"I cannot tell you how horrible a thing it is to watch a child burn to death. We lost fourteen boys and two clergymen, Mr. Chapin—charred black—burned alive, and there are over sixty in the infirmary still—a good many of them hopelessly scarred, and some not expected to survive."
Paralyzed, Colin felt the blood ebb away from his face. Waves of nausea blurred his vision, and he swallowed dry, his piercing sea-green eyes fixed upon the brother behind the desk.
"A timber supporting the wooden cross suspended from the apex became engulfed, and the flaming cross fell upon the vicar general,” Stevens murmured, avoiding Colin's awful stare. “He was knocked unconscious and very severely burned. I dragged him out through one of the windows at the far end just before the church collapsed, and got him to the infirmary with the rest. I went up to Master Malcolm's chamber immediately after. He was sound asleep, Mr. Chapin.
"Fresh snow had covered any tracks that might have been. His coat and shoes—even his Wellingtons—were dry, and no one saw him anywhere near that blaze. But, sir, as God is my judge, I know he set that fire. I know it as surely as I breathe!"
He removed his cracked, bandaged spectacles and soothed his eyes. “I have not recovered from the horror of it,” he continued, “and it happened nearly a fortnight ago, sir. I will see those little boys . . . screaming in agony . . . writhing aflame . . . until I die! You cannot imagine a more horrible death, Mr. Chapin."
"I know exactly the horror of it firsthand,” said Colin through a tremor. “I was once burned severely myself. My blouse caught fire and my back was seared raw. But for quick thinking on the part of Vicar Marshall and the stabler on my estate, I would not be alive today, sir."
"There is no more painful way . . . to die,” murmured the brother absently.
Colin cleared his voice and took a ragged breath. “Vicar Marshall is gravely concerned over the vicar general,” he said. “They are very close friends, sir. Can you tell he how he's faring?"
"The vicar general died yesterday morning, Mr. Chapin. He never regained consciousness . . . I'm sorry."
"Ahhhhh, dear God!” moaned Colin.
"I have no right to accuse Master Malcolm, I know,” said Stevens. “I have no proof, save, considering his reaction in the church and his resentment of both the vicar general and myself for taking him there, he obviously had motive enough—if you view it through his eyes. I am forced to expel him because he will not respect the doctrine we present here. He tries to corrupt the students, and in my heart, while I have no shred of tangible evidence whatsoever, I believe him to be a cold-blooded mass-murderer. Given that, I cannot abide him in this holy place—I'm sorry."
"You needn't be,” forced Colin. “I shan't deny that he has always been a perversely difficult child, but I never imagined him capable of such as this. Is there no way to have the constable in to investigate the matter further?"
"The constable has been here, sir, several times. He's been presented with the facts, and he's spoken with Master Malcolm at some length. The boy, of course, denies it to the death, and ironically I am his best witness, for it was I who found him in his chamber, warm and dry—asleep, while the fire still raged across the way. The constable can do naught with such as that to go on. There is no evidence that isn't purely speculative against the child, sir—none!"
Colin reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced an envelope. He hesitated, fingering the sealing wax. “No one could presume to redeem the perdition that has befallen this place,” he said. “There is no way to make restitution for the lives that have been lost here or the suffering of the injured, but this bank draft will more than cover the cost of rebuilding the church, and at that, in the face of such as this is, it is a shallow offering that leaves me humbled with shame.” He got out of the chair and placed the envelope on the desk blotter.
The brother stared slack-jawed. “Oh, sir, I cannot let you do this,” he cried. “We do not know that it was truly Master Malcolm's doing!"
"I believe as you do—more strongly than you do, for my own reasons, which I shan't go into now. I will not accept your refusal of that draft. No—we will not discuss it further. And if any sort of evidence or proof does come to light, I want to be notified at once, sir, by special messenger."
Brother Stevens stared toward the cold teal eyes and taut muscles rippling through Colin's rock-hard arms and shoulders through his jacket. He nodded in reply, unable to look away from the passion behind the deadly calm in his rigid posture looming over the desk.
