Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

  He went across to the church. The reverend had his hands arranged one over the other on his chest. The gravediggers were already at work, preparing the dark bed that would swallow and start to consume his body, come morning.

  The interior of the church was quiet and dim, and it smelled of dust. The weight of it lay across his shoulders and the quietness pushed against his ears. Goosebumps prickled along his spine. It felt as though he was being watched.

  A beam cracked in the bell tower, making him jump. A bell rope swung. He checked the back door, bolting it from the inside, then went out the front and turned the key in the lock. The dog was lying in the porch. He stooped to the bloodied creature.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a whipped dog, and it didn’t take much imagination to know who had dealt the savage blows on this one.

  ‘I have two choices. I could finish you off with a rock, or I could carry you home across my saddle and see if I can patch you up. Either option will hurt.’

  Caesar lifted his head and whimpered.

  ‘I hear you, Caesar. We’ll see what we can do.’ He took off his jacket to cushion the dog in and buttoned it around him. Lifting the creature across his horse’s shoulders, Fletcher mounted behind him. They went slowly, the animal giving little cries of distress now and again.

  Fletcher gentled him. ‘I don’t know what you did to deserve this, but my uncle has certainly turned you into a whipped cur.’

  Dog and Dog waddled from the stables and gave duty growls when they saw him. At the same time, they wagged their tails and lifted their heads to have their ears fondled. They’d finally abandoned their daytime vigil outside Silas’s room and offered Fletcher the dubious honour of their friendship during the day. At night, out of habit, they still slept in Silas’s room, which had begun to smell like a kennel.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Tom said, sauntering out from the stable.

  ‘One of my uncle’s dogs – it’s been whipped.’

  ‘The poor beggar – it’s Caesar. Leave him with me; I know someone who will doctor him.’

  Fletcher took a stab in the dark. Tom and Silas had been lads together. He’d know just about everything there was to know, and wondered if he’d part with any of it. ‘The mysterious monk, perhaps?’

  Dark eyes challenged him. ‘What do you know about the monk?’

  ‘I’ve met and spoken briefly with the man. He’s no apparition, and I need to talk to him.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him lately, and I’ve never seen his face. Silas has entertained him over the past couple of years. Never could figure out what they were saying because they spoke in the Frenchie language. Silas told me he was a horse doctor, and he’d known him from the past. The monk used to come and go, usually when the moon was showing her dark side – as though he didn’t want to be seen. Of course, rumours got around. We thought it would encourage strangers to keep their noses out of our business.’

  ‘Then you don’t know the monk’s identity?’

  Tom avoided his eyes. ‘If Silas trusted someone, then so did I. He had more substance to him than any ghost, but I could only guess as to who he might be.’

  ‘And your guess is?’

  Tom shrugged and held out his arms for Caesar. ‘Some French smuggler Silas had struck up a friendship with. Let’s get the poor creature seen to.’

  ‘Lead the way and I’ll follow, since there’s something I need to tell you. Did you know that Reverend Swift died last night?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Poor bugger. I heard he’d been poisoned, probably by his wife’s tongue.’

  Tom would not sound so flippant when he’d absorbed the next bit of information. ‘The reverend made a deathbed statement, and I delivered that to my legal representative to deal with at his discretion. On the strength of that missive, I believe it’s to be handed over to the proper authorities, and we’ll shortly be investigated by the full force of the customs.’

  Alarm filled Tom’s eyes. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know when.’

  ‘Has your uncle been informed?’

  ‘Not yet. I intend to do so later in the day, so you’ve both been served with fair warning and can act appropriately.’

  ‘What does “act appropriately” mean?’

  ‘That you can gather together your ill-gotten gains and leave town, or stand and fight. I’d prefer you didn’t do the latter on my property.’

