Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Colin gave a start, and Malcolm answered his demeanor, statement that it was. “Yes, Uncle,” he said, “that accursed beast has stalked me for the last time. He got hold of some of that poison old Harris used to use on the rats, and he's been packed off to become glue, or rather, his carcass has. Ah-ah-ah! Come no closer. I am aroused, and this half naked bitch here will do nicely if you dare defy me. Don't forget, this place and everything in it is mine now—including Exchequer, to do with as I please. I think you'd best sit down. You look dreadful. Doesn't he, Jean?"

  Laughter spilled from him then, and he yanked her through the door and disappeared into the shadows as dusk laid claim to the light.

  Stunned numb, Colin stared after them. He raised his hand to rake his hair but clutched his burning brow instead as if to still the images spinning in his brain as well as soothe the pain of the wound he'd inflicted there, all but forgotten until that moment.

  He filled another snifter and drank half its contents. It was well past tea and growing dark. He didn't light the lamp. Carrying the snifter, he dragged himself to the leather wing chair beside the hearth, sank wearily into it, and shut his smarting eyes. The cool, fragrant leather was soothing as he leaned back against it. There was a deafening noise in his head, it echoed in his ears and nearly threatened consciousness. Shock had suddenly exhausted him. After a moment he dozed there, and the half full snifter slipped from his fingers and fell to the carpet.

  Outside, the last of what had been a beautiful spring day on the coast gave way to a dense, black night, for the moon was imprisoned by clouds. Darkness crept in and covered him there like a blanket, and he didn't hear the vicar enter some time later until he'd stumbled over the snifter that had rolled in his path as he approached.

  Colin's dazed eyes came open at the sound and he lurched in the chair. He was disoriented, and it was a moment before he located Elliot's dark shape amid the shadows and another before he realized he was attempting to light the oil lamp.

  "There you are,” said the vicar, striking a match to the wick with his back turned. “Why are you sitting in here in the dark?"

  "Christ! Don't light that, Elliot,” Colin snapped.

  But it was too late. As the vicar turned toward him he saw the mirror first. One look at the bloodied lump on Colin's swollen brow and the bandaged hand likewise smeared with blood, and he gasped, steadying himself against the pedestal table. “Colin,” he breathed, “what's happened to you?"

  Colin emptied his lungs through his teeth and slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. “Put that fucking light out,” he snarled. “It hurts my eyes, goddamn you!"

  The vicar gasped again. “This is serious,” he murmured, coming nearer, “your eyes are dilated. I believe you've given yourself concussion."

  "Taken over Howard's practice now have you?"

  The vicar made an angry gesture toward the mirror. “Whatever possessed you?"

  "It's none of your bloody business,” spat Colin. “Put that goddamn light out. Don't make me get up from here, Elliot, or I'll put you out with it. My head is splitting."

  "I shouldn't wonder,” said the vicar snuffing out the lamp. He breathed a defeated sigh. “Colin, Malcolm was gone. Why did you let him back in here? Why didn't you pack up their belongings, toss them into the drive, and bar the doors? My God, you had no compunction about doing that to his tutor, years back.” He waved a wild arm in the darkness. “Malcolm has no claim to this house—no right to expect shelter under its roof whatsoever. Why are you allowing him to stay here?"

  Colin leaked a bitter laugh that more closely resembled a groan.

  The vicar ignored him. “What in the name of God is going on?” he demanded. “Has he got something on you? He must have. What, for God's sake? Why won't you confide in me? I won't interfere if that's what you're afraid of. You need an ally here, and while I'm hardly impartial, I'm certainly more objective than you are."

  Again Colin popped a sarcastic laugh.

  The vicar's bearing shifted from anticipation to defeat. “All right,” he murmured, “whatever this is here you're convinced that my heart won't stand it. What do you think not knowing is doing to my heart, Colin? I can't sleep . . . I can't eat . . . I can't even pray anymore. I know you need my help. You're at a disadvantage and you're vulnerable. None of that has to be. I can taste death in this house. I could help you stay alive, and as God is my witness I would give my life—and gladly, for the chance to do it. Don't you know that, Colin? For God's sake, man, let me help you before it's too late."

