Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Cold chills moved me visibly. “You're hoping..."

  "I don't know what I'm hoping,” he put in hurriedly. “Your aunt did live at Cragmoor after all, and your reactions, if you will, have all occurred in that house. It's something to try."

  All at once I was very afraid, but I didn't even hesitate. “Yes,” I murmured. But the thing that troubled me most wouldn't wait. “Vicar Marshall,” I injected boldly, “what could have possessed my aunt—anyone—to marry the likes of Malcolm Chapin?"

  "You said there was some sort of family scandal?"

  "Yes, but no one would ever speak of it. What was he, do you think—really?"

  "I honestly don't know, my dear. You'll have to come to your own conclusions on that score I'm afraid. Elliot Marshall believed him to be demonic. If he wasn't, he certainly embraced the image—wore it like a second skin."

  "Vicar Marshall, I need you to be honest with me now—before we go back into that house. Are there any more surprises—like the portrait? Is there anything else you're keeping from me? Please tell me the truth."

  He hesitated. “There are two documents I would like to read to you at the house before we resume. One of them is hopelessly baffling, considering the rest of all this. It was found on Elliot's body. That document is the reason I've always been convinced that we don't have the whole truth here in these journals. I want to see what you make of it. That's all—you have my word. I know you don't trust me, my dear, and I can't say as I blame you, but I need you to know for your own peace of mind that I would never, for the life of me, see you come to harm.

  "We will get to the bottom of this, Ms. Maitland—Jean, if you will permit me the familiarity—and we'll do it together. Now then, we'd best be on our way. That sky's about to open up again and we must be about this while the roads are still passable."

  * * * *

  We arrived at Cragmoor just before the rain and decided to make use of the conservatory for our experiment, since it seemed to be neutral ground. Though it wasn't yet noon, the sky had darkened dramatically with the new squall bearing down, and the vicar gathered an eclectic assortment of candles together and amassed them on the long oak table.

  It's almost impossible to describe what I was feeling then. I was extremely aware of a change coming over me. My heart had begun to pound wildly, and as the vicar spoke his voice seemed to be coming from an echo chamber. Voices speaking in hushed whispers assailed my ears from all directions. I couldn't recognize them or make out what they were saying, except for my name.

  The vicar wasted no more time on conversation. He unfolded a piece of paper he'd taken from his pocket and began to read from it:

  'November 25, 1885

  * * * *

  'I, Malcolm Chapin, do hereby attest should I be found dead in suspicious circumstances, it is my uncle, Colin Ramsey Chapin, of Cragmoor estate in Cornwall, who has murdered me and carried out at last the death threat he has imposed upon me since I was a child of four.

  'My uncle has made numerous attempts to end my life over the years. To cite three of those occasions: twice he attempted to beat me to death, and once he attempted to trample me on horseback. The scars of my beatings will be found upon my body.

  'If witnesses are required, I refer you to one Jonathan Harris, stabler at Cragmoor, who saved my life on the first two occasions, and Elliot Marshall, vicar of St. Michael's Church at Cragmoor Cross, who has put himself between my uncle and myself on countless occasions over the years as well.

  'I hereby consign this indictment into the hands of my solicitors, Raymond Edington, and Harvey Moffet, of London, to be opened in the event of my death, since I am forced to return to my home at Cragmoor, where I shall once again be at risk of life and limb, and I beg whoever reads this to seek justice for me at last.

  Malcolm Chapin'

  "This was addressed to Scotland Yard, and opened after the murders, of course,” said the vicar, tucking it away again. “If Colin hadn't killed himself this certainly would have convicted him. He would have gone to the gallows in any case. A clever piece of work on Malcolm's part—pitting his uncle's only allies against him, technically it was all true, you see—why it was wouldn't have mattered to the Yard."

  "You said there were two documents?” I reminded him.

  When he took the second from his pocket I got to my feet and began to pace the length of the table before he ever began to speak.

  Watching me, he hesitated before unfolding it. It was wrinkled and darkened with age—nearly worn through where it had been folded and unfolded over the years—and he treated it very carefully as he began to read.