"Now then,” said Colin, “if you will go up and fetch my . . . nephew, I'll have him out of here and away before more harm is done."
* * * *
Malcolm was brought down at once, his dark eyes trained upon the ominous silver-handled riding crop in Colin's hand. He climbed into the coach with it biting into his back and took his seat opposite his uncle with a cautious slither.
Colin didn't speak. His dilated eyes, smoldering with rage, didn't leave the child's sullen face, nor did the crop cease its steady rhythm slapping against his open left hand. Now and then he downed a rough swallow from one of the bottles stashed beneath the seat, but his fingers always returned to grip the engraved silver handle taking it tighter each time, and the rhythmic strokes as it bit into his palm ticked off the miles like a metronome.
At intervals along the circuit route, Colin had the driver stop at affiliated livery stables, where they took on fresh horses, and they drove straight through to Cragmoor. During the nights, Malcolm slept peacefully curled on his side on the wide leather seat, but Colin wouldn't succumb to sleep, though it weighed heavily upon his tired body and horrified mind. He sat spine-rigid, his piercing eyes trained upon Malcolm's chalky skin, still stained with bruises, and upon the shock of jet-colored hair jouncing against the pillow of cold black leather in the darkness. He swallowed from the bottles, worked the crop, and neither closed his eyes nor uttered a sound during the entire journey.
When it was nearly time for their return, Elliot kept a close watch stationed by the parlor window at the vicarage as often as possible. When at last, through a bleak twilight mist, he saw the familiar black-and-red livery coach listing as it tore past over the south road he hurried to the shed and hitched the mare to the trap.
Meanwhile, having reached Cragmoor, the coach pulled to a halt in the circular drive, but Colin dismissed it before the wheels had stopped rolling. Instructing the driver to leave Malcolm's bags wherever they landed, he yanked the child down and propelled him toward the house.
Dragging him along the entrance hall with a firm grip upon his collar and shoulder beneath, he stalked toward the staircase past Amy in the gallery without even seeing her standing there, or noticing that she followed him up the stairs to the old third floor nursery leaking anxious murmurs at sight of the rage in his face.
He opened the nursery door, shoved the child inside, and locked it after him. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, Malcolm shrank cowering in the chimney corner, his onyx eyes fixed with cold intensity upon his uncle's.
Colin tossed the crop on the mantle. He stripped off his traveling cloak, jacket, and waistcoat. Rigid fingers rolled his sleeves up and snatched the crop again. Taking slow, measured strides, he approached the child, grabbed his coat, and peeled it away. Then seizing the blouse beneath in his fist, he shredded it with one pass of his hand until the cloth hung in tatters about the child's wrists and trousers.
Hissing, Malcolm narrowed his eyes to slits. He made a move to dart away, but Colin's fierce left hand fastened in his hair jerked him off the floor, and the crop came down into the serpentine sound splitting the boy's lips wide open.
Colin hurled him against the bare wood floorboards on his face, and the crop bit into his flesh before he ever hit them. “I got this crop the night you were conceived,” he roared, driving it with mad fury into the child's back. “I'm going to kill you with it, bastard! It was no idle purchase, this weapon, but it's far too good an end for you. I should set you
afire and watch you writhe, filthy, murdering little scum that you are!"
Malcolm moaned, shrinking away from the gouging weapon, but Colin knelt on one knee and grabbed his hair again, holding him down.
Outside in the hall Amy screamed, beating on the door with her tiny fists. “Oh, sir, please, sir, don't. Ye're goin’ ta kill him!"
Colin didn't answer. Over and over she heard the sound of leather immersed in flesh, and the child's feeble moans, scarcely more than a whisper, grew weaker with each deadly stroke.
Shrieking hysterically, she soared down the stairs and out through the entrance hall into the mist through the doors flung wide just as Colin had left them on her way to fetch Harris from the stable. She hadn't gotten clear of the steps when she pulled up short at sight of the vicar's trap rolling to a stop in the drive.
"Oh, sir, you have ta come,” she cried, “please, sir, come quick. ‘Tis the master. He's killin’ the child! He's beatin’ him ta death up in his old nursery!"
