Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "You know, I really enjoyed this little holiday,” he said, turning Colin's attention from the fog pressed close to the carriage window. “I'm glad you convinced me to come. They're fine people, the Sayres'."

  "I think Father would approve,” said Colin.

  The vicar smiled sadly. “You're still seeking his approval,” he observed. “Colin, I'm going to pass on a little advice that George Howard gave to me—you've got to let him go. It's time to bury the dead and see to the living."

  "That's ludicrous with the bastard in the picture,” said Colin. “He's a constant reminder of the dead—of which I am one don't forget."

  "That's just it, you're not you know—no thanks to yourself. You're very much alive. I was watching you back there at the Sayres'. You were actually enjoying yourself, Colin, and no one could have asked for a more perfect gentleman than you were. I don't believe I've ever seen you like that. I'm impressed."

  Colin laughed. “Why,” he said, “because I didn't get drunk and embarrass you—ravish one of Sayre's daughters, or that ripe little serving wench with the coppery hair? Don't think I wasn't tempted, but I was selling a house, Elliot. A little extra effort was called for. I wanted to be rid of it and I wanted my price. Ramsey House is too far afield of my other holdings on the coast to be practical. I'll never use it. I despise the city. It reminds me of my days at Eton. Don't get too attached to the chap you saw back there, my friend, you aren't likely to run into him again anytime soon."

  "Colin, you're only twenty years old. I can't bear to see you waste yourself like this. It's true that you got off to a bad start, but that wasn't your fault and it's no reason to ruin the rest of your life. I just don't understand you. You're far too intelligent for this sort of behavior. Keep on as you are and you'll be a bitter old man just like your father was by the time you're thirty."

  Colin laughed again. “There are those laying odds that I won't reach thirty,” he said. “I don't know whose holding the pot, but—considering your like mind on the subject you might want to seek him out and get in on the ante. The church might need a new roof by then, the storms being what they are on the coast, and if I'm not there to provide it, a nice little nest egg might come in handy. Christ knows you'll be up to the trews in rain water before the diocese kicks in a farthing."

  "That isn't funny, Colin."

  "It wasn't meant to be. It's just a bit of sound, practical advice."

  "I don't understand why you just can't put everything behind you and start living. You're free now—there's nothing to hold you back."

  "Oh? And just what would you call the bastard if not a millstone ‘round my neck? Have I your permission, then, to pitch him off the cliff when we return and get shot of him once and for all, so that I can begin my ‘life'?"

  "Of course not,” the vicar snapped, vexed at the waste of his words. “Better a millstone than a noose. He's only four years old. How much of a millstone could he be?"

  "He isn't going to be four years old forever, Elliot."

  "All the more reason why you ought to put him in his place now, while you still can. You need to take an active part in raising that boy. If you don't take him in hand soon now, you won't be able to handle him at all when he's older."

  "I don't want to handle him at all,” Colin flashed. “The thought is quite repulsive."

  "Understood, nor do I, however, ignoring the boy is not going to make the problem go away. You need to face that and deal with it now, before it's too late. Don't leave it to Martha. She's biased. In her eyes, Malcolm can do no wrong, and that sort of coddling is going to turn him into something impossible to live with."

  "He's that already. You've seen how he provokes me. You're at the house more than you're at the Cross."

  "Exactly. Which is why you've got to take command of the situation now."

  Colin sighed, staring absently back toward the fog leaning heavily upon the window as the chaise sped along in the darkness. “Things were a whole lot simpler when he was confined to the nursery,” he said. “As it is now, he's got the run of the place and there's no holding him. I've caught him in my chamber dozens of times browsing through my belongings as if they were his own. He's probably at that right now. He's got the perfect opportunity, hasn't he?"

  "Oh, Colin! I can't believe you haven't locked your door."

  Colin looked him in the eyes. “You had to do that once because of Mary, didn't you?” he said. “The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, eh? Inherited traits, or black magic, which is it, Elliot—what's your wager?"

  "Neither,” said the vicar, “curiosity, most likely, but you'd best keep your chamber door locked in any case—whether you're in it or not,” he hastened to add, soothing his scarred chest in retrospect.

