Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

  He remembered the perspiration, and the summer of the grapes, of the wine cloudy and running like blood, and the girl, her eyes wide and scared and her tears flowing, the centre of her warm, moist and reluctant. Most of all, he remembered the anguish of the little cry she gave. He couldn’t remember her name. Something short and biblical, perhaps … He’d promised to go back for her.

  That was when his elder brother had died, and he’d been called home from his tour abroad to step into his shoes and embrace a living in the church.

  ‘One doesn’t wed peasant girls, however pretty,’ his father had told him. ‘You must forget her. We’ll find you a good woman who can bring a dowry with her and calm your bodily devils.’

  The stranger who’d been shivering in his arms on their wedding night had not been his French peasant, and he’d prayed that he’d be able to perform the act that would make them one and produce a child.

  Neither had come about and he’d sought his manly solace with the young women who thronged in the shadows. But people talked, and there had been a scandal. He’d been sent here and had found himself in the middle of a devil’s brew of thieves. What was worse, Sir James had discovered his weakness. He’d been thankful there had been no temptation in this quiet parish – until Lucy Jarvis came along!

  Lucy reminded him of the peasant. Oh, she was finer-skinned and dainty, like a little pony that pranced with the joy of living. She had skin that glowed like satin in the candlelight. She’d come into the church once, and he’d watched from behind a curtain as she’d copied memorials into a book. Goodness knows what she was looking for. She’d danced up the aisle, spinning around, her arms wide and her laughter ringing in his ears as though she were performing for God himself.

  The urge had come upon him and he’d remembered his youth and wanted to take her tender innocence, crush her and split her asunder like the grapes under a summer sun.

  She’d teased him. ‘God, how she teases me,’ he whispered and his tears began to flow. ‘Lord, help me to overcome this affliction. It was wrong of me to fall in love again, and with a girl so young.’

  ‘Did you corrupt her?’

  He’s forgotten about the monk … his confessor.

  He lifted the brandy to his mouth and took a good swallow. It was good brandy, and there was very little of it left. ‘She’s like a day in spring. But no. I’ve resisted the urge.’

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in the shadows and hoped it wasn’t his wife. ‘Who’s there?’

  There was no sound. He’d imagined it, as he’d imagined the monk. Another pain rippled across his stomach. It was stronger than the last one. Perspiration coated his body, though the night was cool and he felt sick. Swallowing the rest of the brandy down, he groaned and doubled up, cuddling the bottle against his pain.

  When the pain passed, he tried to rise. Feeling dizzy, he hastily sat down again. Fear flooded through him when he saw that the bent, shadowy figure had returned. ‘Who is it?’

  A firework thrust up through the sky to the left of him and he automatically turned his head as it exploded. How pretty and enticing heaven was – so large, shining and … peaceful. It didn’t need any human embellishment.

  Catching a glimpse of a face partly disguised by a cowl, and a body twisted and bent, the reverend experienced so much fear that he nearly screamed out loud. There had been talk of a spectre that haunted the night over the past couple of years. The locals said he’d returned to claim Monksfoot Abbey. The monk’s skin was scarred, his mouth puckered, and he walked with a limping gait. ‘Are you a spirit sent from hell?’

  The voice was strong and deep. ‘I might well be.’

  The reverend’s limbs were fatigued, and he trembled as pain slid like a fiery worm from his gut into his chest and settled there. It pressed against his heart so he could hardly breathe, and he placed his hand against it. ‘I’ve drunk too much and I’m in pain. I’m seeing things.’

  ‘It depends on what you’re seeing.’ The stranger’s face was bathed in moonlight now and he made so move to disguise himself.

  ‘Are you Him?’

  The man shrugged.

  He told the apparition. ‘I think I’m dying.’

  ‘We’re all dying.’ The stranger took up the bottle, sniffed it, and then placed his tongue against the neck. There was no pity in his eyes, but the smile he gave told the reverend that the man had suffered. ‘Have you had the pain long?’

  ‘Several weeks.’

  ‘It’s arsenic poisoning. You must have done something to annoy the lord of the manor.’

