by Lisa Doan
Mr. Small blushed. The gaunt curate shuffled forward with a look of apology to Sir Richard. “Sir,” he said in a trembling voice, “very sorry to trouble you. Mr. Snidefellow was just wondering if you could provide some illumination as to what caused the fright that evening.” Mr. Small then nodded his head up and down vigorously, as if Sir Richard had already answered the question to everyone’s complete satisfaction.
“It appeared to be a wolf,” Sir Richard said.
Mr. Snidefellow motioned for Mr. Small to step back. The curate looked relieved and hurried away. Mr. Snidefellow rose. “Sir Richard, you know very well we have no wolves in these parts. You were seen riding about on horseback, with that urchin you brought from London, waving torches at some kind of creature.”
Sir Richard crossed his arms and said, “The boy has a name: it is Henry Hewitt. We were indeed out riding that evening. When we heard a commotion erupting from the duchess’s lawn, we immediately rode to the scene and grabbed the torches to better see what was the matter. Of what I could observe in the shadows, it appeared to be a wolf.”
Mr. Snidefellow pursed his lips and said, in a loud voice sure to reach all of the villagers’ ears, “We shall not harbor the devil’s intrigues in this blessed hamlet of Barton Commons. I know my duty and, as councilman, I will not sit by while farmers lose their stock, fields fail to produce, fruit withers on the vine, and our innocent babes are carried off. Those are the consequences of allowing Satan to take up residence.”
“Satan?” Sir Richard said. “Have you lost your wits entirely?”
The curate looked as astonished as Sir Richard and boldy spoke up. “My dear sir, there can be no cause for talking of the devil! The church would wish to make every effort to discover some rational explanation.”
“There is every reason to talk of the devil,” Mr. Snidefellow said.
Sir Richard laughed, but as Henry looked around, he could see that Mr. Snidefellow had made an impression. As much as the church dismissed talk of the devil being the cause of blight and disease, many people still had a habit of looking in that direction when any sort of bad luck befell them. Henry could see that Snidefellow was determined to exploit their fears and superstitions.
Snidefellow continued. “I have reason to believe you know something of the devil,” he said to Sir Richard. “Is it not true that the very year you arrived, our fields were blighted? And is it not true that just last year, Widow Darylrumple’s cow died in mysterious circumstances?”
“What’s any of that got to do with me?” Sir Richard asked.
“Of course you will claim it is coincidence,” Mr. Snidefellow said. “Satan loves to hide behind such things. But I would also point out that it appears the evil is intensifying, and it has coincided with the arrival of that boy.”
Snidefellow pointed to Henry, who sank in his seat, silently repeating to himself, Don’t say my toes, don’t say my toes.
“There is something strange about the arrival of that boy,” Mr. Snidefellow said, glaring at Henry. “A dozen boys in this village might have been hired as your assistant, but you thought it necessary to hire a street urchin from London. I am certain you have brought him here to assist you with your dark purposes. Who better than a boy who has not been taught morals, who has lived on the streets, no doubt engaging in every sort of crime, who has no nearby family he might be guided by or confide in?”
Snidefellow turned away from Henry to Sir Richard. “It was no wolf out that night. It was a padfoot.”
“A padfoot?” a woman cried from the back of the church.
“A black dog, straight from hell. I don’t yet know what sort of rituals you have conducted to loose such a creature upon these innocent people, but I intend to find out. I will conduct a full investigation.”
The magistrate, who was a dull man and a great friend of Mr. Snidefellow, nodded his head in approval.
“Take your devil’s assistant and leave this hamlet forever, or face a trial and a hanging once I have uncovered the truth,” Mr. Snidefellow said.
Sir Richard smiled. “So that’s it? You want me to pack up and go?” Sir Richard turned to the villagers, who were now huddled in the pews. “You have heard what your councilman has to say. Now hear me. Neither I, nor my assistant Henry Hewitt, have anything to do with the devil. The padfoot is an old wives’ tale. What Mr. Snidefellow’s motive is in these ridiculous accusations, I do not know, other than to be certain that he has some vile motive. If you need further assurance that talk of a padfoot is ridiculous, talk to your curate and hear your own church’s opinion on the matter.”
A man threw open the doors to the church, interrupting Sir Richard. It was Croydon, the duchess’s butler.
Henry smiled. So the duchess knew about the council meeting after all, and had sent her butler with a message.
“The duchess’s spaniel,” Croydon announced in his usual formal tone, “answering to the name of Harold, has gone missing this very night. The duchess offers a ten-pound reward to the individual who safely returns him.”
The church erupted. “Ten pounds! For a dog! But who’s willin’ to go out into the night with a padfoot about the place? No, thankee, I’d rather stay poor and alive.”
Sir Richard glanced at Henry. They both thought the same thing. It was no padfoot that took the puppy. It was Mary.
Sir Richard addressed Mr. Snidefellow. “You have said what you wanted to say, as have I. Now, I warn you that if you continue this harassment, there will be consequences. Step lightly if you know what’s good for you.”
