Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [47]
“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