  No ghost this. The reverend could feel his warmth, despite the damp state of him.

  ‘I’ll offer you the same parting words he left me with,’ the monk said bitterly, setting the bottle aside so it leaned drunkenly against a tombstone. ‘God will look after you. And God did. He allowed us both to live – him in prosperity and comfort, and me in ignorance and poverty. Lately, though, God has given me enough strength so I can take my revenge. That’s the only message I bring with me. Those who are innocent need not fear.’

  This man had a name that could not be uttered out loud on fear of death, and an existence that had been reduced to rumour. This was a man who’d been sent into the wilderness – a man who was dead!

  Which was more than would be afforded the monk, especially when Sir James learned that he’d survived. From what he’d heard whispered by his parishioners, Sir James had already killed the man once. Now the spirit of him had hunted him down, and soon he would be dead. The reverend shivered. Could a man die more than once?

  As for his own fate, he had made the mistake of telling Sir James of his weakness, and Sir James had seen into his soul and used it to make him his servant.

  He sighed. Such a teasing little female, Lucy was, and now he’d never know the delights of loving her, even from afar – only the agony of knowing she could never be his.

  He had raised the ire of the lord of the manor, but not over the youthful Lucy Jarvis. The man was quite capable of brutalizing her himself and then selling her to some flesh peddler.

  Arsenic took time to kill its victim. He wondered: was it his wife who’d told Sir James about the impending union between Fletcher Taunt and Miranda Jarvis?

  She could have learned of it by several means. She might have looked in his appointment book and put two and two together, or found the bishop’s licence.

  Was it his wife who’d noticed his regard for Lucy? He remembered the rat poison given to his wife by Sir James for the demise of the church rodents. That would have contained arsenic.

  As for the situation regarding Sir James, since Fletcher Taunt had returned home, he’d had an uneasy feeling that history was about to repeat itself. The pity of it was he wouldn’t live long enough to find out.

  Despite having had a late night, Miranda rose when the clock struck ten. But Lucy had been up earlier, for her side of the bed was empty. The journals her sister was writing her novel in were scattered over the table, along with her pencils. The diary, old and faded, its spine ragged, was still under her pillow, where Lucy kept it hidden out of sight, when she wasn’t working from it.

  Fighting off the urge to go back to bed, for her head was thumping, Miranda picked the books up and placed them neatly in the cupboard. Lucy wouldn’t like it if they were left open for anyone else to read. She frowned, surprised that they’d been left on the table because her sister had become almost secretive about her writing.

  She dressed in her favourite blue brocade, her stomach being attacked by butterflies. Soon she would be Mrs Fletcher Taunt. She nearly tripped over Caesar who lay across the outside of the doorway. He stood and stretched, then wagged his tail and whined.

  ‘All right, you can come.’

  There was no sign of Sir James in the dining room. Mrs Pridie smiled at her. ‘Ah, there you are, dear. I thought you were going to sleep all day.’

  ‘But the clock says it is only ten o’clock.’

  �
�It must need winding, since it’s eleven. What would you like for breakfast, miss?’

  ‘Eleven!’ Fletcher would think she wasn’t coming. ‘I don’t want any breakfast, Mrs Pridie. I’m not really hungry. Is Sir James about?’

  ‘He hasn’t come down yet. Neither has your sister.’

  ‘Lucy must have gone out earlier then, because she wasn’t there when I woke. I’ll look for her while I’m out.’

  ‘He likes to know where you are, miss.’

  Not after today, she thought. In half an hour she’d be Mrs Taunt and no longer answerable to anyone except Fletcher.

  ‘Tell him I’ve gone out for a walk.’ Snatching up her bonnet, she set off at a fast walk, the dog darting this way and that. After a few deep breaths of fresh air, her headache settled into something more manageable.

  Had Miranda thought to look back, she would have seen Sir James standing at his window, watching her go, a faint smile playing around his lips. It wasn’t until the house was out of sight that she picked up her skirt and began to run. Thinking it was a game, Caesar pranced alongside her, his bark urging her on.