  "It's already too late. Go home, Elliot, there's nothing you can do here. You're wasting your breath."

  "And you've wasted your life in this self-imposed hell you've created for yourself. But it's not too late, Colin. You're still alive! You've got to let me help you."

  "Go home, Elliot."

  The vicar hesitated. “You're not coming in to dinner, I take it?"

  Incredulous, Colin gave a violent lurch and winced for the pain the sudden motion caused. “No,” he snarled, “and don't you. Stop snooping around, Elliot. I'm in no humor to fight the both of you again tonight. Stop getting at me. I'm tired, and I just want to be left alone. If you really want to help me, respect that and go home."

  The vicar stared, and after a moment slouched in defeat. “All right, Colin, you win,” he conceded. “I'll go, but first I want you to promise me something . . . if it comes down to it and you need help, promise you'll send for me."

  "Done!” roared Colin. “Bloody hell! Now will you please get out?"

  The savage thunder of his voice rocked the vicar where he stood. There was a tremor of finality in it that crippled him with cold sweat and gooseflesh, and it was a moment before it let him move toward the door. What little light there was in the room seeping in from the hall sconces showed him Colin's rigid posture, and clenched fist denting the chair arm. It sparkled in the hooded teal eyes boring into him without seeing him at all. He'd been dismissed, and he stepped outside reluctantly and closed the door behind him.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Fifty

  It was well past the dinner hour before Colin opened the study door again. He couldn't account for the time in between, only that during its passing he'd formed a plan of sorts despite the brain-numbing terror that had all but paralyzed his faculties.

  He'd scarcely cleared the door when his sharp eyes caught sight of Malcolm leaving through the entrance hall. The dark youth hadn't seen him, and he waited flattened against the wall in the shadows until he heard the double doors slam shut before racing through the gallery and up the stairs, taking them two at a stride in his haste to reach Jean.

  He called to her trying the door at the same time, but he found it locked and pounded on it frantically. “Jean, open the door,” he thundered.

  "I can't,” she sobbed, “he's locked me in. Oh, Colin, are you all right?"

  "Never mind me. There's a spare key in the scullery. I'm going to get it and take you out of here right now."

  "No,” she shrieked, “no, Colin, he isn't going to the village. He's out on the cliff indulging in that maniacal fixation of his. I can see him pacing along the edge down there from the window. He'll be back any minute. He won't leave me alone here now."

  Colin raked his hair back roughly. It was as though his mind had stalled, and he cursed the deficiency. “Christ!” he snarled under his breath. “Where is that document? Did you see what he did with it?"

  Inside, Jean had turned down the lamp for a clearer view of the cliff. “No, he must still have it on him, Colin."

  "I want you to see what he does with it if you can—where he puts it, but don't touch it, Jean. I'll deal with it. Can you still see him?"

  "Yes, Colin, but I can barely make him out now. It's so dark."

  "Listen to me carefully, I have a plan, but you must do exactly as I say—exactly, Jean, no more defiance. You don't know what you're dealing with. I didn't realize until today j
ust how dangerous Malcolm has become. You've got to do as I say. It could mean your life now. Don't provoke him. Don't give him cause to use that blade. Are those cuts deep?"

  "No, Colin, just scratches."

  "Good. Hide them from the servants if you can, and from Elliot if he comes ‘round. I'm going to be out of the house tomorrow. The bastard wants to play to an audience. I'm counting upon that. As long as you don't agitate him you should be safe until I return."

  "Where are you going?” she cried.

  "To Truto—to my barrister there. I don't want you to worry, but I'm going to draw up a will leaving Cragmoor to Elliot—just in case anything should happen to me while Malcolm is still alive. The only thing is, it will be worthless as long as the bastard has that fine extortion he's just forced me to sign. I can't very well give something away that no longer belongs to me, now, can I? I need that document."

  "Oh, Colin, we've got to get it—destroy it."

