by Janet Woods
Oswald winced. ‘I’m surprised he survived that sort of ordeal.’
‘I haven’t finished yet. His tale was that he was taken out to sea and hit on the head before being thrown overboard and left to drown. Some French fishermen hauled him up in their net – probably thinking he was contraband. He had no memory and they handed him over to an order of friars who nursed him back to health. His memory returned two years ago.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I believe he’s a Fenmore. It was Miranda who saw the resemblance.’
Oswald sighed and exposed the missive from the reverend. There were three pages of loosely spaced writing. ‘It starts off: My name is Ambrose John Swift. I am dying. My wish has long been to clear my conscience before my Lord …’ Oswald fell silent while he read the rest.
‘Well, what does he have to say for himself?’ Fletcher asked when Oswald finally looked at him.
‘It’s partly the confession of a troubled soul. I cannot divulge the contents of this document because not only is it a deathbed declaration, it’s also a sworn document. Therefore I must obey the law and hand it to the proper authorities. They will investigate the claims made in this. I will allow you this, Fletcher, but I think it will bring you no joy.’ He turned the paper round.
There was a currently dated signature beneath that of the reverend, and a legal-sounding statement.
To whom it may concern. This is to affirm that I, Sir Adrian Taunton Fenmore, Baronet, Justice of Assizes, lately living in France, witnessed the death of the above servant of the church, and certify that the enclosed statement was sworn before me this day on his deathbed.
The breath left Fletcher’s lungs in harsh little jumps. Oswald was right; it did bring him no joy. ‘This has come as a shock, because I didn’t want to believe the monk. It has turned any thought of reconciliation with my uncle on its head. Sir James has always been my kin, and although I overlooked most of his cruelties, I looked up to him and admired him.’
‘My dear Fletcher, you have always had a forgiving nature, and a boy needs a father’s love. Sir James filled that role. If you had no consideration of the welfare of others, you would have never found a convenient excuse to come back here, but would have dismantled your business dealings, as I urged you to at the time.’
‘You were right, Oswald. I don’t know what will eventuate from this, but it sounds very much like a challenge and it smacks of revenge. And I’m standing in the middle of it. Certainly, it will cause maximum damage. And if the monk is the Adrian Taunt who fathered me – as he appears to be – then my mother must have … Damn it, Oswald, I can’t even say it. He was her half-brother. How can I have any respect for a man like that?’ He shook his head, still unable to believe such a thing. ‘He didn’t strike me as being a weakling, though he was certainly misshapen.’
‘Don’t jump to rash conclusions, Fletcher. Your family has more twists and turns to it than a dog’s tail. Talk to the monk when you next see him. Get his story, but don’t complicate matters further by taking sides. I’ve a feeling this is very much between your uncle and your … monk.’
‘So do I. My uncle has been unstable since I’ve been home. He pulled a pistol on me and nearly shot one of his guests. I’m afraid for Miranda and Lucy Jarvis. He has proposed marriage to Miranda … something she doesn’t want. I’ve arranged to get them out of there tonight. I’ll take them to my house.’
‘Is that the Miranda the Lady Miranda was named after?’
The thought that he’d fallen in love so quickly still made Fletcher smile, despite his worry. ‘We’d arranged to be wed this morning, but when we got to the church, there was nobody there to listen to our exchange of vows. We didn’t know it, but the reverend was already dead. The monk appeared from the back of the church and said he was poisoned.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t kill the reverend?’
‘I’m not sure of anything, but his words had the ring of truth.’
‘Be careful, Fletcher. Monksfoot will be the first place Sir James will look for those young women. Most of your servants will do what Tom Pepper tells them, and he’s in the pay of your uncle. You can’t trust any of them.’
‘There must be some who are honest.’
‘I imagine so, but they’re frightened of disobeying orders. The staff Silas gathered around him over the years mostly consists of scoundrels, and they took advantage of his illness. They’ll scatter over the countryside like rats if they feel really threatened.’
‘That will save me the trouble of getting rid of them. And my uncle’s workforce?’