  She was panting for breath when she reached the church, and warmth filled her when she saw Fletcher’s horse. She took a moment or two to recover, and then she entered the church. Caesar followed, his nose casting at the musty smell that was unfamiliar to him.

  Fletcher’s face lit up. ‘I was just about to come looking for you.’

  Throwing herself into his outstretched arms, she held him tight and said against his ear, ‘I was late. The clock had stopped and I thought you might have gone home.’

  ‘The reverend isn’t here yet; he must have overslept.’ He blew a soft kiss into her hair.

  They waited for ten minutes, and then Caesar’s ears pricked up and he began to growl, pressing close to her leg.

  There came a faint noise from behind the pulpit. The growl became a warning bark and Caesar’s hackles spiked. Fletcher’s hand closed around his collar.

  ‘Hush, Caesar, it’s only Reverend Swift.’ Miranda placed a hand over his snout like Sir James did. They turned, smiling – a smile that changed to bewilderment.

  A monk in a faded brown robe stood there, his face hidden by a cowl. His back was bent. Offering his fist to the dog, he spoke softly to him. ‘Good boy … you remember me, don’t you … we’re old friends.’

  Quivering, his tail going into a cautious wag, the dog reached forward, and when Fletcher let go of his collar, his tongue investigated the curled fist. The monk opened it to reveal a small delicacy of dried meat inside.

  ‘Sir James doesn’t like strangers feeding his dogs,’ Miranda said.

  ‘Oh … we’re not strangers. We met the last time I visited, and the time before. The reverend sends his regrets, but he’s been called away and is unable to be here. He intended to leave you a message, but he didn’t have time. He asked me to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t stay long enough to make you man and wife, and he hopes you’ll be happy.’ The hand the man offered in friendship was shiny with scars.

  Fletcher ignored it and moved in front of Miranda. ‘Who are you? Are you acting on behalf of my uncle? Remove your cowl so I can see your face.’

  A sigh left the monk’s mouth, but he did as he was asked. His eyes blazed darkly from a face that was barely recognizable as a face on one side, and there were tears in them. His hair was heavily threaded through with grey.

  Miranda gave a cry of distress, and she saw the Fenmore resemblance, even though she’d never set eyes on the man before. ‘Oh, you poor man,’ she said involuntarily, and she turned to gaze at Fletcher.

  ‘Where’s the reverend?’ Fletcher said. ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Miranda drew in an anguished breath. ‘He was so happy at my birthday supper. How did he die?’

  ‘Somebody poisoned him.’

  ‘You?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Why should I kill him when he’s done me no harm?’

  Miranda pulled at Fletcher’s sleeve and whispered, ‘Look at him, Fletcher.’

  ‘I am looking at him. How did you get your injuries?’

  ‘Somebody pushed my face into the ashes of a fire. Then I was thrown over a cliff, which broke my legs and one of my arms. After that, I was taken out to sea, hit on the head and thrown overboard.’

  ‘That sounds like a tale told by sailors at the inn.’

  ‘There’s more, so please hear me out before you condemn me for a liar. By some miracle, a French fishing boat dragged me up in their net, barely alive. My skull was cracked and I had no memory. An order of Franciscan friars took me in and nursed me back to health. I stayed with them. It’s only in the past two years that my recall of my past life and identity has returned, but in snatches.’

  She pulled his sleeve again. ‘Fletcher … look past the scars on his face.’

  Miranda saw the moment when recognition was followed by uncertainty, then disbelief. The colour in Fletcher’s face seemed to drain away. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I think you know who I am, and I’m here to right a wrong.’

  There were footsteps on the gravel outside and a shadow blocked the door.

  As they turned, their combined bodies shielded the monk, who hastily whispered, ‘Say nothing. Don’t look for me. I’ll find you.’ He melted away as silently as a shadow.

  ‘Have you seen my husband anywhere?’ Mrs Swift said, and she looked so worried that Miranda felt sorry for her.

  Fletcher and Miranda exchanged a glance, and then Fletcher gently squeezed Miranda’s hand. ‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘How did you get into the church?’

