Descent Into Dust (16 page)

I squeezed my eyes shut to brace myself, then opened them. “I somehow see things others do not. I seem to…feel somehow that which is there but not there. I believe something foul is presently loose here, in Avebury.”

He was very still, then collected himself and turned back toward the altar. We stayed like that, sitting together in silence, the church’s grand art, overly wrought and nearly hysterical, all around us.

Finally, he asked, “Have you spoken of these things to anyone?”

“I have, but I cannot tell you whom.” It stung whenever I recollected Mr. Fox’s inquiries. “He cannot, or will not, help. I cannot explain further.”

“Is he an agent of this evil?”

“I believe he is not. I have seen evidence that he wishes to defeat it. In fact, he was the one who saved my life by killing this…creature.”

“Twice, you said.”

“Yes. Once when the revenant was as a man and then again later, when it rose after death.”

“That is heresy,” he said, but there was no condemnation in his tone. The words were spoken flatly, as if merely stating a fact.

“He does not confide in me. I know only that he, too, believes a child is in the sights of an evil being.”

“A child?” he whispered, visibly stricken with grief. “Little Henrietta Dulwich, is it? Your cousin’s daughter?”

“Yes,” I said. I found I was trembling. “It is Henrietta.”

Bowing his head, he contemplated this. And I realized, with a sudden shock and relief, that he was not disbelieving me. He had not laid his hands on me and compelled the demon of madness to depart from my soul. He had not vacated me from his presence in rage or indignation. And he had not so much as flinched when I spoke the word “vampire.”

“I will tell you your penance, my child,” he said, his voice restored to its baritone crispness. “Three Our Fathers, a heartfelt Act of Contrition, which you can find written out in one of the pew missals, and a decade of the rosary.”

I was deeply disappointed. “And in addition to these prayers, can you offer the benefit of any particular council?” I asked wanly. “I could use some practical aid.”

“That you cease such talk.” He turned to look at me, his expression serious and a warning in the depths of his eyes. “You shall find yourself contending with consequences no one would desire.”

“Wise words,” I agreed. “But what if it is a matter of life and death?”

His expression was reminiscent of that which I had seen so often on the face of Mr. Fox, the look of a man willing to take but not to give. Behind his Roman collar, Father Luke regarded me with unfathomable, but not undisguised, calculation. I’d been a fool to reveal so much, I thought dispiritedly, for again I had gained nothing.

No, not nothing. Absolution. But that would not save Henrietta.

“I am but a priest,” he said, as if reading my thoughts and offering some explanation.

“But not my priest.” I turned, then hesitated. “I cannot return the crucifix. I have need of it. However, I can pay to have it replaced.”

“We are not a poor parish.” His smile was mysterious. “The item will be replaced. If you still see the need, you may make another donation to the poor.” He rose, resting his hand for a moment on the back of the pew. His ring was illuminated in a clear, uncolored pinpoint of light coming in through the painted windows, and I saw there was a symbol on the flat surface flush with his knuckle.

“Your ring,” I said, staring. “The fish.”

He dropped his hand, taking the insignia out of sight. “It is the early Christian symbol for Christ. You must know it.”

“I saw the same on a plaque by the tree near The Sanctuary.” I indicated the direction of the painting I’d been shown on my
earlier visit. “The tree is represented in that painting of Saint Michael casting out the devil. What is the significance?”

His ample jaw swelled with belligerence. “I have already told you. Now, Mrs. Andrews, you may leave your donation in the poor box and then I will see you out.”

He was not going to leave me alone in the church. So I made my donation, which was twice as large as I had originally intended, because of the slender missal I’d slipped in the folds of my skirts.

Chapter Fifteen

F
ather Luke was aware of Marius. Of this I was certain. I would even go so far as to say he was engaged in fighting the vampire, for I recollected his furtive appearance in the graveyard, clandestinely praying for the departed soul of one of Marius’s victims.

He had not been shocked by my confession, true, but neither had he been interested in helping. No, indeed, he’d seemed more interested in keeping me silent.

