The stabler nodded through a broad smile that all but shut his twinkling eyes, and Ted vanished out into the bleak morning haze.
Though the vicar's stare hadn't altered, he couldn't bring himself to speak.
"He's a grand lad, sir,” said Harris, watching the boy bound through the mist pressed close to the study window. “You've every right to be proud of him. He's fast becomin’ a fine, young gentleman."
Elliot found his voice. “Thank you, Harris—something's wrong, isn't it? What is it? What's happened?” he probed, anxious and reluctant all at once.
The stabler sighed. “Ahhh, Jesus, I dunno', sir,” he said, shaking his head and the smile from his lips in one motion.
"Sit down, Harris,” said the vicar, motioning toward the sofa while he sank into the wing chair opposite. “Something has happened. It's the master, isn't it?"
"Now don't go getting’ all lathered up,” warned the stabler. “I don't need no help, mind, but do need some counsel. ‘Tis a fine mess, I'll not lie to you, and I don't know what to do with it or I wouldn't be here."
"Oh, Harris, I'm so glad that you've come to me. The master won't talk to me anymore—not since he learned about my heart."
The stabler emptied his lungs again. “Aye, he made us all swear not to say nothin’ to you about what goes on in the house, but I can't honor that oath no more—not in this."
"Blast,” cried the vicar, slapping his pipe down, “that's why I didn't want him to know. Doesn't he realize how much I worry when I'm forced to imagine the worst?"
"Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but ‘tis a bloody waste of worry, frettin’ over the likes of that one—even he knows it."
"What's happened, Harris?"
"I dunno where to start, it's that much of a mess."
"Just tell it plain. After all I've been through with the master over the years, there's precious little left that's going to shock me."
The stabler looked him in the eyes and popped a cryptic laugh without smiling. “If I was a bettin’ man, I wouldn't be layin’ down any wagers on that, sir,” he said. “The master's takin’ a likin’ to lyin’ with Elspeth."
The vicar paled and his jaw fell slack. “Oh, Harris!” he groaned. “But she's only a child. Why, I christened that baby when I first came here. My God, are you certain?"
Harris nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said, “and that's not the half of it. Everybody in the house is sure ‘twas the master who spoiled her."
The vicar's eyes flashed and he vaulted out of the chair. “No, I don't believe that,” he cried, “I will never believe that."
"Easy now, easy now—neither do I,” said Harris. “When they had that fight, the master said somethin’ about spoilin’ a virgin to the bastard while they was at it. I didn't get the drift of it then, but I think I do now, sir. ‘Twas Malcolm who done it. I'd stake my life upon it. The master's many kinds of a bounder I know, but after what happened to his sister, beggin’ your pardon, sir, I'd have to see it with my own eyes to believe it of him. ‘Tis too easily had hereabouts for him to stoop to somethin’ like that."
"Malcolm?” murmured the vicar, digesting it.
"Aye, Malcolm,” said Harris. “I don't come here with idle gossip, sir. I've been doin’ a fair bit of eavesdroppin', I have, and here's what I come up with, the girl's crazy in love with the master. Now you know he could never love the likes of her—naught but a scullion in his fine house, ‘tis madness and she knows it. From what I gather, she went to him and he refused her, bein’ that she was a virgin, so she went to the bastard to have it done so's he'd have her and the bastard obliged her all right. Now she's lyin’ with the both of them, but the master, he don't know it. He don't have no idea she's still lyin’ with the bastard. He's forcin’ her, Master Malcolm is, sir, without so much as a by-your-leave. I heard him myself in the stable this mornin'. If I tell the master what's goin’ on he'll slaughter the bastard—he nearly done it over that girl the last time. I don't know what to do with it. No matter which way I go there's goin’ to be murder done. I don't know what I'm even doin’ here. There's naught to be done with this save killin'."
"God in heaven,” groaned the vicar.
"Old Wythe, he don't know nothin’ about it. They're keepin’ it from him. Christ only knows what he'll do when he gets wind of it. He's still grievin’ over his wife goin’ last winter. Jesus—nobody but me and the master knows that the bastard's been with the girl at all—and the master don't even know that I know."
