Ignoring her whimpering he turned away, his cold eyes fixed upon the ceiling, meanwhile working the dagger in his hands again. It seemed an eternity before he spoke, and when the words finally came they gained a little volume with each caustic syllable until the room was filled with a malevolent reverberation of sound.
"Oh, yes,” he snarled, “I'll let you have the bastard, and I'll raise it as a bastard, as I was raised a bastard, and it shall be called bastard, as I am called bastard. That will be its name as Uncle has made it mine, and it will be as I am because I am!"
"And it will grow and destroy you, just as you have destroyed its father, bastard!"
"Oh, no, Jean,” he promised. Stopping in his tracks he stared at her, his glazed eyes dilated with excitement. “It will destroy him all right, have no fear of that. He'll never leave you alone here with me and that child. He'll stay, my dear, to watch me make of his bastard what he's made of me.” He erupted in a hideous misshapen laugh that resounded through the room. “He won't be able to lift a finger toward it, either or I'll cut him down and you along with him. Then I'll have the bastard all to myself, Jean. Either way the winning hand is mine."
"He never made you what you are, Malcolm; the devil's done that. I'd rather kill the child myself outright than let you look upon it."
"You have nothing to say about it, Jean,” he said coldly. “Once the bastard is born, I'll have you as I've so often described and you, my dear, will die as mad as my mother."
"Why, Malcolm?” she breathed.
He shrugged. “Why not? When Uncle's done I'll have a new source of amusement. You're going to watch him come down, your precious Colin, and you won't be able to do one thing about it.” He pointed with the dagger. “Take good care of that there in your belly, Jean,” he triumphed, “this is one Chapin bastard that's wanted!” He seized her arm and propelled her toward the four-poster. “Now get into bed,” he snapped, “I'm sick to death of that rasping whine. You'd best do as I say or you might just persuade me to change my mind and use this after all."
Jean crept under the quilt edging away as Malcolm thrust the dagger inside his pillowslip and climbed in beside her. Fear that Colin would turn the key in the lock before sleep took him set her heart racing beneath the thin batiste gown. She lay very still listening to the ugly voice of the storm. Outside the rain was slacking between squalls, though the wind beat hard against the windowpanes rattling them in their frames. It assailed the eaves and tore at the pilasters relentlessly in the darkness, and the shutters knocked against the walls, like lost souls seeking refuge.
She longed for sleep. Every fiber in her sore, throbbing body ached for it. Lying there she fought to keep her eyelids open. They seemed to be shutting of their own volition while she listened to the rhythm of Malcolm's deep slumber with a jealous ear. Cautiously she sat up in the bed. Though it creaked beneath her he didn't move and she got up and went to the window, pressing her palms against the rain-cooled panes. The shuddering glass revived her, and she strained her eyes toward the night without. It was dreary and cold leaning against the window; more like November than May.
The moaning wind rose sharply driving another shower landward and fresh rain vied for her attention. The sea shivered beyond the cliff. She could see the ugly blackness in motion. Here and there the whitecaps spilled over frosting the swells. They sped toward their predecessors gnawing hungrily at the rockbound shingle below and rolled up the face of the cliff tossing spittle high on the wind.
The night repulsed her and she turned away stealing to the chair and sat on the edge of it in a stiff-back pose. She longed to curl up there and sleep, but she dared not afford herself that luxury. Instead she waited, straining her ears over the racket of the wind—over the thunder of her heartbeat and the echo of Malcolm's snores—for the sound of Colin's key in the lock.
That sound came just after one in the morning.
The moment she saw the doorknob turn she slipped out of the chair with a close eye upon Malcolm's heavy breathing behind, and stepped into the hallway and the custody of Colin's strong arm as he opened the door.
"Where are your clothes—your shoes, Jean?” he whispered.
"He's locked them in the wardrobe, Colin."
"You'll have to go as you are, then, there's no time; I'm sorry."
Hurrying her toward he landing, he slipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her. “This will have to suffice,” he said. “Elliot must still have some of Emily's clothes at the vicarage. I've saddled a horse. We've got to hurry."
"The document,” she cried, sailing down the stairs beside him, “I found it—I took it, Colin."
