Mystery on the Moor

Written by William Shepard, Published on 5/25/2009

Bill Morris was in an expansive mood after the fine dinner we had just enjoyed. After the dishes were cleared, we sat by the fireplace. His eyes showed that he was far, far away. We were old friends, he and his wife Susan, and Mary and I. Mr. and Mrs. Tom Johnston, if you want a formal introduction.

“It happened during our trip to Scotland last fall. We were anxious, Susan and I, to enjoy ourselves during this long-planned trip. So much so that when the recession hit, and things were a bit tighter than usual, we decided to go regardless. We knew that the money we spent would leave us with memories of our trip. It turned out that we returned with far more than that.”

That got our attention. Mary was about to ask what had happened when Bill came out of his daydream and told the story, confidential-like. It struck me that had any strangers been present with us around the fire, the story would never have been told.

“We were by the lakes, you know. Loch Lomond—that region, where there are treacherous moors as well—just like in the west of England, the Baskerville country. Yes, a man could get lost there.” We nodded, shivering a bit.

“As a matter of fact, seven generations or so ago, one did!”

Mary had to interrupt. “How did you find this out? And who was it?”

“I followed the clues. You do so too, and see if you can tell me. But to begin with, of course you remember Susan’s maiden name, Susan Alice Macready?”

Susan beamed with Celtic pride as I explained to Mary, whom I hadn’t known at the time of Susan and Bill’s wedding, “Of course! And at your wedding, nothing would do but we all wore formal Scottish attire, kilts, sporrans and all. There was a piper as well, playing as we gathered at the church.”

“That’s right,” Susan said softly. “And now you’ll see, this was the trip I so wanted to take, to rediscover where my ancestor James Macready came from, so many years ago.”

“It was in a little village, on the edge of the moors, quaint and folkloric in its way. It made me think of Brigadoon,” Bill said. “This was the town that James Macready had come from, so many years ago. Well anyway, we started up a conversation with the local innkeeper. We asked after the Macready family.

“His answer astonished us. ‘They’re all gone,’ he said. ‘They died out many years ago. The last one was James Macready, who was lost on the moor. If you don’t believe me, take a look at our local churchyard cemetery. And there will be the records in the church office.’

“Amazed, we left the inn and walked over to the churchyard. It was just as the innkeeper had said. There were plots for a few families: Macready, Doone, Jenkins and MacGinnis. The last Macready was ‘James Macready, 1823–1844. Lost on the Moor.’ At our discovery of this grave, Susan gave a cry and nearly fainted. She had brought a copy of the family’s American genealogy, which began with the arrival of this very same James Macready in 1845. He had been born in Scotland in 1823, and died on the family farm in Pennsylvania in 1863, of wounds that he had received during the Civil War, at the First Battle of Bull Run, in 1861. It wasn’t possible that he had never come to America at all. If he had not, then just who did come and start the Macready family line in Pennsylvania?”

“We stayed at the old inn, prolonging our visit, and talked with several locals with long memories. They remembered hearing the old stories from their grandparents, who had surely heard the same stories around the fireplace, like this one. The stories were memorized, with a detail or two added over the years for local color.”

“Good thing it wasn’t a gas fireplace at that inn in Scotland,” I ventured. “That would upset the mood, I’m sure. Real stories require wood fires!” Mary shot a disapproving look at me, and Bill continued.

“It seems that there were three suitors for a pretty—”

“No, beautiful!” Susan interjected.

Bill smiled. “Yes, a beautiful local girl named Lucille Doone. Whether this was the same family as that lawless one in the west of England, I can’t say. But they had something of the same rough and ready traditions. Her brother, Samuel Doone, always said that if anyone didn’t do right by his sister, that person would have to answer to him—and his hunting knife.

“The suitors were James Macready, Tom Jenkins, and Jack MacGinnis. Their rivalry became well known—it was jealous and bitter. It was thought that Lucille Doone had made a choice, but if she had, she didn’t let on. Townspeople speculated that harm would come to the man whom Lucille chose, by the hands of those spurned. Rather than risk her beloved being killed, Lucille kept her own confidence. And so the mens’ rivalry continued.

“Until the night James Macready was supposed to have been lost—for the locals spoke of it as though it had been no more than a week ago, and certainly within their living memory. There had been a country dance at a local farmhouse, and everyone was there. It was said that Lucille Doone would announce her choice of suitors then. The dancing to the fiddler’s tune was fast, and the time slipped by. Then came midnight, and the music stopped. Lucille Doone announced her choice—it was James Macready!

“Jack MacGinnis left first. He grumbled about the lateness of the hour. He never went out without his dogs, and they could be heard barking as MacGinnis walked the half mile or so to his own farm.

“James Macready left next. He was going straight over the moor, which everyone always said should never be attempted at night, it was that treacherous. But it was a full moon, and with the excitement, and a wedding now to think of, he wanted to put his affairs in order. He chastely bid Lucille goodbye and was never seen again. There was just the scarf that she had given him when she made her announcement—it was found tied to a tree branch along a pathway in the middle of the moor. That’s how the people knew what happened to poor James.

“The last suitor to leave was Tom Jenkins. From the name, you will have suspected that he was an Englishman, and that he was, sure enough. Or rather, his grandparents were, when they had settled here. Now, English or not, we were told that you’d not find a better Scots family than the Jenkinses. Tom was hotblooded and a crack shot with his rifle, which he always carried with him.

“Samuel escorted his sister home at the close of the dance, assuring that she made it safely. The next morning, Lucille kept waiting for her betrothed, James Macready, to call. He didn’t. And he hadn’t turned up at home, either. A search party was formed, for the daytime, of course. There seemed to be no clues for what had happened that quiet night on the moor. The search took five days, but finally, Lucille’s scarf was found and James was presumed lost. Lucille herself wore black at the funeral in remembrance of her lost love and the wedding that was never held. After a few months, Lucille heard from her aunt in Glasgow and moved there. It was said that the small village held too many sad memories for her to stay on.

“That was that, except for the fact that suspicions were such that neither Tom Jenkins nor Jack MacGinnis could stay in the little town either. With Lucille gone to Glasgow, there just wasn’t any point in doing so. They did leave families here, and, it is said, wrote from time to time, but the letters were not saved, and a fire at the old library, which had housed records from the time, meant that nobody could be quite sure what had happened.

“And so the legends began. And now it’s your turn. Perhaps you know, as Susan and I now do, just which man came to America under the Macready name and what happened on the Scottish moor so many years ago?”