Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 23

Inverkirkton

AFTERNOON, MR. DRAPER. And a fine afternoon it is, too.”

“Indeed it is, Robbie.”

“Did you have a good morning’s ride, then?”

“I did. Cycled as far as Fenkirk and back.”

“That’s a wee distance.”

“I wanted to take advantage of the good weather. I’ll be off in the morning.”

“I’ll hate to lose your trade, Mr. Draper. But I figured you’d be on your way soon. Lucky to have had you this long.”

“If you would just prepare the bill for me, I’ll square accounts.”

“Right away, sir.”

“You’ve been very hospitable. I think I’ll go up to my room and wash up, then pop over to the Half Moon for one last bite of steak-and-kidney pudding.”

“Very good, sir.”

Upstairs, Esterhazy washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a towel. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tremendous relief. All this time, he’d been unable to convince himself that Pendergast was dead. His search for Pendergast had developed into an obsession, consuming his waking thoughts, tormenting his dreams. But somehow, the visit to Glims Holm had — at long last — convinced him that Pendergast was dead. If the FBI agent were still alive, he’d have found some trace of him in his long, exhaustive search. If he were alive, Roscommon would have let slip some morsel of information during Esterhazy’s three visits to his clinic. If he were alive, Esterhazy would have found him at the stone cottage that morning. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could go home and pick up his life from the point it had been upended when Pendergast and D’Agosta had first shown up on his doorstep.

Whistling, he closed the door to his room and descended the stairs. He was not concerned the old lady would venture into town to announce the assault, and even if she did the village so clearly thought her touched that her story would never be believed. The bicycle ride, and the eight-mile hike across the moors and back, had sharpened his appetite, and for the first time in weeks that appetite was not dulled by anxiety.

He entered the dark and fragrant confines of the Half Moon and settled onto a bar stool with satisfaction. Jennie Prothero and MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, were there in their usual positions: one before the bar, one behind.

“Afternoon, Mr. Draper, sir,” said MacFlecknoe as he drew a pint of the usual for Esterhazy.

“Afternoon, Paulie. Jennie.” Numerous rounds purchased by Esterhazy over the last week had earned him the considerable right of calling them by their Christian names.

Mrs. Prothero nodded and smiled. “Hello, luv.”

MacFlecknoe set the pint before Esterhazy, then turned back to Jennie Prothero. “Odd we haven’t seen him around before,” he said.

“Well, he did say he’d been over at the Braes of Glenlivet.” The old woman sipped her bitter. “Think he ever went to the constable about it?”

“Nae. What’s to tell? Besides, last thing he’d want would be to get mixed up in something, on vacation and all.”

Esterhazy pricked up his ears. “Have I missed something?”

MacFlecknoe and the shopkeeper-cum-laundress exchanged glances. “Clergyman,” the barkeep said. “You just missed him. Stopped in for a dram.”

“Several drams,” said Jennie, with a knowing wink.

“Nice old fellow, he was,” said MacFlecknoe. “For a Welshman. Has a little church down in Anglesey. He’s been up here in the Highlands the last month.”

“Gravestone rubbing,” said Jennie Prothero, shaking her head.

“Now, Jennie,” said the barkeep. “It’s a respectable pastime enough, especially for a man of the cloth.”

“Perhaps,” the old woman replied. “Said he was an aquarium, he did.”

“Antiquarian,” MacFlecknoe corrected.

Esterhazy gently interrupted. “I’ll have the steak-and-kidney pudding, please, Paulie.” He added, in his most disinterested tone: “What’s this about the constable?”

MacFlecknoe hesitated. “Well, now, Mr. Draper, sir, I don’t know as I should say. He’d already had three whiskies by the time he told us the tale, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be daft, Paulie!” Jennie Prothero scolded. “Mr. Draper here’s a good sort. He’s not going to go making any trouble for the old fellow.”

The barkeep considered this. “Right, then. It was some weeks back. The priest had just come into the area and was on his way to Auchindown. He spotted the churchyard of Ballbridge chapel — it’s a bit of a ruin, hard by the Inish Marshes — and stopped to examine the gravestones. Well, no sooner was he inside the churchyard when a man came out of the mists. Drunk and sick he was, shivering, blood and muck all over.”

“The poor cleric felt sure he was a fugitive,” said the shopkeeper, putting one finger to her nose. “Running from the law.”

Esterhazy knew of the ruined chapel — it was situated between the Foulmire and Inverkirkton. “What did the man look like?” he asked, his heart suddenly rattling in his chest like a rat caught in a tin can.

MacFlecknoe thought a moment. “Well, now, he didn’t say. He was desperate, though, raving about something. The cleric thought the man wanted to make a confession, and so he listened. He said the chap was nearly out of his wits. Trembling all over, teeth chattering. He told the man some sort of story and needed to know the way around the marshes. The vicar drew him a bit of a map. Made the vicar promise not to whisper anything about the encounter to a soul. The poor old priest went back to his car to get a spare blanket from the boot. But by the time he got back to the churchyard, the fellow had vanished again.”

“I’ll be locking my door tonight, and all,” said Jennie Prothero.

“What story did the man tell the priest, exactly?” Esterhazy asked.

“Now, Mr. Draper, you know how the clergy are,” the barkeep said. “Sanctity of the confessional, and all.”

“And you said his parish was in Anglesey,” Esterhazy said. “Was he on his way back?”

“No. He still had a few days left of his holidays. Said he was going to stop over at Lochmoray.”

“A wee bit of a village over west,” said MacFlecknoe, his tone implying that Inverkirkton was a metropolis by comparison.

“Plenty of old gravestones to rub at St. Muns,” Jennie Prothero added, with another shake of her head.

“St. Muns,” Esterhazy repeated, slowly, as if to himself.