  "Ummmm,” Colin mused, “we never have explored your views on the bastard have we? You've never declared them. Why is that? Because of Mary? Amy swears some demon straight out of hell put the bastard in her. I'm not certain I'm prepared to subscribe to that sort of thinking, but I do believe the cunning little wretch is evil. There's something in those eyes of his that almost isn't human, Elliot. He sees far too much with them than a four-year-old should see, bigod, there's no disputing that. What do you make of him—truthfully?"

  The vicar weighed his answer. “I'm repulsed by him, Colin, just as you are,” he said, “but there's more than one reason for that considering the way he came to be. I really don't want to commit myself to an opinion so early on, though I do believe, God help me, that the child does have evil tendencies, and that's shocking considering his age. He's got a nefarious mind, there's no getting ‘round it, but I'm not prepared to give the devil or his minions credit for the sort of power Mrs. Croft proposes. I shudder to think what the world would be facing if such a thing were possible.

  "Mary was so swayed by what we Christians hold as evil that I'm certain her dabbling in the black arts—which do exist, Colin, make no mistake about it—made her vulnerable to what happened. Someone other than ourselves knew of it and took advantage of it. Malcolm is the result. That's why it's so important that we address the issue now—while the child's mindset is forming."

  "Not ‘we', Elliot,” Colin corrected him, “you, if you're game. You can count me out. I don't give a tuppeny damn about the bastard's ‘mindset', but if you want to give it a go you've got my blessing."

  The vicar studied him closely. “You may live to regret that one day,” he said.

  Colin shrugged. Slipping a silver flask from his waistcoat pocket, he offered it, but the vicar declined and he shrugged again, taking a deep swallow of the brandy inside.

  "A remarkable remedy for regret, this,” Colin said, exhibiting the flask afterward, “much more effective than that insipid sherry you're so bloody fond of."

  The vicar wagged his head. “So you've taken to carrying it with you now, have you?” he said. “Well, let me tell you something, Colin, at least my insipid sherry allows me to keep my wits about me. There's something you should know about that remedy of yours—in order to dilute regret it has to dull the senses. That may not matter so much now, but one day it will. One day that crutch of yours is going to buckle under. When that day comes, don't say I didn't warn you."

  "Don't worry, Elliot,” Colin said wryly, “consider yourself absolved. Nobody's going to blame you for my downfall."

  The vicar's sad smile returned. “Nobody but myself, Colin,” he said, “nobody but myself."

  * * * *

  It was during their absence from Cragmoor that George Howard paid a call at the gardener's cottage to look in on Abigail Wythe, who had miscarried her second child a month earlier. To help dispel the gloom in the Wythe household after the loss, he presented Elspeth with a trio of yapping puppies, which delighted the plump, little, flaxen-haired four-year-old. Not wanting to slight Malcolm, he encouraged the girl to share one with him, and Martha Harcourt was ecstatic. With the puppy to play with, the boy no longer demanded her constant attention, and she opted to make the best of the
situation before Malcolm tired of his furry new distraction.

  Howard brought his gifts the morning after Colin and the vicar left for London. By the third day of their absence, Martha had become quite accustomed to her newfound freedom and scarcely monitored the boy while he played about the grounds. But such wasn't the case with Amy Croft, who always kept a close eye upon Malcolm from her distance. He'd crept up on her with intent to disarm too many times in the past, and since her feelings hadn't changed about the boy, except to grow more acute, and since Malcolm seemed to sense her fear and used it, she made it a point to keep him in sight. But she kept the surveillance to herself. There had been more than one quarrel between Amy and Martha over the nanny's charge. When they came to Malcolm they didn't see eye to eye, nor were they ever likely to, and the only thing that kept the terrified housekeeper from persuading Colin to dismiss the woman, was that if he were to do so Malcolm's care would fall into her hands, and that she would not endure, even if it meant giving notice herself.

