Bruar's Rest

him, there’s bound to be a few shillings. When ye kill the girl, take the cases and meet me up at Stropet. We’ll head to York from there. I’ve to meet up with some men and get me winnings from the fight.’
    Megan covered her mouth with both hands, felt her face set hard like stone: it was Buckley. The other man obviously was his sidekick, Hawen Collins.
    The moon seemed sickened by the night’s events and shrouded itself with cloud. How long she sat with her head in cold hands, in pitch dark, was anybody’s guess. Only when she’d mustered enough courage, and with eyes become accustomed to the dark, did she rise to view the scene of murder. Her worst fears were confirmed. The corpse of a man lay face down among the heather. Blood had already congealed on small rocks by its side. Rory’s stiff form flashed into her mind. Far off in the distance she thought she heard a scream, but perhaps not. Maybe an owl had misjudged its prey and taken a large rabbit. Slowly she walked away, glancing backward. The plot was all too obvious. Bull Buckley was the blackmailer. How could she tell on him, though? He’d kill her, suck out her eyes and feast on her brains. She had to get away, and hoped poor, broken-hearted Lucy had done the same.
    Back at Mother Foy’s a hush had fallen. There was no sign of Moses or his head; they’d sufficiently cleaned up. A fire was blazing where hours earlier a baying mob stood circling a horror unequalled in her eyes. She sat on an empty seat and warmed herself. Should she tell the old woman about Mr Newton? No, she’d let Lucy do that when she came home, if she came home. She put more sticks on the fire and waited on the coming dawn. What would it bring?

     
    ‘Everybody get up, quick now, come on, let’s be having ye.’
    She’d fallen asleep at the fire. In a daze she watched black uniformed men banging on doors and shouting. They were kicking dogs, knocking over water cans, throwing seats and benches all across the quarry floor. ‘Get out of your flea-pits, bloody gyppo killers.’
    Quickly she stood up and composed herself. Either Moses’ murder had reached the ears of the police or Mr Newton’s body had been discovered.
    Mother Foy threw open her half-door, fear etched on her old face. It had turned her lantern jaws white and drawn. ‘What’s wrong, girlie?’ she asked, seeing her standing fully-clothed by the fire.
    ‘The muskries must think someone’s been murdered, they are acting right mean and angry.’
    The old woman stepped slowly down the wagon steps, shaking her head, ‘Bull Buckley, blast him to kingdom come, he never fails to get us the bad name. I knew the minute big Moses Durin walked upon our peaceful ground that the devil would be at his heels, and he’d come in the guise of that goblin from hell, bloody Buckley!’
    Megan stretched out a helping hand to steady Mother Foy, avoiding eye contact as best she could, the previous night’s terrors tearing inside her brain.
    ‘Girlie,’ she said, ‘I get the feeling something mighty bad has come upon us.’
    Her words made Megan tremble. She whispered, ‘I never seen a man’s head come rolling off his body before, I ran up onto the moor last night to escape this place. This very fire we heat ourselves at was probably built on a pool of blood. Now I’m going to fill the kettle, I think a cup of tea will be all we’ll get this day.’ She righted a water can that had been kicked over and went off to fill it at the stream. However, before she could go, a thin-faced copper grabbed her arm and told her to stay put. She sat the can down and walked over by Mother Foy, who was being spoken to by another policeman. The elderly lady was shaking, eyes glazed and staring.
    ‘What’s the matter? Surely a dozen or so muskries are a common sight to you?’
    ‘They’ve found a body on the moor. It be our dear Mr Newton. He’s been murdered! Whoever brought this on our heads will bring our destruction. Oh God, that nice Mr Newton, and him happily married with two good children. Who could have done such a thing? Four generations of his family line have given us freedom to roam on their land. This be a bad day, oh a bad day.’
    Megan wrapped her arms around the visibly frightened old lady, lest she fall from shock. Soon the police made their way round to them. She prayed the awful scene from the previous night’s grisly happening wouldn’t show up in her face. It would be hard, though; she wasn’t one to