  * * * *

  'May 16, 1886

  'To whom it may concern:

  'I, Colin Ramsey Chapin, hereby relinquish all rights and title to my Cornwall estate, Cragmoor, and all parcels of land surrounding it and belonging to it, as well as the entirety of its contents, to my nephew, Malcolm Chapin, to do with as he sees fit.

  'Transfer of deed and title shall become valid commencing upon the date of this bequest, and shall continue for all time.

  'Although I am no longer owner or claimant of any part of the said estate of Cragmoor or any of the holdings or properties thereof, I may remain as resident upon the estate rent free for as long as I shall live.

  'Colin Ramsey Chapin

  Witness: Jean Fowler Chapin'

  I sobbed uncontrollably and could no longer see. Everything around me was growing dim. Somewhere off in the distance someone called my name again, but I screamed Colin's name just as I had done before. It bounced off the glass walls and ceiling all around me, reverberating like the thunder that had begun to rattle the panes, and I was suddenly paralyzed with fear.

  All at once the scent of spice stole my breath away and I began to tremble. I scarcely felt the vicar's arm around me leading me to the lounge. He had begun reading from Elliot Marshall's journal this time, and he was speaking to the other Jean. She had begun to answer in the voice that wasn't mine, though it came from my own parched throat. It sounded so...desperate. And then the light was snuffed out altogether, and I lay helpless and cold in the darkness, neither awake nor asleep.

  The vicar's voice was soft and resonant as he continued to speak to that other Jean. My lips moved as she answered him, but I could no longer control them. I was terrified—lost somewhere in time and space, outside myself where I couldn't reach him. I was drifting away, and all I could do was lie there in that eerie, dark limbo . . . and listen.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Thirty

  * * * *

  November 29, 1885

  The strange Cornish winter had come early. Blustery winds rippled the marsh grass on the moors, and bleak fogs hid the hoarfrost that collected on the heather. Below, howling gusts roused heavy seas from their bed, made with quilts of icy froth spread wide along the shoreline. The constant echo of restless breakers flaying the rocks that walled the cliff lingered over Cragmoor whispering a bitter promise throughout the house, and no fire seemed to warm its groaning timbers, smelling of must and bleeding with dampness.

  Colin was in the conservatory sitting for his portrait, a gift from the vicar. It hadn't been an easy task for Elliot to persuade him to pose for the artist. It was an even more arduous chore persuading him to tolerate the nervous little man in residence during the grueling duration of what was turning out to be a somewhat lengthy stay, made lengthier by Colin's foul temper.

  All that notwithstanding Elliot Marshall wouldn't be dissuaded. He was anxious for the portrait to be completed by Christmas and made certain to be present at every opportunity to keep an eye upon the progress. His presence unfortunately only served to make the artist, Ira Stanley, his old friend from London, extremely uncomfortable. So it was on that particular afternoon.

  Half seated on the edge of the Tudor table in a casual attitude, Colin posed with his back to the arch staring toward the glass wall and the artist, who had set his easel before
it. His collar had begun to irritate him. Annoyance had raised the veins in his neck, and he tugged at the cloth, meanwhile glowering at the jittery little man who dabbed a spastic brush at the canvas, twitching and flinching toward the set jaw and arched brow that challenged him

  Skilled at his craft though he was, Stanley wasn't able to divorce himself from the violent aura his subject exuded. A comical figure in his paint-spattered smock drawn over a well-rounded paunch, he fretted and pouted, a pudgy individual in his early fifties, with sparse, graying hair and steel-blue eyes that seemed constantly to stare. And for all that his talented hand trembled over his labors, it had managed to capture Colin's striking features despite the irascible scowl that spoiled them.

  The vicar arrived halfway through the sitting. He smiled a greeting in Colin's direction, and strolled toward the easel. “Ahhh, that's coming nicely, Ira,” he said. “How much longer do you think? Can we still hope for Christmas?"

  Throwing wild arms into the air, Colin broke the pose leaking an angry groan. “Jesus, damn it, Elliot, what the deuce is the difference? Don't badger the poor man. Christ knows he gets enough of that from me. He's doing the best he can, more's the pity, and so am I, goddamn it."