  Until the morning that Colin and the vicar were due to return, Malcolm had been content to play with his puppy in the drive and on the north ridge, lush with herbs and fragrant heather. But on that day when Amy saw the boy start down the footpath with the fat little creature waddling along beside him on a thin strap, she wasted no time trying to locate Martha. He was headed for the ring and, without a second thought, she followed him at a safe distance.

  Too much had happened at the stones for her to excuse his preoccupation with the place as childish curiosity. She had warned Martha time and time again that it wasn't a suitable place for the child to play. But it wasn't Malcolm's safety that concerned her. She was convinced that whatever evil presided at the ring had caused Mary's death, and nearly that of Colin and the vicar as well. That evil was very real to her, and if Malcolm was feeding on it as Mary had done, despite her fear of finding out, she was determined to do just that.

  The day was warm, a mixture of fog and light drizzle jousting with each other so it seemed, a storm being stalled just off the headlands to the west. It was during a spell when the rain had stopped falling that the child started off toward the ring. The underbrush had grown tall there, and she crouched down skirting a clump of wet thorn hedge and crept closer until she'd reached the derelict tree that seemed to guard the stones. It stood half buried in the mist and she hid behind it, her sharp eyes peeking through its convoluted branches toward the boy as he approached the altar.

  He lifted the squirming ball of fur and set it down on the low, flat stone. The little whelp pranced wagging tail and dog along with it while Malcolm pet it crooning gently. Through the drifting mist, Amy saw something gleam in the dark child's right hand. It struck hard against the puppy's left side. The animal shrieked, its leg joints buckled, and it fell down dead leaking blood from a wide, gaping tear in its belly.

  Amy's constricted throat worked in guttural gasps over a scream confined to her lungs. She staggered away from the tree that had supported her and plunged toward the rut-scarred grade clutching fast to her bosom for fear her heart would jump clear of her breast. Unable to cry out, she tore over the crest half on her knees, her hands clutching at the wet, spiny furze that tried to trip her as she flew over the edge. And it wasn't until her feet touched level ground that her scorched lungs finally opened and let out the scream tearing at her throat. Shrill and clear, it pierced the misty silence echoing over the heather and tall grass that spread toward the house. With the sound of it still ringing in her ears she ran on, her eyes too blinded by the horror she had just witnessed to notice the chaise in the drive or the two men running toward her out of the fog.

  "What in hell is it, Amy? What's happened?” cried Colin, grabbing her arms with rough hands.

  Hysterical, she shrieked in his face, her mad eyes flung wide, and he shook her roughly. “Stop that god-awful caterwauling, woman,” he demanded, “stop it at once and tell me what's wrong."

  "Please, Mrs. Croft! My God, get hold of yourself,” the vicar pleaded, but a fresh troop of screams was his only answer.

  Colin drew back his hand and struck her hard in the face. She cried out at the shock of that cold hand on her hot, tear-stained cheek and began forming fragmented sentences: “O-o-oh, J-Jesus. ‘Tis . . . M-Master . . . M-Malcolm,” she wailed. “At the stones! God, sir . . . go!"

  Colin flung her aside, almost throwing her down and ran off toward the footpath with the vicar close behind him. Together they raced down the steep, soggy grade and leaped over the thick snarl of nettle and thorn that skirted the tree just in time to see Malcolm bent over his victim, his hands, and forearms red with blood as he labored plucking the entrails from the disemboweled dog and smearing them with great care over the altar.

  "Dear Jesus,” the vicar breathed, horrorstruck.

  Colin vaulted forward. Grabbing the child by an arm and a leg, he held him high over his head aiming to hurl him at the columns.

  Elliot sprang in between struggling to free the boy. “Oh, my God, Colin. No! Don't, Colin. You'll kill him,” he cried.

  "I'm putting it back where it came from, goddamn you!” Colin thundered. “I'm putting this bloody bastard back where he belongs."

  Malcolm screamed, writhing in Colin's white-knuckled grip, but Colin seemed not to hear, nor did he seem aware of the vicar's clutching hands. Instead, he squared his posture and took fresh aim set to dash the boy's small body against the ring with all the strength the vicar felt building in his powerful arms.

