Master of the Moors (2 page)

Just as Mansfield reached
a black stunted oak he recognized, Grady, his groundskeeper, rode
up beside him, peaked cap raised high on his head, allowing a few
spidery strands of silver hair to poke out. Despite the
considerable differences in their ages, the men were steadfast
friends. Ned Grady had been tending the grounds at Mansfield House
for twenty years. As a result, it was impossible to picture the
place without his slightly stoop-shouldered form ambling to and fro
in the foreground.

"There's more hope of
findin' Jesus out here today than that woman, I'd say," he said in
his distinctive Irish brogue. His horse snuffled and rattled his
bridle, drawing a gentle "Quiet, now," from Grady.

"You'll get no argument
from me there. Any other man would have put out a telegraph to
Merrivale. They'd have sent constables and bloodhounds. That he'd
settle for us instead..."

"Doesn't feel right, sure
it doesn't?"

"Not a bit."

"When he came to the house
this mornin' he looked like a man who'd been to hell and back and
stopped for a few pints along the way. Now he's as calm as
anythin'."

Mansfield looked at him,
at the striations of age that bisected the groundskeeper's cheeks,
the red-veined, hawk-like nose, and the calm blue eyes that peered
out from beneath the brim of the cap. He was not yet sixty, but he
looked a decade more.

"What do you think he's up
to? A facade, maybe, to cover the fact that she's left
him?"

Grady squinted into the
fog. "I don't know, sir. Honestly. The man has me flummoxed. But
I'll say this much: You can usually tell what a fella's thinkin' by
the look in his eyes. I looked into
his
eyes today and they were just
holes. Like lookin' into two pools of oil."

"We'd all look the same in
his situation."

"That may be, but it might
be best to stay on yer guard with him anyway, sir." He raised his
whip and pointed it back the way he'd come. "Just to be
safe."

Mansfield nodded.

"Oh, by the way," Grady
added. "Did you happen to notice that Fowler brought his
pistol?"

"No, and I'd rather you
hadn't told me."

"I wouldn't worry," said
the caretaker with a smile. "The way he shoots I'd say his foot's
the only thing in danger."

A muffled groan told them
the group was close, and when they emerged from the fog, Callow
like a specter in front, Mansfield saw that Royle was slouching in
his saddle and perspiring heavily.

"He's lookin' fairly
crawsick," Grady observed.

Callow drew to a halt in
front of them and Mansfield felt his insides writhe. Grady had not
been exaggerating. The man's face was like a theater mask, the eyes
elliptical slits of darkness.

"Anything?" Callow
asked.

"Not yet," Mansfield told
him, "but I can tell you where we are. The Tavy River should be
about half a mile straight ahead."

"Good." He turned and
looked over his shoulder. "Help him off his horse." His gaze was
directed at Royle, who looked moments away from sliding out of his
saddle.

Royle smiled and raised a
hand. "I'm sorry, awfully sorry, but perhaps it
would
be better if I turned old
Lightning here around and headed home. I'm really feeling rather
ill. Too much of the old vintage last night, I imagine."

Laws dismounted and helped Royle from
his horse.

Callow's mouth twitched,
as if the ghost of a smile had momentarily possessed it but found
no reason to linger. "Good riddance."

Royle gaped. "I beg your
pardon?"

"It is, I believe, rather
typical of you to back out of any situation in which you do not
stand to benefit directly. You've made a career out of being a
parasite, so much so that to do something as a favor or---God
forbid---out of the goodness of your heart, seems a preposterous
notion."

"Now wait just one bloody
second---" The color had returned to Royle's face.

"Laws," Callow said.
"Since you provided him with the spirits that are now making him
ill, you can accompany him back to the village. Besides, you know
the terrain better than he does and I would hate to have to feel
responsible if he fell and cracked his worthless skull."