  Tom swore. ‘We have a large consignment coming in while the moon is on the wane.’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’ Fletcher looked around him. He was in part of the house he’d never been in before. There were no windows, just a corridor with small alcoves and planks to serve as beds, he supposed. One had a mattress and a blanket. There were a couple of doors on the other side. A lone candle burned at the other end where the passage widened out into a common room. ‘Fetch a blanket and spread it on that table, Tom.’

  But Tom had gone, melting away into the darkness and leaving the lantern burning.

  Fletcher did it himself. There was a table and two chairs. He rolled the dog gently on to the table and reclaimed his coat. When Caesar emitted a deep, painful sounding huff, it sounded like a man coughing, and the hair on the nape of Fletcher’s neck stood on end.

  Beyond that, steps led upwards towards a light. Another flight led down into darkness. The place smelled musty, of bat droppings and seaweed, but it was dry.

  ‘Adrian Taunt, come out of your bloody hidey-hole before I dig you out. I’m sick of all this subterfuge.’

  There was a chuckle, and a pair of sandal-clad feet came into view on the stairs. They belonged to a man in a salt-stained brown robe. He moved to where the injured dog lay, his hands moving gently over the animal as he whispered words of comfort to him. He sounded Caesar’s lungs before he lifted his head. ‘His heart is good and his lungs sound clear. He should survive if shock doesn’t shut down his organs. Is this my brother’s work?’

  ‘If the baronet is your brother, yes.’

  The man gazed down at the animal, then back to Fletcher. ‘James is my half-brother; we had different mothers. I’ll clean the dog up. His wounds will heal and he’ll survive, and in a day or so he’ll have got over his distress, won’t you, boy?’

  One wag of the dog’s tail signalled agreement.

  The man looked directly at him, his gaze travelling from head to toe and back again before he smiled. ‘I didn’t know I had a son until two years ago.’

  ‘And I didn’t know who my father was. Oh yes, I knew it was Adrian Taunt. I was told he was a soldier who fathered me, then went abroad and was never seen again. Your true identity was kept a secret. Even my mother would not discuss it. I never imagined you were a monk.’

  ‘While I never imagined I was anything but, until two years ago.’

  ‘Sometimes I thought it might have been my uncle who fathered me because we are so alike, and I was ashamed because of his kinship. Then Silas said I was related to him, and I thought he might have fathered me, and that Adrian Taunt was just an empty name to satisfy my curiosity. Now it’s come full circle and I’m still ashamed. Perhaps they were right to keep me in ignorance.’

  Adrian Taunt moved about, preparing a bowl with water and taking a jar of salve from a drawstring bag hanging on a hook. Caesar hardly made a whimper as the man doctored him, though he yelped a couple of times when an occasional stitch was inserted.

  The man thought to tell him, ‘Every man has the right to know where he came from. You’re related to Silas through your mother. She was Silas’s second cousin.’

  Fletcher stared at him. ‘How could she be when Elizabeth is your half-sister – though you seem to have conveniently forgotten that fact on the occasion of my conception.’

  The monk gazed at him with surprise in his eyes. ‘Are you talking about Elizabeth Fenmore?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Who else indeed! We seem to be talking at cross-purposes. Allow me to ask you something, and I’d like
a truthful answer. Are you under the impression that Elizabeth gave birth to you, and we produced you between us?’

  Puzzled, Fletcher gazed at him. ‘She was my mother. Are you denying that you fathered a child on her?’

  Adrian Taunt appeared horrified that someone thought he had. ‘Most definitely I am denying it. Your mother was Rose Jones.’

  ‘Rose Jones? I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘Rosie was Elizabeth Fenmore’s maid. I fell in love with her, and when she told me she was with child, I offered her marriage.’

  ‘So what happened to prevent the marriage?’

  ‘Nothing. We wed in secret, in London. Both Elizabeth and James thought Rosie unsuitable, which she probably was, but she was eager to learn, and she was pretty and lively, and she made me laugh.’

  That unravelled one puzzle for Fletcher. All this time he’d concentrated on finding out who’d fathered him, and he hadn’t given any thought to the maternal connection.