"I told you not to touch it, Jean!"
"It's all right—it is. He doesn't know I've taken it."
"Where is it? What did you do with it?"
"The vicar has it."
Colin stopped dead in his tracks. “You told Elliot?” he breathed.
"No, Colin, I didn't,” she assured him. “Malcolm provoked him and he started to go into another seizure. I had his jacket. Malcolm wasn't watching. He was trying to kill him, Colin. He was trying to talk that poor man right into his grave! I slipped the parchment into his jacket pocket right along with his medicine. He doesn't know—he didn't see."
"Oh, Christ, but he will. Was it serious—is he all right?"
"He said it was just a twinge."
"Ahhhh, he'll say that on his deathbed. I've got to get to him before he finds that document. Whatever possessed you to do such a thing—take such a risk? If the bastard had discovered it missing he would have killed you."
"It was in his boot, Colin. How could you have gotten it from there without a confrontation? I had to take it. It's all right; it's out of the house. It's safe with the vicar. Malcolm won't go after it there."
With no more said he hurried her outside and led her toward the stable through a fine misty drizzle falling from the clouds. The drive was awash with puddles and before she'd taken three steps the hem of her gown was soaked, clinging to her bare feet and ankles.
"Hold fast ‘round my neck,” he charged. Lifting her in his right arm, he raised her feet out of the water and carried her over the spongy heath plowing through the waterfowl, nestled in the tall dripping grass spears and furze, to the stable.
Once inside the stable doors, he set her down and searched her gaunt face. “You haven't slept have you?” he murmured, stroking her cheek.
She turned her head, kissing the fingers that caressed her, and took him in her arms.
"You look so tired, Jean,” he worried, “you need sleep. You're exhausted. I'm so sorry, my love—for all of it. You'll be all right once I get you to Elliot. He'll take good care of you, you'll see.” Exhausted himself, he took a weary breath. “Now listen to me,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I want you to tell him what's going on here, but for God's sake do it gently. Have him send the sexton for the constable straightaway. I'll be waiting for him here. I want you to go into the church—just in case. Stay there with Elliot until I come for you. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"No matter what happens, you are to stay there and keep him there. You've got to keep him out of here until this is done."
"What are you going to do, Colin?” she begged him, looking through tears.
"Never you mind about me. If all goes well I won't have to do anything. But it ends here tonight however it must—that I can promise you. Just do as I've said. Keep Elliot occupied, and let me handle it."
"Oh, Colin, be careful!” she cried. “He has that dagger, it's in his pillowslip. Don't go near him. He did kill Mr. Harris, and Megan, too—he admitted it."
"Shhhh,” he murmured, “I know, Jean. I heard.” He popped a bitter laugh, remembering. “I gave that dagger to my father the Christmas before I turned sixteen,” he said. “I always tried so hard to please him, but I never could. He literally threw that blade back in my face—told me to return it and have the shopkeeper refund what I'd paid. Perhaps I should ha
ve. I kept it instead as a memento of my folly. Its been a bloody curse ever since.” Her tears dissolved his reverie and he soothed her gently. “Don't cry, it's going to be all right, but there's no more time. We've got to go now."
Tangling his hand in her long coppery hair, he bent her head back gazing into her eyes. “I will have you—I will have you both!” he groaned, crushing her close against him. Anxiously he found her lips and covered them with his own, swallowing the moan in her throat and the salt of her tears along with it.
From behind, a burst of blood-chilling laughter wrenched them apart, and they spun to face Malcolm leaning in the stable doorway with his arms folded across his chest and the dagger poised ready. Wearing only his drawers, he stood where the wind rushed in whipping them about his sturdy legs and tossing the Gypsy hair about his smooth white brow.
Overhead Harris’ old lantern flickered above the loft ladder, the clang of its motion like a death knell pealing through the musky stable below. Malcolm glanced up toward it, his laughter trailing off on the wind. “Harris is no longer here to raise his pistol is he, Uncle?” he triumphed. “Nor is the mighty Exchequer about to bolt from the wind to your rescue. It has come at last—our moment!"
"Noooo,” shrieked Jean, darting between them, “my God, Malcolm, noooo!"