  "No! I'm going to need it to prove what's been going on here to the constable. He will never believe me without proof, Jean. Howard's seen to that. Just see if you can find out where Malcolm's put it—only that, do not touch it."

  "A . . . all right, Colin."

  "I should be back by the dinner hour tomorrow. I'm going to collect the key to this door from the scullery now. If I arrive in time, I'll slip something into his wine at the table and make matters easier, if not I'll use the key after he goes to sleep tomorrow night and take you out of here. You'll have to be careful ‘til then. I won't be here to protect you. And if Elliot comes don't involve him. His life is in grave danger here, too, now—especially when I'm not in the house. I practically threw him out tonight to keep him from getting in the way. I do have to tell him now, though. I don't have a choice anymore. He's exactly the witness we need. We'll go to him together tomorrow night."

  "Malcolm's coming back, I can't see him now. Go, Colin!” she shrilled.

  "All right, remember what I've said. I won't be far from you this night. If he tries anything—anything at all—scream, Jean. I'll be right next door."

  "Oh, Colin, be careful! Don't go near him, he's got that knife."

  "I can't now until I've filed the will and cancelled that transfer. Don't worry, I'll be careful, and if you do as I've said, we might just be able to end this nightmare without bloodshed. Until tomorrow night."

  * * * *

  By the time Malcolm entered the room, Jean had tugged on her nightgown and settled herself in the chair before the hearth wrapped in the afghan she prayed would hide her trembling beneath. She was terrified for Colin and for herself and for the child within her, but this she couldn't let Malcolm see. Colin had assigned her the task of finding the document. That and that alone motivated her heart to beat then, and in the dimly lit bedchamber she boldly adopted a strategy of distracting the dark youth in hopes of catching a glimpse of the parchment.

  "Waiting up for me, my dear? How touching,” Malcolm chided, stripping off his cloak. “Can it be that I've tamed that rebellious will of yours at last? Do you finally believe I'm in earnest?"

  "How long have you known, Malcolm?” she wondered.

  He pulled off his boots and closed them inside the wardrobe. “I've known from the event of your deflowering—before actually,” he triumphed.

  Taken aback, Jean gasped.

  Malcolm answered the sound with a laugh. “It was the afternoon that I took you out on the cliff after your sitting,” he drawled. “You ran from me and went straight to him. I'd locked the front doors so you'd have to come in through the conservatory. I knew he'd be there, but nothing happened then. He had you later when I went into the village. I even had your bath prepared so you'd be fresh for him."

  Jean gasped again in spite of herself. “But how could you know that?” she breathed. “You couldn't have seen us either time. You weren't in the house."

  Again he laughed. “Quite simple, my dear, nothing mysterious,” he dramatized, shedding his shirt and trousers. “That godawful spice scent he wears was all over you, Jean. I always knew when you'd been with him. I wanted you to go to him, and I knew you would. Didn't you ever wonder why I went off and left the door unlocked? Did you think I was just being careless, my dear? And when he betrayed you and you had your little accident I knew you'd been with him all the while. You had guilt written all over your face, but I had to frighten you enough to make sure that you'd go to him again. The lesser of two evils, as it were. It was all part of my plan—all but this last delicious quirk of fate. I hadn't planned on that there in your belly, but bigod, it's outclassed my design beyond all expectation! Thank you, my dear. This was too much to hope for and far superior to my original plan I dare say."

  "Just what is your plan, Malcolm?"

  "Why, to destroy my uncle, my dear. I thought you knew."

  "You're going to kill me, aren't you?” she realized.

  He nodded. “After that brat is born I'll have no more need of you, Jean. You should be grateful to it; it's bought you a reprieve."

  She watched him slide the door key on a chain and slip it over his head. He brandished it. “There'll be no more unlocked doors, though,” he chortled.

  "If I'm to die it won't matter if you explain all this to me will it?"

  "To what purpose?"

  She shrugged. “No particular purpose. Just curiosity. You've bragged in detail of all your other accomplishments since you were a child of five. Why leave this out?"

