This Other Eden (47 page)

He
had no destination, only a need to run, to escape the outrage in his soul, the
memory seared on his eyes of the abused and battered body, of the something
white hanging.

Thomas
slept poorly, a restless night compounded by unsatisfied desire and too much
food. At the first streak of dawn, he turned feverishly, the bed linens knotted
about his chest. Through one half-opened eye he spied a cold gray sky spitting
snow. He prayed earnestly that no one disturb him for the better part of the
day.

Unfortunately,
before the prayer had left his mind, he heard a knock at the door. "Thomas,
let me in, please." Recognizing Billy's voice, Thomas drew his robe about
him. His annoyance at being awakened so early passed. He was eager to hear all.
"Coming, Billy," he called out

"Please,
Thomas, hurry."

What
a night it must have been. Robed at last, Thomas opened the door. Before he
could say a word, Billy pushed past him, his hands reaching out as though he
were being pursued. Nervously he moved to the center of the room, then glanced
fearfully back at the still opened door. "Close it, Thomas," he
whispered. "Close it and lock it"

Bewildered,
Thomas did as he was told. From the door he looked back at the young man.
"Billy," he began, "what—"

But
the young man fell into the chair and buried his face in his hands, weeping,
his slight shoulders heaving under the duress of emotion. "Thomas, I—told
you not to bring her," he sobbed. "I told you—I wanted —no
part—"

As
the sobs increased, Thomas could only stare. Slowly he went to Billy's side and
drew a chair close. "What happened, Billy?" he asked softly. "It
couldn't be as bad as this. I wanted to give you pleasure, not grief." Up
close he saw a scratch on the young face, the blood partially dried, clearly
caused by a woman's nails. "Yell me all, Billy," he urged, his
concern slipping back into amusement. In his varied and rich experience, he'd
received a few such scratches himself. They were honorable battle scars,
usually representing a sweet victory.

At
the invitation to speak, Billy lifted a tear-streaked face.
"I'm—afraid," he faltered, "I'm afraid I hurt her."

At
this, Thomas had to turn away to hide a smile. To the virginal Billy, the act
must have seemed unspeakably violent. "I assure you," Thomas soothed,
"you did not hurt her. The female anatomy is designed for only one
purpose, to accommodate the male. She might have given the impression that she
was being injured, but I assure you she was not"

"No,
Thomas," the young man pleaded. "There was—more, much more."
Overcome by emotion, he buried his face in his hands again, the sobs
increasing.

Thomas
was on the verge of urging Billy to speak again, when outside in the corridor
and above the young man's sobs, he heard a peculiar commotion, voices rising,
footsteps approaching, prolonged wails of women weeping.

Billy
heard it and looked terrified toward the door. "Oh, dear God," he
whispered.

Thomas
stood, confused.

A
loud knock came at the door. A man's voice shouted, "Milord, open
up!"

The
impudence of the caller was overlooked in the rising mystery. Thomas started
toward the door. "Who is—"

Suddenly
the door burst open. Thomas stepped back as though under assault Out of the
comer of his eye he saw Billy scramble to the far comer of the room, his arms
shielding his face, as though to ward off blows.

Then
his attention was drawn back to the push of people who now crowded into his
chamber, staff members all, many weeping openly, led by Dolly Wisdom, her face
a distortion of grief and horror. Directly behind her he saw two of the
porters. They appeared to be carrying something. He caught only a glimpse of
white fabric.

"Milord,"
Dolly said, weeping. "Begging your pardon. But we felt you should
know—"

The
poor woman lifted her apron and covered her face. As she stepped to one side a
silence filled the room. The porters moved forward with their awkward cargo and
gently deposited it at his feet

Thomas
looked down. He felt a peculiar absence of breath.
Sweet
God. He closed
his eyes, then opened them. Elfie's body was before him, twisted in a macabre
position, the hands, those sweet hands he himself had examined the night
before, limp at her sides, the rope still around her neck, and the severed
remains of other ropes tied to her ankles, as though she had been restrained in
some way, tied like an animal-He could look no longer. Turning away, he leaned
heavily on the table, the atrocity still fresh before his eyes. He felt a
sickness in the pit of his stomach. "How—did it happen?"

A
man's voice, strong, without margin, answered. "We was hoping, milord,
that you might tell us."

He
heard Dolly's voice again, strained from weeping. "Ragland found her,
milord, this rooming he found her, hanged by her own hand. But something
happened to her before. Something happened—"

Slowly
Thomas raised his eyes to Billy, still cowering in the corner. "Billy,"
he shouted, anger rising. "What in the name of God—"

Suddenly
the young man bolted from the room. He pushed past the weeping faces and
disappeared down the corridor. Several of the watchmen started after him, but
Thomas commanded, "No! Leave him to me!"

At
the sound of his Lordship's voice, the men retreated. Thomas looked down at the
pitiful body at his feet Such waste. Such a lovely flower. His eyes filled with
embarrassing tears. Quickly he turned away. "Where's Ragland?" he
murmured. He had to explain to him, had to make him understand what Thomas
himself did not understand.

