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Beckford Parish Church stood not far from Marefield House on a knoll overlooking a ford in the River Teviot. The L-shaped building was constructed from sturdy pale stone and boasted several fine tall windows and a tiny belfry. It was rather austere, like most tiny Border churches were. After being raided and burned down so many times in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it had become difficult for the Border people to believe anything they built would ever remain permanent.
The graveyard surrounded the church on all sides, boxed in by a low stone fence. Beyond the wall stretched the rolling Teviot Hills, which eventually merged with the Cheviots at the Border between Scotland and England. This morning the fields and cemetery were still covered in a thin layer of snow, with faded tufts of grass sticking up here and there among the white powder.
The rector must have seen us through the window when we arrived, for before we’d even finished descending from the carriage, he came bustling through the door to greet us. He was a middle-aged man of medium height with a gregarious nature. I wondered how well he got along with the more typically stoic personalities of his Border parishioners.
When Gage had explained who we were and why we were there, the rector shook his head, exclaiming about the absurdity of the entire business, and then guided us around the building. I took Gage’s proffered arm to help me through the snow, leaving Trevor to fall in step with the clergyman.
“St. Mawr . . .” the rector murmured in thought. “Do ye by chance own a manor o’er by Elwick?”
“Why, yes,” Trevor replied.
“Do ye attend St. Cuthbert’s?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Well, tell yer vicar we’d like our bell back, please, should he e’er have time to address it.”
The rector’s voice was jovial as he explained with a chuckle, “The bell from Beckford Kirk here was supposedly stolen during one o’ the later raids and installed at St. Cuthbert’s in Elwick across the Border. ’Course, there’s no proof o’ it. But the story persists. It’s one o’ our more colorful bits o’ history.” He nodded to the left as we rounded the building. “Like our mort house. Or ‘ghoul tower,’ if ye prefer. Or, at least, that’s what the locals call it.”
We stopped to stare at the tiny rough-hewn, red sandstone watchtower, complete with crenellations. There were five stone steps leading up to the closed dark wooden door, and two tall, thin windows on each side of the door, like arrow slits, presumably for the watchmen to fire muskets out of. It was perhaps ten feet across, and I estimated no more than two men could fit inside comfortably.
“That’s where the watchman fell asleep on the night Lord Fleming’s grave was disturbed?” Gage asked, raising his voice to be heard over the gusting wind.
“Aye,” the rector replied. He shook his head. “I thought Geordie’d put all his drinkin’ behind him. But that’s the only explanation I have for him fallin’ asleep on the job like that.”
“This Geordie, where might we find him? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
The rector tipped his head to the right. “Lives doon by the river, a mile or so from here. But I dinna think you’ll get much from him.” The muscles around his mouth had tightened, I assumed in disapproval of his drinking. I suspected it would be best if we visited the man earlier in the day, while he was more likely to be sober.
We resumed our trek across the churchyard through the snow. It was clear no one had come this way, at least not since the evening before last when the snow started falling. The wind here blew quite strong with nothing to obstruct it, and I had to lift a hand to keep the hood of my cloak from being pushed back off my head. It was loud enough to make hearing each other difficult, so we remained silent as we approached the far corner.
A pale stone obelisk rather than a headstone stood over the open grave—the soil a dark blot in the otherwise gray and white landscape. The wooden coffin down inside had been closed as best it could, and was now covered in pristine snow.
“Lord Fleming’s clothing and effects were taken to Marefield House,” the rector replied in answer to Gage’s question, talking loudly to be heard over the wind. “And the coffin is otherwise empty.”
“That may be so, but I’m afraid I’m still going to need to take a look inside,” Gage told him.
My heart started beating faster, just like it had at the abbey. I wanted to protest, but I knew he was right. There might be some clue in the coffin that the others had missed, and there was no way of knowing unless he looked. But that didn’t stop me from thinking of the Nun of Dryburgh’s words, or prevent the feeling of sickening dread from washing over me.
He removed his hat, looking around for a place to set it. I stepped forward to take it from him.