The House of Lyall (27 page)

Grace Peat had been such a lovely person; full of fun and she had never complained about anything. Maybe it would have been better if she had, Marianne mused; maybe the doctor could have cured whatever had ailed her.

As she had expected, when he opened the door, Duncan's face was gaunt, his dark hair dishevelled, his near-black eyes almost lifeless, and as soon as he ushered her into his front room, he held out his arms. Quite taken aback, she held
him, letting his shuddering body lie close against hers as great sobs burst from him. She knew not to say anything until he was calmer, but he seemed to take an awful long time, and at last she tried to step back.

‘No, don't let me go,' he groaned. ‘My parishioners all expressed condolences at the graveside, but Robert Mowatt's the only one who has come to see me since. I need someone to talk to, Marianne, and to hold me! I need you.'

He dropped his head until his chin was resting on her breast, but it wasn't until she realized that his hands were on her buttocks that she felt a tingle of fear. With every second that passed, there came another sign that he was arousing himself by the things he was doing to her, and she wished with all her heart that she had not come out uncorseted.

‘Oh, I miss Grace so much,' he moaned, effectively stopping her from trying to wriggle free.

‘Of course you will,' she murmured, his words doing a little to reassure her. ‘You'd been married for …?'

‘For ten and a half years,' he supplied, his fingers caressing her left hip, ‘and never once did she refuse me. There are not many men who can say that about their wives. That is why I … that is why I … I haven't had any release since she told me she was … pregnant … and she didn't tell me until it was too late.'

‘Too late?'

He looked up at her sadly. ‘Robert said … she was not strong enough …' His face crumpling, he burrowed his head into her neck.

His evil intentions soon became crystal clear. His hands were everywhere, one moment pummelling her hips, the next tearing open her blouse and grasping her so roughly that she lashed out with her foot. He had placed his own legs around hers, however, in such a way that she could do him no harm, and in a matter of seconds, he had managed to get her thrashing body down on the sagging leather sofa.

‘Duncan!' she pleaded. ‘Please stop!'

His only reply was to punch her in the stomach, which proved to her that he didn't know what he was doing. He was past all reason – he had no control over his actions, but, despite knowing it was useless, she continued to fight him. It was an instinctive reaction, but it seemed to make him more violent – he wasn't just touching her in places he shouldn't, he was hurting her, doing his best to make her scream out in agony, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't stop it. But she did stop struggling.

‘That's better,' he muttered, his hand less aggressive. Suddenly he said, ‘You've only yourself to blame, Marianne. It's your fault.'

She couldn't understand what he meant, but she was determined not to say anything to set him off again, for he was absolutely raving mad. ‘It's your fault,' he repeated, twisting her nipple until she gave an agonized groan. ‘It's your fault and you're going to suffer for it.'

In seconds, he had hauled off her skirt and drawers and was clawing at her most intimate part, but when he changed position to open his trouser buttons, she took advantage of her freedom to lash out at him with her fists and slam her knee into his groin. He merely gave a grunt and landed his knee on her stomach with such force that it nearly knocked all the breath out of her.

‘You little bitch!' he snarled. ‘You common little bitch!'

When he finally drove into her, the excruciating pain made her lose consciousness, and when she came round, he had obviously satisfied himself, because he was sitting on the chair at the fireside, looking at the cinders and ashes that he had not cleaned out from the night before. She made a little move to see if he would notice, but he appeared to be in a world of his own, and so she made her escape as quietly as she could, each breath laboured, as if she had been running.

Chapter Thirteen

On his way to answer the urgent knocking, Robert Mowatt wondered which of his patients had taken a turn for the worse. Old Willie Cattanach had looked a bit better yesterday; surely he hadn't had a relapse? The doctor's eyes widened in astonishment when he opened the door.

‘Good God, Marianne!' he exclaimed. ‘What happened?'

He had already guessed, however. Her obvious state of trembling shock, her white face, the long strands of chestnut hair dislodged from their hairpins, the way she was holding her ripped blouse together and the bruises on her arms, told him the whole story without her having to say a word. She flinched when he put an arm at her back to shepherd her inside.

