by Peter James
Edward walked solemnly towards her, eyes glazed, lips still chanting inaudibly; he was wearing his school uniform of grey jacket and shorts, and striped tie. She lifted the stone chunk higher, bracing herself. He continued chanting, and as he came closer she realized with rising terror that it was not his own voice coming from his mouth, but that of someone much older.
He walked on past her, knelt and picked up the aspergillum that lay just beyond the outstretched fingers of the dead clergyman, stood and swung it from the chain. Droplets of holy water struck Frannie in the face.
‘Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you. Protect us, O Lord, we beseech you,’ he repeated much louder and clearer in a no-nonsense voice that she recognized.
He knelt again and began pulling away the rubble beside Canon Spode, chanting to himself. Now he was saying the Lord’s Prayer. Frannie watched as he unearthed the silver tray and the chalice, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for, and what to do next. From the buried holdall he removed a bottle of communion wine and some wafers.
‘Listen to our prayers, Lord,’ he said. ‘As we humbly beg Your mercy.’
Frannie could not comprehend it, but the voice coming from Edward was that of the clergyman who was lying dead on the floor. The clergyman was speaking through the boy.
Edward continued with calm assurance. With authority. ‘Listen to our prayers, Lord, as we humbly beg Your mercy, that the soul of Your servant Francis Edward Alwynne Halkin, whom You have called from this life, may be brought by You to a place of peace and light, and so be enabled to share the life of all Your saints. Through Christ our Lord, Amen.’
‘Amen,’ Frannie echoed involuntarily, releasing her grip on the masonry.
‘We pray You, Lord our God, to receive the soul of this Your servant Francis, for whom Your blood was shed. Remember, Lord, that we are but dust and that man is like grass and the flower of the field. Lord grant him everlasting rest, and let perpetual light shine upon him. O God it is Your nature to have mercy and to spare. Grant to Your servant Francis, Lord, a place of rest and pardon.’
The boy with the presence of an adult was quiet for a moment. A siren faded into the distance, and Frannie had the strange impression that someone else was standing beside them. But she did not dare look away from the miracle taking place in front of her. Edward had begun saying the Lord’s Prayer again, and she joined him.
When they had finished, he picked up the Host and broke a piece into the chalice. ‘Lamb of God,’ he said, ‘You take away the sins of the world; have mercy on us. May this mingling of the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us who receive it.’ He carried the host to Frannie and placed it in her hand.
‘Take, eat,’ he said.
She raised it to her mouth and put it on her tongue. The sweet, papery wafer dissolved.
Then he brought her the chalice, and placed the rim to her lips. She tasted silver polish; then heavy, sweet wine, swallowing gratefully.
‘This is the Blood of Christ.’ Edward’s words were spoken confidently and he put the chalice down. ‘Lord God, Your Son gave us the sacrament of His Body to support us in our last journey. Grant that our brother Francis may take his seat with Christ at His eternal banquet: Who lives and reigns for ever and ever.’
‘Amen,’ whispered Frannie.
The air felt warmer and she was no longer afraid. Edward knelt beside her. The darkness had lifted and she could see that his eyes looked bright, and he was smiling. His voice was normal again.
‘Are you OK, Frannie?’
She nodded.
‘It’s all right now, isn’t it, Frannie?’ He knelt and began to pull the rubble off her. As he worked, she stared at the small boy’s face and remembered his question: Do the dead stay dead?
Benedict Spode had been armed with the authority of the Church and he had died. But not quite. By killing Spode, the second Marquess had not diminished the clergyman’s authority, but had given him a new weapon: Edward.
Non omnis moriar.
In his death Canon Spode had channelled his spirit through Edward.
Frannie put her arm up and gently took Edward’s hand, the clergyman’s words echoing in her head. When evil becomes out of control, those who have the authority of the Church are stronger in dealing with it than anyone else.
Something else that he had said echoed also. I believe that there is order in disorder.
Frannie pulled Edward tightly to her; he did not seem to mind that tears were streaming down her face. It was as if they both knew that here in the rubble of the past, and in the presence of death, somehow they were now free.
EPILOGUE
July, 1999
When Charles Richard William Halkin was seven he discovered his half-brother’s secret place, where Edward would go and smoke. He discovered it by following him through the attics beyond the nursery. He had watched Edward crawl out of a window, and had crawled after him, along the parapet and into a hollow beside one of the massive chimneys.
Edward had been annoyed the first time, but now he let Charles join him whenever he wanted. On a fine day you could see across the hills and far out into the English Channel. Edward said that the line on the horizon was France, although Charles didn’t really believe him. There were a lot of things Edward told him that he didn’t really believe and he preferred to try to find the truth out for himself. Discovering things gave him a great thrill. He liked to work everything out and had inherited a logical, analytical mind from his mother; he was always piecing things together from little fragments.
Once when he was bored and rummaging through some old suitcases in one of the attics, he found a battered case with a faded Alitalia luggage label. Inside it was full of photographs of his mother and some of his uncles and aunts, as well as old magazines and bundles of letters. As he was closing the case, he noticed an envelope that looked more recent than the rest and he glanced at it. It was addressed: ‘Francesca, Lady Sherfield, Meston Hall, Meston, East Sussex.’
Inside was a brief letter with a strip of paper attached. The letter was in rather scrawly handwriting.
Dear Frannie,
Mama found this the other day when she was helping me clear out some old stuff when I was down for the weekend. I thought you might like to see it in case you’ve always wondered. Horribly appropriate for poor old Seb, but I don’t know about yours. It seems Phoebe was wrong in her recollection, it wasn’t just the number 26, after all. Not that any of it matters now.
I will try and call you next time I’m down. Second baby’s due in August. Lots of love.
Susie.
Charles unclipped the strip of paper. It was about two inches wide, and lined, and looked as if it had been torn from a diary. On one side there was an address. On the other were two names, in list form:
Seb Holland – HUMPTY DUMPTY
Frannie – YOU’LL BEAR THE 26th
When he was younger, Edward had told Charles that he wasn’t like a proper brother because they did not have the same mummy. Charles understood that; he knew Edward’s mummy had died a long time ago.
He understood also that it was Edward who would inherit his father’s title one day. His father was the twenty-fourth Marquess of Sherfield, and Edward would become the twenty-fifth Marquess. When Edward died, his eldest son would become the twenty-sixth Marquess. Unless Edward died without having a son, in which case the title would pass to Charles.
On the whole, Charles liked Edward, and in spite of their age difference they got on well, although sometimes he had a weird thought about him. He would imagine that he was watching Edward falling to his death from the parapet.
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