by Tessa Harris
Fairweather put down his case on a nearby table. “I have just seen him,” he replied. “He was heading out on the West Wycombe road. I called to him, but he did not answer. He seemed most preoccupied.”
Thomas frowned. “West Wycombe? He must be on his way to the caves. I am going there myself. I shall ask him to return here immediately.”
The older physician nodded, glancing over at the ailing nobleman. “Very good,” he replied, adding softly: “I do not think we have too much time.”
Chapter 49
Lydia was making plans to leave for London. It pained her to think she would be apart from Richard for a few days, but she knew he would be in Eliza’s good care. Her son had rallied in the caves and she believed he would be well enough to return to Boughton in another day or two. He was now up and walking around with her as she tended the few remaining patients. He had even taken to fetching her cups or bowls or anything she needed for their comfort. That is how he came to be with her in a small antechamber when the Reverend Lightfoot suddenly appeared from the shadows.
“There is a gentleman staring at us,” the young boy told his mother as she poured away stale water from a jug.
Lydia turned to see the vicar standing motionless at the entrance. His eyes were fixed in a glazed stare and his mouth was set flat.
“Reverend Lightfoot!” she greeted him, a little startled. “How kind of you to call again.”
For a moment he simply stood looking at the two of them in silence, leaning on his cane. A long cape was draped about his shoulders. He stepped forward and smiled a taut smile.
“Good day to you both,” he greeted, but his presence seemed to trouble the child, who hurried over to his mother and hid behind her skirts.
“Are you come to conduct a service, sir?” she asked.
The vicar stopped a few inches away from her and tipped his head oddly. “I think not,” he replied.
“Then you wish to see your parishioners?” Lydia was still smiling politely, but beginning to feel a little uneasy.
The vicar shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Wrong again, I fear.” This time his tone was tinged with a strangeness that made her pause.
She shook her head. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
“Oh, but I think you do.” The flat smile disappeared as soon as it had come and he pointed to Richard’s limp arm with his cane. “You see, your ladyship, I know about the boy.”
Lydia smiled nervously and squeezed the child’s hand. “Yes, I told you. He is my son.” For a moment she stood confused, but he shook his head and looked her in the eye.
“I know your darkest secret.”
She worked her face into another smile and shrugged. “I do not understand your meaning, sir.”
“Oh, but you do,” he said, shaking his head and moving slowly toward her. “You see the hour is at hand and it is time everything was revealed. You can no longer hide from the light in your cave. It is time your secret was uncovered.”
“Secret?” She felt bile rise in her throat.
“Shall I tell your son how he came to have a withered arm?”
Lydia’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know?” she gasped.
There was a strange glint in the vicar’s eye and his voice became infused with disdain. “Your husband told me. I was his confessor, remember? I saw him weeping on his knees in that stinking cell of his, vile sinner that he was.”
“No! Enough,” protested Lydia, putting her hands over Richard’s ears to shield them from the vicar’s vicious taunts.
“Oh, but I haven’t even started!” he said, his lips curled in a sneer as he moved ever closer.
“I will not listen to this,” she said, raising her voice. “I think it is time you left, vicar.” She stood her ground even though she could feel her whole body shaking, yet still Lightfoot drew closer.
“I am not going anywhere, your ladyship, until I have accomplished what I set out to do.”
Lydia lifted her head. “And what might that be?” She was staring into his eyes, but they told her little, only that he seemed intent on her humiliation.
“I want the boy.”
Her eyes widened and she grabbed Richard’s hand. “What can you mean?”
There was a strange smirk on the vicar’s face. “Give me the boy,” he said and he lurched forward, reaching out for the child.
“No!” screamed Lydia, grabbing Richard by the wrist. She bolted out of the chamber and into the passageway. The boy screamed and the vicar darted after them. He lunged for the child’s limp arm and tried to tug him away from his mother, but Lydia was too quick for him. Together they headed farther into the cave, running down a rocky passageway to a junction. Ducking under a low outcrop, they wound their way through a narrow tunnel that opened out into another small chamber. A flaming sconce had lit their way along the passage, but its arc of sickly light did not reach far and they were plunged into semidarkness. Lydia stopped for a moment, trying to adjust her eyes to the gloom. She could hear the sound of her own heart thumping wildly in her chest and echoing in her ears.