Oswald shook his head. ‘You grew up there and would know better than I whom you can trust. Now, my friend, I’m going to give you a piece of advice,’ and he tapped the missive on his desk. ‘The dear departed has named names to ensure he has a place in heaven. Once I hand this over, all hell will be let loose. Your property might be seized, though your name wasn’t mentioned. It will certainly be searched, and goods confiscated. I will delay handing this over as long as I can.’
Fletcher wanted to ask him to tear the document up and forget it, but he knew Oswald would never step that far over the line. Besides, there would be no point if there was a copy.
‘You can take those young women to my home where they’ll be safe. You should have a day or two before the authorities gather their forces together, and I shall quite enjoy a little female company.’
‘Thank you, Oswald.’
‘If there’s any other way I can help, apart from placing my own life in danger, of course, do let me know. Oh, by the way, I have an account from the shipping agent handling the repairs of the Lady Miranda. It’s sizeable, but they say the work is proceeding quickly under the direction of Joshua Harris. He’s very thorough, I believe. They advise that the ship will be ready to move to Buckley’s Hard for the refit within the week.’
‘Thank you, Oswald. Tell them I’ll visit them when she gets to the hard … unless I’m in prison. Now I must get back. If my home is going to be raided there are a couple of items I’d like to hide.’
‘Do you intend to warn Sir James, Fletcher?’
‘I don’t know … He brought me up and was a father to me. In all conscience, I owe him some loyalty.’
‘Yes, I suppose you would feel that, and I don’t envy you the position you’re in. And what about the monk – doesn’t he deserve any? You haven’t heard his story yet.’
‘I don’t know … I must think about it, and I must find him and speak to him about my past. Where would a monk be likely to hide himself?’
Oswald grinned. ‘I can only say you have no imagination at all. Think about it, Fletcher. If you were a monk, where would you hide? It’s obvious.’
‘Monksfoot Abbey? You mean he’s hiding under my nose. I’ll be damned!’
‘Could be worth a try. You could hide an army in that place. Silas would have known about your birth. He may have offered help to the monk over the past year or so. He would have enjoyed thumbing his nose at your uncle.’
‘If the monk is there, I’ll find him, because I’ll tear the house apart stone by stone when I get back.’
When they stood to clasp hands, Oswald smiled. ‘I’ll whisper a few words in the right ears and stand to bail you out if need be. Don’t carry a pistol; it will give anyone with a grudge an excuse to kill you. Good luck, my friend.’
It seemed like an inordinately long time before Caesar announced Sir James was home by joining her. Giving him time to settle himself, she went downstairs and knocked at his study door.
‘Come in.’
He stood when she entered and waved her to a chair. ‘Ah, Miranda, my dear. I can’t imagine to what I owe this pleasure.’
‘I can’t find Lucy. She was gone when I woke this morning.’
‘I see.’ Walking round the desk, he seated himself on the edge and gazed down at her, his arms folded. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much. I’m sure she’s safe.’
‘Safe? Do you know where
she is?’
‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘I thought she might have gone to look in the cellar and locked herself in. She was interested, because she’s heard tales of giant pythons and was curious to see them for herself.’
‘One shouldn’t listen to gossip. For instance, just yesterday I heard a rumour that you were about to marry my nephew. Yet here you are without a ring on your finger and lacking the bloom of a new wife who is basking in the light of her husband’s constant attention. In fact, you look quite pale and unloved at the moment.’ He gazed at her for a short time, as if expecting an answer, and then prompted, ‘I was about send for you, so you could explain yourself on this matter.’
The scales had dropped from Miranda’s eyes with a vengeance since she’d read the journal. Sir James was no longer a heroic figure, but a middle-aged murdering coward. Knowing she would be leaving his home to be with Fletcher in a few short hours couldn’t prevent the disdain she felt towards him showing in her eyes.
‘Then I spared you the trouble, Sir James. And, as you advise, you shouldn’t listen to gossip. Do you know where my sister is?’
