The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

black dogs are heard in the air, previous to the dissolution of a wicked person; they were described as being jet black, yet no one pretends to have seen them. But many believed that the king of darkness (say the gossips) sent them to terrify mankind when the soul of a human being was about to quit its earthly tenement.

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:

Hergest Court was, or perhaps still is, haunted by a demon dog, said to have belonged to Black Vaughan and to have accompanied him during his life. It is seen before a death in the Vaughan family. A native of Kington writes: ‘In my young days I knew the people who lived at Hergest Court well, and they used to tell me strange things of the animal. How he inhabited a room at the top of the house, which no one ever ventured to enter; how he was heard there at night, clanking his chain; how at other times he was seen wandering about (minus the chain!) His favourite haunt was a pond, the “watering place” on the high road from Kington. The spot was much dreaded, and if possible avoided, by late travellers. I knew many who said they had seen the black dog of Hergest.’

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.

Was, or perhaps still is, haunted by a demon dog.

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 Whoop, Whoop

‘Comes 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?’