  A quick mist rose around them reaching toward the child until it groped Colin's body to the armpits. Submerged in the blanket along with him, the vicar clung fast, digging his fingers into the taut, flexed muscles despite the buffeting he was taking as Colin tried to shake himself free.

  "Dear God, Colin—put that child down,” he charged. “They will hang you if you kill him, Colin! For God's sake put him down!"

  Blind with rage, Colin froze, staring blankly toward him while the shrieking child squirmed overhead.

  "Put . . . him . . . down,” Elliot pleaded.

  Colin glowered through hooded eyes for a moment and then finally lowered his arms and pitched Malcolm aside into the thorn hedge.

  "Oh, Colin,” the vicar panted.

  Colin stared down at the puppy on the bloodstained altar. Clumps of ooze-matted fur and a tangle of intestines were all that remained of the animal. His heaving chest moved his whole body with it, and he turned wild eyes back toward the vicar.

  "God rot your meddling soul,” he seethed. “It would have been over."

  Malcolm scrambled to his feet. Still whining hysterically, he skirted Colin wide and moved toward Elliot's dark shape rising from the mist. Reaching with cold, plucking fingers sticky with blood, the boy wrapped his arms tightly around the vicar's leg and crouched behind him clinging fast to his knee.

  Elliot stiffened trying to pull the boy away from the leg he'd fastened himself to for safety, but Malcolm's fingers were locked tight in the cloth bruising the flesh beneath.

  Colin didn't speak. Incredulity and frustration had clearly paralyzed every sinew in him. For one terrible moment he stood staring in revulsion toward the dark child attached to Elliot's trousers leg. Then raking his wet hair back with a stiff hand, he spun around and stalked off into the fog.

  Looking after him the vicar trembled himself and his posture sagged. It was several moments before the child's pinching fingers called attention to the sharp pain in his knee. He pried the claws Malcolm had fashioned loose from his leg roughly and held him at arm's length, with a firm grip on the boy's bloodstained blouse.

  "What is the meaning of this, Master Malcolm?” he demanded, grinding out the words through clenched teeth, meanwhile shaking the boy until his bones snapped.

  Sobbing and hiccupping helplessly, Malcolm turned sad eyes on the altar. “I . . . I was only pretending at being a d-doctor,” he wailed, wiping his nose on his bloodied sleeve. “I do so want to be one y-you know, when I'm grown . . . just like Dr. How
ard. I . . . I like Dr. Howard. He . . . he likes me, too, you know. Really."

  "You've taken an animal's life,” cried Elliot. “You've killed it!” He shook him again. “It is dead. Doctors don't kill, they save lives."

  Malcolm's lower lip curled under. “Elpet,” he mispronounced, “has two others. Dr. Howard said I could have one t-to play with."

  "Play with? Dear Jesus,” Elliot moaned under his breath. “Master Malcolm, don't you understand me? You have done murder here!” He jerked the boy toward the altar. “If that were a human being there they would put you to death for what you've done. Have I made myself plain?"

  "Y-yes, sir,” Malcolm hiccupped, “I did a bad thing."

  "What did you use on the pup, Master Malcolm? How did you kill it?” the vicar braved, swallowing hard.

  "With that there,” said the child, pointing.

  Elliot's narrowed gaze flitted over the ground and settled on the gleaming silver handle on the blade half buried in the bracken at the foot of the altar. “Kyrie eleison,” he breathed. “Colin's dagger."

  Snatching it up, he thrust it deep in the moss to clean it and thrust it into his belt. “Come along, then.” He shoved Malcolm ahead with a firm grip on his shoulder. “We shall go home and talk about this thing, and see what's to be done with you."

  Malcolm pulled in the opposite direction. “Uncle will kill me if I go home now,” he cried, overcome by a fresh whining spasm.

  Elliot jerked him back in line and shook him again. “Be quiet—be still,” he snapped. “Hurry along and stop that sniveling. No one is going to kill you."

  He pushed Malcolm out on the footpath and began the steep climb to the top of the rise. His legs were shaking and his fingers were numb, but he managed to keep a firm grip on the child, whose rumpled blouse had become slippery with dampness and blood.