Deliver us from Evil (3 page)

‘
I

he journey back to Woodton was bitterly cold. But if they shivered, Emily and Robert, as they rode behind Captain Foxe's charger, it was not the wind which reached deepest into their bones. Emily stared resolutely at the track ahead of her, Robert all about him at the bleak, dark snows of Salisbury Plain, but both were thinking of the killer, how he might be ahead of them, behind them, anywhere that night. As the winds shrieked, Robert imagined he was hearing a baby's dying wail; as the burial mounds of ancient kings loomed ahead of them off the track, he flinched, lest their shadows be those of lurking fiends. Even Captain Foxe, who had been promoted from the ranks for his courage in the war, and was a byword amongst his men for bravery, seemed unsettled by their journey on that night.

They began to draw nearer to Woodton - but between them and home there was first Stonehenge, and as they approached it, Captain Foxe reined in his horse, peering ahead as though expecting some danger to be awaiting them there. Emily and Robert both halted as well; their eyes by now were adjusted to the dark, and they could easily make out the giant stones, black against the screaming eddies of snow. Captain Foxe rested his palm upon the handle of his pistol; then, as though suddenly embarrassed, he smiled back at the children and, shaking out his reins, spurred his charger on. As he cantered forward, Emily followed him.

Ever more looming now, the ancient stones rose out from the dark. Robert stayed where he was, and wiped at his brow where, despite the cold, a sweat had formed. He gazed up at the stones with surprise, for he felt, as he had never sensed before, how malignant was the circle's mystery, how implacable and blank, as though some monstrous secret lay veiled behind it, which might not, perhaps, be yet altogether dead. He remembered the terror which had filled him in the Cathedral: like the echo of some violent theme, he felt it again now. Suddenly, there was silence: the sound of hooves on the snow, the wailing of the wind, all dropped away, and he imagined he was alone, for everything else seemed absorbed by the stones and their stillness, all the world. He forced himself to turn. He called out his father's name. Captain Foxe looked round. He too had been gazing at the circle; his stare was very wide, and his skin so pale and tight across his bones that his face seemed like a skull.
'
I
felt it!' Robert screamed at him above the wind. '
I
felt it tool' But his father only shook his head, and urged his horse on. Then he cried out suddenly, and pointed. Robert and Emily stared into the snow as it was blown into their faces. Dimly, through the gusts, they could make out a lamp. It was approaching them.

Captain Foxe spurred his horse on once more. Robert heard him shout something, but his words were lost on the gale.

'It is Father!' cried Emily suddenly, her voice light with relief. She shouted his name, waving her arms, and as the horseman drew level with her, she reached out for him. Robert could distinguish Sir Henry Vaughan clearly now: his thin, handsome face, his old-fashioned Cavalier's beard and moustache. He swept up his daughter from her pony's back, and hugged her tightly, so tightly indeed that he seemed almost to be convincing himself that she was truly in his arms. Robert wondered what news there was, to have persuaded Sir Henry to ride out on such a terrible night; for that some dread was haunting him could easily be read in his face. He kissed Emily once more, and settled her back on her horse; then he turned to Captain Foxe, and beckoned him aside. He began to whisper in a low, urgent manner; Robert couldn't hear what was said above the screaming of the gale, but as he watched his father, he saw him start, and shake his head, and grow very pale. Sir Henry did not speak for long; Captain Foxe asked him some further questions and then sat, head bowed in silence, frozen in his saddle. He seemed to whisper a prayer; then he turned to Emily and Robert, and beckoned them on. Robert thought that he had never seen his father's face set so angry and grim - unless, perhaps, in the Cathedral that same afternoon.

Captain Foxe glanced round at him. 'Robert.' He reached out to stroke his son's hair. 'We must always trust in God to fulfil His ways,' he murmured, as though to himself. Then he turned in his saddle again, staring directly at the road ahead. Woodton lay beyond the next ridge. 'You must guard your mother closely tonight,' he said. '
I
may have much to do, and she will need you by her side.'

Robert waited. 'Will you not be with us when Hannah cooks the goose?' he finally dared to ask.

'There will be no goose.'

