‘Let’s find this fiend.’ Holding out his hand to shake hers, he added, ‘And it will be all thanks to you, my dear gowpie.’
There were still enough hours of darkness left for the welcome blessings of sleep, and Megan did sleep right through until six the following evening. Thankfully Martin didn’t come back that day. ‘He is probably far too busy checking every public house in Northern England for a bruised face,’ Stephen said, while they shared dinner.
There was not much in the way of conversation, and the household took an early night. Next morning the police would probably be back, so the house was made ready for them. However, after breakfast and still no sign of the law, Bridget and Stephen went for a ride.
‘Come and see Fiddler’s foal,’ Michael asked, but Megan couldn’t rest in her mind until she had news that Bull Buckley was captured, and at first she refused to step outside even in daylight. Yet Nuala went on and on about the lovely foal, so with great reluctance she gave in, and went to admire the young horse. It certainly was a beautiful little animal, and had the look of a future champion about it. It was chestnut-coloured with a flash of pure white running from the tip if its black nose and from eye to eye.
Its young owner pulled at her sleeve asking for her opinion on the horse, since most of the time Megan’s eyes were elsewhere, watching the horizon.
‘She’s a born royal,’ she told the child after being tugged at and questioned, ‘a lovely wee horse, but to me there’s only one great horse and that’s Beth. Can I see her, Michael? Will you walk me to the barn?’
Leaving Nuala playing with her foal they were soon in the barn, where memories came flooding back to them; she blushed, her eyes on the loose hay scattered underfoot. He turned her to face him, hands firmly on her shoulders, and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I have neither been sleeping nor thinking clearly since that day. You made me feel alive, special. No woman will ever reach me as you did. For that one heavenly, stolen afternoon I give thanks to you, my darling.’ He drew her to him and kissed her quivering lips. She didn’t flinch or run off, frightened and confused, as she thought she might. Instead, much to her surprise she kissed him back.
Buckley had done as good a job of knocking the stuffing from her, she felt so weak. She needed someone to pick up her pieces and remake her shattered spirit.
‘Listen to me, Michael, I too found great comfort and pleasure in your arms, but one day was all it was, and now it’s a bittersweet memory. It’s in the past and best left there. In the south of this country in a place called Sussex there’s a home for shell-shocked soldiers, Kingsland House. I have no money to get there, nor can I read or write, but I will not take another decision regarding my life until I know for certain if my husband is alive, buried or if his brain is dead. It is a promise I made, and as a Macdonald from Glen Coe I am duty bound to keep my word. Now, if you mean what you say, then take me to him and let that be an end to things.’
‘Leave his memory, for that’s all he is, and come back to Ireland with me, stay with me. I can give you the world on a plate if you want.’
‘Michael, you’re not listening. If he is buried in some soldiers’ graveyard, I will close our door and go anywhere with you. If his mind is gone, I will take him home and together Bruar and me will live out our lives. When I have that knowledge, then and only then will I be free to decide.’
‘I feel in my heart your man is dead, and my heart also tells me that I will spend my days with you!’
She smiled at his passion, and felt in a strange way that his love went far beyond any she might feel for him, even if Bruar was indeed gone.
He lifted her into the air and swung her round like a flag on a pole. She begged him not to, her wounds were smarting, so he gently apologised, putting her feet on the ground just as Sam came in and began packing his leathers into a bag.
‘Are you leaving?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it was only while Mr Stephen was in Ireland he needed extra hands to work the stables. Now he’s home I’m not needed.’
‘Where will you go?’ asked Michael
‘I’ll find somewhere, sir.’
‘So you have nowhere to live, is that what you’re saying?’ Michael enquired.
‘Like I said, sir, I’ll find somewhere.’
Michael thought for a moment and said he knew of a small derelict farm in the Lake District. ‘I’m friendly with the owner of the land, and I bet he’d be pleased to put a man in it, a hard-working man like you, Sam.’
Megan added, ‘A hard-working hero like you, Sam!’ She kissed him and thanked him again for saving her life.
‘Look folks, don’t think me ungrateful like, but what good is a farm to me? I have no livestock.’
Megan slipped an arm through his. ‘Yes you do,’ she smiled. ‘You have a fine Shire horse.’ She pointed to Beth, who was oblivious to everything apart from her bundle of hay.
‘Are you giving her to me, honest, really?’
‘Mother Foy loved that horse, and I know she’d be right pleased if one such as yourself looked after her.’
‘That’s that settled then,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll write my friend a letter and say we’ve found him a tenant farmer, with a bloody good plough horse.’
‘Oh look,’ she said, as they walked back to the house with Nuala, ‘there’s Inspector Martin’s black car.’ His familiar vehicle with its mudsplattered bottom was parked at the front of the farmhouse. Seeing it again brought the thought of Buckley ho
me to roost uncannily in her mind. ‘If that man hasn’t caught Buckley I’ll never sleep soundly again,’ she told Michael.
‘Don’t fret, colleen. He’d have to face me to get to you, and my brother-in-law has a cabinet stuffed with firearms to help me put him in the cold earth.’
His bold words made little difference to her. She’d seen a man twice his size part with his head at the hands of hell’s messenger. ‘Don’t be so sure, Michael,’ she warned him, ‘he’s not known as the King of the Gypsies for nothing.’
‘Don’t underestimate the Irish fighting cock in me neither, my bonny Scottish lassie.’
She giggled at his antics as he danced a jig on the cobbled courtyard.
Inspector Martin saw them approach and sucked upon a fine mahogany pipe. ‘Hello, Megan, and how are you doing this fine day?’
His tone was quite upbeat for a man like him. She told him her state of health was improving, thanks to such hospitable hosts. Bridget and Stephen came back from their ride just as the police arrived. ‘Is there any news of the fiend?’ she asked, her voice filled with fear.
Before he answered, little Nuala came running in, breathlessly saying, ‘I think the name will be Foyranday!’
‘What name?’ asked her mother, calling the child over.
‘The foal’s name, Mummy—“Foy”, after Mamma, and “ran” as in running like the wind, and “day”, the special day she came to bring me into the world. There now, what do you all think of that?’ She beamed with pride, awaiting everybody’s response.
Both parents were delighted and hugged their child. Michael told her she would be a great leader some day with such a sharp mind, and Megan cried as sweet memories of her old friend and the days they shared brought a sudden surge of emotion. Bridget handed her a handkerchief before addressing Martin, asking what they were all eager to know—had Bull Buckley been apprehended?
There was a ‘cat’s got the cream’ look on his face and his answer almost took the feet from Megan. ‘Very early yesterday morning, a young boy delivering newspapers to a hotel in York saw a man hiding behind a row of barrels to the rear of the building. He thought little of it, it being a favoured place for down-and-outs to sleep. The man asked the lad if he had a smoke. When he said no, the man tried to grab him, but he broke free. The boy ran off round to the front of the hotel, shouting that someone with a blackened face had tried to grab him. Now, at that precise minute there was a constable doing his round who heard this commotion. He goes into the hotel and gets several strong lads, then out and finds this here blackened-face chap crouching behind the beer barrels. Word reached me that someone resembling Buckley was being held. We need you to identify him.’