"Run, Jean,” Colin thundered, “go—go to Elliot!"
Malcolm laughed and sprang. Clamping his hand over Jean's shoulder, he flung her aside and she fell to the floor against Exchequer's old stall. She struck it hard with the small of her back. Moaning, she doubled over in pain clutching her middle and lay dazed in the straw.
Rage launched Colin's deadly right fist, driving the dark youth down. But Jean's cries had his attention and he sank to his knees gathering her against him.
"Oh, Colin. The child . . . I've pain,” she groaned.
Murmuring her name he cradled her close.
From the loft above the lantern flame dipped low, attacked by the drafts spilling in through the stable doors. After a moment it burned brighter again, and over Colin's shoulder Jean's moist eyes caught a glint of reflected light bouncing off the blade in Malcolm's hand as he staggered toward them with the weapon raised.
"Colin! Look out!” she screamed.
Laying her down he spun, but too late. Malcolm had reached him, and before he could stand, the dark youth raised his leg high and drove his foot into the stump of Colin's severed arm with all his might, sending him backward, splayed out at his feet.
Colin cried out, his body contorted in pain where he lay writhing in the straw, and Malcolm dove sinking the dagger deep in his chest as he floundered there.
Jean scrambled to his side. The troop of screams tearing at her throat rang in her ears, though they seemed to be coming from somewhere else far off in the distance as she stared in horror toward Colin dying beside her. Shrieking his name, she held him against her, trying to hold back the blood running in rivulets from the blade buried to the silver hilt in his chest until her hands and gown were soaked with it.
"Run, Jean. For God's sake . . . run,” he pleaded.
But she scarcely heard him over her screams as she knelt there clutching his head to her breast.
"Enough!” spat Malcolm. Hooking his talons around her wrist, he yanked her into his arms. Smiling down toward Colin, his onyx eyes shone in the soft halo of lamp glow. “Still with us, are you? Good!” he said, wiping blood from his mouth.
"Bastard!” Colin spat through twisted lips.
Malcolm's smile spread wide. “Yes,” he savored, “just as I planned! I haven't poor aim, Uncle, I want you to linger awhile. There's something I want you to watch before you go. But be of good cheer, she'll be following right along after you."
In one barbarous wrench he tore her nightgown down the front and drove her to the floor at his feet, ignoring the frantic hands that clawed and beat at his rock-hard body as he forced himself between her legs and attempted to take her.
Clutching the dagger and the wound around it, Colin tried to raise himself on his elbow, but he couldn't, and he inched his way toward them on his side with Jean's screams echoing in his ears. He groaned trying to crawl closer, but his cries were lost in the misshapen sound of Malcolm's laughter and Jean's screams. And he soon lay helpless for the effort, staring through eyes nearly blind with agony toward the dark thing grappling with her on the moldy, hay strewn floor.
All he could think of then was freeing the dagger and driving it into Malcolm's back—with his last breath if need be—to spare Jean the rape he knew was imminent. Gripping the hilt, he tried to shift it, grinding his teeth into the pain. He'd worked it nearly halfway out of the wound when blood gushed out around the blade—a flood of it flowing over his chest, draining his color as it siphoned his strength.
Suddenly everything began to dim, though the lantern burned brightly above. For a split second Colin froze there before the light failed altogether. Then as dark trickles of blood bubbled up in his throat and leaked through his twisted lips, he convulsed, emptied his lungs, and fell back dead in the straw.
Watching, still pinned beneath the dark youth's powerful body, Jean screamed. Her desperate cry in the shape of Colin's name resounded from the rafters like a living presence. The wind sucked it away and it melted to a murmur in the shadows, though its quintessential life force lived after it, searching for his. Moaning, she stared past Malcolm's shoulder toward Colin, so still, his lifeless eyes fixed vacantly upon the lantern quivering in the loft above, his hand fused to the embossed silver hilt of the dagger buried in his chest.
But Malcolm gave her no time to mourn. He pulled back sharply and wrenched her to her feet. “Sorry to make an end to this half done,” he spat, hauling her through the stable doors, “but I no longer take Uncle's leavings, Jean. Come along, my dear, you're about to have another nasty accident!"
