Cold Vengeance

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.

CHAPTER 24

Lochmoray, Scotland

JUDSON ESTERHAZY BICYCLED UPHILL, leaving the little town far behind. As the road wound back into the granite hills, all signs of civilization dropped away, and in another ninety minutes a gray stone steeple appeared in the distance, just poking above the folded landscape.

That could only be the chapel of St. Muns, with its historic churchyard, where — with any luck — he would find the priest.

He stared at the long, winding road, caught his breath, and began the ascent.

The road went up through pines and firs before curving around the shoulder of the hill, dropping into a glen, and then climbing one last leg toward the isolated chapel. A cold wind blew and clouds scudded across the sky as he paused at the shoulder to examine the approach.

Sure enough: the priest was in the churchyard, all alone, dressed not in black but tweeds, with only a clerical collar to mark his calling. The man’s bicycle was propped against a gravestone, and the cleric himself was bent over a table-type tomb, involved in making a rubbing. Although he felt a little foolish, Esterhazy probed the reassuring lump of his pistol, assuring himself it was readily accessible, and then he remounted his bicycle and coasted down.

It was amazing. The bastard Pendergast was still making trouble for him, even from beyond the grave. It must have been Pendergast this priest bumped into, out there on the moors. He would have been weak from loss of blood, half mad with pain, just minutes from death. What had he told the man? Esterhazy could not leave Scotland without knowing.

The churchman rose awkwardly as Esterhazy approached, brushing twigs and grass off his knees. A large sheet of rice paper lay on the tomb; the rubbing was half complete. A portfolio of other rubbings lay nearby, spread out on a piece of canvas with crayons, pastels, and charcoal.

“Ouf!” muttered the priest, adjusting his clothes and patting himself back into order. “Afternoon to you.” He had a picturesque Welsh accent, and his face was red and veined.

Esterhazy’s habitual caution evaporated as the priest extended his hand. His grasp was unpleasantly damp and not altogether clean.

“You must be the priest up from Anglesey,” Esterhazy said.

“That’s right.” The man’s smile gave way to a look of confusion. “And how might you be knowing that?”

“I’ve just come from the pub at Inverkirkton. They mentioned you were in the neighborhood. Making rubbings of gravestones.” Esterhazy nodded toward the tomb.

The old man beamed. “Quite right! Quite right!”

“What a coincidence running into you like this. My name’s Wickham.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

They stood a moment in amiable silence.

“They also mentioned you told them quite a story,” Esterhazy went on. “About a rather desperate fellow you encountered on the moor.”

“And so I did!” The eagerness in the priest’s face told Esterhazy he was one of those men who avidly sought to give advice on any and all subjects.

Esterhazy glanced around, feigning disinterest. “I’d be curious to hear about it.”

An eager nod. “Yes, indeed. Indeed. It was… let’s see… early October.”

Esterhazy waited impatiently, trying not to press the priest too hard.

“I ran into a man. Lurching across the moors.”

“His appearance?”

“Dreadful. He was sick, or at least that’s what he said… I think he might have been drunk, or more likely on the run from the law. Must have fallen on the rocks, too — his face was bloody. He was very pale, muddy… soaked to the bone. It had rained heavily that afternoon, as I recall. Yes, I do recall that rain. Fortunately, I had brought along my double waterproof—”

“But his exact appearance? Hair color?”

The clergyman paused, as if thinking of something for the first time. “What’s your interest in this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I–I write mysteries. I’m always looking for ideas.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, let me see: pale hair, pale face, tall. Dressed in hunting tweeds.” The priest shook his head and gave a bird-like cluck. “The poor fellow was in a state, and no mistake.”

“And did he say anything?”

“Well, yes. But I can’t really talk about that, you understand. A man’s confessions to God are a sacred secret.”

The priest was speaking so slowly, so deliberately, that Esterhazy felt he might go mad. “What a fascinating story. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“He asked me the way around the marshes. I told him it was several miles.” The priest puckered his lips. “But he insisted, so I drew him a little map.”

“A map?”

“Well, yes, it was the least I could do. I had to draw him the route. It’s terribly treacherous, bogs everywhere.”

“But you’re up from Anglesey. How do you know this area?”

The priest chuckled. “I’ve been coming here for years. Decades! I’ve wandered all over these moors. I’ve visited every kirkyard between here and Loch Linnhe! This is a very historic area, you see. I’ve rubbed hundreds of tombstones, including those of the lairds of—”

“Yes, yes. But tell me about the map you drew. Can you draw the same map for me?”

“Of course! Delighted! You see, I sent him around the marshes because the way by Kilchurn Lodge is even more dangerous. I honestly don’t know how he got out there in the first place.” He clucked again as he drew a crude map, with atrocious draftsmanship, cramped and small. “Here is where we were,” he said, poking at an