Master of the Moors (20 page)

He drank deeply until he'd
drained the glass. Tentatively, she took it from him and set it on
the nightstand.

"How are you feelin',
sir?" she asked, voice quavering.

"As can be expected." The
words dragged a cough from him that struck fear into the
charwoman's heart. Would this be the moment in which all illusion
of his recovery dissipated and once more left him a catatonic
vessel?

A moment later, he
recovered, on his reddened face an expression of steely resolve.
One hand snaked out and latched itself around the charwoman's
wrist.

"I have to get up," he
said. "You have to help me."

"Oh," said Mrs. Fletcher,
quickly rising as he started to hoist himself up. "I think you
should stay in bed, sir. At least until Doctor Campbell has a
chance to---"

"I've been in this damn
bed long enough. Now I need to get up. Something's wrong. Something
we have to put right. Something
you
have to fix." When she looked at him dumbly, he
added, "The children are in danger."

"Master, don't worry
yourself now, I assure you, Kate and Neil are quite safe. They're
at the dance, with Mr. Grady." She smiled but it cracked at the
sight of him forcing back the sheets. The exposed legs were like
pale sticks and she felt her heart miss a beat. "Sir, please..." He
ignored her, his movements frantic, one arm outstretched, fingers
splayed in a gesture that forbade intervention.

"They're not all right,"
he said, anger in his tone. "And won't be unless we do something
about it."

He's
delusional
, Mrs. Fletcher thought,
disappointment tainting her hope.
This is
nothing more than another level of his sickness.

He swung his legs over the
edge of the bed, but there he paused, breathless, and looked at the
floor as if it were the opening to an abyss. When he looked up, his
resolve had faltered, replaced by fear. "I'm not sure I can stand,"
he said.

She sat next to him, took
his hand and put his arm around her, even while mumbling her dismay
that he should endeavor to rise before his body was prepared for
the punishment. She stood, alarmed at the lack of weight in him; it
was like lifting a sack of feathers. There she held him, again
struck by how odd it was to see him standing by the bed instead of
comatose within its folds. He removed his arm, and though not quite
steady, he managed to stand on his own and gave a small satisfied
nod.

Mrs. Fletcher shook her
head at the sight of him. He looked like a scarecrow. "You're still
weak, sir," she said. "This is foolish."

The glare he cast at her was another
incongruity and the power of it hushed her.

"You don't understand," he
said. "Someone is coming for the children. I should be the one to
save them, but I'm afraid I have expended the limits of my
usefulness. Now, I'm more of a threat than anything
else."

She clenched her hands to
her bosom. "But sir...you've been with fever, how could you know
what's happenin' to anyone?"

"I don't know, but it's
what's
going
to
happen. Now, if you want to help me, you're first charge is to
forget your concern for me. It's misplaced. Start worrying about
the children."

Despite his words, Mrs.
Fletcher shook her head, aware it would inflame his ire, but unable
to indulge his febrile fantasies any longer. "Sir, you need to get
back in bed. Let me fetch Doctor Campbell."

"I don't want him,
Florence. If you summon him here I will kill him, do you understand
me? This is not a situation that requires his involvement and if
you persist in your nauseating maternal attitude, I'll be forced to
do this on my own, and believe me---" His face darkened, "---I
will."

Thunder exploded, rattling
the windows.

Flustered and frightened,
Mrs. Fletcher backed up until she was standing in the doorway,
afraid that despite his weakened state he might somehow find the
strength to throttle the life from her for refusing to aid him. The
prolonged agony had obviously robbed him of his wits and she could
only hope to entertain his ravings until Grady came home. Grady
would know what to do. Despite their titles, the groundskeeper and
the master had been steadfast friends for years.

"All right," she said
softly. "What do you want me to do?"

He seemed to sag a little,
and for one panicked moment, she thought he was going to collapse,
but then he straightened and took a step toward her. "Help me
downstairs," he said.

16

"I think the Beast has
come back."

They were sitting in the
corner furthest away from the bar and nearest the door, the silence
following Fowler's statement shattered by a peal of thunder that
made them both jump. Behind the bar, Sarah continued wiping the
mahogany counter with a soiled cloth, seemingly oblivious to the
thunder even though it had rattled the glasses and the oval mirror
on the wall behind her.

Aside from Grady, Fowler,
and Sarah, the bar was empty, everyone else busy enjoying the
festivities up at the hall.

Grady had already had two
whiskeys, but tonight they weren't providing him with the comfort
he'd hoped for. He clacked his glass on the small round table---an
uncharacteristically impolite means of indicating to the barmaid
that he wanted a refill---and, "I know," he said simply, avoiding the
other man's eyes. "But up until now I was doin' a fine job of
pretendin' it wasn't."

"You've seen
it?"

"I've seen
them
."

Fowler paled. "More than
one?"

Grady said nothing, but
nodded slightly. "And you? What did you see?"

"I was closing up the shop
to go for something to eat and there was one in the field right
across the road. The fog had just begun to lift and at first I
almost missed it." He paused for a sip of his whiskey. "It was like
a big black dog, or a panther, only lower to the ground,
like...like..."

"A lizard," Grady finished
for him. "Like a lizard."

"Yes. Exactly like
that."

"What did you
do?"

"Ran like the clappers,
what do you think I did?"