He leaned down and whispered to Henry, “Get to the carriage.”
Bertram held the door open and said, “Home, sir?”
“No,” Sir Richard said. “But stay here a moment.”
Henry jumped into the carriage after Sir Richard. He shut the door behind him and said, “Sir, where would Mary take poor Harold?”
Sir Richard rubbed his chin. “I cannot be certain. From observing her behavior in the aquarium, we know she likes to wander, but she prefers a secure spot to retreat to. Especially when she has prey. I imagine size has not affected her instincts.”
“We’ll never find her if she’s gone deep into the Queen’s Forest.”
“True. And she may well have, but only if she were able to discover some likely den to hide herself. I have not seen such a place in my wanderings. She also keeps making appearances, and so I must guess she has not ventured overly far into the wood.”
“Maybe she got into one of the farmers’ barns?” Henry asked.
“Possibly, though I think any sort of livestock in the barn would sound the alarm. I know Real Beauty would kick her stall door down if she were to see such a beast. Cows and sheep could be expected to be equally alarmed, and a farmer is rarely out of earshot of his herds.”
“The cave perhaps?” Henry asked. “The one where the duke met the kidnappers? You did say it was an out of the way and lonely place where he was killed.”
Sir Richard took a moment to consider. Then he said, “Yes, indeed. If the creature has found the cave, she would like the environment. I have been there myself from time to time, looking for interesting flora and fauna. I have never been inside, but the opening is certainly big enough to admit her. It is lonely and secluded, another point in its favor.”
Sir Richard opened his door, leaned out, and said to Bertram, “Take us beyond the manor, pass Giles Farm, and stop just beyond the post road.”
Sir Richard closed the door. “I only hope we get there in time.”
“Will she wrap the puppy in her web?” Henry asked.
“That evidence of silk we saw near the road was not the beginnings of a web. She was nearby and had left the strings of silk to alert her to anyone approaching. No, what she will do is release poison through her fangs, and then slowly inject digestive enzymes until …”
“Until what?”
“Until Harold is liquefied from the inside out.”
The jostling carriage and the id
ea of Harold getting liquefied made Henry’s stomach flip-flop. He had a sudden urge to run home and make sure that Matilda was safe, but he reminded himself that Mrs. Splunket would be sitting in front of the kitchen fire with his dog. Mrs. Splunket would never let anything happen to Matilda.
The carriage barreled past the lights of lonely farmhouses, candles in the windows flickering orange and yellow. Henry’s mind kept drifting back to Snidefellow’s talk of the devil. Did it mean that the man would always be on the lookout for any signs? Did the councilman know that six toes were said to be a sign? Henry shivered at the idea that the councilman might line up everyone in the village and demand to see their feet.
The carriage trotted past the post road. To the left were fields of wheat, to the right a steep, wooded slope rose. Bertram reined in the horses.
Sir Richard jumped down from the carriage and handed out swords from the compartment on the back. He passed one up to Bertram.
“Keep your wits about you and guard the horses,” Sir Richard said.
Bertram held the sword in front of him like it was a live snake. “Guard the horses from what?”
Sir Richard did not answer, but strode up the slope leading to the cave.
Henry heard Bertram mutter, “Highwaymen, I suppose. Though why we’re out in the dark looking for trouble when any sensible person is at home with a puppy, I’ll never know.”
The slope took them ten feet above the road and then leveled out to a flat grassy area. It looked like a small plateau, as the slope then continued upward for another hundred feet. Sir Richard motioned for Henry to stop. A gaping hole of darkness showed on the side of the incline. The entrance to the cave. Henry shivered at the thought of the duke climbing to the very spot they stood upon, in hopes of retrieving his son, and having no idea that he was getting ever nearer to his own murder.
“Devil take it,” Sir Richard whispered, “we forgot torches.”
Just then, the clouds over the moon cleared off and the scene became brighter. It was easier to see the landscape, but Henry did not think that would help once they entered the cave.
A bright sparkle nested in the grass caught his eye. “Look, sir,” he said. A small collar lay on the ground near the entrance to the cave. Sir Richard scooped it up and held it in front of him.
It was made of leather and encrusted with pale blue stones that glittered in the moonlight. “This has to belong to Harold,” Sir Richard said. “Only the duchess could afford to put jewelry on a dog.”
Henry examined the collar. The leather had been cut clean through. “I’m afraid we may be too late.”
“Perhaps,” Sir Richard said. “But we’ve got to be sure.”
They crept closer. Henry heard a faint whimper.
“He’s in there!” he said, bounding toward the entrance.
Sir Richard grabbed Henry by the back of his coat. “Yes, and he’s alive. But the spider will be in there too. We must go carefully.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They cautiously stepped inside the entrance. Henry felt his way along the right side of the cave while Sir Richard took the left.
The cave was dank, its walls slimy and wet. It smelled of decaying leaves, as if cleansing sunshine had never penetrated its darkness.
