Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
Mrs. Fuddleby was carving thick slices of pork (from a joint Mallon suspected was destined for Upstairs luncheon) “I’m glad to be putting food on a proper plate for ye at last, Silas! ’Stead o’ wrapping up scraps in a cloth for Withers to take out to ye!” She glanced over at Mallon. “An’ I know the Master won’t be taking umbrage, seein’ as ye be one of us!”
Withers’ eyes were upon his brother. Wrapped under several blankets and with his chair pulled close to the stove, Silas was sipping from a steaming cup.
“Him started to take bad, and with the weather be turnin’, I’d no choice but t’bring he into proper shelter. I wanted to tell ee, Master, but I feared as to what action ye’d take—Silas bein’ a wanted criminal an’ all, though us’uns all know he be innocent!” Withers declared.
Leaning against the edge of the great oak table, Mallon nodded. He was trying to keep his mind on what Withers was telling him, but his thoughts continued to pull toward what he’d seen through the drawing room window—Hugo proposing to Geneviève and her seeming to accept.
He couldn’t deny what his own eyes had witnessed, even though his heart wanted to.
He made himself redirect his mind. Withers was trying to explain all that had happened, and he deserved Mallon’s full attention.
“I’d suggested us’uns smuggled Silas to Plymouth, findin’ passage on some ship. But him was too weary to attempt such a journey.” Withers raised a shaking hand to take a sip from his own cup of tea.
Installed in the warmth of the kitchen, Silas seemed to have recovered some of his spirit; his voice, though still rasping, was coming back to him.
“I jus’ wanted to see ye, brother! An’ the hall, again. Afore I were locked up, I lived ‘ere man and boy. Where else would I go?” He pressed his sleeve to his face, mumbling to himself as he wiped away the evidence of his emotion. “Only home I’ve ever ‘ad.”
Looking into the man’s sunken eyes, Mallon was reminded that he’d returned to Wulverton not merely to satisfy his desire to see the moor again. He was here to fulfil his duty: the estate needed guidance from one who cared deeply about the well-being of its tenants. Moreover, Silas deserved freedom from his unjust incarceration and the clearance of his name from all stain of guilt.
Those duties were Mallon’s, and no one else’s.
With Silas under his roof, Mallon hoped it would make the process of his release easier, rather than more complicated. As soon as possible, he’d attend upon the magistrate to petition for Silas’s pardon. He had faith justice would be served.
“You’re my responsibility now, Silas. No one shall send you back. Whatever years are left to you, they’ll be spent here, with us.”
Silas sniffed and sat as upright as he was able. “God bless ee, Master! I trust ee to speak fer me.”
Withers nodded his thanks to Mallon, then closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. The strain of keeping his brother safely hidden had taken its toll. Withers looked as if he needed a week in bed himself.
Mrs. Fuddleby paused in her slathering of butter on a slice of bread, appearing to wipe away a tear of her own. “It’s time this’un injustice be put right, and if anyone can do it, it be our master.”
Mallon knew full well that Silas’s incarceration had been a travesty—the result of his own father’s misguided wrath on discovering his wife’s infidelity. Poor Silas had only done as his mistress had asked, providing her with a horse on the night of her escape.
It seemed Silas had known her intent, but how could he have foreseen the mare would carry Mallon’s mother to her death in the mire, or that the late viscount would punish him so unjustly for having done her bidding.
Only once had Mallon dared broach the subject with his father. As a child, he’d understood only that the stableman who’d taught him to ride had gone away. Reaching manhood, he’d learned the full story and had been horrified. His father had stolen a man’s liberty—his life!
The accusation of ‘horse theft’ should never have stood up in court, but the late viscount had bribed the magistrate to pronounce the harsh sentence.
Mallon could hardly credit that Silas was still alive after all those nights hiding on the moor. He’d spent the first in a kistvaen , huddled in the ancient hollow of some other man’s burial, hoping he’d see the sunrise without freezing to death. After that, he’d made toward the hall, knowing his brother would help him. Taking shelter in the chapel had hardly been better than exposure on the moor, since the place had no form of heating and was as cold as any grave. It had been Withers’ idea to bring Silas into the hayloft above the stables.
Withers had taken Scroggins into his confidence, as well as Mrs. Fuddleby. Between them, they’d done what they’d thought best.
As Mallon rose, Withers also pushed himself to his feet.
“There be another matter, Master, if you can spare the time t’hear me.”
Withers was not a man to ask favors, nor to gossip.
“Of course.” Mallon offered his arm. “We’ll withdraw to your butler’s parlor, shall we? I’ve already sent Ida to make sure the fire is lit. I want you to rest for the next few days. The first footman can take some of your duties, until you’re feeling stronger.”
Withers nodded mutely, allowing himself to be led. His little parlor was just big enough to hold the table at which Withers sat to record his accounts of the wine and spirits used in the house. There was a single, battered armchair, too, in the corner, beside a small fire grate. Withers folded himself into it, while Mallon took the harder seat.
