"'Tis yours, I swear it, sir,” sobbed Elspeth, “'tis ours!"
"No,” said Colin, “and you must not say that it is. It's a shoddy thing to accuse a man falsely. You lie and you know it.” He stared at her pale, gaunt face and detected the shadow of a bruise along her cheekbone, well doctored with talc. “Have you lain with Malcolm since?” he breathed. “Tell me the truth, child."
"He . . . he makes me, sir,” she wailed. “He hurts me . . . and he makes me."
"Jesus,” spat Colin. “You know it's not my bairn, don't you, girl? Naught shall be served in a lie, Elspeth, and I shall have naught to do with you or the bastard's bairn again in any case. It's a cruel and evil thing you do to try and trick me, lass. It's over between us. I cannot trust myself to the likes of such treachery as this is. Do you hear me? What the devil did you hope to gain, child?"
"Stand away from her, you blackguard!” thundered a voice that it took Colin a moment to recognize.
Wheeling around, he stared into the cold, glazed eyes of Jacob Wythe behind a pistol aimed to fire.
"Nooooo,” shrieked Elspeth, “Papa, no!"
Colin pushed her aside. “Out of the way, lass,” he commanded, his eyes fixed on the gardener's hand gripping the pistol.
"Ye've spoiled my daughter and left her with child,” snarled the gardener. “Ye're goin’ ta die for it, you filthy cur."
"I've done neither, Wythe,” said Colin steadily. “It was the bastard who spoiled her, and ‘tis the bastard's bairn she carries, not mine."
"Liar!” roared Wythe. “She says ‘tis yours, and the whole house knows you spoiled her. You've been lyin’ with her for months!"
"No, Papa,” screamed the girl. “Don't kill him, Papa—don't!"
"Stay out of this, Elspeth,” warned Colin. But she paid no attention, and his eyes flashed toward her as she sprang between them. “No, child,” he shouted, lurching to push her aside again just as a shot rang out in the quiet.
Lifted off his feet with the impact, Colin spun and fell to the heath with Elspeth's screams echoing in his ears.
Her father raised the pistol again.
"Hold there, Wythe,” shouted Harris, running alongside from the west approach with the vicar close behind. “Hold, I say. Don't, man. I don't want to shoot you!"
Deranged, the gardener ignored him and pulled back on the trigger taking fresh aim upon Colin writhing in the heather.
Aiming his own pistol, the stabler fired at close range, blowing the gardener into the air. His body reeled and came down dead, splayed out in a bed of furze and scrub, while the trigger in his death grip discharged a bullet that struck the ground a hairsbreadth from Colin's face.
The vicar ran past and knelt beside Colin trying to locate the source of the blood that had soaked the front of his blouse.
"Shoulder wound . . .” Colin panted, “be all right, Elliot.” But his eyes had narrowed on the hysterical girl lying on the heath nearby. “Tell them,” he spat through gnashed teeth. “Tell the truth before the vicar. Tell them the bairn is not mine. That I haven't spoiled you, child."
"Don't, Colin,” Elliot pleaded, supporting him, “lie still."
Unable to bear the look in Colin's eyes, Elspeth shrieked, “'Tis Master Malcolm's bairn. ‘Twas him who done it to me. The master never touched me ‘til after Master Malcolm done it."
"Why did you say it was mine, child—tell them why?"
"I only done it ‘cause I love you,” moaned Elspeth, “I thought if I told you it was yours . . . you . . . we . . . I only done it so's you'd have me,” she sobbed.
Staggering to her feet, her brimming eyes oscillated between Colin and the gaping hole Harris’ pistol had blown in her father's chest, and she ran screaming and stumbling toward the house, her long flaxen mane spread out about her like a silvery cloud in the mist.
Colin sank back gasping for breath. He hadn't seen George Howard come running over the crest in the distance. Nearly blind with pain, he groped toward the stabler who bent low stooping over him. “O . . . oh, Christ . . . thank you, Harris,” he groaned, clutching his bloodied shoulder.
The stabler swallowed dry. “Aye, sir, ‘tis the best of the pair of you I've laid to waste,” he growled, “and ‘tis hardly worth goin’ to the gallows over."