"Gone,
milord," Dolly said. "He ran out of the gate this morning, and we've
not seen—" Tears overtook her again. She fell silent.

Feeling
weak and sick, Thomas looked back at the waiting faces. "I'm very sorry,"
he said. "And I promise you justice. But first we must find Ragland and
give the child a proper burial. Then I assure you that I will—"

Overcome,
he could not finish. He bowed his head and heard a slight rustle as the porters
lifted her and bore her upward. He heard the scuffle of feet as his staff
retreated, the women weeping.

Old
Dolly stayed for an apology. "I'm sorry, milord. We felt you should
know."

Without
looking at her, Thomas nodded. "You were right, Dolly."

The
door closed behind him. He stared down at the place where the girl had lain.
His head throbbed. The sight of the body was still etched on his memory.

He
had brought Billy the perfect gift. He had intended no harm to anyone. Slowly,
out of his grief, anger surfaced. He wheeled around, his eyes falling on the
comer where Billy had recently taken refuge.

"Billy!"
he shouted, his voice echoing about the empty chamber. He ran out the door, his
mind reeling under the tragedy of the morning. The young man must be found.

"
Billy
!"

Three
days after Elfie's death, Thomas sat outside the door which led to the chapel.
He wondered bleakly if there were any spot on earth where he might avail
himself of a moment's peace.

He
leaned heavily forward in the chair, still waiting, as he'd been waiting for
the last three days for Billy to emerge from his self-imposed ordeal of fasting
and atonement. The door had been bolted from the inside. On several occasions
Thomas had considered ordering his men to break it down. But it was a priceless
piece of carving and thus a high price to pay for a few words with a repentant
young man who seemed to suffer from dual natures.

He shivered
and drew his cloak about him. He longed for the comfort of a fire and hot food.
But his vigil was payment to his staff, whom he knew expected at least the
facade of justice. What had happened was deplorable. He must question the
foolish young man and, as punishment, send him packing back to Fonthill
Splendons. After a period of time, when his staff had settled back in
obedience, and old Ragland had returned from God knew where, his relationship
with Billy could be resumed.

Thomas
rested his head in his hands and tried to make sense out of the tragic
incident. Was he himself totally blameless? No! He was not.

At
this moment he had a dozen men, led by Russell Locke, searching for Ragland. At
his age, the old man was ill-prepared to care for himself. The cold would so
easily overtake him. As soon as he was found and brought back and warmed,
Thomas would try to explain all.

In
a rage, he flew at the carved doors and pounded on them, shouting, "A
word, if you will, Billy. I order you to appear."

His
shouts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, a sharp clack of
boots moving purposefully up the stairs. As he raised his head, he saw Russell
Locke at the far end of the corridor, carrying his heavy riding gloves in his
hand, his hair windblown, his face revealing nothing.

"Any
word?" Thomas called out while he was still a distance away.

But
the young man apparently refused to answer until he'd appeared before Thomas
and bowed low. All homage paid, Locke looked directly down on him where he sat
in the chair. "A report, milord," he announced proudly.

"Well?"

"A
body, sir, was washed up this morning on the beach at Mortemouth."

Thomas
sat up. Was there an epidemic of dying? "Ragland?" he asked hoarsely.

"No,
milord," Locke replied. "A much younger man, in the uniform of a
French sailor."

Thomas
fell back into the chair, closing his eyes and lifting them heavenward.

"It's
our judgment," Locke went on, "me and the men, I mean, that he fell
overboard. The sailor, I mean—"

"Anything
else?" Thomas demanded.

Locke
shifted his weight from one boot to the other. "Jack Spade claims to have
seen old Ragland two nights ago, said he saw him outside his window, said he
was going to kill him for fetching up the girl—"

"Then
place a guard around Jack Spade," Thomas ordered, though in truth he
didn't take the threat seriously. Old Ragland was incapable of killing anyone.
"Anything else?" Thomas asked.

The
young man ducked his head. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, sir—"

"What?"

Hesitantly,
he pointed toward the doors which led to the chapel. "Those hinges, sir,
could be easily removed, that is, if you really want—"

Thomas
swiveled about, studying the door. There were six large brass hinges, three on
either side. It did seem a simple matter to unbolt three of them, then remove
one side of the door. Why hadn't he thought of it?

Russell
went on, "I mean, sir, if you really want to see inside—"

"Yes,"
Thomas agreed eagerly. "A sound idea. Be about it if you will."

Locke
beamed under his Lordship's praise and produced from the folds of his jacket
the necessary tools, a blunt-nosed hammer and wooden wedge.

It
took over an hour of steady pounding to loosen the ancient bolts. Thomas stood
to one side and watched the perseverance of the young man. Perhaps he shouldn't
be so harsh in his judgment of him. He was a good, trusted, and obedient lad, a
possible replacement for Ragland, in the event—

With
a clatter the last hinge fell to the floor. The door freed, Locke put his
shoulder to it and pried it open a sufficient space for one person to pass
through.

"Good
job," Thomas commended him. "I'll take it from here."

"You
sure you—"

"I'm
sure. Go along and find yourself a pint of ale. You've earned it."