The Shadowy Horses

"Jings! I hope you've not told Peter that. The problem is," said Nancy Fortune, her eyes twinkling, "there's too much of her father in her. Philip never would take a telling from anyone."

"Peter must have been wild himself," Jeannie speculated, "when he was younger. He has that look about him."

The older woman merely shrugged. 'I’ll not tell tales."

"So he owns three houses, then?" I frowned, still trying to sort out the various properties. "The one in Northern Ireland, and the one near Glasgow, and ..."

She shook her head. "He sold the Glasgow house, last autumn. He had no need of it, ken, once he'd bought Rosehill. This is where he needs to be." Her voice was very certain. "He'll find his Romans here, like Robbie says."

"Och," Jeannie said, "that minds me. Robbie made us bring you something.'' Digging in her pocket, she produced the red-handled screwdriver.

Nancy Fortune laughed. "The devil! I've been wanting one of these all morning. The one gate's sagging on its hinges, and it takes a red-handled screwdriver. I went all through our tool cupboard, but no joy."

"Aye, well, he said you needed one, and you ken what he's like."

I looked from Jeannie's face to Nancy Fortune's, frowning. "Did he just know? I mean, you didn't ring him up, or anything?''

Her smile was warmly forgiving. "You don't believe, I take it, in the second sight."

"Well..."

"You will, in time. The bairn's fair gifted," she informed me. "I used to have an aunt like that, who had the second sight. She always kent when I'd been smoking out behind the shed. Kent when I was going to be up to something, too ... afore I did myself, sometimes."

"And was she always right?" I asked.

"Oh, aye." She glanced at me, noting my doubtful expression. "It's all dead simple, second sight. My auntie said we're all made up of energy, and energy can't be destroyed. It changes. When a body dies, some energy goes off in heat and movement, but the rest of it remains, and so you get a ghost, like. My auntie said that folk who have the second sight, their brains are more receptive to the energy that's out there—not just to ghosts," she said, "but to the living. A living brain's electric, after all... electric impulses. Our thoughts go out the whole time just like television waves, and the gifted person acts like an antenna."

Reasonable enough, I admitted, although it didn't explain everything. “So how can someone see the future?'' I asked. "Did your aunt have a theory for that as well?"

"That I can't tell you. She saw things, but how she saw them ..." She shrugged. "My mother, bless her heart, who was a fair religious woman, thought that premonitions were a gift from God."

"Some gift." Jeannie wrinkled her nose. "Robbie almost never gets them, but when he does they drive him mad. He has nightmares, poor wee soul."

"Has he always been ..." I stumbled over the word "psychic," and opted instead for the euphemism, "gifted?"

Jeannie nodded. "I used to find him standing in his cot and talking to the wall. Talking to a lady, he said. I thought it was just imagination, like, until he pointed out his lady in my wedding picture, and I saw that he'd been talking to my mother." Her smile was soft. "She died the year I married, afore Robbie was born, so she must have wished to see her grandson. She still does, sometimes, although now he's getting older he'll not always tell me when she comes. He's like that since he started school—he keeps his secrets now. Except," she added, grinning, "when he's out with a good-looking woman."

"Aye," Granny Nan agreed solemnly. " 'Tis why he tells me everything."

I laughed. "And when did he tell you about his Roman Sentinel?"

"Last summer." Granny Nan tipped her head back and thought. "Aye, in June. The lad was helping me go through my bookshelves, to sort them out, like, and he took to this old battered book on the Roman military. Full of illustrations, that book was. Robbie came to me all excited and showed me one of the legionaries and said, 'He lives in our field.' Just like that. So I picked up a pen and wrote Peter."

"You were that sure?"

"Oh, aye." She suddenly seemed ageless, and very wise. "Robbie's never wrong, lass. If he sees something in that field, it's there. It's the rest of us who are blind."

And then, remembering the red-handled screwdriver, she tightened her grip on the tool and sent us a purposeful nod. "Right, I'll just fix that wee hinge and then we're away. You two can leave that haggis and the dictionary in behind the desk, there, and I'm sure Verity won't want to drag Davy's wet raincoat around with her ..."

Jeannie's dark eyes caught mine, laughing, and their message was a silent See? I told you so.

Ignoring her, I dumped my things behind the desk and, gathering my dignity, began my proper tour of the museum.

XII

Touring a museum was, for me, a busman's holiday.

My idle mind took note of every detail of design: did the gallery flow nicely from one section to another? Was the flooring easy on the feet, or did one's knees begin to ache before the tour was over? Were the labels written clearly, plainly, cleanly, and with care? And the artifacts themselves, were they displayed with thought, and properly protected? This final point was my obsessive passion.