Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  He left the house by way of the servants’ entrance and sprinted over the heath toward the stable unseen. The morning fog had just begun to give way to a sheeting rain driven landward by a cruel westerly wind. Nearing the stable, he saw that the doors were flung wide and the horses were milling about on the heath, their nervous whinnies carried on the wind, and rage moved him faster over the slippery wet grass.

  "Christ!” he thundered. “Harris, wake up you useless old sod. What the bloody hell's going on? All my horseflesh loose in the rain—goddamn you, man, what do I pay you for? Get out here and stable these horses.” Bolting through the stable doors he bellowed again, “Harris, get your lazy ass down out of that loft! Har—"

  But horror froze his tongue, and the words died off abruptly as his eyes came around to the haymow beyond the loft at the back of the stable. Time seemed to stop while his stunned mind caught up to what his eyes were seeing—before his numbed brain could record the image of Harris upright in the hay, impaled upon a pitchfork that had run him clear through where he'd fallen on it, pistol in hand.

  All the breath left Colin's body in the shape of an outcry that bore no resemblance to anything human, and he ran to the stabler, lifted him free—fork and all—and laid him down on the straw-covered floor beside the chaise.

  Tears stung his eyes and he raked his damp hair back roughly. “O...oh, Christ. Harris, noooooo!” he groaned, sinking down beside him on the stable floor.

  But he didn't stay there long. The sound of the vicar's voice and his trap rolling to a halt outside set him on his feet, and he raced to the open doors, slammed them shut, and dropped the wooden bar in place literally in Elliot's face.

  "Colin?” cried the vicar, pounding on them. “What's happened? What's going on? The horses are all running loose on the cliff out here."

  "Get away,” cried a husky voice he barely recognized.

  The vicar pounded again. “Colin, what's going on in there? Where's Harris? Has something happened to Harris? It has hasn't it? Colin!"

  Colin leaned on the trembling doors as the vicar beat upon them. “Get away, damn you, Elliot,” he roared. “You can't come in here. Not now!"

  "Oh, my God, it is Harris. Let me in, Colin. He's my friend and I'm a priest of the Church. You've no right to prevent me. Let me in I say!"

  "It's too late,” moaned Colin, “go and fetch Howard. Do it now! If he wants you to see this, it's on his head, not mine. That's the only way you're getting into this stable—priest or no."

  "Ahhhh, God,” cried the vicar as he set in motion, and Colin sagged against the door at the sound of the trap receding into the rain.

  Groaning, he ran back to Harris and pried the pistol from his fingers. Examining it, he saw that one shot had been fired and his angry hand flung it high into the loft. Taking hold of the handle of the pitchfork, he braced his foot on the dead stabler's chest and yanked it free. Rage heaved it, too, like a javelin into the loft, and he reached and closed the stabler's bulging eyes. Then, gathering him close in his arms, he rocked the cold, bloodied corpse to and fro and sobbed his heart dry, keeping time with the rhythm of the rain as it drummed on the stable roof.

  All at once he caught sight of a brandy bottle and the board that had given way sending Harris to his death, and he laid the stabler's body back gently and plucked the board out of the haymow examining it closely. He wiped the edge and the gritty residue of fresh sawdust came away on his fingers. Laying the board aside, he ran to the ladder, scrambled up to the loft, and knelt down examining the splintered wood there as well. The same gritty residue was present just as he feared, and he leaked another groan as he flew back down the ladder trying to escape the pictures forming in his mind.

  Until then he hadn't noticed Exchequer's staved-in stall, but he did now as he came off the ladder, and his cold, prickling scalp drew back sharply. The nightmare of what he realized must have been the stabler's last moments overwhelmed him, and he knew it hadn't been an accident. Malcolm was at the bottom of the grisly horror that had robbed him of an ally and a friend. He was certain of it.

  Grabbing a horse blanket from the stall beside him, he carried it back to Harris and covered him with it gently, hiding the agonized face and blood-soaked body from view. Dropping down beside him, he knelt there exhausted to wait, but time deceived him, and what seemed like an eternity was no more than an hour before Elliot returned with George Howard.

  Colin heard the doctor's gruff bark through the barred stable doors before the wheels of his surrey had stopped rolling. Elliot's fists pounded first. There was no mistaking the anger driving them, and Colin dragged himself toward the sound.

