Chapter 18
D ominick wandered the fringes of the crowd of revellers, searching for a murderer.
A search that would be a great deal easier if he knew what this murderer looked like. So far, the killers they’d met had ranged from brutal thugs to beautiful women. It would be nice to know which he should be searching for tonight.
A group of farmers stood together in a ring, heavy mugs of ale in their hands. Could they be plotting a massacre? A young woman ran past them, the ribbons in her hair already unfurling from her dancing. Was she chasing her next victim? Or should Dominick be keeping an eye on the old woman sitting alone by the punch bowl, ready to poison it when no one was looking? Or perhaps one of the musicians would suddenly cease beating his drum to beat someone else instead.
He shuddered. The weeks since they’d decided on the Samhain party had flown by. He and Alfie had been kept busy with preparations, disappearing together into the gymnasium when it all grew too much, sometimes to plan, sometimes for sex, sometimes—miracle of miracles—to actually exercise Alfie’s leg. Occasionally, he’d even gotten Alfie to agree to act as a sparring partner, an excellent way to both work out his frustrations and also reassure himself that if the worst was to happen, Alfie could defend himself.
In all that time though, they’d barely been able to come up with much more of a plan to catch their killer than, “Keep a sharp eye out.”
The problem was that there was just so much they didn’t know. If their murderer even existed, who was he? What had he done with McConnell’s body? Why was he trying to kill them and which of them he was targeting? Had he been trying to kill Alfie with the rocks off the crag, or Dominick, or would he have done the same to anyone else passing below given the opportunity?
If they’d known even one of those things, they might have been able to plan, but as it was, they had nothing, leaving Dominick on edge, his fists clenched so tightly he had to shake them out to keep feeling in his fingers.
He wasn’t going to take the risk that Alfie was the target. Even as he circled, he kept an eye on his love at all times. At this point, it was practically a habit. He’d been keeping an eye on Alfie since they were children. What was one more night?
It wasn’t as if it was a hardship to watch Alfie either. By firelight, his auburn hair shone like polished copper and the shifting shadows cast his features in strange new ways that were just far enough from the familiar that Dominick was struck by his beauty all over again.
As the days had passed without a plan, they’d stopped burning the discarded branches and logs in the garden, instead just adding and adding to the pile until it was impressively sized. When Gil had started making noises about the age of the manor and the terrible destruction that fires had wreaked upon it in the past, they’d stopped growing the main pile and begun a ring of smaller ones to be burned before the grand finale when the great fire would be lit.
Only the smaller fires were lit now, and around each danced the boys and girls from the town, the bravest of them leaping over the flames, risking setting their trousers or skirts ablaze in the name of good luck.
As the garden was little more than dirt and rocks at the moment, it had been deemed the best spot for such a celebration. With the dark forest surrounding the bare patch of earth and the lights in all the homes extinguished, leaving the ring of fires the only remaining light for miles around, Dominick could understand why Janie believed in her broonies.
There was something otherworldly about it all, especially when most of the village boys, as well as many of the men, had either painted their faces or wore masks of wood, cloth, and paper. Some designs were merely to hide the wearer's identity, some resembled animals, yet others were so twisted in their features as to be completely unrecognisable as anything from this world. In the light of fires, it was easy to believe some of them weren’t guised villagers at all, but spirits come to toy with mortals.
He shook his head. He’d told Alfie too many fairy stories when they were younger to be the one falling for them now.
He kicked away a smouldering stick that one of the dancers had knocked a little too close to the central, unlit pile in their leaping. The main pile of logs and branches that would become the bonfire from which all the homes in the village lit their hearths was massive, easily taller than two men, and at least three or four across. Dominick had to give Janie her due, not only should the Samhain celebration help Alfie’s reputation with the locals, but it would neatly dispose of the remaining trees felled by the building of the folly. Assuming someone didn’t get murdered before the bonfire could be lit, of course.