Elliot leaped from the trap and ran past her into the house. “What's happened, Mrs. Croft?” He ran through the gallery with the housekeeper close behind.
"I dunno', sir,” she sobbed, “he didn't say one word ta me when he come in. He just dragged the boy up ta the nursery and locked the door. He's beatin’ him ta death up there I tell you! He's doin’ murder and they'll hang him, sir,” she moaned. “Oh, sir, I don't care a whit for that black demon from hell, ‘tis the master! God help me, he's like my own. ‘Twas my face he saw first after we took him from his dead mama's womb. I couldn't love him more if he come outa’ me. I'd rather die myself than see him hang. No matter what kind o’ rascal he is, he'll always be my bonnie little bairn!"
"All right, all right,” cried Elliot, scaling the third floor staircase, “calm yourself, Mrs. Croft, I shall do what I can."
"'Tis too late! Oh, dear God, I know ‘tis too late!"
Elliot had reached the door and he pounded on it with frantic fists. “Colin! Colin, let me in!” he shouted.
There was no answer, but he could hear the dull thud of the crop keeping a steady rhythm—scarcely a sound coming from the semi-conscious child.
"Colin!” he shouted again, beating on the door with all his might.
"Oh, Jesus!” screeched Amy, hearing no more moans coming from the child though the crop droned on.
The vicar slammed his shoulder against the door; it barely budged.
"No, sir,” shrieked Amy, “yer collarbone! Ye can't, ye're goin’ ta hurt yerself!"
The vicar ignored her, lunging at the door again.
Inside, the constant meter of the crop still echoed steadily.
"Colin, open this door!" the vicar demanded.
Still no sound except the dull, mechanical thuds answered him.
"Go and fetch Harris,” cried the vicar over his shoulder, as he continued his assault on the door.
Amy screamed and flew down the corridor to disappear in a cloud of black twill skirts spread wide over the landing.
The vicar thrust his weight against the door again and the wood groaned, giving a little, but the door wouldn't come open. He winced, soothing his biceps and shoulder, and backed away. Aiming his foot at the heavy panel, he drove it hard into it just below the latch. The wood snapped, and he saw a fine crack form. Again he attacked it with his foot and the gap widened. Breathing hard, he filled his parched lungs, stood back, and lunged at the weakened door again with all his strength. It burst open taking him with it, half sprawled on the nursery floor.
Deranged, Colin knelt beside Malcolm, his hands and blouse smeared with blood as he wielded the crop sinking it deeper, and deeper into the unconscious child's raw back.
"Colin!” cried the vicar, grabbing the arm dealing the blows. But the force driving the weapon in total aberration took his hand right along with it while it struck Malcolm again.
The vicar's eyes flashed toward the savaged child. In desperation, he let go of the arm and drove his hard-clenched fist full in Colin's face, sending him sprawling on his back against the hearth.
Caught off balance Colin struck hard. It dazed him, and the vicar wrenched the bloodied crop from his hands and flung it across the room.
Colin sprang to his feet. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled. “You've had that in you for six years haven't you, Elliot—since the night that there was born. You've been aching to do that all this while, goddamn you."
His rock-hard fist shot forward catching the vicar squarely on the chin, and Elliot staggered, shook himself, and lunged again. “No, Colin,” he panted. “You've driven me down to your level at last, God help me. You've done murder here more than likely, and you will not make me scapegoat for your shame—not this time."
Vaulting forward, Colin grappled with him, driving him to the floor over Malcolm and the rocker in their way, and delivered a blow that resounded with an ear-splitting crack.
Slowed by the punch, the vicar staggered to his feet and swung again, sending Colin sprawling against the cradle beside the curved turret wall. He'd scarcely hit the floor when blind passion hauled him upright and he drove his clenched fist hard into the pit of the vicar's stomach. Stunned, Elliot crumpled against the hand still embedded there and sank to his knees gasping for air.
Colin shook his head in a desperate attempt to recall his lost reason, while staring at the vicar doubled over at his feet. Half sobered, he groaned, his dilated eyes smarting with tears, and raked his hair back with a bloody hand. “Give it over, Elliot, you cannot win."
