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by one highwayman as you might imagine,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘The Enniskillen mail, for example, was robbed at Dunshaughlin in County Meath by no less than fourteen armed men. The Cock of the North – now wasn’t that a fine name for a coach? – it was held up near Newry by ten men. After robbing the passengers, they also stole the driver’s whip so that he wouldn’t be able to catch up with them or raise the alarm too soon, I suppose. And then there was the Limerick mail. It was robbed by thirteen armed men near Maryborough, or Portlaoise, as they call it now. They even stole the horses!’
    â€˜I bet Hugh Rua was the only one who ever stole a coach,’ said Cowlick.
    â€˜The only one I ever heard of,’ agreed Mr Stephenson. ‘But then he had a reason for doing that.’
    â€˜Did he really exist?’ asked Tapser.
    â€˜Well I heard about him from my father and he heard about him from his father. Don’t forget, it wasn’t until the 1830s that the isolation of the glens was ended with the building of the coast road. So who’s to say Hugh Rua didn’t try to end that isolation? Or that he didn’t exist – just because you can’t find the story in your history books?’
    â€˜And is this really the coach he stole?’ asked Tapser.
    â€˜Well, not the real one,’ admitted Mr Stephenson. ‘It’s a reproduction. But it’s the same, right down to the last detail. Isn’t that right, Jack?’
    The man in the leather apron turned and grunted agreement. He was rather sour, Tapser thought, or maybe just shy in the fashion of some country people.
    â€˜Jack looks after my coaches here,’ explained Mr Stephenson. ‘We call him Blind Jack, for there was a famous coach builder by that name in the old days.’
    Jack managed a smile, as if to say he didn’t mind the nickname, and continued polishing.
    â€˜But be warned,’ whispered Mr Stephenson as he helped them into the coach. ‘Don’t damage the paintwork, or you’ll find he has a sharper eye in his head than I
have!’
    They laughed and promised to be careful.
    â€˜Do you ever take the coach out?’ asked Tapser.
    â€˜Indeed we do,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘Any parade we have, it’s in it.’
    â€˜Do you have horses then?’
    â€˜That I have. Sure how do you think I farm some of the fields up here on the side of the glen? You’d never get a tractor up into them.’
    â€˜The legend of Hugh Rua must be a great tourist attraction,’ remarked Róisín, fishing for information.
    â€˜Great,’ he agreed. ‘They all come up here to see the coach.’ He paused, then added, ‘You know, I was wondering if it would be worthwhile during the summer running the Londonderry Mail on excursions along the High Road as far as the memorial and back.’
    â€˜Come for a ride in the phantom coach,’ said Cowlick. ‘That would be a great attraction.’
    â€˜Ah, well now, a phantom coach is something else,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘You’ll have the polis on me again if you talk like that.’
    â€˜But there is a lot of talk about the ghost of Hugh Rua being seen on the High Road,’ Róisín reminded him, ‘and what it means.’
    â€˜Coaches and highwaymen have always been the subject of ghost stories,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘And their ghosts are always said to be some kind of omen, usually bad.’ He leaned forward so that his head was now sticking in through the open window. ‘Down in Cork there’s an old legend about a phantom coach. They call it the Death Coach, for the story goes that when it drives round a house at midnight, with the coachman’s whip cracking loudly, it’s a sure sign of death.’
    Lowering his voice, he went on …
    â€˜Still rolling and rumbling, that sound
Making nearer and nearer approach;
Do I