"I'm not altogether sure
what you imbibed last night, Mr. Callow," said the furious Royle,
"but it must have been a devil of a drink to leave you with the
impression that you can address your fellows in such a manner." He
wiped a hand across his mouth and shrugged off Laws' attempt at
pacifying him. "Why...I wouldn't talk to a dog that way!"

As if attuned to the mood
of her master, Royle's horse snorted and back-stepped. He made a
half-hearted attempt to soothe it before turning his glare back
toward Callow. "If that's how you speak to that woman of yours,
then it's no wonder she ran off and left you."

All trace of a smile
vanished from Callow's face.

Mansfield raised a hand.
"Royle, leave it alone for God's sake."

But he was not to be
silenced. "The nerve! Say what you like about these others if you
feel compelled to, but you won't talk down to me no matter how
bloody high your horse might be!"

Grady stepped forward.
"Hold yer tongue, Royle, and have a bit of compassion fer the man.
He's out here lookin' for his wife, not a quarrel."

Royle turned on him. "Ah,
the Catholic peasant speaks. How
humbled
we are to hear from you. Too
bad you're not worth a---"

"That's enough," Mansfield
interrupted. "One more word and I swear I'll blacken your
eye."

"Easy, gentlemen," said
Fowler, with a nervous laugh. Now that Grady had brought it to his
attention, Mansfield noticed the holster strapped to the man's
belt. A polished walnut handle protruded from the sheath like the
top of a question mark.

The tension curdling the
air was eventually broken by Callow. "We're wasting
time."

"Agreed," Mansfield said.
"Laws, take Royle home. We'll carry on from here." Laws nodded and
moved behind Royle's horse to where his own mount awaited
him.

It then became
horrifyingly clear that the tension had not only affected the men.
Royle slapped a hand against his horse's flank in frustration and
the mare started, it's eyes wide and frightened as it rose on its
hind legs and whinnied.

"Royle, calm that blasted
nag!" Grady yelled.

Royle, cursing, grabbed
the horse's reins and tugged. "Steady there!
Steady
, Lightning."

"Laws, get out of the
bloody way!" Grady called.

But despite the sudden
ruckus, Laws attention was elsewhere. He had turned almost fully
away from the group and was squinting into the fog, one finger
raised and pointing back the way they'd come. "I just
saw---"

"Laws!"

Lightning threw a kick so
fierce and sudden it proved her title an apt one. There came a
sound like someone hitting a sack full of meat with a hammer and
Laws was knocked off his feet, arms aloft as if he were trying to
fly. He landed heavily on his side and flopped over on his back, a
single shuddering breath sweeping about his head like an attentive
ghost. Royle, still struggling to calm the mare, looked around,
confused by the sudden flurry of motion as the group hurried to
Laws' aid. Only Fowler and Callow remained on their
steeds.

Mansfield got to him
first. The innkeeper lay with his legs apart, mouth moving
soundlessly, expelling nothing but blood. His eyes were like
swollen red rubies. Mansfield, unsure whether or not the man could
still see, resisted the urge to grimace, and put his hand on the
man's shoulder.

"Laws," he said. "Peter.
Can you hear me?"

Grady squatted down on the
other side and put his index and middle finger to Laws' wrist.
"He's gone," he said a moment later.

"But he's still
moving!"

"Nothing but sparks, sir.
His head's been pulverized."

Royle, who had finally
managed to placate his mare, moaned loudly. "It was his fault. I
did nothing to him. He knew better than to---"

"Shut
up,
for feck's sake," Grady said, and
all there knew that on any other occasion, such a command would
have earned him a world of trouble. But, perhaps unwilling to draw
the ire of anyone else, Royle did as he was told.

Mansfield looked down at
Laws, at his caved-in head, and swallowed dryly. A single slim
shard of bone protruded from his shattered cheek as his head slowly
drifted to the side. Mansfield feared he'd see that detail over and
over again in his nightmares for years to come. He looked up at
Callow, who seemed impossibly unaffected by what had just
occurred.

"We have to keep going,"
the huntmaster said.