  "Th-that's quite all right, Mr. Chapin,” the artist stuttered, “one gets quite used to impatience in this profession. I'll definitely try my best to have it done by Christmas, of course, but unless we can do something about that dreadful frown, I'm afraid it's going to be no use. I simply won't paint—that."

  "Well, Jesus Christ,” spat Colin. “You certainly can't expect me to sit here and smile, can you? This whole damned thing is hardly my idea. Count yourself lucky I've consented to put up with this nonsense at all."

  "Let me try and explain, Mr. Chapin,” said Stanley, “you have striking features. Any artist would be glad of such a subject, and I am looking for character, of course, your . . . bearing demands it, but I just will not paint that kind of character into it. I want a softer look . . . something less intense. I want to paint you in a more natural state."

  Colin lifted his brow and narrowed articulated eyes on the artist. They pulsed with exasperation. “My dear man, this is my natural state,” he snarled through rigid lips.

  Elliot groaned. “For the love of God, Colin, can't you cooperate just a little?"

  Colin dosed him with a lethal expression, but the artist brought it back upon himself. “Don't think about me or what I'm doing, since it obviously annoys you,” he said. “Concentrate upon something you like instead . . . a favorite landscape . . . a pleasant memory . . . a woman perhaps? Then we shall see."

  Colin popped a dry grunt, which quickly blossomed into a crescendo of lecherous chuckles, and the vicar bristled. “Colin, please!"

  The laughter dissolved. “Ahhh, all right, I'll try—anything to have this damnable business over with. Just answer me one thing, why in the name of God are you subjecting me to this? Is it some sort of depraved retaliation—penance—what?"

  "Colin, we've been all ‘round this. Don't be such an ingrate. Can't you indulge me? I'm trying to pay back some of the debt."

  "There isn't any debt! Jesus, here I sit—all trussed up in this moth-eaten, piss-elegant costume that I haven't had on my body since your wedding—all gotten up like a bloody fop, a . . . a popinjay. Christ, and you think you're doing me a favor."

  "Colin, Ted would be in the graveyard today but for you, and you're giving him the kind of education I could never dream to provide."

  "And I'd be dead three times over but for you. How often do I have to tell you that there is no debt, damn you, Elliot. There never was."

  "My God, it's such a little thing, this. Can't you humor me and let me ease my conscience?"

  "Christ, you and your bloody conscience. Oh, how I thank that non-existent God of yours that I was fashioned without one."

  The vicar scowled. “You wish you were fashioned without one."

  "All right, all right—all right, I'd rather sit for the bloody portrait than get into a theological skirmish with you.” He jerked his head toward the artist baring his teeth in a sour, contrived smile. “Shall we get on with it then, Mr. Stanley?"

  The little man gave a lurch and snatched up his brush. He started to speak but thought better of it, breathing a sigh that deflated his posture instead and began doggedly stroking the canvas again.

  The vicar sank down on the lounge. “Haven't I pleased you with the gift just a little?” he said.

  "I'm not supposed to be endowed with gifts—you've a short memory."

  "That's ridiculous."

  Colin raked his hair back from his brow impatiently. “I remember a birthday once—so long ago it seems like another lifetime. You presented me with gifts on that occasion, too, if you remember. Just look at the outcome of that—and it isn't over yet. We're still alive to suffer, you and I. That's why I put an end to celebrations—and gifts in this house."

  "Don't dredge it all up again, Colin."

  "Ahhhh, I know you mean well, Elliot, but damn you man, vanity is not one of my vices—probably the only sin in your tally that isn't, but—"

  "Granted,” the vicar interrupted. “I think the gift is more for me than it is for you actually. Your portrait belongs out there in the gallery with the rest of the Chapins, Colin. I mean to see it's put there."

  "Still trying to pay Father's debts, too, are you, Elliot?” He ground out a wry laugh. “That poor old hypocrite would doubtless spin in his grave over this, my friend. Bigod, if I were sure of that it would almost be worth it."

  The vicar's frown saddened and Colin took pity on him. “Ahhh, Christ, you win. Get me a brandy if I must endure this torment, and no more said, eh?"

