Rape of the Soul Read online

  "She was pregnant when she died?"

  He nodded.

  "You said she died tragically . . . how? What happened?"

  He studied me for a moment. “I don't think that this is the time to go into it,” he said. “You've obviously just come through a bad experience. I don't want you passing out on me again here. Perhaps all that should wait for a bit."

  "Vicar Marshall,” I pleaded, “I know I've been acting strangely since I came into this house, and I'll admit that I don't know why, but in spite of what happened here earlier, I assure you I'm not all that fragile. I don't expect you to tell me the whole story here now, but I do need to know how she died if you expect me to sleep at all tonight. Jean Fowler Chapin was a member of my family . . . I'm entitled to know."

  "Yes, I expect that you are,” he awarded grudgingly. “Forgive me for being blunt, but there is no delicate way to say it. I'm sorry, my dear, but she was...murdered. The master of Cragmoor, Colin Chapin, killed her and her husband, Malcolm Chapin, who was his nephew. It was Great-Grandfather Elliot who discovered the grisly mess. He found Colin in the stable, where he'd killed himself after he'd sent them over the edge of the cliff to their deaths. Then Elliot died out there himself in that stable. He had a bad heart. The shock was just too much for him. He and Colin were very close, you see. But you know about Colin Chapin. Evidently they did tell you something in the village, didn't they? I'm not surprised. After all these years, the infamy of Cragmoor and its inhabitants is still a favorite topic hereabout."

  "No,” I said, “no one told me anything. I haven't had time to inquire. I never heard of Colin Chapin until you told me about him just now."

  "That's impossible. You didn't see his portrait in the gallery?"

  "No . . . I didn't stop to look at any of the portraits."

  "But you called his name, my dear . . . don't you remember?"

  "No! How could I have?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, but you did, ‘no, Colin, don't'! You were screaming it when I found you here earlier. You don't remember that?"

  Those piercing amber eyes probed me, turning mine away. I vaguely remembered someone screaming something. That couldn't have been me. But if it wasn't me, who could it have been? I didn't know how to answer him. I didn't want him to think I was mad. But maybe I was mad. I definitely hadn't been myself since I set foot in this house.

  He was waiting for an answer and I had to make an attempt. “You must be mistaken,” I murmured, praying that there was room for doubt.

  "No, I think not,” he said, dashing my hopes. “I drove out here for another look at that portrait after seeing you this morning. I wanted to be sure I wasn't imagining things. I saw your car in the drive, and I came inside and called out to you, but you didn't answer. I was afraid you'd done yourself a mischief. I told you the place was falling down. Then I heard you sobbing up here and I came up straightaway, certain I was right. Your voice became louder as I approached, and I heard you quite distinctly—'no, Colin, don't'! You were screaming it over, and over. By the time I came into the room you'd collapsed there on the bed."

  I was shaking my head in disbelief. “Vicar Marshall...you've got to tell me what happened in this house,” I cried.

  The wind had picked up suddenly and he hurried to close the French doors. “Yes, it's obvious that we need to talk,” he agreed, struggling with the wind in the doorway, “but not here. It's getting late. It's nearly time for high tea, and we're going to lose the light—what there is of it. You're in no condition to drive, my dear. That's a flaw coming on. That's what the locals call the fierce storms that plague this coast. If you're unfortunate enough to get caught out in a Cornish flaw, you'll want to have two companions along just to hold the hairs on your head. We'll leave your car here. It will be quite safe. I'll drive you back ‘round to the vicarage. We can discuss all this there. But we need to go now...while we still can. Hear that wind? It will be driving torrents of horizontal rain over the cliff out there any minute."

  I didn't argue the point. He was right. I wasn't in any condition to get behind the wheel of a car, especially in the kind of storm he'd just described. I could barely navigate trying to make my way down that bitter cold staircase.

  When we reached the gallery below, one of the canvases caught my eye and held it. I knew who he was even before I'd come close enough to read the engraving on the little brass plate affixed to the frame: ‘COLIN RAMSEY CHAPIN, 1885'.