"You needn't worry about that,” said the vicar, tearing Colin's blouse away for a closer look at the damage. “You saved the master's life, Harris. Wythe would have killed him outright if you hadn't fired when you did—we both saw it. There was nothing else you could have done; ‘twas too close range."
Howard had reached them, and he squatted down beside Colin pushing the vicar aside. “Well,” he brayed, “it's a good thing for you that you had Harris here. Left to me, I'd have let the blighter blow you clear to kingdom come—bloody, low-life trash."
He probed the wound roughly and Colin stiffened under his careless hand.
"Easy, George,” cried the vicar. “He's been shot for naught—Malcolm's responsible."
"A likely story,” barked the doctor, “I don't for a moment believe it."
"Jesus Christ,” snapped Colin, flinching, “that's no joint of beef you're carving there, it's my shoulder, man. Ahhh—bloody butcher!"
The doctor ignored him. “Hold still, goddamn you, Chapin. You've lost too much blood as it is."
"Feels like a cannonball. Did the damn thing go through?"
"Noooo, my fine, young rake,” the doctor rejoiced, “it's stuck right alongside the artery, and I'll have to dig it out. It'll give me great pleasure."
"Dig, then,” spat Colin. “The sooner it's out, the sooner the bastard dies!"
"Don't, Colin,” begged the vicar, meanwhile arresting Howard's rigid arm. “Easy, George,” he cried. “For the love of God, the man's in pain."
"Elliot, will you get out of the way? Oh, don't worry, don't worry, he isn't going to die, God rot him, but that has to come out of there right now, and we'll have to get him back to the house. I can't do it out here in this soup. Help me, Harris,” he charged, lifting Colin's feet.
Colin cried out with the agony movement caused, and the stabler straddled his broad chest, looking deep into the dilated eyes that scarcely saw him. “Sorry, sir,” he said, delivering a shattering blow to his jaw.
Colin moaned. His head fell back unconscious, and the stabler staggered upright and moved behind him. Thrusting his arms under his master's muscular back, he helped Howard lift him out of the heather. “'Tis best he's out for what's to come,” he said to the vicar's slack-jawed stare."
Together Harris and the doctor carried Colin back to the house and in through the servant's entrance to the kitchen, where Howard removed the bullet lodged deep in his shoulder on the long oak table. Afterward, they took him to his chamber and left him with Amy and a full quart of French brandy.
Finished at last, the doctor climbed into his surrey. “Amy's got that rot-gut he swills to ease the pain ‘til he's talked to the constable,” he said to the vicar, who had followed him into the drive with Harris trailing after. “Once he's gone, she can give him the laudanum I left her. That'll put him under, but you won't keep him down for long, Elliot. Like as not there'll be more murder done here before the week is out."
"Not if I can help it, George."
"I'll send the constable ‘round straightaway."
"All right, but Harris won't be here to answer to him. He's going on an urgent errand for me. Send the constable ‘round to the vicarage. I'll explain it to him."
Harris’ head shot toward him from where he stood nearby, and he squared his posture, waiting.
The doctor grunted, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. “It's naught to be concerned over in any case,” he said. “Chapin will have come ‘round by time he gets out here. Harris hasn't anything to worry about."
"Thank you, George,” said the vicar, reinforcing the sentiment with a firm grip on the doctor's arm.
Howard popped a wry chuckle. “Don't thank me, thank Harris—why, I honestly couldn't tell you,
” he snapped, cracking the buggy whip with anger working the fist wrapped around it.
They watched the surrey roll down the drive toward the south road until it had disappeared over the rise. After a moment, Harris cleared his voice turning the vicar's attention. “You've got an errand for me, sir?” he said.
Elliot nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he produced the envelope he'd tucked there earlier and handed it to the stabler. “There's enough money in there to pay Malcolm's passage to the States,” he said wearily. “We're going to take him to the village in the trap and arrange for a coach to take the two of you down to Plymouth. After you book his passage give him whatever money is left, put him on the ship, and stay there ‘til it's sailed and out of sight. Don't fret over your duties here. I'll look after the horses myself ‘til you return."
The stabler fingered the envelope. “Your money?” He looked him in the eyes.
