by Scott Hunter
“Quite.” Moran tried to raise the corners of his mouth and failed. “Although I doubt very much whether Lady Cernham will ever divulge what happened to her youngest son’s body after he died.”
“You never know,” Wilmot said. “My guess is that they buried him in the grounds somewhere nearby. Anyway, we can search at our leisure now. It’s all history.”
“Indeed.”
“Bloody aristocracy, eh? All that money and what happens? They make a complete balls-up of their lives.”
“Succinctly put,” Moran said.
“Well, thanks again, DCI Moran. Safe journey.”
“Thanks.”
Moran got out of the car and walked slowly past the pub to his own borrowed pool vehicle. The sun was low in the sky and a full moon had already risen above the horizon. A fresher breeze stirred the trees overshadowing the graveyard and Moran turned up his collar. He sat in the car for a long time before he felt able to start the engine and begin the long journey home. The question he had asked himself at the start of his holiday now returned to mock him:
To continue or not?
But the question had gained an addendum, an accusation:
…but you can’t now, can you? Not after what you’ve just done...
Epilogue
Seven months later
Celine settled down at the bureau to examine the documents she had received from the solicitor. It was all exactly as she had intended. As the only surviving – and legally free – relative of the de Courcy family, the outcome had never really been in doubt. In fact, all things considered, the necessary legal loopholes had been negotiated more smoothly than she had dared hope. Tenuous though her claim might have been, it had nevertheless proved undeniably demonstrable: a simple DNA test had shown beyond doubt that Matthew de Courcy and she were from the same gene pool, the biological wheels having been set in motion by darling Rachel’s dalliance with the late Lord of the Manor.
And here she was, the new Lady of the Manor. She wondered what Rachel’s amour would have had to say about that, were he still alive. But that mattered not a whit, as her mother used to say. Celine removed her half-moon spectacles and chewed an armature thoughtfully. She’d have to make changes, for sure, but all in due course. Best let the dust settle for the time being, allow the village to get used to a new regime.
The clock on the desk told her it was approaching four. The time sure was flying by. So much to do, so much to think about. But it was time for the afternoon visit. She took a set of keys from the desk drawer and made her way to the hall.
Her footsteps echoed brightly in the empty space. Solitude wasn’t a problem; she’d had plenty of practice over the years, after all. It would have been something if Brendan had stayed. Really something. But then, had he done so, her options would have been limited, so perhaps everything had worked out for the best after all.
She unlocked a door and descended into the bowels of the old house. Once there would have been servants’ quarters here, perhaps a hot and frantic kitchen with cooks and maids running to and fro. Not anymore. These half-forgotten rooms and basements hadn’t seen much of interest for decades. Until now, that is.
As Celine turned the key and entered the chamber she felt rather than heard the rustle of fearful anticipation. This was the part she enjoyed the most – not the physical part, although that was satisfying enough in itself, but rather the mental anguish that the simple fact of her presence was able to induce.
Rufus de Courcy was chained to the wall in a standing position, hands manacled above his head. As she approached he cowered, tried to turn himself away from his tormentor. Celine watched his efforts impassively. She selected a nine-strand whip from a small arsenal of equipment she had procured. As she flexed her arm and made a few practice strokes, Rufus broke the silence with a series of animal-like bleats. He pulled and tugged at the chains but they were firmly embedded; she’d made sure of that. Taking care to stay out of reach, Celine went to work. It was tiring, exhausting even, but whenever she felt herself weaken all she had to do was remember Rachel’s beautiful, smiling face. Her big sister, whom she had worshipped…
She was careful not to inflict too much damage – that would defeat the object – and she was confident that her medical expertise would suffice if there was any immediate danger to life. For example, the leg had been an unpleasant wound, but antibiotics, regular cleaning and daily dressings had soon cleared that up. With any luck he might last six months or more, provided, of course, she wasn’t too heavy-handed. But would six months be enough? That was a tricky one. Six months for her sister’s life? It didn’t seem much.
“You should count yourself lucky,” she told Rufus, “that I’m only a frail woman.”
Celine took another breath and bent to her task.
Moran watched from a distance as DS Wilmot’s team made a cautious approach. He didn’t anticipate trouble, but he hoped Wilmot’s attitude would be at least sympathetic if his worst fears were, in fact, realised. There was still the possibility that he was wrong, of course; there was always that possibility... Wilmot had needed a lot of persuading to follow up what amounted to a hunch – and a tenuous one at that.
They were at the main entrance. He remembered the last time he had stood where the policemen were now standing – en route to the gardens, arm in arm with Celine, hoping against hope that it would somehow work out. How had he known? He’d quizzed himself many times, rejecting the idea as absurd, unlikely, ridiculous. But the conviction wouldn’t go away. Just one simple fact kept it alive: that she hadn’t answered his question.
Where’s the body?
Moran shivered. Three weeks till Christmas and the skies promised early snow. He watched from the gate, unable to make contact with the gravel drive, something holding him back…
The great door swung open and Celine’s familiar figure filled the space. She folded her arms as the police sergeant explained the purpose of their visit.
Search warrant, reason to believe…
Her body language told him all he needed to know. He saw her head turn a fraction as her eyes strained to identify the solitary figure hovering at the edge of the estate. For a brief instant their eyes met and then he was walking away, his breath forming smoky clouds of condensation in the grey gloaming.
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