* * * *
It was almost midnight when Elliot reached St. Michael's. He was physically and emotionally spent. It was all he could do to unhitch Ely from the trap and make his way into the vicarage.
Relieved at sight of him, Rina issued a proper scolding while brewing a pot of tea, which she brought to his chamber minutes after his arrival. He had discarded his slicker and jacket, loosened his collar, and was seated at the writing desk making an entry in his journal when she left the tea service with him and excused herself to retire. But for once in his life the vicar wasn't interested in the comfort of a relaxing cup of tea. He scarcely noticed the silver tray or the inviting aroma wafting toward him from the gate-leg table, and the steaming brew soon grew cold in the pot.
As he wrote he tried to make sense of the hours just passed, but there was no sense to be made of it. He glanced at the teapot finally. ‘Tea makes all things civilized', he thought; one of his favorite maxims, and one he'd coined himself. But he couldn't make it fit the bizarre circumstances before him this time. It was going to take more than a cup of Rina's tea to transform what he was recording in his diary into anything that could even remotely be deemed civilized.
He had begun to chronicle the seizure that Malcolm had nearly provoked when he remembered his medicine. He'd gotten into the habit of carrying it with him during the day and keeping it on his nightstand when he retired ever since the last attack that had very nearly claimed him. But that wasn't out of fear for his life. Elliot wasn't afraid of death, only of dying before he could discover what was wrong at Cragmoor.
Getting up stiffly he went to the wardrobe and groped his jacket pocket for the vial. But his fingers closed around something else—the document, and he lifted the vial and the parchment out and carried them to the nightstand. There, he set the bottle down in its customary place and moved on to the desk again where he sat to examine his find in the lamplight.
His heart leapt as he read the words written in cold barrister's language assigning Cragmoor to Malcolm. He examined Colin's signature. It was authentic; he knew it as well as he knew his own. His frantic eyes moved down the page to Jean's shaky s
crawl. He had no knowledge of her handwriting, but it was clear to him by the unsteady, broken script peppered with ink splatter that it had been written, if nothing else, in great haste, and more likely in great fear. That Colin would ever sign such a thing voluntarily he knew was ludicrous, and he began to piece bits of the puzzle together.
There was only one way that parchment could have gotten into his pocket. Jean must have put it there. Only she had custody of his jacket. But why? What was she trying to tell him? All at once he knew! It was as if a dense fog had been lifted. His mind raced backward in retrospect, and all of the loose ends he'd struggled with began to knit together. The enigma that had confounded him since the day Malcolm brought Jean into that house was suddenly exposed to the light. His imagination did the rest, and suddenly it was all so clear. How had he not seen it before?
His mind reeled back to the events of the past two days. Colin's bloodied head and hand, and his cryptic words coincided with the event of the document spread out on the desk blotter before him. Suddenly he thought of Jean's unborn child and his heart leapt again. Could it be Colin's? Was that what he dared not confide? If that were so, Jean was in grave danger, and he grabbed his jacket and slicker from the wardrobe and ran back out to the stable.
Ely complained, stomping the ground as Elliot hitched him back up to the trap. It was nearly one in the morning, and the animal was clearly out of sorts for the disturbance after a full day of service in foul weather. But the vicar paid him no mind. Minutes later, the trap was flying over the footpath on its way back to Cragmoor through a stiff wind that chased the clouds away from the full moon after the storm. It shone down eerily over the ring of stones as he passed it by. They seemed to be waiting like silent spectators to events somehow predestined. Their role in the macabre events of the Cragmoor legacy was over now. They'd played it well, and it wasn't until that moment that the vicar realized they belonged to the past. Their power had ended with the dark youth's exile four years earlier. They'd grown impotent now, for Malcolm had abandoned them. He no longer needed the protection of their energy. Whatever strength he drew from that mysterious place in the past was gotten elsewhere now, and Elliot shuddered, fearful of what that source might be. But he put those thoughts to rest as Ely galloped over the rise and the trap careened toward the circular drive in front of the great house, waiting like a sleeping giant in the darkness.
Rape of the Soul Page 67