Decline in Prophets (40 page)

Suddenly, the entire related gaggle of Sinclairs was descending the staircase all shouting at once.

Wilfred stood between them and his brother, abandoning all thoughts of convincing Rowland to wait. Any such endeavours would be fruitless anyway.

“Right then—we’ll manage things here. Be careful, Rowly—don’t do anything stupid.”

38

E
dna attempted to breathe evenly, trying to control the shaking. Her joints screamed and cramped. She’d been bound for hours now,
incapacitated as much by terror as by the ropes knotted tightly into her flesh. The small confessional was airless. It was black—she could see nothing but she was aware of the knife. He
pressed it against her cheek occasionally to remind her, swearing he’d cut her face first if she made a sound.

The mourners had saved her. For a while, at least. What made them seek solace in the chapel so late, Edna did not know. She suspected they were a little drunk, on some post-wake pilgrimage to a
graveside. But it forced him to retreat into the confessional, until they had gone. One of them had even come into the cubicle, completely unaware that on the other side of the partition, the
kindly priest confessor held a blade at the throat of a young woman.

Edna lay on the ground at his feet, her tears silenced by an icy consuming fear. He was calm, patient, coldly ruthless.

He placed the point of the knife at her temple as the voices of the inebriated mourners faded. They were going. The sobs came now, convulsing, hacking gasps.

Bryan kicked her in the back and called her “a whore”. But she couldn’t stop. She cried.

He used the knife, cutting the bonds at her ankles, running his hand lewdly along the length of her leg. She choked and begged him to leave her alone.

“Matthew… please.”

Bryan slapped her.

“Shut up—I know what you are.”

He dragged her to her feet. She stumbled—her legs were numb after being bound for so long.

Bryan seized a handful of hair, dragging back her head. He stopped as a silver glint caught his eye. He snatched the locket, enraged. The chain snapped.

“This is Isobel’s locket, you thieving harlot!” He flung it away and forced her up. “Come on, Miss Higgins, it’s time you apologised.”

Edna was confused, dazed. Bryan pushed her onto her knees before a pew and placed paper and a pencil onto the bench in front of her. The chapel was lit only by the candles the mourners had
struck in remembrance. The soft light cast Bryan’s shadow long, a dark giant on the wooden floor. His layman’s clothes only added to her bewilderment, her disorientation. He cut the
bonds on her wrists and shoved the pencil into her swollen fingers.

“Now write!” he barked taking the knife back to her temple. He brought his face close to hers. “You can write, can’t you? You’re an educated whore aren’t you?
Surely, Sinclair wouldn’t take on some illiterate piece. He’s a man of means and breeding I’m told.”

Edna didn’t know how to respond. How could she not have known he despised her so?

“Darling Rowly,” Bryan said, “Go on—write—Darling Rowly!”

Edna wrote. She didn’t understand. Was this a ransom note? Was she writing her own ransom note?

“I was jealous,” Bryan dictated. “I’m sorry—write! I must pay for what I did to Isobel Hanrahan… Now, sign it… sign it!

He folded the finished note and placed it into his pocket. The knife, he put at her spine. “Now, Miss Higgins, we’re going for a walk. We’re not likely to see anyone, but if we
do, you will remember that any move that displeases me will be your last.” Bryan pushed the point of the blade against her skin.

The prick of steel seemed to calm her, bring her back from pure terror. Her only chance was to keep her wits.

They walked out of the chapel, his arm around her as if they were lovers. Bryan was right. The cemetery was deserted. The midsummer moon was only just waning but the way was barely visible away
from the chapel.

Edna gathered herself, collecting the remains of her shredded will. There would be a time to fight. She would wait for it.

Bryan took her to the newer section of the cemetery, the point of the knife constant at the base of her neck. They stopped at the simple cross that marked a fresh grave. The flowers that lay
there had been recently placed, the petals wilted but not brittle. This was where Isobel Hanrahan lay.

Edna thought quickly. Did the deacon think she killed the bishop’s niece? Was he taking revenge for her death?

“Matthew,” she said, her voice hoarse and forced. “I didn’t hurt Isobel, I promise you…”

Bryan laughed. “I know full well you didn’t,” he said quietly, scornfully. “But someone has to take responsibility. You can blame your precious Rowly for this. If
he’d let it be, if he hadn’t started nosing around with his connections and his lackey policemen, Isobel could have been quietly forgotten, and you wouldn’t have to account for
her death.”

“You… it was you… you killed Isobel,” she whispered, her horror for a moment overcoming fear. “My God, she was pregnant.”

“She couldn’t stick to the story, could she?” Bryan replied angrily. “She declared Rowland Sinclair’s innocence to the world… it was only a matter of time
before the bishop became suspicious… started looking at who else might have sampled his precious Isobel. Stupid girl couldn’t stick to the story!”

He pushed the sculptress down, so she knelt on the soil. He kept the knife at her neck, reaching into his pocket with his other hand.