  "Colin,” the vicar shouted, pounding again, “open these doors. George is with me."

  "Howard,” shouted Colin, ignoring him, “I'll open the doors if you'll keep him out of here ‘til you've made your assessment. It's on your head. I will not dig his grave!"

  "All right, all right, open up, Chapin,” barked the doctor. “It's pissing down rain just as it always seems to be when you have your crises out here.” And then to the vicar, “Settle down, Elliot, do as he says. Let me see what he's raving about."

  Reluctantly, Colin lifted the bar and threw the doors open directing Howard toward the body with a nod. But the vicar wasn't about to be restricted, and Colin grabbed fast to him holding him back as he tried to follow the doctor. “Let me go, Colin. I'm a priest, and I will minister to that man."

  Colin didn't let him go, however, until his struggling threatened to do more harm than letting him see the corpse. At that point, when he relaxed his grip for fear of hurting him, the vicar wrenched free and shoved him aside, all but upsetting him on his way toward the doctor and Harris.

  Howard got to his feet with a grunt, monitoring the vicar's gaunt face and sudden loss of color as he fumbled with his prayer book and began to murmur the Commendation. He turned to Colin, who stood raking his hair with a close eye upon Elliot as well. “What happened here, Chapin?” he growled.

  "He's been murdered, man! That's fairly obvious I should think."

  "Murdered?” the doctor scoffed. “Are you drunk? Who'd murder poor old Harris? He didn't have an enemy in the world."

  "Malcolm,” Colin pronounced, up-tilting his chin in the doctor's face.

  "Malcolm?” grunted Howard. “Now I know you're drunk, Chapin. Christ on His throne, I do believe you'd go to any lengths to rid yourself of that poor misfortunate nephew of yours. Of all your attempts, this is the shoddiest—unworthy even of you."

  At the sound of that Elliot staggered to his feet and joined them, though he said nothing then.

  "Now you listen to me, you sanctimonious old sonofabitch,” snarled Colin. “I came into this stable and found all of my horseflesh out on the heath in the rain. They didn't turn themselves loose and neither did Harris. He wouldn't do that. Look at Exchequer's stall—look, man! That horse fled from whatever happened here. Those boards didn't splinter themselves."

  "So? There was a storm last night, Chapin. A bad one. It probably frightened the horses. It frightened me. There were three fires in the village where the lightning touched down. You got off cheap if all you've lost is a horse's stall."

  "I found Harris impaled on a pitchfork in that haymow down there. As you can see he's half dressed, and he had his pistol in his hand. One shot's been fired. I threw it up in the loft with the fork."

  "He was probably shooting at rats. I saw one back there just now myself. He was drunk, that's for certain. He's reeking of brandy. There's a half empty bottle in the haymow. He probably dropped it when he fell. Now I fail to see what any of that has to do with young Malcolm."

  "The board that gave underneath him was sawed,” Colin ranted, “go and see for yourself. The rats didn't do that, Howard, neither did he—Malcolm did. I'd stake my life upon it. He and Harris weren't on good terms. I refused to allow him to tend the bastard's horse and they fought over it. I heard them myself."

  "Hardly a motive for murder,” barked H
oward.

  "Harris has been stabler on this estate for forty years,” roared Colin. “In all that time I've never seen him in his cups, and I've never known him to drink brandy—only ale. I've never known him to leave a pitchfork wrong-end-to in the haymow, either. And he never shot the rats. He set out poisoned bait for them well out of the way of the horses. No—he was lured to the end of that sawed board, it gave, and he fell on the fork that had been planted there to kill him. If Exchequer could talk he'd tell you plain enough. He's seen hundreds of storms and he's never done anything like this. Just, look at that stall there, man. Are you blind as well as deaf, then? That horse loved Harris."

  "That's about as trumped up a charge as I've ever heard, and as ridiculous. The man's death was an accident, Chapin. That's what the death certificate will read. I'll not stand for your blood lust for that nephew of yours making more of it. Christ, I don't know why I should be shocked. You've been trying to do that lad in since he came out of your sister. Ha—before! He's a likable chap, young Malcolm is. I don't know why none of you are able to see it. I never for a moment believed any of that out here four years ago was his fault. You may have fooled Elliot, but you haven't fooled me, you worthless profligate. And now this, eh? What do you take me for? Christ!"