  I didn't want to look at that portrait, but it drew me like a magnet, and I stared helplessly into the face of a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties. He was wearing a black velvet dinner jacket with silk facings, and a tucked blouse with a satin cravat at the throat. His hair, a windblown mass of waves like dark wet sand, curled about his earlobes and dipped low over a slightly furrowed brow. Modest side-whiskers pointed toward his jaw line, framing the handsome cleft in his chin and sensuous lips that bore no trace of a smile. And the eyes. My God, the eyes, deep-set and penetrating, the color of an angry sea, stared back at me with a look that can only be described as intense. A shadow of fatality haunted that stare. There was something terrible in it—some agony that almost possessed the power to speak.

  I wanted to look away, but that awful stare impaled me. The hushed whisperings grew louder, and I heard that pitiful voice sobbing again, just as it had done earlier—pleading—calling his name again, and again until the echo of it resounded like thunder in my ears.

  I was rocking and shaking and wringing my hands. The vicar was standing beside me with a firm grip on my arm, but I was scarcely aware of his presence.

  ". . .That's right, Ms. Maitland,” he was saying, “Colin Chapin."

  Somehow the sound of his voice broke the spell, and I nearly collapsed against him. Was I having nightmares wide-awake now? I was trembling with raw fright.

  "He was a handsome devil, wasn't he?” he went on, pretending to ignore what was happening to me. But I knew he hadn't missed any of it. I didn't have to look into those analytical eyes of his to feel the intensity they generated. “What is it, my dear?” he probed softly.

  "The portrait upstairs,” I breathed, “that vicious tear . . . I feel as though he's murdered me! I feel . . . savaged, and yet . . . he doesn't look like a . . . a . . ."

  "Murderer?” said the vicar, finishing the thought that I could not. “Ahhh, but he was, my dear, there's no question of that. He was also a womanizer, a lecherous profligate, a notorious rake, and a disgrace to his good father's name."

  "And yet you say that your great-grandfather was his friend. That makes absolutely no sense."

  "Elliot Marshall was a vicar, don't forget,” he reminded me. “He was in the business of saving souls, and obsessed with saving Colin's from the time they first met. Yes, he was Colin's friend—probably the only real friend Colin Chapin ever had, and in the end, my dear—in the technical sense—Colin killed him, also. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and the storm is getting ahead of us. Come . . . we have to go."

  * * * *

  I don't remember much of the drive back to the vicarage. I was preoccupied. My thoughts were clouded with haunting visions of Cragmoor, and of Colin Chapin. I had a face to go with that name now. Every contour of it was etched in my mind, and the image filled me with a sorrow so devastating I could scarcely bear it.

  The vicar didn't offer much in the way of conversation, and I was grateful for that. It was obvious that he was observing me, and I could certainly understand why, considering my bizarre behavior in the house, but that didn't make me any more comfortable with it.

  When we reached the vicarage, he instructed his housekeeper to set another place at the table. It was decided that I would stay the night, or rather, he decided it; all of my protests fell upon deaf ears. I got the distinct impression I was more of a hostage than a houseguest. It was quite clear he wasn't about to let me out of his sight.

  I couldn't shake the feeling that something lay hidden beneath the surface of the man. I had made my motive
s quite plain, but he had not. I was hoping that whatever he was holding back would come to light during the telling of his story. I was in no state to analyze him then. I was far too occupied trying to analyze myself, whom I hardly recognized any longer.

  Whatever the vicar's secret was, it didn't seem to affect his appetite. High tea, I was to find, was quite a satisfying experience. He explained that for some time it had been his customary choice instead of a formal dinner. It consisted of soup, a variety of savories served cold, along with an equally impressive array of tasty little sandwiches made with meats, fish, cress, cheeses, herbal butters, and delicate spreads. Then there was a variety of biscuits, dainties, fruits, and scones with clotted cream, and, of course, the tea, all of which he consumed with gusto and great ceremony. I, on the other hand, forced mine down to be polite. Everything tasted like sawdust to me then.