***

"Sir, we can't just leave
the poor sod out here," Grady said.

Callow gave a curt nod.
"You're correct, of course. Royle can stay with him until we
return."

Royle looked as if he'd
been slapped. "Me?"

"Yes. He was willing to
accompany
you
home, wasn't he? And as it was your mare that killed him, I'd
expect you'd be only too glad to oblige. If nothing else, it will
give you some time before you have to inform his widow of the
tragedy."

Royle's mouth dropped
open.

"And keep the gadflies off
him," Callow added, turning his horse.

Mansfield's unease
deepened. Callow didn't look all that put out by the innkeeper's
death. Worse, he saw that Grady was again correct, in that even the
panic the yeoman had exhibited earlier was no longer evident. It
was as if he really had been wearing a theater mask, and now it had
slipped off, revealing the impassive face beneath.

"Sir, if I may..." Grady
said. "This isn't right. Laws was a friend. Someone should bring
him back to the village, not to have him lyin' out here in the cold
and damp."

"I take it then, that
you're volunteering for the task?"

"I am."

"Good. Then do it, but
I'll suffer no more delays. We're not on a hunt, gentlemen. The
lives of my wife and unborn child are at stake." He looked at
Royle. "Help Grady with the body. Then take your mare with you back
into town and present it to the widow Laws. I'm sure she'll
appreciate being granted a look at her husband's
killer."

For a brief moment, it
looked as if Royle might object, but instead he muttered something
to himself and went to help Grady.

"Would it not make more
sense for us all to go back?" Mansfield said. "What just happened
doesn't bode well for the rest of this day. Perhaps if you summoned
the constables in Mer---"

"It's too late for that,"
Callow interrupted. "But if any of you want to head back, then do
so. I'll find them myself if I must."

Mansfield considered doing
just that, but knew if he did, he'd be at the mercy of his
conscience forevermore. He looked at Fowler, whose face was
positively gray with fear. Nevertheless, the shopkeeper cleared his
throat and nodded. "I'll stay and help. We've come this
far..."

They mounted their horses.

"Be careful," Mansfield
called back to Grady, who waved before leaning down to grab Laws by
the shoulders. Royle grimaced and did his best to avoid touching
the body until the groundskeeper glared at him.

Callow led Mansfield and Fowler onward
at a steady pace.

"Mansfield," Fowler called
at one point, "what do you think he saw?"

"Who?"

"Laws. Before the horse
kicked him he was pointing into the fog. Didn't he say he saw
something?"

"Maybe it was the Beast of
Brent Prior?" Callow said over his shoulder.

Fowler didn't look as if
he found the reference at all funny. "I can't believe he's dead.
Poor Sarah will be destroyed."

"She will," Mansfield
replied, "but there's consolation to be found in the fact that it
was quick. I don't think he suffered." But as the land fell into a
gentle slope, the horses' hooves crunching across the patch of
stony ground that carpeted the hollow before the terrain softened
again, he wondered if he truly believed that. An awful yawning
emptiness had opened inside him and he realized that for a long
time after this day he would walk into The Fox & Mare expecting
to see Laws there, making jokes and polishing glasses as normal.
But the gray faces gathered in the shadows of the tavern and the
lines of mourning on Sarah Laws' face would bring home to him the
reality of what had happened here today every single
time.

They rode faster into the
fog, damp earth flying in their wake.

"Callow!"

The huntmaster looked back
at Mansfield, who asked, "How far did she normally go on her
walks?"

Callow didn't answer. The
fact that he was leading them now only served to reinforce
Mansfield's belief that they were being drawn into something, that
this whole search was nothing but a show, perhaps to aid Callow's
case if Sylvia turned up dead, and that angered him. Even if it
resolved that she had indeed taken that train to London, it wasn't
going to undo the tragedy that had befallen Laws. He had to
struggle not to remember how the innkeeper had looked, had to
wrestle with images of Sylvia lying out here in the cold and
fog.