‘Who was it?' he asked gently. ‘Who did this to you?'

Unwilling, or unable, to talk, she shook her head, and Flora, whose mouth had fallen open at the sight of her, came forward. ‘Marianne, you must tell us.' She turned to her husband to whisper, ‘Go and get a blanket for her,' and when he was out of the room, she bent over the distressed victim again. ‘Who was it, my dear? For what he did to you, he must be punished.'

She was still waiting for a reply when Robert returned with the blanket. ‘Go and make a cup of tea,' she ordered him. ‘I'm sure she'll tell me if you leave us alone for a while.'

With the closing of the door, Marianne looked up at the woman who had come to be as close a friend as she could afford to have amongst her father-in-law's tenants. ‘Promise you won't tell him?'

‘I can't promise that, Marianne. He has to know.'

‘But I don't want it reported to the police … Duncan's been through enough already …'

Flora Mowatt looked as if she'd been felled with an axe. ‘Duncan?' she gasped. ‘Duncan Peat? Don't tell me it was
him
? Grace always said he was a violent man, but …'

‘I only heard about Grace this morning … so I went to tell him how sorry I was, and … he looked so pathetic … and he wanted me to hold him …' She paused, then went on, ‘I was so hot I'd taken off my corset … and I didn't put it on to come out … so he … so he …' Her babbling came to a stammering halt.

Flora's sympathy for her changed to fury at her attacker. ‘Losing his wife is no excuse for raping you!'

At last the tears came, noisy ragged sobs seemingly dredged up from the very innermost part of her, and Flora stood back and let her cry. It would help to wash out the shame she must feel, though it wouldn't banish it altogether.

The doctor, who had waited until the storm was over, came in with a tray when Marianne quietened. He looked quizzically at his wife, who said, ‘Yes, she's told me.'

‘Who was it, then?' he asked, somewhat tetchily, not accustomed to people holding anything back from him.

She lifted the teapot and started pouring. ‘She doesn't want me to tell you.'

‘Godammit, Flora, I have to report it to the police.'

‘Calm yourself, Robert,' she soothed, handing a cup to Marianne. ‘It's going to be hard enough for her to face him again without the whole glen knowing what he's done.'

He swallowed, trying hard to contain his irritation at the feminine logic. ‘She wouldn't have to face him again. The police would lock him up. At the very least, when Lord Glendarril comes back he will send him away.'

Her face working in agitation, Marianne burst out, ‘You can't put the police on him, not when he's newly lost his wife!'

Robert seized on what she had inadvertently revealed. ‘Duncan? But good God –'

‘He didn't actually … I managed to get away before he …'

‘That's not the point, though! The intention was there!'

‘But he didn't! He didn't, Robert!' She looked imploringly at Flora now, but before his wife could say anything, Robert cried, ‘You're not doing him any good by shielding him, you know! He could –'

‘I'm not shielding him! Please, Robert, just leave the matter there!'

‘I can easily find out. I only need to examine you.'

‘Don't touch me, Robert Mowatt!' she screamed, her eyes frantic with apprehension. ‘Don't you dare touch me!'

‘I only want to know the truth!'

‘I'll tell you the truth,' Flora put in quietly. ‘Yes, Duncan did rape her but she doesn't want anybody else to know. Finish your tea, then you had better take her home. We can discuss what's to be done when you come back.'

While the doctor went to harness his pony, Flora got a coat for Marianne. ‘Cover yourself with this, my dear, and nobody will be any the wiser. I can understand why you don't want the police involved, but think about it when you're calmer. He shouldn't get away with what he's done to you.'

Marianne gave a long uneven sigh. ‘I don't want them to know.'

She said nothing to the doctor on the short journey to the castle, but when he helped her out of the trap, she murmured, ‘Please don't report him, Robert. He didn't know what he was doing …'

She managed to creep upstairs without anyone seeing her, and had put on another blouse and skirt and tidied her hair before Thomson came in. ‘I wondered if you were back,' the maid observed. ‘How's the minister bearing up?'