"I saw them tonight,"
Grady said. "On my way to the hall with the children. I can't be
sure, but I think there were three of 'em. Just like you described:
Black things, low to the ground. Like big lizards." He smiled
bitterly then and covered his face with his hands. "Jesus, will you
listen to us? Two grown men sittin' here tremblin' like little
schoolboys and talkin' about giant lizards. We should be in the
madhouse, Greg, there's no doubt about it."

Fowler shook his head.
"No, we shouldn't. If I'd never been on that search I'd gladly
agree with you. I'd say my eyes were playing tricks on me. But I
was there. I saw something in the fog, something bloody big. I
heard it growling and it wasn't a dog. You saw it too. You saw it
kill..." He lowered his voice, "...Royle, and you saw
it---
them
---again
tonight. If we're mad, then so be it. I'll be only too glad to hold
out my arms for the straightjacket if it means I don't have to lie
awake every night wondering if one of those bloody things is going
to come through my window to get me." He drained his whiskey and
wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "But if we're not," he continued,
"then you and me are in trouble."

Grady frowned and waved
his hand in the air between them. "Right, right, so we know
somethin' is prowlin' the moors, and the village, even if it only
turns out to be a few man-eatin' panthers escaped from London Zoo,
but what good does knowin' do us exactly?"

Fowler threw up his hands.
"Haven't a clue, but I'll tell you there's not a day that goes by
that I don't curse that bastard Callow for what he did."

Grady watched the pain
cross his friend's face, then said, "You did all you could have you
know."

Fowler shrugged, trying to
be casual but the look in his eyes betrayed him. Grady imagined
there had been a lot of sleepless nights for Fowler since that day
on the moors.

"What he did to
her..."

"You were there fer the
woman, Greg. In her last moments I'm sure she appreciated
that."

"I know, but..." He shook
his head.

"What?"

"If I hadn't brought that
gun..."

"You'd be dead, and so
would Mansfield. You saved his life that day, and your
own."

"Yes, but still." The
guilt had added a lot of lines to the man's face over the years,
and Grady had reassured him on more than one occasion that it was
needless. Now, he had no words left with which to persuade his
friend that picking up that pistol and shooting Callow dead had
been the only option available to him at the time.

"What if it didn't end
with that?" he said quietly.

Grady scoffed. "We tossed
him into the Fox Tor Mire. Even if yer bullet hadn't killed him,
he'd never have managed to crawl out of there."

"I'm not saying he
did."

After a few minutes of
thought, Grady realized what he was saying. "You're thinkin' it's
his ghost?"

"I killed him. I stopped
him from killing Mansfield, from feeding us to that monster he used
to trap us. Now we're seeing those things again. What's to say we
won't see
him
again too, walking the moors, herding those creatures? Back
to finish what he started."

Grady shook his head. "Why
would Callow wait almost this long to get his revenge?"

"That's what I've been
trying to figure out," Fowler replied. "But if it turns out I'm
correct, will the reason really matter?"

Grady had no response for
that.

"Or...or maybe he hasn't
come back," Fowler continued. "Maybe when he died his monsters just
roamed the moors feeding on game and the occasional unlucky
wanderer, but now they're no longer content with that. Maybe
they've run out of rabbits. Maybe now they want
us
."

"I don't want to think
about that."

Fowler sat back. "Well,
you're going to have to."

When Grady looked
questioningly at him, Fowler leaned forward in a conspiratorial
manner. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

"For good?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous. What
about the store?"

"I'll sell it when I get
to Devon. Someone else can come run it. In the meantime, Neil can
keep it going. You can help him divide the takings. He can keep
half. Send the other half on to me. I'll leave the address in the
store." His voice fluttered with nervous excitement, and in that
moment Grady realized just how frightened Fowler actually was. He
seemed to possess none of Grady's lingering doubt, only a steadfast
certainty that something evil had set its sights on him.

"You're bein' a little
hasty, aren't you?"

"No," said Fowler. "No, I
don't think I am. I hear things out there, Grady, and I'm dreaming
funny dreams. I was lucky the first time I walked into Callow's
snare. I doubt I'm lucky enough to survive another round, and the
way I see it is---if I'm not here, they can't get me." He sighed
heavily. "I've never forgotten that day, Grady. Never. I've felt
shadows across my back ever since, and now they've found
me."

"But to leave yer home and
everythin' you know because of somethin' that could be hunted down
and killed with enough men and guns?"

Fowler didn't answer, and
Grady quickly realized he didn't need to. The answer was already in
both their minds, clear as day: What if bullets didn't stop them?
Recalling the liquid, almost serpentine way the creatures had been
moving toward the village under the cover of night made him think
that something so unnatural could hardly be killed by human
means.

The
children
.

The thought of them up
there at the hall brought him back to himself and he rose so
suddenly he banged his knees against the edge of the table. He
restrained a howl of pain and grimacing, offered the still-seated
Fowler his hand. "I don't think yer entirely right about these
things, but I know why yer runnin'. In my head I'm doin' the same,
but my heart isn't so easily won over. I have to stay, fer the
children, and the master. He's been nothin' but fair to me in all
the years I've looked after that house. I'm not about to desert him
now." He reached for his cap before he remembered it wasn't there,
that the wind had stolen it earlier and he'd most likely never
retrieve it. That was fine too, he decided. If that ratty old cap
was all he lost on the moors, he'd consider it a
blessing.

"Glad to have known you,
and I hope you find the peace you're lookin' fer in London," he
added as Fowler shook his hand.

"Won't you stay for
another one?"

"I'd love to, and maybe
when you come back around the village I will, but right now I have
to get back to the hall."