The vicar's lips parted to speak, but nothing came from them but a weary groan.
"What the devil do I do, sir?"
Elliot thought for a moment. “Go on about your business and say nothing—not a word to anyone. I shall come this afternoon, but be ready—I'm going to need your help, Harris."
"Ahhh, no, sir, I didn't want that."
"There isn't any other way. It's all right, I have an idea. Let me think on it. I'll be ‘round, say . . . about three?"
"I've got one more stop to make in the village,” said Harris, “but I'll be waitin’ for you, and I'll be ready whatever you need.” He got to his feet stiffly. Hoisting up his trousers he opened his jacket and patted the pistol in his belt. “I've had this ready since that bloody fight, sir,” he said, fondling the handle. “I don't know who's goin’ to get in the way of it, but I do know I'm goin’ to have to use it here before all this is done."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” said the vicar. Getting out of his chair, he gripped the stabler's arm. “Thank you for your confidence, Harris,” he said. “Don't worry, perhaps with God's help we can manage this without bloodshed."
* * * *
As soon as the stabler left the vicarage, Elliot went out through the vestry door and scanned the drifting fog for Ted. He called several times, but no answer came and he darted back inside and hurried to the kitchen, where he found Rina at the sink.
"Have you seen Ted?” he asked her, searching the room with worried eyes.
The alarm in his voice arrested her and she gave a start. “Why, no, sir,” she said. “He went out just after Mr. Harris came, and he hasn't come back in yet, sir."
"Oh, my God,” breathed the vicar. “If he does come in, hold him here. Don't let him out of your sight!"
"Yes, sir,” she said, frozen to the soapy kettle in her hands.
Running back out into the mist, Elliot called Ted again at the top of his voice, but still no answer came, and he ran to the shed. Taking no time to hitch up the trap, he threw a saddle on Ely and rode at a gallop toward the ring.
The stones were a forbidding sight rising from the mist when the vicar reached them. His cold damp skin prickled with gooseflesh as he spotted Ted sitting alone on the altar, and he slowed Ely's pace and tugged the reins, leading him through the bracken and thorn shrubs toward the boy.
"Father!” cried Ted in surprise, jumping down from the stone, for he had never seen him on horseback before.
Elliot climbed out of the saddle and tethered Ely in the thorn hedge. “Ted,” he murmured, with a tremor in his voice, “what are you doing here? You've been told and told not to come here, son."
"I'm sorry, father,” said the child, “but it's all right, I like this place—I really do, sir. It makes a grand fort to play about. Malcolm and I used to have jolly times here when I was a little boy."
The vicar paled. All at once his legs refused to support him, and he knelt down and studied the child. “Ted, come here and sit beside me,” he said, patting a patch of cool moss.
Ted dropped down cross-legged beside him looking deep into his stricken face. “What is it, Father? You look dreadful, sir."
"Never mind that,” said the vicar, taking hold of the boy's broad shoulders. “I want you to tell me the truth now,” he said steadily, looking the child in the eyes so like his own, “before you went away to school, you came here often, didn't you, son?"
"Yes, sir,” he said. “Uncle Colin never told you?"
"No, son, he didn't."
"He said he wouldn't, but I was so sure that he would."
"Why did you never tell me, son?"
The child hung his head. “I . . . I was afraid, sir,” he murmured.
"Of me, Ted? Have I ever so much as raised my voice to you?"
"No, sir."
"What, then?"
"You don't like Malcolm very much, sir—nobody does, but I do,” the boy confessed bravely. “We used to play together here almost every day that it didn't rain, and I . . . I thought you wouldn't let me come if you knew, sir."
"This is an evil place, Ted. Horrible things have happened here. You must never come here again—not ever, son! You must promise me, and you must keep the promise."
"Yes, sir,” whispered the child without heart.
The vicar swallowed dry. “All right now, Ted,” he began, “do you remember the day your Uncle Colin brought you home upon his fine black stallion—the week before you went off to school?"