  ‘The door was open, and the key is still in the door. I came to meet the reverend. He’d asked me to read a lesson next month.’

  Her expression was unbelieving. ‘And you, Miss Jarvis. Are you reading a lesson too? I find that hard to believe.’

  Flags of heat settled on her cheeks. ‘Do you now? Why is that?’

  ‘Because I know he intends to wed the pair of you this morning.’ Her lips settled into a thin line that represented a smile, and her eyes darted from one to the other. ‘Well, what have you got to say to that?’

  ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘No, Miss Jarvis. I may be a shrew but I’m not a fool, though I imagine Sir James might be interested in the fact that his guest and his nephew rather conveniently happened to be alone together in the church at the same time.’

  Fletcher shrugged. ‘Then I suggest you scuttle off and inform him … and far from being convenient, the opposite applies. My appointment with your husband was for nearly an hour ago.’ He turned to her, shades of bewilderment still layered in his eyes.

  ‘What’s your excuse for such unseemly behaviour, Miss Jarvis?’

  Miranda found a convenient lie. ‘Despite not feeling inclined to satisfy your curiosity, Mrs Swift, I happen to be looking for my sister. I saw the horse outside and the door was open so I came in.’

  ‘Ah yes … your sister is a rather precocious little creature, but that’s another subject altogether. Are you telling me you didn’t know who that horse outside belonged to?’

  Fletcher shrugged. ‘I doubt if Miss Jarvis knows who owns every horse in the district. I doubt if you do, either. It happens to be my horse. Now, can we end this inquisition, Mrs Swift? Would you like me to help you find your husband? Considering that the door was open, he may have tripped and fallen. I’ve called out a couple of times, to no avail.’

  They found the reverend in the choir stall, stretched out tidily with his head on a kneeling pad and his hands clasped over his stomach. An empty brandy bottle was cradled in the crook of one elbow. His wife plucked the bottle from him and stared at it in disgust before setting it aside. ‘Sir James’s coachman sends this over for him. My husband is weak and can’t resist it.’

  He looked as though he was sleeping, until his wife
gave him a vigorous shake and said firmly, ‘Wake up at once, Ambrose.’ Then his head rolled to one side and his mouth fell open, displaying his teeth, so he appeared to be smiling.

  Miranda gave a little gasp and said, for the second time that day, ‘The poor man.’

  Fletcher went through the conventions, placing his ear against the man’s chest to see if he had a heartbeat. He examined the greenish tinge of his fingernails, an indication of arsenic poisoning, or so his uncle had told him when he’d been small. He said, ‘The reverend looks peaceful and I think he may have died in his sleep. I’ll go and fetch the doctor, shall I?’

  He was fixed by a stare. ‘Why would he need a doctor?’

  ‘To certify that the manner of his death was from natural causes.’

  ‘What else would it be – a criminal act?’

  That’s exactly what Fletcher thought it was. However, the doctor was in the pay of his uncle, and nearly every death that wasn’t obviously accidental was recorded to be as being from natural causes.

  Miranda said, ‘I’ll inform Sir James when I get back. He will know what to do.’

  He didn’t want her to go off before he had time to speak to her. ‘If you’d care to wait a few moments, I’ll escort you, Miss Jarvis. It’s on my way.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’s not too far to go unaccompanied, especially if I go via the copse. Good-day, Mrs Swift. Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. Mr Taunt.’ She inclined her head to him.

  Miranda didn’t look at either of them again, but whistled for the dog when she reached the porch. For a moment, she was silhouetted against the sunshine.

  Fletcher was left with the impression of her in his eyes for a few seconds after she’d gone, and hoped he’d read her message correctly.

  His mind wandered back to the monk. It was a complication he didn’t want to think about. His first thought had been that the man was his father, Adrian Taunt. But how could he be? From what Fletcher had seen of his face, the resemblance to his uncle and himself was very strong. But that would make his mother a sister to both of the men. Surely his mother … Fletcher felt sick at the thought. Yet the fact remained; the question of who his father was brought only evasion.