He ignored her question and frowned. ‘You disappoint me, Miranda … you really do. I offered you the respectability of marriage, a home and a title, and you bite the hand that feeds you.’
She felt a little desperate. ‘I cannot marry you, Sir James. I don’t love you.’
‘Ah, love – a young man’s ideal. It rarely lasts. I would be happy with love in the physical sense.’ He reached out, taking her face between his finger and thumb. His eyes bored into hers, grey and cold. ‘I want you in my bed, Miranda. I want your young, warm flesh yielding to my demands on it. There are many ways to make love and I’ll teach you them all … the tender … the sweet … the painful … and the almost unbearable agony and corruptness of the dark side when the caress of the lash bites into your flesh.’
She began to struggle. ‘You disgust me.’
Releasing her chin, he slashed a hand across her face. She cried out when the chair tipped over sideways, and he swore when she scrambled to her feet, her face hot and stinging. Caesar growled. It was deep, threatening and prolonged, coming from the depths of his throat. Despite the shock of being hit, she gentled the animal. ‘Hush, Caesar.’
When Sir James went to place a hand over Caesar’s snout, the dog snapped at it and drew blood. Jerking his hand away with a foul curse, Sir James wrapped his handkerchief around the wound.
‘See what you’ve done to my dog, Miranda. You’ve spoiled him, made him feel important so he feels the need to challenge me – his master. I shall have to teach him a lesson … both of you, perhaps.’
He rang a little silver bell on his desk. When a manservant arrived, he said, ‘Take the dog to the stables and tie him up, and send Mrs Pridie to me.’
‘Please don’t hurt Caesar,’ Miranda said as the servant dragged the reluctant dog from her side.
‘He must learn who’s the master.’
She would leave – go to Fletcher at Monksfoot Abbey. She turned away from him. ‘You’re vile, and I’ll never marry you. I’m leaving.’
‘I really do think you should reconsider your decision,’ he said when she reached the door. ‘But if you do decide to leave me, understand this, Miranda: you’ll never see your sister again.’
Hysterical fear rose up inside her and she fought to control it, so her throat dried up and strangled a scream. ‘What have you done with her?’
‘Nothing … yet!’
Mrs Pridie appeared. ‘Bring Miss Jarvis to the stable yard in about ten minutes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Pridie’s hand slid firmly under her elbow. ‘Come along with me, Miss Jarvis.’
She pulled away and gazed back at him. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ll see.’
And she did see. She saw a man devoid of any emotion whip an animal into submission. It went on for ten minutes. Caesar, tied to a metal ring set into the wall, had no means of defending himself. Around them, the horses fretted in their stalls.
Finally, the dog stopped trying to escape and began to endure, flinching every time the lash landed. His agonized yelps became squeals, then whimpers. He lay on his side, his body quivering and his tongue lolling out as he panted for breath. His rough coat was streaked in blood.’
Shocked and sickened by the cruelty of the beating, she pushed between them and screamed, ‘Stop it!’
The spent tip of the whip caught her arm and laid a fiery welt across the pale flesh as Sir James snapped it back.
He gazed at her when she cried out. ‘You’re making a habit of saving those who are being deservedly punished. Now look what you’ve made me do. I must find a salve for it so it doesn’t turn nasty.’
She wondered if there was a salve for his nastiness.
It seemed not. He took up a pistol and primed it before beckoning to her. ‘Such devotion to each other is laudable, even if it is only a dog. I’ll allow you to put him out of his misery, my dear. You just have to put the pistol against his forehead and pull the trigger.’
She could hear Roma and Nero’s frenzied barking coming from the house as she crouched at the dog’s side. Tears spilled from her eyes. She untied the rope securing him to the metal ring. ‘I’m so sorry, Caesar.’
The dog’s tail circled in a feeble wag, and he whined and gently licked her hand. He struggled to rise and stood there, all pride gone. His legs were splayed painfully apart, his usually proud tail curled under his rear.
Dragging her to her feet, Sir James placed the pistol in her hands. ‘Oh … do spare me the drama of an emotional deathbed scene and get on with it, girl.’