  "If you must know, I handpicked you, my dear, to bring my uncle low. You were perfect: beautiful, a lady of quality, and a virgin—that was the most important part you see, and the reason I had to...examine you, as it were, after you ran from me in the States. I had to be sure, Jean. You see that has always been a point of pride with Uncle. If he wasn't so stubborn on that one issue we wouldn't have had all that fracas here four years ago, and I wouldn't have been put off my land."

  "It's not your land, Malcolm."

  "Maybe not then, but it is now, my dear, he's just given it to me, remember?"

  Jean shuddered. For the first time she regretted that she hadn't gone from the house when Colin first begged her to, and she was very afraid. She hadn't meant to bring the conversation around to the document. So far she'd seen no sign of it and she quickly changed the subject. “So you planned it all,” she said.

  "Yes. Does that slake your curiosity at last?"

  "What of Mr. Harris?” she asked him boldly.

  Malcolm's half smile broadened. “Never liked the man,” he admitted. “I tried to eliminate that old weasel when I was a child, but he was too clever for me then."

  "You killed him didn't you?"

  He nodded. “I had to, my dear. He'd seen us on the cliff. He knew there was something wrong between us, thanks to your hysterics, and he was going to go straight to Uncle with it. I had no choice. I couldn't let him tell Uncle then; it was too soon. You two hadn't even been together yet. Oh, I knew he'd have you, my plan depended upon it, but I couldn't take the chance that you might run to the vicar before he did. You were leaning that way, but I knew that once Uncle got you into bed you'd never leave him. But you upset the timing. You forced my hand and Harris caught on too quickly. So technically you were the one who killed the blighter, Jean."

  "And I suppose I'm to blame for Megan's death as well?"

  "Ahhhh,” he breathed, “no, actually Uncle was to blame for that. He never should have sacked her. He should have kept her here and given her a tumble now and then to buy her silence. But, no, he would be faithful to you, my love, and he put her out. She came straight to me with the tale, of course, the bitch, to get back at Uncle for rejecting her. But she had a loose tongue, my dear. I couldn't let word come back ‘round to Uncle that I knew. It wasn't time. So you see, again I had no choice. A pity, too. She was a good lay."

  "You've got what you want now, Malcolm. Cragmoor is yours. You've extorted it brilliantly and, maimed as your uncle is, he's no threat to you any longer. Neither am I. Why don't you
just let us go?"

  Malcolm popped an incredulous laugh. “You think that's all I want here do you, this drafty old mausoleum?” he marveled. “Oh, my dear, the arm was just a windfall. I want the last puff of breath in Uncle's body. I don't just want to ruin him—I want his soul. Cragmoor is only part of it. But you'll see, indeed you will, Jean. Now enough. I'm tiring of this inquisition. Get into that bed and go to sleep. Make no mistake, you had best obey me, my trips to the village have been curtailed now, considering the circumstances, and I arouse easily. If you want your little reprieve to continue, I'd take care not to incite anything if I were you."

  Malcolm shoved Colin's dagger under his pillow and slithered between the sheets. The conversation was over, and Jean climbed into bed almost glad he wasn't going to tell her anything more. But she still hadn't seen the document and that troubled her.

  Beside her Malcolm dropped off to sleep quickly. She knew he didn't have the parchment on his person. He was wearing only his drawers. As she lay there in the darkness she tried to imagine where he might have put it. Could he have left it outside in the stable perhaps? Extremely unlikely; it wouldn't be safe there. Davey Lockwood, or Colin himself might find it. No, she decided that Malcolm would definitely keep him on or close to him. But where? The only pockets his clothing offered were in his suit, and that lay in a heap on the floor where he'd tossed it with the rest of his clothes—all but the boots. He'd closed them in the wardrobe, but she hadn't seen him lock it. Could he have put the document in one of them? He must have done—while he was outside, she realized. Then grown careless gloating over his triumphs, he'd forgotten to lock the wardrobe doors.

  A thrill of discovery washed over her, but she had to be sure, and Malcolm tossed restlessly then. She would have to wait until she was certain he slept soundly before daring to prove her theory. It was going to be the longest wait of her life and the most critical, for she desperately needed her wits about her and she could barely keep her eyes open.