It was all Marianne could do to keep her voice steady. ‘He's very … low … as you'd expect.'

‘Yes, yes, of course. Will I tell Cook you're ready for lunch?'

‘No, I don't feel like eating.'

‘You'll still be upset about Mrs Peat. Well, just ring if you feel like having something later on.'

Having seen Marianne safely inside, Robert took matters into his own hands by going to the manse before he went home. Ever since Grace died, he had felt that the minister was balancing on the fine line between sanity and insanity, and Marianne's visit, well meant though it was, must have tipped the balance the wrong way. Anyway, he wanted to know what the man had to say for himself. He had never cared much for Duncan Peat, not even when they were boys together. Being two years older, Duncan had bullied Robert and threatened him with all kinds of weird punishment if he told anyone. That was why he had believed Grace about a year ago when he had been attending her for blinding headaches and she had confessed that it was fear of her husband that caused them. He had calmed her then, given her powders to help her to sleep at nights, had even had a word with Duncan, but he'd had the feeling that his little talk with the man had only made things worse.

The doctor knew that his hands were tied as far as police were concerned, but he'd have to pass on word of the rape to Lord Glendarril and, more urgently, issue a warning to the offender. He would tell the pervert that it was only Marianne's pleading that had saved him from being reported to the police, and that nothing would save him from jail if he interfered with any other woman in the glen.

When Robert arrived at the manse, he was not really surprised to see the outside door standing wide open – probably just as Marianne had left it when she ran out. Dreading what he might find, he was reluctant to enter the house, but it was a duty he could not avoid. He was relieved to find the man sitting by his fireside, muttering to himself. He did not appear to be conscious of another presence until he was tapped on the shoulder, and when he raised his head, Robert gave a grunt of satisfaction. His suspicions were correct – there was no recognition in the man's wild eyes, he was dribbling from the mouth, he was sitting in a pool of urine. He was absolutely mad!

There was further trauma for Robert Mowatt the following day when he called at Hillside Mental Hospital to ask if the newest inmate was showing any sign of returning to normal.

The superintendent, biting his lip nervously, led the way into his private office. ‘Peat strangled himself with the bed-sheet sometime in the night. It was only discovered when an attendant went to give him his breakfast this morning, and I cannot tell you how badly it has affected all the staff. It is the only suicide in my five years' service here, but there is nothing I could have done. I visited him last evening in the room we keep for very disturbed persons, and he seemed much calmer, so I decided that he could safely be left alone. In my experience, a good night's sleep quite often helps to clear the brain but …' The man shrugged his shoulders.

Robert's first reaction was guilt that he had abandoned Duncan at his lowest ebb. If he had spent the night with him, made sure that he did nothing desperate, he might have pulled through.

‘Do not blame yourself,' the superintendent said gently. ‘I, too, feel guilty. I should have had someone sit with him, but, frankly, I doubt if he would ever have recovered. It is better this way.'

Not convinced of this, the doctor shook the superintendent's hand and went home to tell Flora, who said, ‘Of course it's better he killed himself, though it's a terrible thing to say. Once word got round of what he did to Marianne, his life wouldn't have been worth living. His parishioners thought the world of him, but they'd have turned against him, I'm sure. His Lordship would have put him away. God knows what poor Grace had to put up with. You know, Robert, I really miss her – she was a lovely person, wasn't she?'

Robert sighed. ‘Yes, she was. Far too good for him.'

It was a nine days' wonder! The good folk of the glen had gossip aplenty to turn over, rumours abounded, speculations ran wild – the minister had tried to hang himself in the manse, that was why he'd been committed to the madhouse, but his head had been taken out of the gas oven just in time; there was even a faction who suspected that some woman had been involved, but the consensus of opinion was: ‘Poor man, it was losing his wife and bairn that turned his brain, and them that try suicide and fail usually make a right job of it the next time they try.'