With that thought in mind, Dominick glanced at Alfie again. Alfie was doing his best to strike up conversations, but it was clear the locals might be comfortable drinking their lord’s ale, but not yet up to talking to him about it, and certainly not ready to confess to murder. Gil appeared at his elbow, likely to try some of his own charm, but wasn’t there for more than a moment before darting off. The reason for that became abundantly clear when Dominick noticed Magistrate Carnbee elbowing his way towards Alfie.
“Christ,” Dominick muttered under his breath. The murderer would have to wait. He had to rescue Alfie from this buffoon first.
By the time Dominick made his way to his side, the farmers Alfie had been trying to speak to had vanished, no more willing to endure the magistrate’s presence than Gil was. If only they had the same luxury.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Trent,” harrumphed Carnbee. His moustache was in disarray and even in the firelight, his nose looked red. The sun had only just set, but he’d clearly been taking full advantage of the free ale. “I was just telling His Lordship what an interesting idea it was to hold a Samhain celebration at Balcarres. You do know that’s never been done before.”
Dominick bristled. From his tone, it was clear the magistrate didn’t like that it was being done now. After everything that had gone into planning it, Dominick could secretly understand why the previous earls hadn’t bothered. The last few weeks had been a blur inviting, cajoling, and outright bribing the locals to attend. It wasn’t until word got around that Alfie had purchased nearly every bottle and barrel in the inn’s cellars and enough food to go with them that anyone seemed enthused.
Of course, actually preparing that much food nearly led both Hirkins women to riot and Mrs. Finley had spent the entire time alternating between sighing loudly about the extra work this meant for the household and blatantly crossing herself to protect from the “all manner of ungodly things” such a celebration would invite.
The only members of the household who’d seemed truly excited were Janie and Davey. Janie was pleased because the whole thing had been her idea in the first place, but Dominick hadn’t understood Davey’s excitement until just a few hours ago.
The townspeople had come up from the now-darkened village, the sound of pipes and drums announcing their approach with wild music signalling the beginning of the festivities. They’d been led by a pack of boys in their guises with their faces painted or masked, all carrying even more food for the feasting table, a proud Davey at the front of the mob with a towering platter of soul cakes.
Dominick watched a group of younger boys as they leapt over one of the smallest fires. As the magistrate droned on about the fine lineage of the Crawford family and the many far more esteemed gatherings that had been held by earls past, jumping over—or into—a fire to escape him began to sound like a good idea. Or perhaps just tossing the magistrate himself in.
Now that held definite appeal. It wasn’t as if he’d even be too singed. At Gil’s hand-wringing insistence, Mr. Howe had located every bucket in the manor to fill with water, clearly foreseeing how an evening involving both fire and free ale was likely to end.
“Thank you for the history lesson, magistrate,” Dominick heard Alfie say at last. “It really was most illuminating. If you’ll excuse us, however, I’ve just spotted the minister and we have urgent business to discuss.”
“We do?” asked Dominick as they made their escape.
“Lord no, I doubt he’s here at all with all this ‘pagan nonsense’. But even Carnbee can’t complain about being passed over for God. Have you seen anything suspicious?”
“A lot of couples disappearing off into the trees, though I don’t know if that’s suspicious to anyone but the girls’ mothers. You?”
“Nothing, although perhaps attempting to gather information on a night where both costumes and mischief are encouraged was not our finest idea.”
Dominick snorted. “We’ve had worse.”
“Yes, which means you can judge precisely how terrible an idea this was.”
“It’s not all bad,” said Dominick. “One of the couples I saw go off included Madam Carnbee.”
Alfie gasped and wheeled around, craning his neck to look back to see where her husband, the magistrate, had now ensnared Doctor Mills in a lecture. “And who? Curse you, Nick! And who?”
Dominick grinned. “Seems like you weren’t keeping as sharp an eye out as you thought. Still, at least that’s two of the locals who’ll be more likely to think well of you. Perhaps three come next summer.”
Alfie barked out an entirely ungentlemanly peal of laughter, but no one seemed to notice, caught up in their own revelries. At least the night hadn’t been a complete waste if it got Alfie to laugh like that.
