‘Except they’re not out walking in the dark, are they?’ I said, recalling what he had told me. ‘It’s the full moon.’ Mr Tait put his head in his hands and groaned.
‘Yes,’ he said, straightening up again at last and heaving a mighty sigh. ‘There is that. A man out prowling the lanes or a woman making up silly stories would be bad enough, but it has to be said: there is that too.’
3
There was hardly a moment between tea by the fire and the early dinner which was to allow Lorna and me to get to the meeting on time, but Mr Tait just managed to show me the few points of interest in his church – a stone pulpit carved all over with representations of twining branches which made it look rather varicosed and a gargoyle grimacing from the top of a pillar – while I snatched the chance to run through my plan for the evening.
Such as it was. Mr Tait had sent me the names of the women who had reported encountering the dark stranger and I had committed them to memory but my intention was to accompany home another of the ladies, someone who lived a fair walk from the village, in the hope that tonight she might be the one and I might be a witness – a very faint hope since all the previous victims had been alone.
‘Are the women organised into parties now?’ I asked. ‘Surely none of them is brave enough still to walk home without a companion? Come to that, I find it odd that the meetings are rolling on at all. If this has been going on since the spring, I mean. I wonder the husbands and fathers haven’t put their feet down and ordered their womenfolk to stay away.’
‘I rather think most of them go along with the police sergeant’s view of things,’ said Mr Tait. ‘And in a couple of cases I know that the wives have encouraged them in it, precisely because they would otherwise put their feet down and the women would never get off the farm again. As to banding together… I did suggest that Lorna might get my old Napier out and ferry them – she can handle it although it’s a bit of an antique now – but they seem to relish the fresh air and the extra measure of freedom that their moonlit walks afford them.’
We had come out of the church again and were threading along the gravel path between the gravestones towards the gate. Out on the green, the skipping game was still going strong, two volunteers keeping the rope whipping round as a chain of girls wove in and out of it, concentrating fiercely and singing as they went:
‘Here she comes, there she goes,
Here she comes, there she goes,
Here she comes, there she goes…’
It was rather mesmerising and Mr Tait and I paused to watch them. On and on it went and I was beginning to wonder if they would simply keep going until called into bed, when at last one stumbled in the rope and all the others yelled: ‘Caught you!’
The unfortunate one untangled her ankles and with a fairly gracious shrug took over one end of the rope, letting the girl who had been holding it join the rest. Slowly the two girls began to work up a rhythm again and when the rope was whirring round faster than ever, one of them shouted ‘Not last night’ and the others began singing.
‘Not last night but the night before
Thirteen grave robbers came to my door.
Dig her up and rattle her bones.
Bury her deep, she’s all alone.
Dark night, moonlight,
Haunt me till my hair’s white.
Moonlight, dark night,
Shut the coffin lid tight.
Knock knock, who’s there?
Knock knock, who’s there?
Knock knock, who’s there?’
Their voices followed us as we crossed towards the manse and we were just passing through the gate when the chanting stopped and a chorus of voices yelled: ‘Maggie.’
‘It’s very democratic, skipping, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I only have sons, as you know, and none of their games are anything like as fair as that.’
‘Only it doesn’t do to listen too closely to the words of the songs,’ said Mr Tait. ‘Just like nursery rhymes. If you were told the meanings of the sweetest little nursery rhymes, it would make your toes curl.’
‘So I believe,’ I said. ‘Especially the eighteenth-century ones – the three men in a tub, for instance, are best left well alone.’
After dinner, Lorna and I set out well wrapped against the raw evening to make the short journey across the green and down to the school where the SWRI meetings were held. All around us, cottage doors slammed as we passed and soon we were heading a small caravan of village women. I wondered briefly whether it was fear of the dark stranger making them move en masse like this, but I soon concluded that it was just their natural politeness and sense of what was due to Lorna as the minister’s daughter which led them to watch out for her and fall into step.
We could see the faint outline of another group coming up the lane towards us and there was a light bobbing in the darkness further away across the field, someone with a lantern taking a short cut from one of the farms.
‘A beautiful night,’ said Lorna, turning her face up to the sky. ‘There should be a good turn-out on a clear, dry night like this.’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘Your father hinted at some disapproval. In fact, he seemed to be worried that the venture might fold altogether.’
‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,’ said Lorna. ‘There was a bit of opposition at first, and we’re treading carefully but-’ She was interrupted by the sound of a motor car coming up the lane from the main road. It overtook the foot party in the distance and swept ahead of us at the corner, everyone drawing in to the hedge to let it pass, whereupon Lorna said under her breath: ‘Or at least we’re trying to.’
‘This is most unfortunate, Miss Tait,’ said a voice from behind me, and a squat little person, fair of skin and pale of lash, with all her hair tucked into a crocheted tammy, drew abreast of us and stared after the motor car, shaking her head and frowning.
‘Now, Miss McCallum,’ said Lorna. ‘We welcome all comers, don’t we?’
‘Hmph,’ said Miss McCallum. ‘The women don’t come to sit and be laughed at.’
There was no time to follow up this intriguing exchange; we had arrived at the school and we trooped into the porch to wriggle out of our coats and unwind our scarves and mufflers, although Miss McCallum, I noticed, kept on the crocheted tammy which, being an inspid shade of pale peach, did nothing at all to enliven her shrimp-like colouring. Indeed, I noticed that there were an inordinate number of crocheted garments amongst the gathering: a few cardigan jerseys, one ambitious if rather droopy tabard, and a smattering of shawls. Lorna had restricted herself, very sensibly I thought, to carrying a crocheted work-bag.
Through in the schoolroom a ring of chairs had been set, and a fire was burning cheerfully in the grate. A young woman, unmistakably a schoolmistress with her long black skirt bagged about the knees from sitting on low chairs and with chalk smears across the back of her black crocheted jersey, clapped her hands and cried out a rather strained welcome.
‘Here we are, here we are,’ she said, and I thought I recognised the note in her voice. It was just the note which used to creep into mine when Nanny finally returned to the nursery after a long absence to relieve me of an infant who had, of course, begun to snivel as soon as she left and was now boiling hot, soaked in angry tears and shrieking like a train. The reason for the present panic stood before the hearth: two ladies, surely the occupants of the motor car which had swept past us in the lane, warming themselves and lighting cigarettes in long holders with a taper from the fire. They turned and waved.
‘Lorna, darling,’ said what I decided must be the elder of the two, a fine high-breasted figure, who was standing four-square in front of the chimneypiece. ‘Look at us. Aren’t you proud?’ She jabbed the end of her cigarette holder first at her own chest and then at that of her companion, who struck an angular pose beside her. Two excrescences in brown wool were attached to their clothes.