The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (37 page)

“I could not, I would not allow him to destroy everything,” Pritchard said.

“So you destroyed him?” Giles said.

There was a long silence, and then the Dean stood up and said, “He was lost. Lost.”

Giles stood also and met his gaze. “So you destroyed him?”

The Dean’s hands went up, in a gesture that was both defensive and aggressive.

“It had to be done. I was protecting myself from sin. He was lost. I looked into his face and saw he had been eaten up by sin. All his protestations of affection, of loyalty, his submission to me – it was false. It was no submission. It was the wiles of the devil, in the form of Charles Barnes. I had to stamp on the serpent to free myself.”

As the Dean spoke he advanced round the table towards him. Giles caught Rollins’ eye and saw he was on his guard, and ready if need be. He could press him a little further.

“How did you stamp on the serpent?” Giles said.

“God himself told me to take up the sword of righteousness!” the Dean said. “And He is speaking to me now – of other serpents, who pretend that they are Christian men but who have not a jot of virtue in them!” With which he lunged towards Giles and attempted to fasten his hands about his neck. He was successful only for a moment. Rollins had soon dragged him away from Giles, and in a smart manoeuvre, pushed his head down against the table, and got his hands behind his back so that Giles could put handcuffs on him again.

“Serpents!” the Dean screeched, his cheek squashed against the table. “God will punish you all. He will forgive me! I am sure of it!”

“You had better be,” said Giles, “because I don’t think a jury will.”

Chapter Forty-six

Left alone with his thoughts, Felix could not help but regard the Major’s words as a confession. He was again consumed with misery at the thought that she should so lightly bestow her favours elsewhere and yet reject him so summarily. Worse still, he was now obliged to go and be pleasant and civil to her, just to please Major Vernon, whom he had no desire in that moment to please.

She owed him nothing, of course, she had been plain as anything with him – of this he tried to remind himself and put himself in a careless state as he made his way to the Treasurer’s House. But his sense of resentment burned within him, like a chemical fire, not easily extinguished. He could only think that if she permitted him some of the liberties that she seemed to so readily allow other men, then her spell might be broken. Only then might he begin to master himself and this foolish obsession. It was the fact that her door was so plainly barred to him that was driving him to distraction. He had not thought he had such a stock of pride and self-love, but apparently he did.

He arrived to find her standing in the hall, drawing on her gloves and thanking Mrs Fforde for her kindness.

“Major Vernon has sent me as your escort,” he said.

“Your brother is most unnecessarily solicitous,” Mrs Morgan said to Mrs Fforde, and then turned to him: “I do hope you are not being kept from anything more important. You must have many calls to make.”

“I am at your disposal, ma’am,” he said, offering his arm. She did not take it and he felt foolish, so he went and opened the front door. “To the Minster?”

“I should like to go back to my house first,” she said, as they went out into the little forecourt.

“Is that wise?” he said. “I saw your husband there last night. Ought you not send your maid?”

“No, I want some music and she will never find it. And I am sure that you are not my only protector. Major Vernon has seen to that.”

There was a touch of annoyance in her voice, he was sure.

They walked in uncomfortable silence to Avonside Row, followed at a respectful distance by Constables Taylor and Lewis. They left them waiting at the gate, and went upstairs to the drawing room with the piano. Mrs Morgan took off her bonnet and shawl and began to search through her music. He laid his own hat down by hers, and watched her, fascinated by her every movement.

“The last time I was here you slapped my face,” he said.

“So I did,” she said, without turning her attention from her task. “And you deserved it.”

“Did I?” he said. “What exactly did I do that was so offensive, Mrs Morgan?”

“You are a stubborn child,” she said, “who will not learn his lesson.”

“Perhaps. I am confused. It seems you do not slap all men who presume to come within a foot of you. What did I do wrong? That’s all I am asking.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You can’t guess?”

She shrugged, walked away and began to look through another pile of music.

“Why on earth did Major Vernon send you, of all people?” she said.

“I do not think he is thinking straight. No man can in your thrall, Mrs Morgan. You make us all gibbering fools – that is the plain truth of it. I told him I would make a poor guard dog, but he was so concerned to protect you and your precious reputation. He is your complete slave now, ma’am, another conquest for you to glory in.”