Captain Foxe said nothing more and, as they approached the brow of the ridge, he began to ride faster again. The full horror of what he had said only gradually registered with Robert. No goose?
No goose.
And to be told so abruptly. It was not his father's usual habit to dispense his decisions in such a brutal manner. What could have happened? He wondered again what news Sir Henry had brought to his father. Robert looked for them both; they had passed into the small wood which lay ahead of them on the Hack. Calling out to Emily to do the same, Robert dug in his spurs. Beneath the bare, dank boughs, they cantered through the mud.

Following the path which brought them out of the wood, Robert reined in his horse. Ahead of him he could make out the hearth-fires of Woodton, but Captain Foxe and Sir Henry had both turned aside from the path, and were heading towards a gateway in an old, decaying wall. Beyond it, Robert knew, lay Wolverton Hall, where a Cavalier lord had once lived; but he had been killed in the war, and his seat had lain deserted ever since. Robert called out to Emily, and together they followed their fathers down the track; they had thought they would be ordered back, but Captain Foxe seemed scarcely aware of anyone now, and Sir Henry did not even look round, and so the four of them together approached the wall.

Behind it, entombed beneath snow, lay the old gardens. Emily and Robert had sometimes played in them; but both their fathers had discouraged them and, indeed, the children had observed how little any of the villagers spoke of the place, still less visited it. Robert's father, as Commissioner for the district, might by rights have settled in the Hall, but he had preferred to return to his old home after the war; and everyone, it seemed, was content to see the estate fall into decay. Even Robert and Emily, while exploring the grounds, had never dared to penetrate the house; why, Robert couldn't say; save that they were only young and had been influenced, perhaps, by the whisperings of their elders, although they were neither of them naturally cowards in their play, and delighted, indeed, in exploring deserted ruins, enjoying the pleasure that they found in their fear. But there would be no pleasure felt that night, Robert knew, no pleasure at all - for his fear was damper and colder than the snow, and reached deep into the very marrow of his bones. And Robert remembered what the minister in the Cathedral had said, that the Devil was abroad; and he thought of the Dark Spirit not as he had been taught to do, enthroned amongst Hell flames, but as a god of ice, beneath whose touch all the world must grow chill. He stared before him and prayed, but it did not comfort
his
spirits, for the chill seemed on his soul and his words could not rise up to God; and so Robert thought then - which as a child he had never felt before - how he was lost amidst the vale of Mortality.

Emily made a face at him. 'You look even gloomier than you did before,' she said. 'It frightens me, Robert, when you look so solemn.'

She rode up closer so that she could shelter beside him. 'Can you tell what has happened?'

But Robert shook his head. And indeed, despite the sudden despair he had felt, there was nothing he could see which he immediately understood. The snow-storm was abating now. Ahead of them, a stretch of level ground which must once have been a lawn extended as far as the house; the snow was much churned up with tracks. Directly before the empty doorway of the house, a group of some six or seven men was gathered. Robert recognised one of them as Mr Gerrard Webbe, who preached universal salvation to the villages about Salisbury, calling for the levelling of privilege and wealth so that the oppressed might establish a heaven on earth. Once, though, in the days before the war, he had been a surgeon; and sometimes, as he went from place to place, Mr Webbe would still be called on to minister to the sick. Robert suddenly wondered in what capacity, whether as a surgeon or a man of God, he was serving now; for as Mr Webbe knelt with his back to him in the snow, Robert was unmistakably reminded of how his father had knelt in the Cathedral, head bowed, gazing down at the body of the murdered child. As then, so now, the view was obscured; but Robert felt, with a sudden shudder of certainty, that he scarcely needed to see what Mr Webbe was examining. Another person was dead: the killer -the sorcerer .
..
whatever he might be .
..
the
demon
- had killed again. And at the same moment as he understood this, he realised how clearly he could see all that lay before him; he gazed up at the front of the house, and saw how every window was illumined by candle flames, so that a patchwork of shadow and gold lit up the snows.

'Hannah,' he cried aloud.

He had not meant to speak. His father turned in his saddle, and frowned. He opened his mouth, as though to ask Robert a question; but then his frown deepened still further, and when he did speak it was to order his son away. Robert went without complaint; indeed, with relief. He had no wish to break his father's commands a second time. He glanced back at the candles again - and then thought of Hannah: imagined her dead; her belly ripped open for the life inside. He did not want to believe it, but he did - for he was certain now whose baby they had seen, scooped up in his father's arms; and he remembered the anguished cry of the Cathedral minister, his despairing question, 'Why?'

