Rape of the Soul Page 5

  "I managed before I was fortunate enough to get you,” he replied. “The deacons will lend a hand. Don't worry over me, just mind your host and his staff. I have plans for you. Don't spoil them, eh?"

  "What sort of . . . plans?"

  The vicar breathed a nasal sigh. “I didn't want to tell you until I was certain,” he said, “but you may as well hear it. This news might just keep you in line. I'm being moved after the first of the year."

  "Moved? Moved where?"

  "Now settle down, Elliot. I'm not getting any younger, you know. When a priest reaches my age, he's often given a post in one of the hospitals or schools; you know that. There are two very good reasons for this: for one thing such posts aren't as physically and emotionally draining as dealing with the needs of a large parish family. That's a twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week commitment, Elliot, as you well know, and a good vicar must be present to every member of every family whenever the need arises.

  "Secondly, by the time a priest passes fifty, he has hopefully gained enough experience to serve in an administrative position. Such posts allow the priest to serve God longer. The alternative, of course, is retirement. In a few more years I'll be up for that, but I'm not ready to be put out to pasture just yet. Several boys’ boarding schools are to have vacancies for the post of headmaster. One is in Sussex, the other in Lancashire. Come January, I will be filling one of those posts."

  "But Andrew—"

  "Shhh, let me finish. I've proposed to the bishop that he install you as Vicar of Holy Martyrs when I leave. You know the parishioners as well as I do, and in the few short years you've spent with us, they've grown to love and respect you, Elliot. I don't believe the bishop is going to oppose your appointment if for no other reason than effecting a smooth transition. He's much more likely to go with someone who knows the parish inside out than be forced to break in someone new."

  "But . . . I'm not ready for this, Andrew."

  "You were ready the day I got you,” the vicar said flatly. “Far more ready than I was when I received my first post, young man. All that remains is for you to see it. Believe me, I wouldn't have suggested it if I weren't absolutely certain you could handle the job. Holy Martyrs has been my home for more than twenty years. I want to leave it in good hands."

  "I didn't foresee anything like this coming up for at least another ten years. Andrew, I don't know what to say."

  "Some priests, like yourself, are ready at twenty-six, others aren't ready at forty. That's up to the hierarchy to determine, not you. You will want to marry, of course, as soon as it's convenient. It's best to present a settled image. But that shouldn't be a problem. Half the eligible young ladies in the parish have set their caps for you. Now finish that tea and get some rest. You look like death itself, young man. Do not tax your host. God has put you in his keeping for a purpose. I needn't tell you that a man of Sir John's status can be an invaluable asset, Elliot. You might think on that while you're mending."

  Things were happening too fast and the young priest's eyes had clouded beneath a frown as he tried to digest the vicar's news. “Andrew . . .” he faltered, trying to choose one of the many questions crying to be answered.

  "Now Elliot,” said the vicar, “you don't need to talk to me, you need to talk to God. He'll answer you far better than I can. Don't expect Him to shout, mind. Sometimes He can be quite soft-spoken. The idea, my friend, is that you must know when to stop talking . . . and listen."

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  Chapter Four

  * * * *

  It was a month before Elliot was allowed to spend brief periods out of bed. The collarbone was mending well, but when soreness in his chest didn't dissipate quickly, the doctor suspected that what he'd first thought to be bruising might be a few cracked ribs instead. That dictated a longer convalescence, and while the young priest was enjoying the company of his host, he was anxious to return to his church and sort out the new direction his life was taking.

  Those were long, lonely days for Elliot Marshall, since Sir John was away at court most of the day, except for weekends, and he spent most of his time reading and writing in his journal. It was vicar Carlisle who brought the diary, along with a collection of theological works geared to prepare his protege for his new appointment. Being reunited with his journal pleased the young priest most; he had kept one for as long as he could remember. Every evening before retiring he would record the events of the day along with his thoughts and reflections. Now, he poured his heart out on those pages, since he hadn't really accepted the winds of change as they blew in his direction.