It was then that she became aware of a presence in the chamber. Narrowing her eyes to focus, she saw a figure silhouetted against a large boulder; a dark, smooth shape slumped, head bowed, lolling against the rock. She looked behind her. Lightfoot had not yet caught up with them. The man, for she assumed it was a man, must be one of her patients who had strayed. Approaching him she saw he wore a red scarf on his head. She called to him softly.
“Sir,” she whispered, not wishing to alert the vicar. No reply. “Sir,” she said again, only a little louder.
She stepped forward and sniffed a sickly-sweet smell that wreathed his body. Now she could see more clearly. He was young and muscular. Thinking him asleep, she touched his shoulder. It was enough to move him, but not to wake him. His body lolled to one side and fell to the ground. It was only then she saw that the back of his shirt was caked in blood and the blowflies were already feasting on him.
Chapter 50
Thomas heard Lydia’s scream as he reached the entrance of the cave. The blood-curdling cries reverberated down the rocky passageway. He found Eliza confused and agitated in the passage, a lantern in her hand.
“Where is your mistress?”
“She and Master Richard are with the vicar,” she replied. “What is happening, sir?”
“Lightfoot!” said Thomas, staring ahead into the darkness. In a split second he realized that Sir Henry had not been confessing to a double murder, he had been accusing the vicar. Snatching Eliza’s lantern he told her, “Go and fetch help.”
Hurrying to the entrance of the small chamber the Reverend Lightfoot found Lydia petrified by Joshua Pike’s corpse. Her son still grasped onto his mother’s hand and his face was crumpled with fearful tears.
The vicar blocked their way, and smiled when he saw the terror in Lydia’s eyes. “What ails you, your ladyship?” he jibed. “You look as if you have come face-to-face with your past.” His arm flew out to block the narrow entrance, but she managed to duck beneath his arm and turned down the tunnel that led ever deeper underground toward the River Styx.
Water dripped from the low ceiling and underfoot the ground grew more and more uneven. It was becoming increasingly difficult to negotiate. Richard stumbled over a loose rock, but Lydia held him firmly and pulled him up. She knew she had to make it to the steps on the other side of the river.
Torches blazed intermittently along the route and candles flickered on ledges above their heads, casting weak pools of light on the rutted floor. The air was colder here and she could see her breath curl like smoke. She glanced behind. There were footsteps, fast and steady, but she could not see her hunter.
“Come,” she whispered to Richard. The terrified child had stopped crying, but she could see his small body was exhausted. Bending low she scooped him up in her arms. She was thankful he was as light as feather down.
Up ahead she could see a large boulder that half block
ed the tunnel. She quickened her pace toward it. It was then that she heard Thomas’s voice. For a second she froze. Was she dreaming? No, there was his voice again and it was drawing nearer. She looked at Richard. “We will be safe, my sweet,” she whispered as they ran toward the shelter of the rock.
Another few paces and she managed to squeeze through the narrow gap between the wall and the huge boulder. She willed her heart to stop beating so violently so that she could listen, but it echoed in her ears, deafening her to approaching footsteps. Gently she set Richard down and flattened herself against the cold, damp stone. She signed to him to do the same. From somewhere, she was not sure where, she heard Thomas call her name once more. Only this time he sounded farther away. Then she heard them. Slow footsteps. Hidden behind the rock, she turned her head toward the passageway. As soon as she saw the vicar, she would kick out and make him stumble. She waited. Again the footsteps. Leather on stone, then silence. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty passed. Her heart had risen into her mouth, but there was still no sign of her tormentor.
Thomas called her name again. Biting her lip, she resisted the urge to reply, knowing that, if she did, she would give away her position. So she remained silent, trying to still her quivering body. But what she had not realized was that the tunnel was circular. The vicar crept up from behind.