As Robert looked about him, they passed out from the gardens, and left the candle flames behind. All was black again. Suddenly, a fresh eddy of snow scudded across his face. The wind screamed through the trees, but he could only hear, not see, the boughs as they creaked; and beyond them, no matter how terrible the gale, the stones would be standing silent on the plain. Robert shivered; and when Emily met his gaze, not asking any questions now, he could think only of how he did not want her to be dead as Hannah was: her bright eyes to dim - her plump, soft body to turn cold and blue like the snow. He reached out to squeeze her arm, but at their backs the wind continued to moan; and when Emily whispered that she was scared, Robert could think of nothing comforting to say.

Emily's father was riding ahead of them, and it was he who broke the silence at last. He did not speak of the scene they had just left, but when he mentioned that Mrs Foxe was staying with Lady Vaughan, Robert knew for certain that it was Hannah who was dead. Only a terrible tragedy could have persuaded his mother to leave her home on such a night; certainly, nothing else could have persuaded her to stay with Lady Vaughan, who always reduced her to a state of nervous over-awe. Robert's mother had worked as a servant in Salisbury before her marriage, whereas Lady Vaughan was the wife of a gentleman. Mrs Foxe could never forget this; not even though her husband and Sir Henry were the best of friends, not even though, since the war, all the world was turned upside down, the small made great and the great made small. It was Captain Foxe, after all, who had saved the Vaughans from being utterly beggared after the war, for Sir Henry had been a tireless partisan of the King, and might have had his property confiscated had not Captain Foxe pleaded his cause. Although it was never spoken of by his parents, Robert knew this, because Emily had told him everything; and in truth, his mother had no cause to be timid, for Lady Vaughan had always shown her the utmost affection and respect. Robert knew
it
was she who had refused to discourage Emily from playing with him; and for that alone, he would always honour her.

And indeed, when he arrived at the Vaughans' house to discover his mother folded in Lady Vaughan's embrace, his sense of gratitude was reinforced, for although his mother's face was white and pinched with grief, he knew that without her neighbour's comforting she would have been paler still. Lady Vaughan surrendered her; Mrs Foxe's relief at seeing her son was very evident, but he saw her
flinch
when he was offered supper and, although she encouraged him to eat, Robert knew she was thinking of the goose they would never now have cooked. She said nothing, however, about Hannah, and continued silent as they returned to their home; only once Robert's horse had been stabled and he held her in his arms, did she at last start to talk. She confirmed, what he had almost forgotten needed confirmation, that it was indeed Hannah who was dead. All day, Sir Henry and a group of villagers had been searching, ever since the alarm had first been raised that morning - at which point Hannah had already been missing for several hours. Not until after sunset had the body finally been found. Robert asked if it was the candles which had first drawn the search party to Wolverton Manor; but his mother looked blank. She had heard no mention of candles. Robert let the matter drop.

Mrs Foxe rose at length and drew out her Bible. She hugged it to herself; then began to turn the much-thumbed pages, like someone lost who is scanning a map. Together, she and her son studied them for several hours. Mrs Foxe could not read, but she knew the words of scripture almost by heart, and those parts she could not remember she would narrate as she saw fit. In this way, she found a gradual balm for her grief; and for Hannah, the servant who had also been her dearest friend, a tribute of tender and heartfelt love.

It began to grow
l
ate.
At
length, as they sat there together at their reading, Robert and his mother were joined by Mr Webbe. Mrs Foxe rose to greet him, but he gestured her to sit down. Gently, he kissed her on her brow. ' "He that is without sin among you,"' he murmured, ' "let him first cast a stone at her." ' Mrs Foxe stared up at him, then reached for the Bible from Robert's lap, to find the place where the verse could be found. But she did not need her son to read the story to her; she knew it well enough; for she had quoted it often in defence of Hannah who, like the woman brought before Jesus, had been taken in adultery. Mrs Foxe spoke the verses again now, and when she repeated Christ's words of forgiveness and hope, Mr Webbe joined with her: '
"
I
am the light of the world," ' they proclaimed together; ' "he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life." ' Mrs Foxe began to smile. 'She has reached her journey's end, Mr Webbe,' she said. 'My Hannah and her child, they are at rest now, with Him whose company is Peace-after-life.' Then she turned to Robert, and hugged him tightly. She was still smiling. But down her cheeks, tears were flowing in silent tracks.