  By mid-November, Elliot was allowed to join Sir John downstairs for dinner. Afterward, they would engage in stimulating theological debates in the drawing room. Sir John, armed with his brandy and cigar, and Elliot with his pipe, would often spar until midnight, wondering who had actually won? There was no prize, unless it be the honing of the young priest's wits. The old man's soul was out of reach.

  The weeks came and went with unerring predictability, one melting into the next, and Elliot knew that time was growing short. The ides of December brought snow to London, and with it the winds of change, which had already turned the young priest once, were about to turn him again; this time in a direction that would compel him for the rest of his days.

  The first flurries began sifting down at dusk. By the time Elliot joined Sir John in the dining room, the wind had risen, rattling the shutters and moaning against the windows as if it begged admittance. After dinner they adjoined to the drawing room as usual, but the magistrate seemed preoccupied. Something was troubling him. The young priest had monitored his uncommon silence during dinner, and now, instead of taking his place in his favorite chair before the hearth, Sir John strolled to the terrace doors and stared absently toward the snow, which had already dusted the rolling lawn with a blue-white blanket in the darkness.

  "The ground is nearly covered,” the old man observed, “and the wind is getting stronger. Hear how it wails about the pilasters? The blasted stuff will be knee-deep by morning. Bloody nuisance."

  Something in the magistrate's voice sent a shiver along Elliot's spine, and he came closer for a look at the smoky teal eyes still fixed on the storm.

  "It doesn't snow in Cornwall, you know,” the old man went on wistfully, “only once every twenty years or so, and that disappears as fast as it comes. It's the currents on the coast that keep it warmer, and the damned prevailing wind. It's an odd place. Have you ever been out to the coast, Elliot?"

  "No, sir, I can't say that I have."

  "It's as though . . . when God made England, He gathered all the leftover bits together, summoned the wind to stir the pot, and called the brew Cornwall. Nothing matches . . . nothing fits, and nothing can be explained away with logic.

  "Take the weather for instance: all year round it's like a mild February gone into a soft June out there. Strange mists drift in from the sea. They will miss one hollow and cling to the one alongside it as if they had the intelligence to choose. Perverse drizzles set in and last for weeks on end, and fogs that should be swept away by the rain can linger inland while the coastline shudders in a wicked gale.

  "The fruits we harvest here in autumn won't ripen ‘til near Michaelmas on the coast. You can pick primroses in January, and daffodils will broom at the onset of February—right along with the rhododendron. There's neither rhyme nor reason to the place. It's an enigma, possessed of a strange primeval beauty. Claire was convinced it was enchanted. There's no place like it on earth, Elliot."

  The magistrate hadn't spoken of Cornwall since the night of the accident. He did so now with such detachment that Elliot became alarmed. Something wasn't as it should be, and he probed the old man with a gentle voice.

  "What's wrong, Sir John?” he said. “You're not yourself tonight. You hardly touched your dinner. Aren't you feeling well?"

  The words broke the magistrate's trance, and his posture sagged. “Sit you down, Elliot,” he growled, “we
have to talk."

  The young priest sank into his usual chair without taking his eyes from Sir John, who lifted the lid on an inlaid silver humidor on the sideboard, reached for a cigar, and then rejected it.

  "I had a letter from Amy Croft, my housekeeper at Cragmoor, today,” he said, closing the lid on the casket.

  "Is something wrong on the coast, sir?"

  "It's Mary . . ."

  Elliot's heart leaped. “She isn't ill?” he murmured, anticipating the worst from the old man's posture.

  "Not physically, no."

  "What then? I don't understand."

  Sir John set his jaw and took a deep breath. “Mary's a handful, I'm afraid,” he explained, rocking back on his heels with his hands clasped behind him. “She likes to torment poor Amy. I hope that's all this is, but if it isn't . . . well, Amy's concerned over my daughter's preoccupation with matters of an occult nature. That sort of thing seems to be in fashion nowadays.

