Bruar's Rest

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