  The vicar got up from the lounge and moved toward the sideboard behind him where he took up a decanter and poured a measure of brandy into a glass. A colder draft seeped into the conservatory suddenly, and it was the sound of that glass smashing on the slate floor that jerked Colin's head toward the sideboard, and deflected his piercing eyes toward Malcolm strolling through the arch with a young woman on his arm.

  Colin slid off the table, his taut muscles rippling beneath the black dress jacket.

  Drained white, the vicar watched Malcolm closely while taking slow, measured steps toward Colin, who was set to spring.

  Confused, the artist gaped with drooping mouth and brush suspended, his eyes oscillating among them.

  Malcolm sauntered closer, the mocking half smile curling his sensuous lips. He'd grown tall and broad-shouldered, a dashing figure with a thick crop of Gypsy hair waving across his brow. Glossy side-whiskers now framed his familiar sneer above the provocative cleft in his chin. But the cold, reptilian eyes, as black as onyx, hadn't changed. Glowing with the fire of excitement they were fastened to Colin's, and the turbulence ignited between them could be felt—alive as they were.

  The girl on the dark youth's arm hung back, singed by Colin's cold-eyed stare, and Malcolm pulled her closer in the custody of his muscular arm. She was slender and shapely, wearing a green cashmere walking dress trimmed with piping of narrow black cord that emphasized a waspish waist and ample bosom trembling with fear. Her strawberry-blonde hair was swept back from her face in soft waves, caught at the nape of the neck in a cluster of plaits tucked beneath the brim of a stylish bonnet. There was color in her cheeks and slightly bowed lips, and her sea-green eyes, wide-set and superb, shivered like those of a doe flushed from the thicket to face the hunter's musket.

  "Well, what have we here?” said Malcolm, approaching the easel. “Uncle having his portrait done? Hello, vicar,” he spat toward Elliot at Colin's side, “I see you're still underfoot."

  The vicar offered no answer, though the indignation in his demeanor spoke volumes. His smoldering stare, and the sharp jut of his chin thrust forward over his collar showed his mind far better than words could have done, and Malcolm's smile broadened as he savored the expression.

  "How did you get back into this house, bastard?” snarled Colin, o
blivious of the pressure of the vicar's fingers biting into his rock-hard arm.

  "Why, through the front door, Uncle,” sniffed Malcolm, amused. His eyes flashed in Elliot's direction, taking him in contemptuously. “It seems that the good vicar here was so anxious to see me off to the States to make my fortune four years ago that he made one little oversight—it completely slipped his mind to collect my front door key."

  Colin strained against the vicar's grip, but the resolute fingers were unyielding. Malcolm saw and laid his own hand over the girl's, fondling it visibly. “May I present my wife, Jean,” he said, watching the blades of Colin's passion pierce her through. “This is my Uncle Colin, whom I've told you sooo much about,” he went on, sarcasm indicating lines to be read in between. He tilted his head toward the vicar. “That there is Elliot Marshall, the celebrated vicar of St. Michael's over at the Cross, and you, sir?” he prompted, thrusting his chin toward the artist. “I'm afraid I don't know you."

  "I-Ira Stanley, at your service, sir,” he stammered.

  "In a bloody pig's eye!” snapped Colin.

  "And I am Malcolm Chapin,” the dark youth explained, “since no one here is gentleman enough to speak for me."

  He glanced toward his wife. Colin's cold eyes were raking her cruelly. Comforting her with a quick hand, Malcolm pulled her back from him. “That's all right, my dear,” he soothed, “he shan't bite, though I dare say he looks as if he might at that doesn't he?” He turned back to the artist. “May we have a look?” he said, moving toward the easel.

  "Bloody hell,” roared Colin, ripping his arm loose from Elliot's grip. “Enough, bastard,” he thundered, vaulting toward him.

  "Colin,” shouted the vicar, darting after him.

  The girl cried out, swaying in Malcolm's arm. Blind with rage, Colin clamped a rough hand over her shoulder and shoved her aside sending her into the easel. Caught off balance, she stumbled and fell to the floor in a daze at the artist's feet.