The vicar nodded.
"The master's not worth it, sir."
"Harris, I just found out today that the master saved my son's life five years ago. Malcolm was about to take Ted's life at the ring—just as he did Elspeth's pup when he was a child. No amount of money could ever repay that debt. The bastard goes today, or the master will kill him the minute he's out of that bed and you know it."
"Little Ted? Holy Christ Almighty,” breathed the stabler, for Colin had kept that to himself.
The vicar nodded. “There's no time to tell it now. I want you to go back in the house and stay with the master while Amy collects whatever she can of Malcolm's belongings. Put them in the trap and meet me at the ring. I'll walk down there. You'd best hurry, Harris.
"Wait for me! You shouldn't go down there alone, sir."
"I'll be all right. This wants to be done quickly. We mustn't waste a minute's time. We can't have the constable out here delaying things, and I don't want to give Malcolm a chance to get back in that house. Just go—and hurry!"
"Aye, sir, I'm goin’ to be right behind you,” said the stabler, running back inside.
Elliot squared his shoulders and crossed the drive toward the rise and the footpath beyond. The moist summer wind blew at his back and teased his chestnut hair that had begun to turn gray at the temples. Suddenly he was very tired. The only thought in his mind was putting Malcolm out of Colin's reach. The time had come to pay a debt that, until that morning, he wasn't even aware of. He would pay it in his own way—with his life if need be, but somehow, he was thinking then, that such a sacrifice hardly seemed recompense enough.
He asked no help of God as he walked along in the quiet. He wasn't all too sure that God would approve of what he was about to do, but that didn't matter anymore. Ridding Colin of Malcolm was all that did.
Coming upon the ring, he saw the dark youth lounging on the altar in much the same fashion he had been earlier, but now Malcolm was watching him. Their cold eyes met, and Elliot began picking his way toward him over the thorn hedge and bracken, taking slow, measured steps.
Malcolm slithered off the stone and sauntered closer with his head thrown back, the chilling half smile baring a glimpse of canine teeth. “Well, well, good vicar, and what brings you to my sanctuary?” he greeted, effecting a crisp bow.
The vicar studied him. “Justice,” he said.
Malcolm laughed. “Her scales are out of balance, so I've noticed."
"In my favor this time,” said the vicar.
"Indeed?"
The vicar nodded. “You're going on a journey, Malcolm."
"Am I really?"
"Yes you are—to the States, and you aren't to return unless you fancy taking up residence in the graveyard. Your uncle is not dead, but then I expect you know that don't you?"
Malcolm nodded proudly. “'Tisn't time,” he said, “there's much between us yet to come—and between you and I as well, good vicar."
Elliot ignored the cryptic augur. “We all know it was you who spoiled Elspeth, and you who have left her with child."
"I say that's a lie,” sniffed Malcolm.
"It's no lie, bastard, and you cannot go back to the house because your uncle is waiting there to kill you. So you see, you have no choice in the matter, save to take the escape route offered you, now, have you?"
"Oh, I don't know, you've managed to keep Uncle from killing me thus far. I imagine you'll do so in this as well."
"No longer,” the vicar thundered. “You see, I know about Ted, Malcolm."
"Ahhhh, Uncle's finally told you has he?"
"No, he hasn't—doesn't matter how I know."
"We were playing a game, good vicar, nothing more—a harmless childhood game."
"A game of life and death and good and evil, eh? But then, I expect murder is a game to you isn't in, Malcolm?"
"You can prove nothing."
"I don't have to. This is between us. We both know what you are and what you've done."
"I am what all of you have made of me actually, but never mind. You are very smart, but you aren't very clever. You never should have showed me your mind, because now you are of no more use to me."
Hissing through his teeth, the dark youth lunged, grappling with the vicar and drove him down in the brambles, delivering a shattering blow to his head.
Dazed, Elliot shoved his open palm in Malcolm's face, gouging toward the hooded onyx eyes, meanwhile tugging at the claw-like fingers that had torn his collar away and begun to close around his throat.
"My mother conceived me in this place,” snarled Malcolm. “It's my birthright and no one is going to keep me from it—least of all the pitiful likes of you."