She moved away from him, the weapon cold and heavy in her hands. ‘I can’t kill him … I can’t.’
His eyes were merciless. ‘You can and you will.’
The pistol wavered in her hands as she tried to take aim. Caesar lifted his head and gazed at her. His eyes were a beautiful, deep brown, and so trusting that she felt sick.
‘Do it now, Miranda, else I’ll beat him to death,’ Sir James said.
She believed him. She must put the dog out of his misery. But why should he die when she had the power of life or death in her hands.
She found a spark of defiance and turned towards Sir James. The gun steadied in her hands. ‘Come, Caesar.’
The dog limped to where she stood and pressed against her side, leaving smears of blood on her skirt. ‘Go … Find Fletcher – he’ll look after you,’ she said.
The dog left and headed off towards the copse, and she hoped he’d make it.
Sir James gazed at her in amused surprise. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn on me. If you intend to kill me, do it now, for you’ll never get another chance. You can’t miss from that range.’
Miranda’s finger tightened on the trigger, and they stared at each other. Her arms were beginning to ache from supporting the weight of the gun. The whip had landed across the muscle of her upper arm and it throbbed.
‘The longer you put it off, the harder it will become.’
Her arms weakened a little more, and her hands wobbled. As the gun dipped, she jerked it up. It discharged. The noise startled her and the horses alike. The horses squealed and danced about. The bullet chipped one of the cobbles near Sir James’s foot. It bounced up to bury itself in a wooden post.
He took a step forward and wrenched the gun from her hand. ‘You’d never have found your sister if you’d killed me.’
‘I never intended to shoot you. It went off by accident.’
Somebody had let the other two dogs out, for they came from the house, noses to the ground and baying as they cast around for the scent of the injured Caesar.
They came to heel at his whistle and he sent them back to the house.
He shrugged. ‘Caesar will find a place where he can lie low and lick his wounds. The foxes will pick up his scent, run him down and tear him apart. If he escapes that, he’ll come home ag
ain when he’s hungry. Then I can beat him all over again.’
‘You loathsome cur. You’re cold-blooded, and I’ll never become your wife,’ she called out when he turned and walked away.
‘We’ll see.’
When she got back to the house, she went up to her room. Mrs Pridie brought her up some refreshment. She seated herself at the end of the bed. ‘You’ve had a hard time of it.’
Tears spilled down Miranda’s cheeks at her sympathetic voice. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best. I wish my mother and father were still alive.’
‘Aye, you must miss them. That was a cruel thing the master did. I’ve sent someone after the dog, to make sure the creature ends up in safe hands.’
And what of Lucy? Was she safe? She sniffed at the tea in case something had been added to it.
‘It’s quite safe, I promise.’
‘Do you know where Lucy is, Mrs Pridie?’
‘I wish that I did.’ The housekeeper lowered her voice to little more than a murmur. ‘You should get yourself away from here.’
‘I can’t leave, not without my sister – and he knows it.’
A low grumble of thunder followed her words, cushioned within the bruised layers of the gathering cloud mass on the horizon.
They were in for a storm.
Eighteen
The storm had moved quickly over the district, offering a drenching downpour at just the right time for the corn crops to benefit from it. The gutters gushed noisily, the water expelled through the mouths of the grinning gargoyles situated at intervals around the roof.
The trees soaked up the rain and the leaves fattened into their full summer plumage, so green that it hurt the eyes. The clouds rolled away, taking the thunder with it. The sun came out and steam was sucked into the air. The land became dry underfoot, except for some dark patches in the undergrowth.
Fletcher called on Mrs Swift at the rectory to see if there was anything he could do to help.
There wasn’t.
She was as uncompromising as ever, her lips pursed into a thin line. ‘Sir James has arranged everything, and I’m to depart after the funeral. I must say this: I’ll be pleased to leave this unholy place. If you want to see the reverend, he’s lying in front of the altar. Perhaps you’d lock the door afterwards.’