  "Forget about that. Forget about what you think of me and see the thing for what it is,” thundered Colin. “Goddamn you, Howard, open your eyes."

  Elliot moved away. They continued to argue and shout and he dropped down beside Harris again. Staring toward the stabler's gray face all the years passed before him suddenly. He saw himself as a young man of twenty-six walking through the stable doors with Sir John Chapin the morning he first met Harris. He relived the night he'd staggered through those same doors dazed, his face and body battered from Colin's fists after the fight that had brought on his first seizure. And tears welled in his eyes as he recalled the comforting strength of the stabler's arms supporting him, and the touch of his able hands tending him there through the night.

  Still another vision crept close, and Elliot took a chill as he saw Harris running alongside him over the heath through the mist, his heavy iron drawn and cocked in pursuit of the gardener, who marched, his own pistol drawn, toward Colin beyond in the hollow with his daughter, Elspeth. And he flinched as he heard again the echo of the fatal shot from the stabler's gun that had saved Colin's life and then little more than an hour later saved himself, when Harris lowered it hard to the back of Malcolm's skull as the dark youth grappled with him in the bracken at the ring.

  But for Harris and that pistol, Elliot was certain he would have lost that fight and probably his life. The deadly iron now lay cold in the loft where Colin's rage had flung it. It would no more be raised in the loyal servant's burly grip in defense of his friend and his master, and it hadn't saved him from a hideous untimely death for all that he'd had it ready.

  Still shouting beside Exchequer's stall, neither Howard nor Colin noticed him, nor did they notice Malcolm leading Lord Farr in through the gaping stable doors until their bulk shut out the light spilling in from the weeping sky beyond.

  "What the devil's going on here?” cried the dark youth, leading the horse into his stall. “What are all the horses doing loose in the rain? Dr. Howard, is that you? Why, yes, of course it is . . . hello, sir. That's the vicar's trap outside. He hasn't taken another seizure has he?"

  Colin and the doctor stared.

  "No, Malcolm, I have not,” said Elliot, standing. “I'm sorry to disappoint you."

  "Ahhh, well, what is it, then? Uncle looks sound enough. Something wrong with Harris?” He gasped, spotting the stabler on the floor and started toward him. “Oh, dear."

  "Don't you dare go near him, bastard,” snarled Colin, set to spring. But the doctor's firm hand on his arm surprised him and he hesitated. Taking a deep breath he remembered Jean and a more urgent horror.

  Malcolm stopped in his tracks. “Well, what's happened?” he breathed. “Will one of you please tell me what the devil's going on here?"

  "You tell me, bastard,” Colin demanded. “You were the last one to see him alive."

  Malcolm gasped again craning his neck toward the corpse. “He's dead?” he murmured, reacting. “But . . . how? He was bloody, blind drunk when I came in last night, cross as a bear and surly as a weasel, but . . . but . . . dead."

  The doctor nodded, satisfied.

  Colin glowered. “Indeed,” he spat, “and just where was he when you came in last night, bastard?"

  "On his way up to the loft, Uncle, toting a bottle of brandy—yours, by the way. I recognized the label. He'd obviously pilfered it from the house."

  "And?” jabbed Colin impatiently.

  "And I put Lord Faar in his stall and went on my way,” sniffed Malcolm, indignant. “He was stomping and stumbling about up there—kicking loose hay down on me. You don't suppose I'd willingly court that sort of company do you?"

  "How much would you say he'd downed, young Chapin?” Howard studied him.

  "How should I know? It looked like a half empty bottle, but who's to say it was the only one he'd stolen."

  "Only one's been found,” spat Colin.

  "Well, how the devil did he die?"

  Colin hesitated, looking him in the eyes. “Impaled on a bloody pitchfork in the haymow over there."

  "Oh, my God,” breathed Malcolm, sagging against Lord Faar's stall. “He...he fell from the loft? Harris? Why, I can scarcely believe it."

  Nobody answered him.

  Malcolm shook his head. “Poor senile old devil,” he murmured. “How could he have left a fork business end up in the haymow to begin with?"