  The monk’s smile faded. ‘James was furious when he found out, but he seemed to accept it. He’d always lusted after Rosie himself and he followed us down to Marguerite House from London, and one day he caught me unawares. He’d always been stronger than I was, and he was consumed by jealousy because I’d inherited the title. He tried to burn the identity from my face and then he killed me.’

  ‘Until you decided to resurrect yourself.’

  ‘It wasn’t by design. It just happened. I woke up one morning and I knew who I was, and what had happened to me.’

  ‘I can’t remember Rose Jones nor have I ever heard of her. Though I can recall Elizabeth.’

  ‘Elizabeth didn’t have any children of her own from her short marriage, and was widowed about that time. I expect she was forced to pass you off as her own child, to avoid a scandal. She was not a clever woman and would have done what James told her. He didn’t like being crossed.’

  ‘He still doesn’t, and people are scared of him. What happened to Rose Jones – my mother? Do you know?’

  ‘Something did. Silas wouldn’t discuss it, but he opened his doors to me. It gave me time to see what had happened to the Marguerite Estate and decide what to do. James had kept it productive as a front for his illegal activities. As for the rest … I hope you’re not involved.’

  ‘One can’t help being drawn in, though I’ve tried not to be. A man would have needed to walk around with his eyes closed not to see what’s going on here. I’ve been legitimately involved with the shipping company for the past two years. I told my staff when I came here that the old ways are over for Monksfoot. Many of them are hand in glove with my uncle in ways I don’t even know about. I came back here to try to reconcile with him, but now it’s too late.’

  Adrian’s gaze went back to the dog. ‘Perhaps it would have been easier to get on with the life I was living … but I must find out what happened to Rosie. He wouldn’t have allowed her to live long after you’d been born.’

  ‘Be careful of what you say, and to whom. My uncle has many irons in many fires.’

  ‘Most of those will be extinguished once the reverend’s missive gets into the right hands.’

  ‘But you’ve returned home. Why?’

  ‘To claim my birthright and to establish a kinship with my son – if he’ll allow it.’

  Fletcher cracked a wide smile and nodded. ‘Are you sure you want to bring past events out into the open … Father?’

  Adrian nodded. ‘I must. James took everything from me, including everyone I loved. He’ll do the same to you. The man has no conscience. He put a stop to your marriage by poisoning the reverend on the night of your lady’s birthday.’

  Fletcher felt a sudden stab of unease, and his brain unleashed the thought that, come midnight, Miranda would be safely under his own roof.

  ‘There’s a large consignment of goods coming over from France in a day or two in the dark of the moon. If the reverend’s missive has reached the right desk, I think things will begin to happen then.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’ve made it my business to know, by keeping my eyes and ears open. Trust me, Fletcher.’

  After a moment or two of hesitation, Fletcher took his father’s hand in a firm grip. ‘I’ll ask my housekeeper to prepare a guest room – if I still have a housekeeper. And sort out some clothing, so you don’t frighten anyone.’

  ‘I’ll keep my robe until this business is settled. It’s a good disguise, but it does need a wash. I’m afraid your clothes might be a little too big.’

  ‘Silas’s clothing should fit you, since he was about your height.’

  A wry twist settled on the man’s lips. ‘I used to be taller.’

  From that comment alone, Fletcher knew he would like him.

  Simon Bailey rose from behind his desk when Oswald was shown in. A map of the Dorset coastline was spread out in front of him. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Sir Oswald?’

  Oswald placed the papers on the desk, the declaration uppermost. ‘I’ve been entrusted with a deathbed confession, to be delivered at my discretion.’

  ‘And you chose me – why?’

  ‘After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that you have the authority to act on the contents.’

  Simon Bailey grinned. ‘They must be important. Do you not have a clerk to act as delivery boy?’

  ‘I do; however, this matter is more sensitive than most.’

  ‘And your discretion veered to the side of legality on this occasion.’

  ‘As it usually does.’