  Finally, we took what was left of our tea to the study. He lifted a large, leather-bound journal from his desk drawer and laid it on the blotter before him caressing it gently.

  "This is my own journal,” he said. “I shan't read from it. I simply mean to use it as a reference as we go along. You see, Elliot Marshall made daily entries in his diary. These writings were, of course, his own experiences and observations. As time passed and related situations became clear through the accounts of others, he entered those events as well. These second-hand entries, if you will, often spanned months—even journals as they finally came to light, and so his writings were often fragmented and out of sequence. As a result, I have spent nearly twenty years of my life piecing the puzzle of Cragmoor and its inhabitants together in the most accurate chronological order possible, and, even at that, it's . . . incomplete. You may, of course, peruse the originals at your leisure if you wish."

  I'd scarcely heard what he'd been telling me. I had something else on my mind. “Vicar Marshall . . . do you believe in ghosts?” I said with caution.

  "I believe in the supernatural, my dear,” he said, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Our God Himself is supernatural. As to believing in ghosts in the fictional sense...rattling chains and moaning in the night, no, of course not."

  "But you are willing to concede that something out of the ordinary... something unnatural, if you will, might be going on here, aren't you?'

  He cleverly avoided the question by phrasing one of his own. “Ms. Maitland,” he said, “I know that it's presumptuous of me to ask you on such short acquaintance, but if we are going to get into this, it is rather important . . . do you trust me, my dear?"

  Should I trust this man? Vicar or not, I was certain he wasn't being completely honest with me, and yet he seemed so sincere. He was just as drawn to Cragmoor as I was and just as obsessed, and he had those journals. I had to know what was in them. Nevertheless, I answered him honestly.

  "I don't know,” I regretted.

  He smiled. “Well, we shall have to make do with that then, shan't we? I thank you for your honesty, at least. This story cannot be told in one sitting. That, and the storm, of course, is why I suggested you stay the night. My schedule is clear for the most part tomorrow. I'll tell you as much as I can this evening and finish after breakfast in the morning, if that's all right with you? Then we'll go ‘round and fetch your car."

  "Agreed."

  "Good, then. Have you any questions before we commence?"

  I had a million questions, but I didn't voice them then. I was anxious to get on with it. “No,” I lied. “Please . . . feel free to begin."

  "Some of what I'm about to tell you might not seem relevant, but I assure you that it is. If you are to have it at all, you must have it from the beginning, just as Elliot recorded it, in order to understand the history and the people involved, Colin Chapin in particular, and, of course, your ancestor's husband, Malcolm. It is Elliot's tale, after all."

  I was afraid to admit it, even to myself, but I desperately wanted to learn more about Colin Chapin, and I was almost afraid to ask myself why. Mercifully the vicar didn't give me the chance.

  I settled back then with my teacup in the old leather wing chair beside the hearth trying to tuck my thoughts away—trying to blot out the haunted look the artist had captured when he'd painted the portrait of Colin Chapin—trying to erase the gruesome images of his victims, which had been implanted so vividly in my mind.

  Across the way, the vicar had flipped open the cover on his leather-bound journal and begun his narrative. His soft, resonant voice was pitched to put me at ease, and it did just that. My guard was slipping as the story began to unfold, and I relaxed, listening to the rain beating hard on the vicarage, unaware that the emotional net he'd so cleverly cast out was slowly beginning to close in around me.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  London, September, 1863

  * * * *

  Chapter Three

  * * * *

  H ail pelted down with the rain over the city that late afternoon. The young Anglican priest had hoped to reach his vicarage at Holy Martyrs Church ahead of the thunder squall, but that was not to be. Even though he'd taken a shortcut along the park, the storm had overtaken him, and it was all he could do to control the frightened horse pulling his carriage at breakneck speed over the cobblestone street.

  "Whoa!” he called to the animal, meanwhile tugging on the reins, “easy, boy . . . hold there."

  But the horse galloped on in a frenzy of terror through the curtain of rain and hail pellets.