Winded, the vicar struggled for breath. “No,” he murmured, trying to focus his eyes in the fading light as he staggered to his feet, “you're going to have to kill me now, Colin!"
Still teetering on the brink of sobriety, Colin stared, but his hesitation was costly. The vicar delivered a deep, left-handed blow to his abdomen followed by a quick right to his rigid jaw that wrenched a cry from bloodied lips, and Colin staggered. “Christ!” he spat and sprang, loosing a volatile white-knuckled fist that drove the vicar down—splayed out flat on his back at his feet.
Elliot tried to crawl and right himself, but nausea and pain in his left biceps sent him down again and he lay there helpless, trying to breathe between moans.
"Ahhhh, Elliot,” cried Colin, sinking down beside him.
Gulping stale air into parched lungs, the vicar raised himself on one elbow wiping blood from his nose and mouth, while he looked toward Colin's despair through eyes nearly swollen shut.
"Your friend Carlisle is dead,” Colin groaned. “The bastard killed him. Burned him alive in that church—and seventeen others with him. Sixty more are maimed—some of them dying. Goddamn you, tell me now that his death isn't justified!"
Elliot stared. The room swam around him awash with blood and pain, and the echoing horror of the words set loose in the damp, fetid air. All at once the closeness suffocated him. He struggled for breath, no longer able to see Colin's face. It dissolved along with consciousness, and he fell back in the merciful arms of oblivion.
Elliot didn't feel himself lifted, nor did he feel the motion of the staggering legs that carried him down to the second floor. Colin took him to his own chamber and laid him on the brass three-quarter bed. He threw the terrace doors wide letting in the cold mist, loosened Elliot's collar, and bathed the blood away from his face, agonizing over the damage he'd done.
* * * *
Meanwhile in the nursery, Malcolm lay unconscious on the bloodstained floorboards, his raw, oozing back chopped from neck to waist. Harris burst in past the shattered door with Amy at his side lighting his way with a candlestick, for the sun had set. “Holy Jesus,” he breathed, sinking down on his knees beside the child.
Amy covered a nauseous grimace with the hem of her apron. “Oh, God help us. Has he killed him?"
"No,” said Harris, turning Malcolm on his side, “Jesus Christ!"
"Oh, Harris! We're goin’ ta have ta have the doctor,” Amy whined.
"Not this time,” flashed the stabler
, stabbing her with inexorable eyes. “I'll have to try and patch him up myself. They'll fling the master inta the jail for good and all if Howard ever gets a look at this. He's ground him inta raw meat, Amy. Here, see for yourself. Jesus!"
Amy wailed again, turning her eyes away, and choked on the stench of blood and green mold in the stagnant air.
Harris got to his feet and swung the child over his shoulder. “I'll take him out to the stable,” he told her.
"Suppose somebody comes? Abigail Wythe is ailin'. Suppose Howard . . ."
"I'll keep him well out of the way. If anybody comes I'll make a show of muckin’ out the stalls. There's few hereabouts with stomach enough to meddle with that, includin’ the good Dr. Howard. Now fetch your herbs, and bring somethin’ to keep him under awhile, too. Do it quick. ‘Tis bad—he's scarcely breathin'."
* * * *
Elliot had begun to come around in Colin's chamber. He moaned, reaching to soothe the pain in his biceps, meanwhile forcing his swollen eyes open beneath the bruises.
Colin hovered over him staring down at the ravages of his rage. “Ahhh, Elliot, God forgive me, I never meant to do this—I swear it."
The vicar didn't answer. He tried to raise himself and failed, falling back down with another moan.
Colin rotated his stiff neck and flexed his jaw. “You've got a pretty good right there yourself, my friend—or was it a left?” He winced. “Whichever, you've bloody near broken my jaw you know."
The vicar attempted to rise again, but the urgent pain in his left biceps wouldn't be soothed, and waves of nausea and dizziness washed over him with the motion. A sharper twinge of pain tugged at his chest stealing his breath, and he could think of nothing but putting distance between himself and Colin if he was about to have the seizure George Howard had been threatening.
Rape of the Soul Page 28