He’d been understandably worried of late, the burden of an earldom, the new staff, and an unknown murderer weighing on his shoulders. His brow had been furrowed over one concern or another increasingly often. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wrinkle.
Not that Dominick would mind. With any luck, he’d be there to mark each new wrinkle and laugh line Alfie developed until they were both wizened old men, looking like blanket-wrapped prunes as they reminisced about their younger days by the fire. The thought made him smile.
And speaking of the wizened elderly, it was past time they sampled some of the treats Mrs. Hirkins had prepared. The feast tables were overflowing with the best both Balcarres and the village had to offer—decorated cakes and glazed pork sharing space with hearty bannocks and bowls of roasted chestnuts. Dominick helped himself to a tart, before spotting a plate of shortbread half-hidden behind a basket of apples that smelled so sweet that they must have still been on the tree that morning.
“I believe congratulations are in order.”
Dominick turned around, wiping shortbread crumbs from his lips as discreetly as possible.
“Ah, Mrs. McConnell,” said Alfie. He had a cup of syllabub in his hand. His favourite. Even seeing it used in Bath to deliver deadly poison hadn’t been enough to put him off the dessert. And now that he’d found it, the rest of them would have to risk his sword cane if they wanted any for themselves. “How did work go on the folly today? Apologies for taking over your garden for so long. You’ll have it back tomorrow, albeit a bit trampled.”
Mrs. McConnell smiled politely. She was dressed in another of her plain, practical dresses, but perhaps in deference to the celebration, had a sprig of gorse pinned to her coat. Half a step behind her stood Janie with a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms that, from its squirming, was either one of the barn cats or James.
“It’s your garden to do with as you wish, my lord,” Mrs. McConnell said. “And in truth, a bit of hard-packing will only help where I intend to lay the pathways. As for the rest, there’s only so much that can be done this time of year other than plan for spring. For which I must say Janie has had some wonderful suggestions. Her knowledge of what grows best locally has been invaluable. But gardens do require patience to see one’s plans come to literal fruition. However, the folly is progressing well. I believe we’ll be finished within the month, especially if tonight proves successful in bringing back more of the labourers.”
“That’s excellent news.”
The conversation faltered there. Neither Alfie nor Dominick had forgotten the rockfall. It seemed impossible that Mrs. McConnell could have been the one to cause it, but that didn’t mean Dominick was going to turn his back on her any time soon.
While the firelight enhanced Alfie’s beauty, it had the opposite effect on Mrs. McConnell. Her features, though never what he would call pretty, were harsher in the firelight and more fixed, as if even the dancing of the flame couldn’t coax anything out of them. Her eyes, always sharp, held a wariness to them he didn’t recall, like a deer just hearing the snap of a twig under an unseen hunter’s foot.
He tried to dispel the eerie idea, but it lingered. It must just be the strangeness of the night and his own wariness getting to him. As he understood it, Samhain was the night for such things. A night for peculiar happenings, ancient customs, the telling of fortunes, visits from spirits, and the night the souls of the dead returned to either bless or curse the living.
There were plenty of dead in his past and none who’d be blessing him.
It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on. And certainly not tonight.
“Janie,” he said, searching for anything to break the uncomfortable silence. “I see you’ve been pressed into child-minding service this evening.”
Janie nodded shyly. “Yes sir, I’m not to say anything, but Agnes and Mrs. Hirkins have been working on something grand for after the bonfire is lit and asked if I’d keep an eye on him.”
The stone of Mrs. McConnell’s face softened for just a moment as she gazed fondly down at the baby. “Janie has been quite the natural. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more well-behaved infant. It seems she has a skill with all growing things, not just plants.”
The firelight couldn’t hide Janie’s blush.
“He’s a bit fussy,” she admitted. “He should be in bed already, but I didn’t want to miss the lighting of the bonfire.”
“Would he like a bit of syllabub?” Alfie asked. “That always puts me in a better mood.”
Then to Dominick’s shock, Alfie actually made as if to share his treat, spooning out a tiny dollop and offering it to the wriggling blankets. Alfie had never offered Dominick any of his syllabub.