  Overhead, lightning speared the sky and thunder rumbled heavily. The carriage had just rounded a bend in the road when a lightning bolt sheared off the lower limb of an old oak tree on the opposite side of the lane. Startled by the sizzling tree limb flung in their path and the crackling white lightning that had severed it, the horse bolted and reared pulling the carriage up short, and it careened on its side, rolling horse, priest, and all, over the manicured lawn of Ramsey House, the Mayfair Town residence of magistrate, Sir John Chapin.

  The racket of the crash and the horse's agonized shrieks brought Sir John running down the drive with his butler on his heels. The magistrate hadn't taken time to throw a cloak over his brocade smoking jacket and it was soaked through when he reached the carriage which had jolted to a stop upside-down, its wheels spinning crazily in the air, shooting out water like fountains as the hard-falling rain drummed against them in slanted sheets. He spotted the semiconscious young priest at once, pinned under the seat where it had caught his shoulder and driven it down in the spongy wet sod.

  "My God,” he cried. “Help me, Soames . . . there's a man underneath there!"

  Three other house servants had come running to lend a hand and collectively they tilted the carriage on its side, away from the horse, for the animal floundered there helplessly, thrashing the rain splinters with churning forefeet.

  "It's a clergyman,” said Sir John, feeling for a pulse, meanwhile brushing mud from the priest's face. “He's alive. I don't know how from the look of this. Get him up to the house. Lift him gently. We don't know what's broken."

  He turned to the youngest of the servants. “No, not you, Peter,” he said, arresting him. “They can manage that. I need you to go ‘round and fetch Dr. Smythe. Tell him to come at once.” A slap on the shoulder sent the servant on his way, and the old man turned back and called after his butler, who was helping the others carry the young priest toward the house. “Soames,” he shouted over the rumbling thunder, “when you've seen to him, fetch me my pistol. This animal's hind legs are broken."

  * * * *

  The doctor had come and gone before the young priest fully regained consciousness. He lay heaped with quilts in a mahogany sleigh bed. The draperies were drawn at the windows, and the room was in semi-darkness; the only light issuing from the hearth and a small porcelain oil lamp on the table beside the bed.

  Under the quilts, he'd been stripped to the waist, and his upper chest and left shoulder had been tightly bound with linen strips. He tried to raise himself, b
ut a deep, stabbing pain in his neck and shoulder ended the attempt, and he sank back down with a moan.

  "Here now. Oh, pshaw, none o’ that,” said a stern but pleasant voice from close by, and his eyes slowly focused on the plump, middle age, rosy-cheeked face of a woman wearing servant's black twill and white linen. “You've broken your collarbone, that's what you've done,” she told him, tucking the bedclothes back in place. “You've got to lie still or it won't mend proper."

  The young priest brushed a lock of damp chestnut hair back from his eyes and bandaged forehead, and blinked, trying to sharpen his vision for a better look at the woman and his surroundings, but it was no use. His eyes were dilated, and now that the hair was pushed aside, the stingy flicker of light begrudged by the oil lamp hurt them.

  "W-where is this place?” he murmured.

  "Why, ‘tis Ramsey House,” she said, as though he should have known, “Sir John Chapin's residence. I'm Rina Banks, his housekeeper and your nurse, so you better mind, or I'll have to take you in hand won't I? He'll be up in a bit. Sir John and old Soams pulled you out from under your carriage out on the front lawn. You took a nasty spill. It rolled right over on top o’ you. ‘Tis a miracle that you're alive."

  "Sir John Chapin?” he puzzled.

  She gave a crisp nod. “None other, and you couldn't be in better hands, reverend, sir. The master is a very respected magistrate here in London. Why, he was knighted by Her Majesty, the Queen herself, under the Order of the British Empire . . . him bein’ such a fine, upstandin’ servant o’ the people and all. You needn't fear for farin’ well in your little mishap."

  The young priest groaned. It was all starting to come back to him—the storm, the lightning bolt, the musky odor of lathered horseflesh, and the severed tree limb sailing toward him through the rain and hail pellets. He was about to speak again when a voice from the shadowy doorway broke the silence instead.