She came over to him and looked at him. For a moment he felt sure she would slap him again, but instead she said, “Please, do not speak of something about which you know nothing.”

“But I want to know,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I want to understand. Why him? Why could you not show any kindness to me, for heaven’s sake?”

She pulled her hand away.

“Must you be so wretched?” she said, angrily.

“I wish I were not!” he exclaimed. “For God’s sake, do you think I like this? I wish I did not feel this thing, but I do. I am in torment because of you!”

She threw up her hands.

“Yes, perhaps you are, but it will pass! I know what you are suffering. I have had such feelings myself at your age. The moment I am gone from here it will pass. Believe me, you are not truly in love. You are in a selfish passion. It is not love. You are not fatally wounded.” She let a great sigh and turned away. “Anyway, it is good practice for you,” she went on, walking up the room. “Renunciation is a skill that life demands of one more and more, as time passes...” Her voice cracked and she began to shake with sobs. He saw her reach out to the piano to steady herself, her other hand covering her face as she gave in to the tears.

He stood, not knowing whether he should go and comfort her or not. He had no wish to add to her misery by some clumsy gesture, and yet he felt he must attempt something to alleviate her pain. To see her crying was too raw, too unpleasant.

“I have a clean handkerchief,” he said, reaching into his coat.

She managed to look at him with something like a smile and put her hand out for it. He went to her side and gave it to her.

“Excuse me,” she managed to say, taking it from him. “I thought...” And with that she broke down again. “Oh, excuse me!”

This time he could not forbear and put his arms about her. She allowed it, even glad of it, and he felt her bend and rest against him, allowing herself to give into the full torrent of her misery.

“I thought I was stronger than this,” she managed to say. “But I feel so utterly broken. What is happening to me?” She pulled herself away from him and stared at him, with her tear-sodden face. “And I have been so unkind to you, when all you have done is allow yourself to feel!” she said, her words clearly a struggle for her. “And there is nothing wrong with that – except it will cause you such pain! Oh why, why on earth is the world so cruel?” she finished, grasping his shoulders, almost shaking him. “Tell me that, Mr Carswell, why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Her physical closeness was almost unbearable, and to have the full scorching force of her attention turned upon him made him breathless. He had dreamed of intimacy with her and of being an object worthy of her attention, but now it was too much and he could feel no triumph in it, let alone any pleasure. It was all wrong.

“No, how could you?” she said, and traced her finger down his cheek, her unerring finger finding the tear that had humiliatingly escaped from his eye. “Poor, sweet young man.” She bent her head and rested it on his shoulder, as if exhausted. He felt sick with desire, his whole body was stirred into it, and he knew he ought to break away from her. But instead he put his trembling hands on her back, at the top of her bodice, so that his finger tips could feel the warm, soft skin of the nape of her neck. He breathed in deeply to steady himself, but instead found himself dizzy with the scent of her hair. He rocked on his heels, feeling that he might faint, and wished he might and pull her with him into some blissful other-worldly union of oblivion. If he were to die in that moment, he thought, it would be with no regret.

The door to the room opened behind him. She glanced up and suddenly stiffened in his arms. He felt terror inhabit her entire body and instinctively he tightened his grasp, anxious to protect her, but at the same time she wrenched herself free and walked quickly away. He turned to see what had so alarmed her.

Morgan was standing in the doorway in his shirt sleeves, a cigar in his mouth, his arms folded.

“Very pretty,” he said, strolling in.

Mrs Morgan stood straight-backed, her hands balled into fists, as if she were a prize fighter about to square up to the opposition, albeit a prize-fighter with a tear-stained face. Her demeanour was simply astonishing, but it seemed not to impress Morgan.

“Please leave at once,” she said, in a sort of strangled hiss.

“Why would I do that?” he said advancing towards her.

“Because we have an agreement,” she said.

He took out his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke straight into her face. She turned away, as if he had struck her and she began to cough.

Felix, unable to bear it a moment longer, hurled himself forward with the intention of smashing his jaw with his fist. Morgan spun round, grabbed him and threw him across the room, sending him sprawling on to the floor, his head cracking against one of the chairs. Blackness engulfed him.