"Oh, yes, sir,” cried the child, “that was dreadful. I was so terribly frightened of Uncle Colin that day. I shan't ever forget it!"
The vicar's eyes trembled in the misty light. “What happened here that day, son?"
The boy searched his father's intense face deeply, hesitating.
Elliot shook him gently. “Tell me, Ted—you must!"
"Malcolm and I were playing pirates you see,” the boy began guardedly. “He was the brave sea captain, and I was the bad pirate. He had captured me, of course. He'd borrowed his uncle's silver blade for the game—perhaps that was why Uncle Colin was so terribly angry. I never saw him like that, sir—not ever!"
"Go on,” urged the vicar, drained as white as the mist.
"Well, I was lying there, sir, on that bench, and Malcolm was pretending that he was going to finish me with the blade when all of a sudden Uncle Colin came tearing over the thorn hedge on the grand black horse with no saddle—hollering at the top of his voice. Oh, Father, I've never seen anyone ride like that. He rode straight for Malcolm again and again—as though he meant to run him down. I began to cry. I was so afraid the horse was going to hurt Malcolm you see. I was running alongside and I stumbled and got in the way. Oh, sir, Uncle Colin turned that horse, spinning him around in circles on his hind legs, like a whirlwind, to keep him from trampling me.
"Malcolm had run off by then, and Uncle Colin got down off the horse. He grabbed me—and he shook me hard and yelled at me. I was so frightened of him then. I can still see his terrible eyes. Then he held me so tight I could scarcely breathe, Father. He was so dreadfully upset. I told him not to cry so, sir. I told him ‘twas only a game. Malcolm wasn't really going to do it you know—'twas just pretend."
The vicar could no longer see for the tears in his own eyes, and he pulled the boy close in his arms and rocked him gently. “Ahhh, Ted,” he groaned, soothing him with trembling hands, “you know that there is both good and evil in this world, don't you, son?"
"Yes, Father."
"Ted, I am so awfully sorry. I don't know if you are old enough to understand this or not, but I must keep you from coming to this place. You must believe me and do as I say—you must, Ted, it could mean your life. Why, if anything were to happen to me, and you . . . Ted, you must obey me in this!"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Son, Malcolm is a very evil young man. He has done murder."
Ted stared. He'd heard that before, but it had never sunken in so thoroughly as it did then, coming from his father's lips.
"When you are older, I shall tell you all of it, but not now, Ted. All you need know now is you must never see Malcolm or come here again. I'm sure your Uncle Colin told you the same, didn't he, lad?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"He was justified in his fright here, son. He and I both saw Malcolm slaughter a helpless little puppy on that altar when he was scarcely more than a babe, with that very same blade you were...playing with! It is an altar, Ted, that there, and though it didn't start out that way I'm sure, this...fort you're so anxious to play about has become an evil sanctuary—a shrine to the devil and his ilk, and you were very nearly a sacrifice to him under that creature's hand. I'm certain of it. Your Uncle Colin saved your life that day, Ted, make no mistake about it. Don't let it all have been for naught."
"Oh, sir,” sobbed the boy.
"All right, Ted—it's all right,” soothed the vicar. “I haven't meant to frighten you, but I suppose it's best if I have. You must never come here again, Ted—never."
"I shan't, sir, I promise,” wailed the child.
"All right, let us go home and say a prayer for your Uncle Colin. He loves you very, very much, son."
He lifted the boy astride Ely and swung himself up behind. They didn't speak about it again. They rode in silence, and when they reached St. Michael's, they prayed that prayer together. Afterward, Ted stole to his chamber, and Elliot locked himself inside the church.
Approaching the altar, he fell down before it heaving with the wracking sobs he'd held inside not wanting the child to see. A musty odor rose from the carpet smelling of dampness and the ghosts of funeral flowers. His mind reeled with the horrifying pictures Ted had painted in his mind, and it was nearly an hour before he got to his feet and made his way back into the vicarage.
He went to the study and opened the safe that stood beside his desk. From a large tin coffer inside, he removed an envelope, counted the notes inside, and tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket. Then leaving instructions with Rina Banks that Ted be kept confined to the vicarage until he returned, he made his way to the shed and hitched Ely to the trap.