It was well known the Church practiced exorcism of demons. Was the belief in vampires so much further into the realm of the unreal than the idea of demonic possession? Could Rome itself be aware of the existence of the undead and of how they preyed on human blood?

The Blood is the Life. The holy tree, right there in the sacred spot of The Sanctuary, along the Saint Michael line and sealed with the sign of the fish. And the little church stood just beyond, a tiny jewel intact and unmolested through hundreds of years of religious strife and strong anti-Catholic sentiment.

I caught myself. I was making a conspiracy out of coincidence. And yet I could not stop worrying it, my thoughts running in roads and lanes that accelerated to dead ends. I walked about in something of a daze the rest of that day, only half-attending to the happenings around me and keeping my keen eye on Henrietta. I had secured her room again this morning, the way Mr. Fox had done in the stable to seal the stall to prevent Wadim escaping. I liberally used salt and garlic and sprinkled the holy water Mrs. Tigwalt had given me. Still, I was ever-anxious over the child’s safety.

One thing penetrated my distraction. The normally nattily dressed and meticulously groomed Sebastian emerged from his bed at midday in a state of dishabille. “You look wretched,” I told him, taken aback by his appearance.

He touched his hair self-consciously. “I had no patience for a toilette today.”

“No, not just that. How pale you are! Do you have fever?” Like a mother, I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead.

He ducked it, playing, in turn, his role of a guilty boy. “One does not acquire fever from too many spirits. I am afraid I imbibed overmuch last night.”

He sank shakily into a chair. I viewed him with concern.

“Oh dear, will you leave off!” he barked at last, impatient with my hovering. “I am not dying! It’s a man’s prerogative to tipple a bit now and then.”

I admit my mind had gone to dark ailments, of diseases that waste the body away and whose cure would not be found in an apothecary’s cabinet. I was overwrought, I realized, and it was not doing anyone good for me to walk about in such a show of perpetual anxiousness.

Uncle Peter was to join us for dinner. I was most eager to talk with him, but when I entered the drawing room, he was engaged in the telling of one of his stories. Hess and the Bedfords were enraptured. The young Ted Pentworth, however, together with his chum, Mr. Farrington, were bored as schoolboys at a philosophy lecture. My brother-in-law, too, was not engrossed. I guessed Alan would rather be at billiards or faro than listening to the wisdom of an old man.

I tried to look at my sister’s husband with new eyes and a charitable spirit. I suppose I should admire his devotion, for he sat dutifully by Alyssa’s side. When they had announced their engagement, Simon had tried to counsel me not to interfere, but I had not listened. I had thought she would tire of him, that her more sophisticated interests would come into being once she matured, and she would regret her choice. But my husband had been correct; I should not have spoken against the marriage. It had driven a wedge between my sister and me, and ours was an already fragile relationship. Now she was bearing his child.

My gaze strayed to where Mr. Fox leaned an elbow on the mantle. He pretended to listen to the conversation around him but I could tell he was not paying attention. His hooded gaze lit on me and I tensed. Must he always stare so? What was he thinking?

The timeliness of the dinner bell was a relief, and I was pleased when Uncle Peter took my hand and pulled it through
his arm, disregarding Mary’s intended pairings. “Walk with me, my dear,” he murmured. His slower gait, exaggerated for his purpose at the moment, gave us an excuse to lag behind the others as we all made our formal procession in to dinner.

“Have you noticed the Latin written up there?” he asked me, and as we were just passing through the doorway from the salon, we both glanced at the carved words.

“They are all over the house,” I said.

“Indeed?” His heavy eyebrows twitched. “Do they all say the same thing?”

“No, they are all different. I’ve been meaning to ask Sebastian to give me a tour of them and write them down.” Then I remembered that Mr. Fox had done just that on his own.

“The corruption of the best is worst,” Uncle Peter said contemplatively as we moved slowly down the corridor.

“Uncle Peter,” I said suddenly. “I need to speak to you, soon. I have questions…I want to know about my mother.”

His look was suddenly sharp, almost angry, and I felt something fiercely disturbing rise up inside me.

“It is gravely important,” I said, and added a heartfelt “please.”