“So there you are!” he blurted. Both Lydia and Richard screamed and darted back between the boulder and the wall. “Wait! Please wait, your ladyship! I mean you no harm,” the reverend called after them, waving his cane. But Lydia ignored his pleas and headed back along the tunnel toward the River Styx once more.
Richard began to cry again, so she took him in her arms, only this time he seemed much heavier. “Not far now,” she told him hoarsely. Only another few paces and she was sure they would reach the river. The steps through the rock and out onto the hillside were just beyond on the other side. Of that she was sure.
With her heart still pounding in her ears, she reached the entrance to the chamber that was dissected by the river. A mist rose from its surface like gathering ghosts in the half light. It was too deep for her to ford on foot. Her skirts would drag her down. A few paces along the bank she saw the boat moored. Climbing onto the jetty, with Richard’s good arm hooked ’round her neck, she ventured out over the water and tried lifting the loop of rope from the mooring post. But she could not move it. It was heavy and coarse and hurt her hands. She set the child down on the wooden slats and tried to lift the loop once more. But it was tight against the post and she was not strong enough to shift it. Forced to concede defeat, she grabbed Richard’s hand and ran back down the jetty, but it was too late. Reverend Lightfoot had rounded the corner and stood before her. With the water behind them, they were trapped. Now was the time. Another cry would alert Thomas. As the vicar approached, she took a deep breath, filled her lungs, and screamed at the top of her voice. The cry reverberated around the cavern walls.
“Dr. Silkstone is coming,” she panted, holding her child to her side. “Do not come any closer.”
Yet still Lightfoot advanced, his steely eyes fixed on her.
“You do not understand, your ladyship. I only have your best interests at heart. Believe me,” he said. He stretched out a hand toward her. “I am giving you the chance to atone for what you did.”
“Atone?” repeated Lydia, gripping Richard’s shoulders tightly. “You are mad!” she cried. Angry tears started to fall down her cheeks. She knew she had to play for time. Thomas would appear any minute; she just had to keep this evil lunatic talking, she told herself.
“Mad?” he echoed. He seemed indignant at the very suggestion. “Not mad, your ladyship. I am here to warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?”
“Warn you that the Day of Judgment is here. Last night God sent his angels to the righteous, but there is still time for you to be saved.”
Lydia clasped Richard tightly; his small body was trembling with terror. “Saved from what?”
“From eternal damnation, of course.” He nodded his silver head sympathetically, as if he were speaking to a child.
“What are you talking about?” snapped Lydia, her body tensing.
“Why, after you tried to murder your own son, of course.” He pointed to Richard with his cane. “Was not that the reason you tried to take your own life?”
Lydia stared at her tormentor, transfixed. “How did you . . . ?”
The vicar threw his head back and let out an odd laugh. “I was there at your bedside, my dear. I listened to your feverish ranting. Your late husband had confessed to attempting to dispose of your unborn child and your suicidal utterances allowed me to complete the puzzle.”
Lydia began to shake and she let out a strangled cry. “So take me,” she pleaded. “I am the guilty one, but he is innocent.” She wrapped her arm across Richard’s shoulder, shielding him from their attacker.
The vicar suddenly stopped a few feet away. This time his voice was softer when he spoke, his gaze fixed on the boy. “He is the key in all this, don’t you see? He is the one who can unlock the mystery of God’s plan for us all. He is the one I want.” At these words, his eyes suddenly widened and he began edging toward them both once more, out over the wooden slats of the jetty.
“Get back,” shouted Lydia. “You shall not touch a hair on his head,” and she stepped in front of her son. But Lightfoot took no notice and his pace grew faster. “Get back!” she screamed once more.
Lydia’s last cry had come from somewhere deep within the labyrinth. She was in a large chamber—Thomas could tell that by the resonance of the echoes. There was a longer delay between each one. He guessed she was heading for the escape route on the other side of the river and had probably reached the shore. Holding a lantern aloft, he was able to move quickly down the rocky passages. A fragment of torn lace from the hem of Lydia’s petticoat had led him down the right route at a junction. Now he could see the opening to the river chamber up ahead, but he still wanted the element of surprise on his side.