Perhaps it was his own surprise that made him notice, but the conversations around them had stopped. Everyone close enough to listen in had ceased talking, their eyes darting to Alfie and then away, as if they didn’t want to be caught staring. Even the musicians had halted their playing, leaving confused revellers looking their way as well.
Oh Christ.
In all their other concerns, they’d forgotten the rumour that James was Alfie’s bastard. If the Earl of Crawford was going to feed the babe with his own spoon in front of all his tenants tonight, he might as well march into Parliament tomorrow and demand legitimate standing for his heir.
Dominick narrowly stopped himself from knocking the spoon from Alfie’s hand, compromising by placing his hand on Alfie’s arm to stop him.
Dominick winced. If other rumours were going around, this wouldn’t help, but sometimes discretion had to be sacrificed for the sake of stopping Alfie from doing something monumentally stupid.
“It’s time for your speech as lord of the manor.” Dominick leaned in and whispered, “The childless lord of the manor who wants tonight to go well, not start a whole new wave of bloody rumours.”
Alfie leapt back as if Janie held a dangerous animal. In a way, she did.
“Yes, my speech. Very well.” Alfie jerked, torn between the manners trained into him and the instincts to escape that had been beaten into him. Dominick solved the problem by gripping his wrist firmly and tugging him away.
“Mr. Howe has the torches,” Dominick said, overly loud. “Let’s go find him so the bonfire can be lit.”
If the scene with James was good for anything, at least it meant that by the time Mr. Howe was located and Alfie’s torch had been lit, everyone had assembled around the largest pile in the centre of the garden. Despite their best efforts, not everyone in the village and surrounding lands had come, but there still had to be several hundred people waiting to hear what their young lord had to say for himself.
Dominick swallowed. He’d never been more grateful Alfie was the earl, not him.
Although Alfie looked as if he’d happily trade places with him—or possibly even Jarrett or the man whose job it was to collect night soil from the privies. He stood on the terrace overlooking the gardens, just a few steps higher than the crowd, but enough to be seen. Behind him, the unlit hulk of Balcarres crouched like a great beast watching over his shoulder, the ghosts of centuries looking down on them all.
“F-friends,” Alfie started. His voice was uncertain, but they’d spent hours rehearsing this. He tried again, and this time Dominick could hear his love’s stubbornness covering any lack of confidence.
“Friends. Thank you all for coming. I know it has been many years since my family has resided in Balcarres. My father travelled the world, but never thought to bring me here, the seat of his earldom. In the short time I’ve spent here, I’ve already come to regret his decision to keep me from such a fine place for so long.”
Gil had written most of the speech, knowing both how to sound sufficiently noble and also what those who lived around Balcarres would want to hear. He seemed to have done a good job, as those closest to Dominick nodded with local pride while still looking suitably awed that an actual earl was taking the time to speak to them.
“I intend to make Balcarres my home. And it is in this spirit of making up for the mistakes of the past that I would like to continue forward. Tonight then, let us extinguish the flames of the old year and start anew. Let the same fire that burns in my hearth burn in yours, and may its warmth bless us all for another year to come.”
With that, Alfie raised his torch aloft. As he walked down the steps to the unlit bonfire, the only sound was the crackling of the flame and the soft click of his cane on the stones.
Dominick looked around to see the entire crowd focussed on Alfie’s solemn procession. All of them, save for Mrs. McConnell.
She was staring at a man who stood apart from the rest of the crowd, closer to the woods than the bonfire pile. He wore a mask that was rougher than the others, little more than a thin piece of wood on which had been painted a menacing grin, the features twisted with some terrible glee. The mask looked to have been drawn with charcoal and a black slash ran down one side of its face.
The man was staring back at her. Then he reached up and lifted the mask. To Dominick’s horror, the ghoulish face on the mask was almost an exact copy of the one beneath it. The man was smiling, but there was no mirth in it, only cruelty. And where the charcoal slash had been on the mask, a long scar cut down the side of his face.
