Free The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) by Alison Joseph Page B

in all these years.’
    ‘What did they say, the old people?’
    ‘Oh, someone came back. Something like that.’
    ‘You mean, a ghost?’
    For the first time, James Nicholson smiled. ‘Ghost?’ He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’ He smiled again. ‘The only ghost you’ll see here is the ghost of my younger self. Wasted away in ploughing land that won’t give nothing back. That’s all. We farmed it good enough, don’t get me wrong, we made a living. But it’s been uphill, that’s all. And now with Mary gone, and them Brussels lot, and the money all haywire these days …’ He stood up to show her out. ‘Why, do you believe in ghosts?’ His eyes twinkled. 
    Agnes thought of the horseshoe prints embedded in the mud. ‘No,’ she said, getting up to follow him. ‘No, I don’t.’
    In the hallway he said suddenly, ‘Harton. That’s who they were.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘My family bought this place from them. Hartons. Brother and sister, I think they were.’
    ‘Harton? Do you know what became of them?’
    ‘They sold up. Went abroad, I think.’
    They shook hands. Agnes said, ‘Thank you so much, Mr Nicholson. I hope the camp isn’t bothering you.’
    ‘Oh, it’s not my fight any more,’ he said. ‘And them girls mended my fencing for me over by the east gate.’
    *
    On the drive back to London, Agnes thought about Athena, whom she had left artfully reclining in the quest to discover her former selves. It seemed like a long time ago. She wondered whether Athena’s vigorous strategies for catching her man had succeeded by now. Almost certainly, knowing Athena, thought Agnes, resolving to go and see her after Mass the next day and pass on her apologies for her peremptory exit to Nic, who, after all, was entirely well-meaning. Agnes thought about the crumbling Essex farm she’d just left, the farmer so weary of tilling the land that he now welcomed the chance to have it shrouded in concrete instead. Agnes had an image of the people of England all turning away from their land, deserting it generation by generation, abandoning their fields to the encroaching cities only to find themselves some years later lying on floor cushions in jasmine-scented rooms trying to remember who they used to be. It made her smile, and she felt like a foreigner once more, until she remembered that her own father had been English too. Once upon a time.

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve been at your prayers since dawn,’ Athena yawned, opening the door to Agnes.
    ‘It’s nearly eleven, it’s late,’ Agnes laughed. ‘Come on, I’ll fry you a huge breakfast — eggs, bacon, fried bread, tomatoes —’
    ‘Ugh, how revolting,’ Athena grimaced, loosely tying the belt on her white towelling dressing-gown and putting on the kettle. ‘And anyway, we’re very concerned about you.’
    ‘Oh, we are, are we?’
    ‘Walking out like that, just when we were all getting into it.’
    Agnes sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Athena, I couldn’t — there was something … oh, I don’t know. It’s just not me.’
    Athena spooned coffee grounds into a jug. ‘I told Nic you always run away.’
    ‘How loyal of you.’
    ‘He said that you were really upset by something, and he felt really bad, but I said not to worry, you’d only have bitten off his head.’
    ‘What a friend you are.’
    ‘And it was only research, wasn’t it?’ 
    ‘Wha — oh, yes, Becky. Didn’t help me there.’ Agnes got up and opened cupboard doors. ‘And how was it for you?’
    ‘For me, poppet, it was wonderful.’
    ‘I can imagine. Do you have any bread?’
    Athena smiled radiantly. ‘Nic says that I did really well and apparently I experienced an altered state of consciousness.’
    ‘And when was this altered state of consciousness exactly?’ Agnes smiled, putting sliced bread into Athena’s toaster. ‘During the workshop — or most of last night?’
    ‘Well, now you come to mention it …’ Athena giggled, sitting