The mist was dwindling, chased by a stiff wind shivering over the cliff, blowing its damp breath across the heath toward the Cross. He drove into it over the footpath toward Cragmoor, his ragged heartbeat keeping time with the horse's clopping hoofs. As he passed the ring he saw Malcolm curled upon the altar just as Ted had been earlier. Cloaked in a stubborn veil of fog that had refused to vacate the stones, he didn't seem to notice the trap, and the vicar snapped the reins pacing the horse faster, anxious to set his plan in motion while the dark youth was out of the house.
* * * *
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Chapter Twenty-eight
* * * *
When Harris reached the house after his errand in the village, sight of George Howard's surrey in the drive sent shivers along his spine. Hurrying around to the servants’ entrance, he burst in, leaving the door flung wide and ran to the kitchen where he found Amy seated at the table holding her gray head in her hands.
"What's happened?” he cried, lumbering toward her.
"'Tis Elspeth,” she sobbed, “she's with child, Harris! She says ‘tis the master's."
"Holy Christ!” breathed the stabler, sinking into the chair across the table.
"She took sick—fell down in a dead faint, she did—white as a ghost—just after you left. Jacob, he went ta the village after Howard. He says she's three months gone."
"Where's the master?"
"I dunno'—somewhere out on the heath. He went off over the south moor before it happened."
"And the bastard?"
"I dunno', Harris,” sobbed Amy, “I haven't seen him."
Exasperation emptied the stabler's lungs. “Howard's still with the girl, is he?"
"No,” said Amy, “he's talkin’ ta Jacob in the servants’ hall, tryin’ ta calm him down. He's come ta pieces over it."
"Where's the girl, then?"
"I dunno. She run off screamin’ after the master no more'n ten minutes ago."
"Holy Christ,” he groaned. His tone set her off and he motioned her toward quiet. “Shhhh, don't take on so, it's goin’ to be all right—the vicar's comin'. I've got to wait for him out in the stable. But you better keep Howard here somehow—there'll likely be need of him."
"Oh, Harris!” she shrilled, paralyzed by the sound of his hasty feet scuffling back along the corridor.
He reached the stable just in time to see the vicar's trap windi
ng up the drive from the footpath. Waving a wild arm in the air to attract his attention, the stabler stood knee-deep in the drifting fog waiting for the trap to pull to a stop beside the stable doors, and hurried to the vicar climbing down.
"What is it, Harris? That's George's surrey there. What's happened?” cried Elliot.
"'Tis Elspeth, sir. She took sick after I left this mornin'. Howard says she's with child. She says ‘tis the master's. She's gone off after him over the south moor there."
"Kyrie eleison."
"I dunno’ where the bastard is."
"He's at the ring,” the vicar interrupted him. “I just saw him there on my way by."
"Well, that's a comfort,” said Harris, offering his arm. “Come on in here and sit down, you look about to come down."
Elliot eased himself down on an up-ended crate that the stabler set beside the open doors. “With child,” he murmured. “Ahhh, Harris, is it the master's do you think?"
"I dunno', sir. With such as this is, who in hell could say?"
"Good God,” murmured the vicar, resting his head in his hands. For either way it would be more than he could bear. He sat slumped there for a long moment, and when he finally looked up taking a cautious breath, he caught sight of Jacob Wythe trudging over the heath through the mist toward the south moor.
He vaulted to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth and called out, “Wythe—hold there, Wythe!"
The gardener didn't answer, though he was close enough to hear, and the vicar strained his eyes through the fog toward his lean shape receding into the distance and gasped. “O . . . oh, Harris—he's got a pistol! Hurry!"
Sprinting over the heath, the vicar ran headlong down the steep grade to the road crossing with Harris close behind him, his own pistol drawn.
Beyond in the hollow, Colin stood holding Elspeth at arm's length. His piercing teal-green eyes shivered toward her. “You know it isn't mine, child,” he said, “'twas the last of May when you came to my bed. I can count, girl. If you are three months gone, ‘tis Malcolm's bairn."
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