He came to to the sound of Mrs Morgan screaming desperately for help.

He struggled to sit up, unable to focus properly. He could see that Mrs Morgan was lying on the floor, Morgan straddling her. He could just see flash of a blade in Morgan’s hand and the sound of ripping cloth, but it was nothing to the awfulness of her cries as she struggled to escape. He realised, as he began to crawl across the room, that she was using the full power of her voice to raise the alarm, that there was a desperate courage in it.

Morgan was slashing her dark skirts to ribbons, and there was blood. Mrs Morgan was suddenly silent and still. Felix felt his own heart stop for a moment.

Then Constables Lewis and Taylor burst into the room and dragged Morgan off her.

The blood-stained knife went spinning to the floor, and Morgan, now restrained by the constables, crumpled to his knees, like a puppet cut from its strings. It was as if a devil had possessed him which had now departed. He looked about him, his expression one of confusion melting into profound agony.

Felix at last got to her side, and grabbed her hand to feel for the pulse. It still remained – it was feeble, but it remained.

Chapter Forty-seven

Giles came out of the room where he had been interviewing Pritchard feeling no sense of triumph. He had his confession, and it was all properly done before witnesses, so that it would all stand well in court. But the plain truth of it was that the man had showed no remorse. To Pritchard, Charles Barnes was apparently an obstacle to his own peace of mind, not a human from whom he had savagely stolen life.

He stood in the passageway for a long moment, gathering his thoughts, attempting to master the anger that threatened to overcome him. It was not his place, he reminded himself, to mete out justice, no matter how much he wanted to. He had uncovered the truth of the matter and apprehended the villain. His part was over. But it still rankled greatly with him that a man in Pritchard’s privileged position could be so fundamentally base and unscrupulous. It was far easier to forgive his usual quarry, impoverished wretches for whom crime was a desperate step, forced upon them by circumstances. Not so Dean Pritchard. He had every advantage in life and still he had given into evil when confronted by a difficulty. It was incomprehensible and unforgivable.

He was making his way back to his office when he was met by a constable with a handful of messages for him.

“They have got Morgan downstairs, sir,” said the lad who seemed a little breathless with excitement.

“That is good news,” said Giles, allowing himself to feel a surge of the same excitement. With Morgan in the cells, then Nancy was safe.

His pleasure lasted only a moment. The first note he looked at was a few brief lines from Mr Carswell, in an almost illegible scrawl, the script itself seeming to convey intense agitation.

Having read it, he glanced up at the constable.

“When did this news come?” he demanded.

“About a ten minutes ago. The order was that you were not to be disturbed.”

It was true – he had gone into the interview with strict instructions not to interrupt him until the job was done.

He stared down at Carswell’s note again. “Mrs Morgan in v. dangerous condition at Avonside Row. F.J. Carswell.”

“I have to go,” he said, thrusting the other unread messages back into the constable’s hand.

***

Felix had never in his life been so glad to see Lord Rothborough.

He had arrived about five minutes after the constables had taken Morgan away, just as Felix was struggling to deal with Mrs Morgan’s injuries. Felix had called for help, but the house was curiously empty of servants, and he was left alone trying to do what he could for her.

She was drifting in and out of consciousness and it was difficult to keep her responsive, and at the same time establish exactly what Morgan had done to her. Her skirts were a bloody, shredded mess and he was endeavouring to see what was a dangerous wound and what was superficial when Lord Rothborough came in.

Lord Rothborough did not ask for explanations – that was the real miracle. He saw a crisis and came immediately to Felix’s aid, getting down on the floor and cradling her head and shoulders, calming and comforting her so that Felix could make some progress in his examination. She was in terrible distress, which was hardly surprising as the full extent of the wounds became clear. Morgan had gone at her with such force, slashing rather than stabbing, and that was perhaps more disturbing. Had he meant her to suffer and be scarred rather than kill her outright? Her long stays had protected her chest and abdomen to some degree, and her thighs had taken most of the damage. There was nothing that was immediately liable to kill her, but the overall effect put her in considerable danger.