  "Get out of here, bastard. Get out,” snarled Colin.

  "Yes, I think I shall,” said Malcolm, moving toward the gaping doors. “I-I think I'm going to be ill. Harris . . . dead. It doesn't seem possible."

  Just as he reached the doors Exchequer bolted through them, and Malcolm's affectations dissolved in the face of danger, for the horse reared, stirring the musky air in his path with high-flying hoofs. Whinnying and tossing his head, the animal shied, aiming those hoofs toward the dark youth backing away, and Malcolm lost his footing in an attempt to avoid them. “Uncle, get hold of this damnable cob of yours,” he cried from the floor where the horse had driven him.

  Colin stared through eyes no wider than slits. Behind him, Elliot gasped. Moving closer, he watched Malcolm scrambling beneath the stallion's churning forelegs trying to right himself.

  Shrieking again the horse pranced nearer his prey. “Uncle,” begged Malcolm, “for God's sake, hold this beast!"

  Howard's incredulous stare stabbed Colin, standing arms akimbo and no intention of coming to the dark youth's rescue.

  "Christ,” barked the doctor, coming forward himself. “Whoa, there,” he commanded, edging closer to the horse who ignored him, bent upon attack.

  One of the animal's deadly hoofs swished past Howard's shoulder, all but grazing it. Shoving him out of the way, Colin vaulted forward, cursing under his breath, and tangled his hands in the horse's mane. “Whoa, Exchequer, it's all right. Hold, boy—whoa,” he soothed. Turning the stallion, he led him shying to what remained of his stall and locked it, soothing the rippling, muscular flesh that attempted to break out of it again.

  Malcolm scrambled to his feet brushing off his clothing with rough hands. “Uncle, you are a madman,” he spat, “insane. You'd have let that animal kill me just now. I hope you both saw that. Howard, I don't see how you could have missed it. He very nearly let the damnable beast kill you besides."

  "Get out of here,” snarled Colin, “before I turn him loose again."

  "I'm going, don't worry,” Malcolm assured him. “That beast is a killer, Uncle. He's a bloody menace—a threat to life and limb. You'd best hobble him, because if he comes near me again I'll see him destroyed. I'll personally have him carted off to the knackery myself.” Still slapping at his clothes, he stomped off into the mist.

  Swaying, the vicar sagged a
gainst Exchequer's stall. He groaned, and Colin's firm arm shot out supporting him. “Elliot,” he cried, “ahhh, Christ!"

  The doctor up-ended a crate and together they eased him down upon it.

  Colin knelt quickly beside him, loosening his collar. He removed it and opened the blouse beneath while the doctor snatched his stethoscope from his satchel and moved closer, pressing it to the vicar's chest with a firm hand. Howard sighed studying Elliot's head thrown back, his amber eyes screwed shut, and his stiff jaw throbbing an angry rhythm.

  "Blast,” murmured the vicar, groaning more from exasperation than pain.

  "Where's that damnable medicine, Elliot?” cried Colin, groping through his pockets.

  "Jacket . . . left side . . .” breathed the vicar, biting twisted lips.

  "Who the devil's doctor here, Chapin?” barked Howard, wrenching the vial from Colin's hand as he ripped it free of the vicar's pocket. “Move back from there. Get out of the way and let the poor man breathe."

  Colin got to his feet. “Ahhhh, Jesus,” he groaned. “I told you not to come in here, Elliot. Christ, Howard—do something, damn you,” he raved.

  The doctor served him a baleful glance while forcing some of the elixir through the vicar's lips.

  Elliot swallowed, and after a moment he drew a cautious breath. “Just a twinge. I . . . I'll be all right,” he stammered, testing his lungs.

  "Ahhhhh, Christ,” moaned Colin.

  The doctor breathed an angry sigh through flared nostrils. “Elliot,” he said, “I'm going to tell you something here and now . . ."

  "No, George,” the vicar interrupted around a grimace, “not here. Whatever you've got to say is between us . . . no one else."

  "Not this time,” growled Howard with raised voice. “Since this bloody libertine has caused your seizures—all three, and this here now, it's time he's heard what I've got to say. Not that I think it will do one damn bit of good."