  "Amy's the finest housekeeper in all Cornwall. I've had her since I built the house for Claire before Mary was born. She's in charge out there and has been for nineteen years. She's an honest worker and a loyal servant, and I trust her implicitly. She's also a very superstitious woman. Mary knows this and she feeds upon it. Oh, I've had complaints before, but this time it's different. Amy doesn't embroider the truth, and she's not a hysterical sort. She isn't concerned for herself this time. She's concerned for Mary, and that's got my attention."

  "What do you mean by ‘occult'?” Elliot wondered, having fixed upon that.

  "The Cornish folk are, for the most part, like Amy in that they are a superstitious lot. Paganism abounded there in the past. Some folk on the coast still adhere to the old religion . . . not openly, of course, but it does still exist. Some ancient rings of standing stones, monoliths, and altars still remain. There's a small stone circle on my own property. According to Amy, Mary practically lives at the site, doing God alone knows what mischief."

  "Do you mean to say that the ring is still used for pagan rituals?"

  "I honestly don't know,” the old man regretted. “When Amy follows her there she's always alone, but that's not the whole of it . . . Mary has books—volumes on witchcraft, spells, conjuring texts and the like."

  "Where did she get such things?"

  "I don't know, but she's taken to consorting with a band of Gypsies who camp out in the marshes. I've had the constable run them off several times, but they only return again whenever it suits them. They know I'm not there to police the place. There's more, Elliot . . . she's painted mystical signs and symbols about her chamber and decorated the ring of stones with them as well. She's constantly threatening Amy that she'll conjure a demon, and the poor woman is frightened out of her wits."

  Elliot's brows knit in a puzzled frown. “A moment ago we were discussing paganism,” he said. “Now you're describing devil worship. They are not the same, Sir John. Pagans worship the earth and nature; they do not conjure demons or practice black magic. Which is it?"

  "I don't know, but whatever it is, it's got Amy Croft ready to give notice."

  The young priest breathed a thoughtful sigh. “What sort of religious education has Miss Mary had?” he queried.

  "None,” said the magistrate.

  "None? Surely you aren't serious?"

  "For one thing, there isn't a church anywhere near the house. The closest one is on Bodmin Moor, and that's almost a day's ride by coach, round trip. For another, I simply didn't know what faith to offer her—or Colin. When Claire died I thought it best to wait and let them decide for themselves when they were old enough. Out of respect for Claire, I didn't want to be the one to make the choice; I'd have been biased. I was wrong, of course. I see that now."

  "What are you going to do?"

  The old man hesitated. “Elliot, I have a proposal for you,” he began. “How would you like to be appointed vicar of a parish in Cornwall?"

  "But sir, you've just said that there is no church."

  "I'll build you one! You can stay at Cragmoor until it's finished. I need you out there, Elliot—Mary needs you. Can you deny me?"

  "But sir, you know that I'm to be installed as Vicar of Holy Martyrs in just a few weeks. I'll be leaving here soon to go back and prepare for that. It's all arranged."

  "It may be arranged, but it hasn't become fact. Elliot, is your ego so inflated that you consider yourself the only priest in all England capable of tending that pitiful flock at Holy Martyrs?"

  "That's not fair, sir, you know that ego has nothing to do with it. I'm certainly not the only priest to handle that parish . . . I'm not even sure I'm ready for any parish. Andrew knows that, but he thinks that I am . . . and so does the bishop evidently. If this is what God has designed for me, it's what I must do."

  "Do you believe in God, Elliot—really believe?"

  "You know I do, sir. Where is this going?"

  "Will you abide by whatever God decides for your future?"

  "Yes, of course, but—"

  "Good!” the old man interrupted. “I'll strike a bargain with you. I shall put my proposal before the bishop and we will see which way God sends you."

  Stricken speechless, Elliot could do nothing but stare, and the magistrate answered the expression, statement that it was.

