Chapter 42
THEN
Two days later, Charles brought his horse up the hillside and rode it past the temple. He felt no emotion as he followed the track towards Coventina’s Well.
He walked the horse slowly past the Burn, which gurgled as it ran through the field, then pulled the horse up by the Well and gazed into the water, leaning over to peer into it.
The place was remarkably quiet, almost as if the sound of the world, muffled in the fresh snowfall, had been cut off, yet an energy still seemed to be humming somewhere beyond the dip on the hillside.
They’d burned the body until it was ash; the snow had covered any scorch marks which may have told the story, but there was evidence of a roughly dug mound that, presumably, they’d dumped the remains in.
He scowled. It looked like an animal had been digging at it, scattering the mess across the field, but the ruts of the claw marks were softened by a fresh fall of snow and he didn’t care much either way.
He supposed that the wind had scattered part of the ashes, and he wondered if some had ended up in this burn or the Well, or still lay in a grey film, caught under the fresh snow.
Ironic, really, that if the Burn had claimed some of the ashes, she’d have floated past her own cottage and through her own village.
People were already calling the stream Meggie’s Dene Burn, which was ridiculous.
Why the hell should a witch like that be memorialised?
It would not be his choice.
It was, in fact, good riddance to the witch.
The Snow Witch.
What a fucking stupid name to give a creature like that! It was asking for fucking trouble, and he felt validated that trouble had, in fact, come to her.
Apart from anything else, she’d known too much. And she was a dangerous bitch.
The small wound on his upper chest still ached, but it was already healing. He shuddered to think what she might have done had he not called her out to protect himself.
Charles smiled into the dark, freezing-cold depths of the Well. The problem had been dealt with very easily in the end.
He blinked and peered further into the black water. It would have been an excellent place to test the theory that witches who had been bound and gagged floated.
Not to worry. They hadn’t needed to do that. Nicholson had done a good job with the stick. The girl had been a menace to society, guilty of attempted murder no less. Why should she have been spared?
As he reasoned with himself, a movement behind the stone wall of the Well made him look.
What he saw surprised him: ‘Emory?’
Emory came out from the structure. The man looked mad: unkempt, untidy.
His dark hair was roughly pulled back, his face was white and his eyes shadowed with black.
His clothes were very different from Charles’ neatly pressed shirt and breeches and overcoat.
Emory stood clad only in a shirt and breeches and, to Charles’ surprise, there were rusty-looking stains on the shirt.
Bloodstains? There was a wind snaking around the valley and it lifted Charles’ own fair hair, caused the hem of his overcoat to undulate, but Emory stood motionless, seemingly not even aware of it, even as his shirtsleeves billowed.
‘Yes. It is I.’ Emory stared at his brother unblinkingly and Charles felt a moment of unease.
‘I have not seen you at home for a day or two,’ said Charles lightly. ‘Have you been whoring?’
Emory remained still, his eyes darkening with anger as he fixed his gaze on his brother.
Charles laughed. ‘Oh – my mistake. She is dead, is she not?’ He nodded to the uneven mound behind Emory. ‘So have you been hiding out at her filthy little cottage? Is that what explains the state of you?’
‘For one day and one night. I stayed there one day and one night,’ replied Emory, his voice toneless. ‘But I had something to return to her. So I brought it here.’
Charles did not like the way Emory was staring at him. He tried to change the subject. ‘You are a mess,’ he said, nodding to the rusty-coloured stains and the filthy shirt. ‘What is that?’
Emory looked down at his shirt, and then lifted his hands and looked at those. Charles could see the stains were up his sleeve as well.
Then Emory smiled. ‘Nicholson’s blood,’ he said simply. ‘It is his. Now we both have blood on our hands, brother. Although mine was washed away in the water from the Sacred Well. Yours remains within your soul.’
‘What the hell?’ Charles processed that comment for a second, then stared at Emory in horror. ‘You have killed Nicholson?’
‘Yes. Just as you killed Meg.’
‘I did not kill Meg—’
‘No! I will not hear your lies. You were as responsible as Nicholson. Had it not been for you, she would still be here.’
‘You have lost your mind.’ Charles glared at his brother.
‘Clean yourself up and come back to the house – or go to the witch’s cottage.
Or stay here. I do not really care.’ Charles turned the horse, his words belying the pounding of his heart.
He rode past his brother, who moved nothing but his eyes, hatred and disgust following every movement Charles made.
Emory had killed Nicholson! That story hadn’t reached Newbrough yet, but Charles needed to make sure the Milburns were not in the slightest way suspects in that murder when the news began to spread. Emory had to get himself cleaned up; he had to come back and pretend he knew nothing about it.
Charles did not like the way his brother was staring at him; he could almost feel his eyes boring into him. He shuddered as he urged the horse further behind the stone wall of Coventina’s Well and—
‘Good God!’ Charles’ shout was one of genuine terror and horror as a pistol shot cracked into the air.
Charles’ horse reared. His frozen fingers struggled to keep hold of the reins, and he lost his grip and the horse threw him and ran away, far over the fields in the direction of Milburn Hall. Charles landed in the snow and scrambled to his feet, turning to run away.
Another shot rang out, whistling past his ear, and he automatically threw himself to the ground.
He saw a pair of filthy boots plant themselves in front of him, those rust-coloured stains marking them up the side, as if the wearer had splashed through a river of blood.
Emory.
‘I’m glad you came, Charles Milburn,’ Emory said calmly and disinterestedly. ‘I have been waiting for you.’ And Charles felt the cold muzzle of the pistol press against his temple.