Bruar's Rest

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.’
    ‘Why me? There’s gypsies the whole skelp o’ this land that could do the job—get them.’
    ‘I know the gypsies could testify and I’ve asked them, but they say because he hasn’t killed a gypsy they have no argument with him.’
    ‘He killed Mother Foy, for God’s sake, strangled her until all her breath was gone.’
    Martin approached her and said calmly, ‘You refused to take that information to the gypsies when you took it on yourself to burn the old woman. Did you not think the evidence would also be burned? How do you expect anyone to believe you?’ Martin’s words resounded in her brain. The honest fact was, he was right. Sam did try to tell her, even offered to bring the gypsies himself, but she hadn’t thought about consequences. Her only way of freeing herself from Buckley was the way she took. She tried to explain that in Scotland her tribal upbringing had taught her always to think for herself. ‘We moved from place to place, with sometimes babies being born at the side of the road and old folks buried in a passing forest. We were always thinking, living and acting on our feet. I know no other way. All I did was help my friend because, in troubled times, she helped me. I knew the gypsies burned everything, so that was what I did. And the fact Buckley was terrorising us made me act swiftly. I never would have known if he hadn’t admitted to killing Mother Foy. Perhaps if I explain to the gypsies they might believe me and identify Buckley for you.’
    Martin, with eyes almost on a level with hers, said, ‘We know if they thought he killed such a powerful lady as Mother Foy they would indeed seek gypsy justice, and in all honesty I wish you had told them. It would have spared the public purse from paying his trial and the length of rope needed to hang the fiend. He murdered a certain gentleman—not mentioning names—and for that he’ll dangle long and hard, that’s why I want him. But for what he did to you and that nice old woman he should be drawn and quartered inch by inch. Now, if what I’ve heard about you Scots being tough is true, then get your coat on and put Buckley away. That is, if it’s him locked up in York.’
    Michael, who was worried by Megan’s fear of facing Buckley, said, ‘Don’t fret, I’ll come with you’.
    She nodded, though the truth was she hadn’t the stomach to look into that beast’s face again. But Martin was right—his rampaging through people’s lives had to end, and as she was the only person to hear him on the night Mr Newton was so horribly killed, then it was solely down to her. Michael slipped on her coat and squeezed her shoulder in reassurance.
    York was a great city, and apart from Newcastle she’d never before been in such a place with high spired churches and regal buildings. Something else she’d not seen was the inside of a moving motor car. It seemed so strange travelling faster than a horse along the road. Quite a change came over Inspector Martin behind its steering wheel: his shoulders hunched, eyes darting, and he cursed as the vehicle screeched on every bend in the road. Regardless of his cursing and jerky driving, she’d gladly have endured it all day, rather than face Buckley, but soon their journey ended.
    The black uniforms of the constables coming and going at the police station made her cringe. Perhaps it was a lifetime of being aware that these men had the power to take tinkers, imprison them and throw away the key. Many horror stories she’d heard from relatives made her shiver. Michael felt it and circled her waist in assurance.
    ‘This way, please.’ A friendly sergeant with handlebar moustache ushered them into a side room down a long corridor. ‘You can stay with the young lady, sir,’ he told Michael. In time he brought them both a welcome cup of tea, wobbling on large saucers with a water biscuit soaking up the spillage. Martin came in and sat down. ‘Megan, in