  "The Church, my fine young zealot, is nothing more than a well-structured political arena governed by money and the power it generates. A few coins of the realm spread this way and that can be very . . . effective. I have those coins and I'm willing to spread them. I will give the good bishop an alternative choice in regard to your appointment, and you have my word as a gentleman that I will abide by his decision. Fair enough?"

  Elliot felt all color drain from his face. “Sir John,” he said, “why don't you shut Cragmoor down and bring your daughter here to London? She should be presented socially, and, judging from what you've just told me, she desperately needs the love and guidance only you can give her."

  "I can't do that."

  "But why? It seems the obvious solution to me. She's crying out for attention. All of this nonsense would cease if only you'd give her something positive to occupy her time, and her mind."

  "I'm seldom here, as you well know. I haven't the time to spare her, and I'm far too old to see to the social needs of a nineteen-year-old girl. I wouldn't know where to begin."

  Elliot read between the lines. “You mean that if you did as I suggest, you'd have no place to keep Colin, and you won't have him here. That's at the root of this, isn't it? God forgive you!"

  "I'm providing Colin with a respectable education. He wants for nothing I promise you, and when I die he'll have more money than he can live long enough to spend. He'll never have to work a day in his lazy, good-for-nothing, bone-idle life. That's all that I can do for the boy, and more than he deserves."

  "Sir John, it's not Colin's fault that his mother died delivering him. She gave you a precious gift. She gave you a son to carry on the Chapin name. That she died doing so makes the gift all the more precious. If you would blame your son for being born, you may as well blame yourself for the seed of your body that gave him life."

  "And don't you think that I haven't done—and still do on a daily basis, Elliot. I shall until I die. There is nothing you can do to change that, though I know it galls you."

  "I'll tell you what galls me,” Elliot fired back, “that a man of your intelligence can be so short-sighted. Of all people, you—a magistrate—dedicated to the preservation of justice, should be able to see the injustice you have done to your offspring, not to mention yourself. You're lonely, sir, and you deprive yourself of the love and comfort your children long to give you. All these years lain to waste. But it isn't too late. You could still salvage something of this if you would only open your heart. Do you think for one moment that Claire would approve of the way you've cast her children aside—especially Colin, whom she died to give you? Has she died for nothing, then?"

  "Yes,” the magistrate flashed, “she
has, and I want no truck with her murderer!"

  "Kyrie eleison!” Elliot murmured.

  "'Lord Have Mercy', indeed,” the magistrate translated. “Well said. Now if you are quite through moralizing with me, I would like to get back to the issue at hand. Shall we offer your future up to God and see which way He sends you?"

  "Sir John, you asked me earlier if I supposed myself to be the only priest in all England fit to preside over Holy Martyrs parish. I ask you now if you suppose that I am the only priest in all England qualified to edify your children?"

  "You're the only one I'll let set foot near them—the only member of the clergy I have ever felt I could trust. Elliot, I've come to look upon you as a son."

  "You have a son!” the young priest exploded.

  "Enough,” the magistrate bellowed. “That issue is closed."

  Elliot struggled toward composure. His neck had turned beet-red, and his jaw muscles flexed stiffly. “How cruel you are,” he murmured with passion. “You know how I feel about you, sir. You know I've come to regard you with the same affection I would my own father, and you use that against me. You are making this very difficult, Sir John."

  "No, Elliot, you're the one who's making things difficult. I've shown you the courtesy of asking your permission before I approach the hierarchy in this matter. You must know I'm going to do it anyway."

  Elliot threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat. “It doesn't matter, then, whether I give my permission or not, does it?” he cried.

  "Elliot, if it turns out that I have my way in this, you will be in complete charge at Cragmoor,” he said, dismissing the young priest's question with a hand gesture. “Amy will help you, of course, but it's plain from her letter that she can no longer manage on her own. Mary and Colin will be in your hands. You will see to their education and their discipline as you see fit.

  "Construction will begin upon the church at once . . . St. Michael's Church,” he reflected. “Yes, Claire would like that. She was particularly devoted to St. Michael. All that I have out there will be at your disposal. What do you say?"