Shifting his weight with a quick knee to the pit of Malcolm's belly, the vicar scrambled to his feet and sent him sprawling with a powerful right fist. “Your birthright is in hell,” he spat.
Malcolm flew at him bringing him down again. Clenching white-knuckled fists, he began punching them full in the vicar's face as he straddled him there in the thorn hedge, his hissing lips leaking a fine spray of spittle.
Abruptly the serpentine noise ceased, cut short by a dull thud, and Malcolm pitched forward on his face in the nettles alongside.
Dizzy and gasping for breath, Elliot slowly focused on Harris’ burly image knee deep in the misty brambles, the pistol in his hand held high where he'd swung it.
"Ahhhh, Harris,” he groaned.
"Are you all right, sir?” said the stabler, helping him up.
"Yes . . . I think so, but I'm glad you came along when you did. Thank you, my friend.” He laughed in retrospect, flexing his bruised jaw. “He's a strong devil at that,” he said, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I don't know if I could have . . . Well, doesn't matter now."
The stabler slung Malcolm up over his shoulder with careless hands. He settled him there, distributing his weight, and thrust the pistol into his belt. The vicar was still winded and he frowned looking toward him. “Can you make it to the trap, sir?” he said.
"I'm fine, Harris,” said Elliot, brushing off his trousers, “just need to catch my breath."
They began to walk back to the footpath.
"There's no need for you to come with me, I can handle him,” said Harris, dropping Malcolm on the floor of the trap. “I'll put you off at the vicarage and have him away quick. One of the livery hands will drive the trap back ‘round to the vicarage."
"No,” said an icy voice that riddled the stabler with chills. “Take him to the church, Harris,” Elliot charged, swinging himself up in the trap with little regard for Malcolm's bulk in the way.
"The church, sir?"
"The church,” the vicar pronounced. “I made a promise to Master Malcolm a long time ago. I shall keep that promise now."
"Aye, sir."
Swallowing his questions, the stabler drove the trap hard over the footpath to St. Michael's and carried Malcolm inside. The vicar bolted the doors from the outside after them and entered himself through the vestry, locking that door as well.
Bewildered, Harris dropped Malcolm in the aisle
beside the first row of benches, and wiped his rough hands on his trousers.
"Come up here with me,” said the vicar, beckoning from behind the altar rail.
"I don't understand,” said Harris, “what are you after, sir?"
Elliot dabbed at fresh blood leaking from the split in his lip with his handkerchief. “I think you'll see for yourself in a moment,” he told him, motioning toward the dark youth stirring on the floor at their feet.
Malcolm rolled over on his side and his eyes snapped open darting frantically around the dimly lit church as consciousness brought awareness of his surroundings. Shrieking, he crouched on all fours, his cold stare menacing the vicar, and spun reeling down the aisle slamming his body against the barred narthex doors.
Harris gasped and gave a lurch watching the frantic youth flying from one side of the church to the other, crashing into the walls, and clawing at the windows with fingers hooked like talons.
Wheeling around, Malcolm hissed and spat, contorting his body into a writhing ball in the middle of the aisle. Screeching like nothing human, he righted himself and crawled over the floor, his jowls thick with foam, and his cold skin dripping sweat. Drawing deep, tremulous breaths he filed his lungs and sprang again racing from wall to wall, slamming his convulsed body against the wood over and over again.
"Holy Christ Almighty,” breathed the stabler, “what is he, sir?"
"I honestly don't know,” said the vicar. “This has happened before—at St. Simeon's. I have a letter that describes it in depth, but I've never seen anything like it in my life, Harris. Never!"
Malcolm's face was puffed with welts, and blood poured from his nose and mouth mixing with the rivulets of foam and drool dripping down over the blouse, plastered wet with cold sweat to his body. Shrieking again, he fell to the floor and crawled on his hands and knees toward the sanctuary, his bloodshot eyes rolled back in his head, but still he came. Drooling helplessly, he crawled blind on his belly, slithering inch by inch along the carpet like a great, black snake.
"Holy Jesus, come away, sir,” cried the stabler, pulling him back.
"I don't believe he'll come behind the rail, Harris,” murmured Elliot, standing his ground.
Rape of the Soul Page 36