A shout distracted Dominick, the villagers cheering as Alfie touched his torch to a pile of rags and kindling at the base of the pile with the reverence of a priest. In seconds, they caught, and soon that corner of the bonfire was crackling merrily as the flames spread outward and upwards.
Dominick looked back, but the man was gone. Mrs. McConnell was staring at the place he’d been and in the rush of sudden light, she looked deathly pale.
Dominick tried to get Alfie to look her way and see what he was seeing, but when Alfie finally turned to him, seeking Dominick out above everyone else in the crowd, it knocked everything else from his mind.
Even cast into shadow by the growing blaze behind him, Alfie was beaming with pride. Dominick’s chest felt as if it would burst and he couldn’t stop grinning. Alfie had been superb. One speech on its own might not be enough to make his people fall in love with him, but Dominick had a claim on that already. When Alfie had lit the fire, he hadn’t looked like some Spitalfields orphan trying on the coat of a nobleman, but as if he’d been born to wear the title. Dominick had always known it, but from the look on Alfie’s face, it seemed like he finally believed it too.
That was when Dominick noticed the smell.
At first, he thought it was the surprise from the kitchen Janie had mentioned. He looked around, expecting to see the Hirkins women carrying out a giant platter of roast venison or braised boar. But there was a terrible metallic sweetness to the smell, that of a meat that had not been bled after the slaughter. And over that, the bitter pungency of burnt hair.
A confused clamour rose all around the fire, then a woman screamed.
“There’s a man! There’s a man in there!”
Dominick watched as the pride in Alfie’s face turned to horror.
“The buckets!” someone else called. “Fetch the buckets!”
As if freed from a spell, Dominick dashed towards the line of buckets, grabbing the first one he saw. It knocked against his thigh, water soaking his trousers as he ran.
By the time he reached the bonfire, it had grown even larger, flames licking over his head. But through the flames he could see it. The unmistakable figure of a man was now visible amongst logs as the smaller branches that had been hiding him were burned away.
Dominick threw the water on the flames, not even looking to see how much was extinguished before running for more.
When he returned, Alfie was standing beside the fire. With his injured leg, he was unable to run with the buckets himself, so he was directing the other men where to aim theirs.
“There!” He pointed with his cane. “Don’t try to put the whole thing out, just enough so we can reach him!”
By Dominick's third trip, there was a noticeable dent in the blaze. By his fifth, the fire was beaten back enough that the man was within reach. Dominick grasped for him, gripping a sooty coat and pulling in tandem with a man he didn’t know, but who had the scorched face and broad shoulders of a blacksmith used to such heat.
For one awful moment, it seemed like the fire might topple down on them, a flurry of embers blinding him as the still-burning logs around them cracked and splintered. Then with a furious heave, he and the blacksmith tugged the man free.
The man lay unmoving on his stomach, his skin horribly blackened in some places, but untouched in others. Much of his clothing had burned away, but what remained still smouldered. Coughing from the smoke, Dominick frantically patted the embers out, ignoring the pricks of pain against his palms.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” came a shout. The crowd that had closed in around them was elbowed aside, then Doctor Mills was kneeling beside Dominick, clicking open his ever-present medical bag.
“My God,” Alfie whispered. “He can’t have survived that, can he?”
Dominick didn’t know. Had some villager had too much to drink and crawled in to sleep it off without anyone noticing? Had the man been burned alive in front of them all?
Horrified, he remembered Alfie touching his lit torch to the kindling and starting the blaze.
“Turn him over,” the doctor grunted.
Dominick and the blacksmith did, rolling the man further from the flames. It would be a long time before Dominick forgot the greasy, overheated feel of his skin. The man’s head lolled on his neck the way no living man’s would. One side of his head was horribly burned, one ear all but gone and his hair ending in blackened stumps, but his face was still recognisable.
A heartrending wail split the night air.
Dominick looked up to see Mrs. McConnell crumple, caught only at the last moment by one of the new footmen.
“Clyde!” she wailed, her voice filled with unbearable sorrow. “My Clyde!”
Dominick looked down at the body of Captain McConnell in front of him.
The dead came back on Samhain after all.