He thought for a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. “Yes, my dear. Indeed. I suppose it is time you and I had a very lengthy conversation.”

My heart kicked with excitement at this agreement, but I was not completely at ease. It was perfectly plain that the prospect did not please him.

Uncle Peter returned to the inn with the promise to join us for dinner the following evening. In my disappointment at being robbed of him so soon after his arrival, I sought out the company of Mr. Hess.

I had grown fond of the gentle older man, not only for his kindness but also because his great enthusiasm for learning made him something of a kindred spirit. And I was most especially interested in hearing about the local legends, which was one of his favorite topics as well. Thus it was I was able to steer an innocent exchange on the status of Dulwich Manor’s garden into a more interesting vein by observing, “I am put to mind, seeing the buds on the trees, of how myths over the centuries—even unto our own religion—affirm the human belief—or is it merely a hope?—that life will always triumph over death.”

It was, to me, an obvious ploy, and I hoped to direct the conversation to matters of traditions regarding life, death, and now this new and terrible alternative of living death. But his complex mind took a surprising turn.

“Spring renews,” he said with a sage nod. “And it never fails to reassure me. A time of life, and of beauty, although there is beauty in the other seasons, too. But I am most fond of spring, for it is when goodness and life are strongest. Though creation has its own terrors; consider the customs of Maying.”

Mr. Fox had also mentioned the pagan feast of May Day as a particularly potent time, I recalled. “I understand it is an old celebration.”

“Even druids and the ancients beyond them understood there is danger in the creation of life, for all things in nature are in balance. We think spring is the natural enemy of evil. It is the month of birthing. Lambs, calves, foals, all the flowers and trees—new life, my dear. The anathema to death. But there is another side—a dark side to creation.” Mr. Hess raised his index finger, as if anticipating an objection. “You may ask how that can be when spring is the season of resurrection, when our very own Lord triumphed over death, eh? The theme of rebirth,
of holiness and life, is heralded as far back as Greek mythology and beyond, when Persephone is returned to Mother Earth at the conclusion of each winter. Each culture throughout the history of man has venerated the fertility and life renewal of the seasons.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr. Fox draw closer.

“Although autumn is the natural time of death and thus, it is assumed, evil, please recollect what I cautioned about the rule of balance. Even within spring, the season of life and therefore goodness, evil must have its reign, however brief. And what is more—and this is very important, dear—how much more intense that brief period of darkness is made by the inherent life-giving nature of the season. Thus, for spring’s very goodness, the corresponding evil must be equal. Equal and opposite, for balance as all things must ever and always be. And so tradition holds that on the Eve of Saint George, evil reigns, just as it does on the Eve of All Hallows. May Day, too, is considered a time when the undead roam free and mischief abounds. Evil must have its reign for goodness to come.”

“The corruption of the best is worst,” I said slowly.

Hess leaned in closer to me. “What is that you say? My dear, how very intriguing. The inscription—you know it? Why it is the very thing I am trying to explain.” He bustled to the escritoire in the corner and opened the ink pot, dabbing a quill and quickly scrabbling down a line. After blowing on the paper, he brought it with him as he resumed his seat. Folding it, he placed it in his pocket. “I’ve discovered something absolutely fascinating about The Sanctuary, and this might be a clue—”

Mary cut in, annoyance in her voice, for she did not want me monopolizing her guest on esoteric topics. “Mr. Hess, do have a raspberry biscuit. My cook is known for them.”

“Oh, indeed!” he exclaimed, selecting one from the tray his hostess proffered. Alan caught my eye at that moment, a scowl on his perfect features. I felt the barb of guilt he meant to send, for I could see that Alyssa was sulking. I sighed. I’d neglected my sister, and Mary was now occupying Mr. Hess in a conversation of horseflesh which presently animated Sir William, Roger, and Mr. Bedford.

I slipped next to Alyssa, smiling bracingly at her and taking her hand in mine. “What they say about women in your condition is true. Your face seems to beam with happiness.”

“You are a terrible liar, Emma. I feel wretched,” she murmured, but grasped my hand back and smiled a moment later at an amusing story told by Ted Pentworth.