Peering ’round a jagged outcrop, he saw the vicar standing at the end of the jetty, looking out into the water. He could hear splashing and cries. Rushing forward, he saw Lydia flailing in the water, the weight of her dress making it impossible for her to climb out. But instead of throwing her a rope, Lightfoot was ignoring her pleas and manhandling Richard. The boy was screaming and kicking, but the vicar shoved him into the waiting boat and jumped in after him.
“Lightfoot!” Thomas called, racing toward the river, where Lydia was still being held fast in the grip of the water.
The vicar’s head jerked up. “Stay away, Silkstone,” he cried, unhitching the rope. Before Thomas could reach the end of the jetty he had cast off, leaving Lydia still flailing below. Flinging off his coat, Thomas jumped in the water and grabbed hold of her from behind. His feet reached the bottom and he was able to heave her back to the jetty. She waved a limp hand.
“Please,” she panted. “Save Richard.” Her breath began to come in sobs now as she reached out with desperate arms toward the boat that was carrying her son away from her. Clasping her by the shoulders, the doctor looked her in the eye. This was no time for hysterics. She needed a cool head.
“Go back. Eliza has gone to get help,” he panted. “He’s heading for the escape route. They can’t get far.”
Still trying to catch her breath, she nodded. “Go,” she muttered, squeezing his hand.
Wheeling ’round, Thomas waded waist-deep into the river. From his previous crossing, he knew the water was not too deep. A few feet away he could see the boat had reached the other side. Lightfoot was heaving the sobbing boy out onto the shore.
A moment later the vicar had disappeared with Richard behind a rocky outcrop. The child’s cries grew fainter and the echoes of footsteps disappeared.
Another minute passed before Thomas dragged himself out on the other side. He had been forced to jettison his shoes and he felt exhausted from battling against the current. Taki
ng a deep breath, he set off in pursuit once more. He knew the steep stairway was nearby, but he had left his lantern on the far shore and only a single lamp burned in the passage that led to the Inner Temple. He began feeling his way blindly along the rock face, listening for the slightest sound.
After a few more paces he heard the patter of falling scree. Lightfoot must have reached the stairway. He knew that Richard would be able to climb fast. His days as a pipe boy would stand him in good stead. But the vicar would find it harder to negotiate the steep, narrow flue.
Now he reached a gap in the wall. This was it. With his bare feet he found the first step, a cold ledge of rock, and began to climb. Lightfoot had left a candle burning at the foot of the steps, so at least he could see a little way up. The angle was steep and he had to clutch onto the ragged outcrops that dotted the sides, heaving himself up.
The stairway twisted so that he could only see a few steps at a time. Of Lightfoot and Richard there was no sign until, without warning, a rock the size of a man’s fist came hurtling toward him, ricocheting off the sides. He ducked just in time to hear it whistle past his face. At least he knew they were still there, although he had no way of telling just how far away, or if he was closing the gap between them.
He counted another twenty steps before he craned his neck again to see a welcome sight. Up ahead there was a chink of light. It was weak but at least it enabled him to see exactly where he was going. Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, he saw that his hands were bleeding where the rocks had cut into them like so many razors. His knees, too, were grazed from kneeling on ledges as sharp as surgeon’s knives. He took a deep breath and hauled himself up another flight.
Soon he could hear grunts and moans from up above and he knew he was edging much nearer his target. Rounding another bend, he saw Lightfoot’s dark shape squeezing itself through a narrow hole at the top. He froze for a moment, pressing his body against the side of the tunnel. Instead of cold rock, he felt the dampness of the earth through his shirt. For a second he caught a glimpse of the darkening sky as thunderclouds rolled in. Then there was the scraping sound of stone on stone as Lightfoot dragged a slab across the entrance, plunging the tunnel—and Thomas—into blackness once more.