Edna felt the panic rise again in her throat—it choked her.

He pulled out a small flask and removed the stopper with his teeth. Bryan smiled as if something had suddenly amused him. He spoke solemnly but his voice was cut with derision. “Corpus
Christi, sanguis Christi.”

He pushed the flask against her lips, forcing them open, and tipped the contents into her mouth. Instinctively Edna pulled away and spat and gagged. Now she would fight. She clawed at him.

Bryan let the knife drop and grabbed her hair determined that she should drink. He jerked back her head and as she opened her mouth to scream, he poured the poison into her throat.

39

A
nyone watching may have assumed that the three men who burst into the chapel of St Michael the Archangel were in an almighty hurry to repent. But
the only person who saw was the chapel’s rector. He had been woken by the roar of the German automobile and watched in his robe and slippers from the window of the presbytery. They did not
seem like the faithful—he suspected they were up to no good. There had been far too many dubious visitors to his church this night. A cautious man, he turned to call the police.

Rowland sat down in the front pew, disappointed, terrified. He’d been wrong. There was no-one here.

Milton sat next to him, his panic was now silent.

Rowland felt himself unravelling. “Where could he have taken her?” He slammed his fist against the back of the pew. “I was so sure…” He stopped. Something glinted
near the altar, in the light of the last candles. He walked over and picked it up.

“Ed’s locket,” he said as Clyde came over to him. “The chain’s been snapped—they were here.”

“So what’s the bastard done with her?” Milton asked. “Where would they go from here?”

Rowland stared at the locket, willing it to tell him where the deacon had taken Edna.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” The rector stood at the door of the chapel, still in his robe.

The rector. Of course. Rowland felt a late surge of hope.

“Father… we’re looking for someone… she was here with a man…”

Clyde intervened.

Rowland let him do so, aware that he was sounding a little incoherent in his desperation to find Edna.

Clyde explained quickly that they were looking for a young woman who had been taken forcibly by the man she was with, that the couple had come here that night.

The old priest sighed, nodding sympathetically. “I’m afraid this is not the first time I have been called to aid the protectors of a young woman’s virtue.” He sat on a
pew, settling to dispense his wisdom. “It does distress me that my church, God’s house, would be used to lure a woman of such purposes, but morality is not what it once
was…”

Rowland grabbed the priest’s shoulder. “Father!”

Clyde held him back. “Rowly, take it easy… did you see them Father?”

“I saw them,” the rector replied, startled. “Wrapped up in each other, they were… quite inappropriate. They left just a few minutes ago—towards the new
graves…”

Suddenly Rowland knew. Isobel Hanrahan’s grave.

“Thank you, Father,” Clyde called as they ran past him.

They left the Mercedes where it was—it would be faster to cut straight through. They stopped only to grab torches.

The new graves were only half a mile from the chapel as the crow flew. They covered the ground quickly, weaving through headstones at a sprint. The more recent gravesites were obvious by the
lack of headstones and monuments, sad mounds marked only by wooden crosses and temporary tributes. It made Bryan and his victim all the more visible in the muted light of the moon.

Rowland saw them struggling before he raised his torch. Edna was gasping—the crazed clergyman had her by the throat. Rowland exploded, throwing himself at Bryan.

Bryan turned immediately, surprised. He hit back, a pewter flask in his hand impacting on the wound he’d inflicted to Rowland’s head a couple of days before.

Rowland reeled back, momentarily stunned by the blow. The gash had reopened. He wiped the blood out of his eyes, oblivious to everything but relief and fury.

Clyde was with Edna, holding her as she gagged and retched.

Milton threw his fist at Bryan. He made contact but not directly. The deacon reefed out the wooden cross from the ground and swung at the poet’s head. Milton ducked the first but the
second sent him to the ground. Now Rowland had regrouped. He hit Bryan in the face, sending him flying back against a headstone. He grabbed the deacon by the collar and hit him again. Bits of
shattered tooth flew from the man’s jaw. Rowland could hear Edna choking and vomiting behind him.

Clyde shouted. “The bastard’s poisoned her, Rowly.”

Rowland pulled up Bryan’s head. “What did you give her? What was it?”

Bryan spat blood at him.

Rowland punched him. “What did you give her? Tell me or so help me I’ll kill you here.”

For a moment the deacon looked like he would laugh. “Strychnine,” he said hoarsely.

Matthew Bryan didn’t see the next blow, as Rowland sent him into darkness. Milton pulled Rowland away from the unconscious man.

“Leave him, Rowly—he’ll swing anyway. We need to get Ed to a hospital…”

Rowland nodded. “Get the car… I don’t think we have much time.”

Rowland dropped to his knees beside Edna. He took her from Clyde’s arms. Her head and neck were beginning to spasm, her face bruised by the beating that Bryan had given her. She
didn’t seem aware of what was happening.