  Simon waved Oswald to a seat and settled back in his chair. His glance fell on the signature and the seal and his eyes sharpened. ‘That might be the Fenmore seal, but it’s not Sir James’s signature. How did you get this?’

  ‘I reserve the right to withhold that information, and it’s not something you need to know since it’s a family matter. Also, if you deduce anything from that signature, I’d be obliged if you kept your thoughts to yourself. The confession itself is from the Reverend Swift, who died recently.’

  Simon Bailey nodded. Drawing the paper closer to him, he used the shaft of his pen to lift the folds open, gingerly, as if he expected it to explode in his face. He finished reading it, then looked across at Oswald. ‘Will you take some brandy with me, sir?’

  When Oswald looked askance at the bottle sitting on the side table, Simon laughed and opened a cupboard. ‘I imagine this one will suit your palette better. It’s the best money can buy, though this particular bottle was a gift after I did a small favour for someone. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.’

  ‘Indeed, it will.’ He accepted a glass and warmed it between his hands before taking a generous sip. It slid smoothly down his gullet, releasing its fruity aroma.

  ‘Having learned since I’ve been here that one favour deserves another, is there any way I can reward you, Sir Oswald?’

  Oswald smiled. ‘Since you ask, there might be. Fletcher Taunt …’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s a generally honest young man. He landed in the middle of this mess by returning from abroad to find he’d inherited Silas Asher’s estate. Unwittingly, he found himself in an awkward position with his loyalties divided. I wouldn’t like to see him hurt.’

  ‘I understand, Sir Oswald.’

  Oswald downed his brandy and stood. ‘Good. Then I’ll get on about my business.’

  ‘How long before this missive becomes common knowledge?’

  ‘At the moment, only four of us know that the package exists. It depends on how many of your people you can trust, I imagine. No doubt you’ll have plenty to do, so I’ll leave you to think things through and marshal your resources. There will probably be a commendation for you if all goes well. Will you be attending the reverend’s funeral the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it. It’s enlightening to observe a gathering of gentleman rogues in such surroundings. I must say, though, that the reverend has surprised me by tu
rning out to be a villain, even a repentant one.’

  ‘Crime always has a long reach. Villain or a victim – it’s hard to tell in his case. I’ll see you there, then. Good-day, Mr Bailey, and good luck.’

  Nineteen

  They were not waiting at the appointed spot, and his anticipation at the thought of seeing Miranda again plunged Fletcher into a pit of despair.

  ‘Miranda,’ he called softly into the velvety black night.

  An owl hooted.

  He waited for half an hour, and then moved up the carriageway towards the house. Lady Marguerite’s House was a handsome and elegant building. Although he’d been born there, he’d never felt as though he’d really belonged. Now he knew why. It had been – still was – a house of lies.

  Monksfoot Abbey, with its sturdy walls, suited him better. There was nothing fancy about it. No panelling or elaborate painted ceilings. It had been built as a hard-wearing house for hard-working men. Sturdy oak beams supported three rambling storeys. The windows were arched, as were the doors. He could have stood up straight in the fireplaces in the downstairs rooms, where uneven flagged floors had pathways worn through the most travelled areas. For all its roomy strength, there was a warmth and shabby homeliness to Monksfoot Abbey.

  When he came in view of his uncle’s abode, he was surprised to see light still burning in the study, since it was well past midnight. There were other lights – one in Miranda’s room … another in the hall.

  What if his uncle had harmed her? Fletcher picked up speed, his long legs carrying him towards the house at a fast pace. When he reached the front door, he pounded on it with both fists.

  Jack Pridie opened it and tried to block his way. ‘Your uncle is expecting visitors in a short while.’

  At this time of night, they wouldn’t be making a social call and would probably be armed. ‘I won’t take up much of his time.’ He handed the man his hat, headed for the study and went in.

  Sir James looked annoyed and said irritably to Jack, ‘If any of my guests arrive, take them into the drawing room for now.’