The butler passed his hand over his forehead before speaking, clearly anxious, but needing to relieve his conscience of some burden.
“Come, Withers, you can tell me.” Mallon leant forward upon his knees.
“I be ashamed, m’Lord, seein’ as it caused trouble to the lady, but ‘tis best you know, and p’raps ye may set her mind to rest.”
Mallon had no idea what Withers was talking about, but gave his encouragement nonetheless.
“’Tis the dogs, y’see. That Sergeant Hawky what came when Silas first made escape, with them other poor sods, him was sayin’ they’d be scourin’ the moor until all was recaptured.”
Withers grimaced. “I were that worried, thinkin’ the police’d be sniffin’ round, or some other folk who’d pass on a sightin’—in hope of a reward, as it were. They might’ve found Silas up at the chapel, so I made sure Master Hugo’s dogs were gettin’ short rations, to keep ‘em a bit ‘ungry like, then let ‘em out around dusk each night, to prowl an’ scare off anyone close by. Mistress de Wolfe approved o’ the dogs havin’ more time outside, but she thought I were doin’ it to frighten off the convicts, rather than those who be lookin’ for ‘em. O’ course, I introduced the hounds to Silas first, so they’d know he were a friend.”
He took out a handkerchief to blow his nose. “I were hopin’ folks would think the Wisht Hounds were about, and word would travel to stop ‘em wantin’ to venture near.”
Withers shook his head and seemed to shrink in his chair. “Wicked o’ me I know! Not that the dogs will’ve suffered much. They’ums are always snaffling bits o’ food orf the floors! But I felt bad about the lady, when her did come over in that faint, seein’ our shaggy beasts up by the chapel. Mrs. Fuddleby told I about it, an’ I knew straight orf it were Master Hugo’s daft buggers that did it. More like to lick a man to death than anythin’ else, but us’uns know what it be like after dark on the moor. Yer imagination can make ye think all sorts.”
“You did right to tell me,” said Mallon. “Though I wouldn’t worry unduly about the countess. She’s made of sterner stuff than she appears.”
Withers picked up the poker and gave the logs a push before looking back to Mallon. Despite having admitted his folly, his face remained downcast.
“There’s summat else, m’lord, that’s been playin’ terrible on my mind since Silas did tell me.” He gave a shiver. “It be about Master Hugo’s guest, as came in the fancy motor car.”
Mallon frowned. Slagsby had disappeared the day of the hunt, and Mallon had been glad of it, even though it had distressed Hugo. It had been ‘good riddance’ as far as Mallon was concerned.
Withers seemed to steel himself to say what he next needed to. “The young man set orf just afore the mist came down. You remember, m’lord, it were quite bad by around midday.”
Mallon nodded. An uneasy feeling twisted his gut.
“Silas says he were driving like a madman. From up on the hill, above the chapel, he watched him headin’ orf, but not in the direction o’ the main road. Somehow, he took the track toward Fox Tor. He’un must’ve realized his mistake, for he did fix himself about, but then he took the wrong turn altogether—down the old track that goes toward the mire.”
Withers’ face had become bloodless, his hands shaking in his lap.
“The mist had started rollin’ over by then, and Silas do say him can’t be sure, but he heard a shout, way off, and then, when the next wave of mist had passed over, the car was nowhere to be seen—as if the devil had swallowed it whole.”
Mallon’s stomach lurched. Beware the mire, so every moorlander said, and they were right. Its bewitching landscape held him under its spell, but it was a treacherous lover to those who entered its embrace unwary.
He’d have happily given Slagsby more than a bloody nose the night he’d attacked Geneviève. He’d cursed him to hell as Hugo had escorted him back to his bed, but he would never have wished him to such an end as this—dragged to a slow, terrifying death in the mire!
Mallon’s head swam at the imagining of it. The mire near Fox Tor. The same mire in which his mother had met her end.
Withers was speaking again, obliging Mallon to push aside those grim images, drawing him back to the here and now.
“I sent Scroggins to look all along that’n road. He found the lord’s scarf twisted upon a bush at the edge o’ the bog, like as if he’d gotten hisself out o’ the sinkin’ car and was a-tryin’ to pull hisself to safety.”
Withers shook his head. “No good o’ course. It ne’er be any good.”
With a shudder, he hid his face in his hands. “May God forgive us, we decided to keep it t’ourselves—just until Silas be gotten away, like. But the gennleman’ll have family what’ll be worryin’—and Master Hugo should know.”
A creeping cold travelled Mallon’s veins. He’d report the death to the magistrate—better that than getting the local police involved. The telephone exchange went through Princetown. He’d be able to place a call and arrange a meeting. Only then would he tell Hugo and contact Slagsby’s people. It was a nasty business, but things had to be faced head-on.
Withers raised his head again, looking Mallon straight in the eyes, making sure he was listening.
“No matter the sins upon our heads, there always be those that do love us.”