The whimper came again. It was on Henry’s side and he fell to his knees. His hands touched a soft and slightly sticky substance that seemed to cover the cave floor.
“Stay where you are,” Sir Richard whispered from the opposite side of the cave. “I will make my way over to you.”
Despite Sir Richard’s directive, Henry crawled toward the sound of the frightened dog.
A lump lay just in front of him in the gloom. He lunged toward it. It was Harold. Henry swept him up in his arms.
“I have him!” he called to Sir Richard.
Henry turned to run as a massive leg swung toward him. He dodged the tarantula. As he reached Sir Richard at the entrance, Henry heard a whooshing sound. Stings radiated across Henry’s back as if he had been stabbed by a hundred sewing needles.
Sir Richard grabbed the puppy from Henry’s arms, and they scrambled down the hill. Bertram stood on his seat, waving his sword at the darkness. Sir Richard swung the carriage door open. “Bertram,” he cried, “to the manor as fast as you can!”
In the darkness of the carriage, Henry perched on the edge of his seat. He did not want to push the barbs deeper into his back. He used one hand to hold on to the window frame to steady himself. Bertram was driving the coach like a demon—shouting at the horses and using his crop. Henry guessed poor Bertram thought they were being pursued by highwaymen.
Henry was determined to say nothing of the barbs in his back. Once Harold was taken care of, he would see if Mrs. Splunket could get them out. He could tell her they were … he didn’t know what he would tell her they were. Maybe he could say he fell on some kind of spiky plant.
Harold lay on Sir Richard’s lap, looking dazed and weak. Henry knew from observing Matilda that a puppy did not like to stay in one place. She was always getting distracted and going one way and then, just as fast, going another. The fact that Harold was so still and did not try to wriggle out of Sir Richard’s arms was not a good sign.
“Have we got him out soon enough?” Henry whispered.
Sir Richard peered down at the weakened puppy. “Only time will tell. I’ll treat him as best I can and we’ll see how he goes. He has been poisoned, no doubt of that. With any luck, it has not been too much and he may be able to overcome it. He does not move much, but he has not been entirely paralyzed, and that is a good sign.”
They barreled down the lane toward the manor. In the dark of the carriage, Henry listened to Harold’s labored breathing and tried to ignore his own flaming back.
At the front doors, Sir Richard leapt down with the puppy in his arms and raced inside. Henry slowly edged himself down to the ground.
Bertram had descended from his perch and prepared to unhitch the horses. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to have a look in on Matilda,” he said.
Henry nodded and climbed the stone steps. As he passed by the torches that lit the portico, Bertram cried, “What’s that sticking out of your back?”
Henry waved him on but did not answer.
He staggered into the manor. Sir Richard was already in his laboratory, shouting for Mrs. Splunket to build up the fire and bring blankets and warmed goat’s milk. Mrs. Splunket hurried by Henry, then she stopped short. She peered at his face and said, “Dearie, you’re white as a sheet. What’s happened?”
Henry slowly turned to show her his back.
Mrs. Splunket shrieked. “For the love of heaven, what is that?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Bertram said, coming in behind Henry.
Sir Richard ran out into the corridor. “Henry! Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”
“Hit with what?” Mrs. Splunket cried.
“I’m all right,” Henry said. “Take care of Harold.” His voice sounded distant, as if he had left it down near the post road.
“Blast it,” Sir Richard said, “the boy’s about to faint.”
Henry woke on a sofa in the laboratory. He lay on his stomach and his back stung as if he had rolled in a nettle patch. He cautiously reached around to feel for the barbs, but they were gone. A bright fire burned high, warming the room. On the floor next to him, Harold lay curled tight on a pile of blankets. Matilda lay next to the sick puppy, occasionally giving his ear a lick for good measure.
“Ah,” Sir Richard said. “You are awake.” He held a tray in front of Henry. Five barbs, each a half-foot long, were lined up in a row. “Just as well that Bertram and I removed them while you were out cold,” he said. “We had to dig them out. I’m sorry to say you’ll have some scars from it.”
Henry wiggled his toes, then sighed with relief. Nobody had removed his shoes while he was unconscious. His secret was safe.
Mrs. Splunket bustled in, seeming recovered from her recent shock. �
�I see the patient is awake,” she said brightly. “Sir Richard, I will take it from here. I’ve already set Bertram up with a generous cup of brandy and I suggest you sip the same.” She helped Henry sit up and held a bowl of bone broth to his lips. “There now, we’ll build up your strength in no time. Who’d have thought these devil highwaymen are out there inventin’ new weapons? I never saw the likes of them,” she said, glancing at the barbs on the tray.
Sir Richard cleared his throat and said, “Yes, indeed. The criminal element never rests.”
“The puppy?” Henry asked, peering down at Harold. “Will he live?”
Harold had woken from the noise and stretched out. Matilda snuggled next to him.
“I believe so. He is weak, no question. But he was strong to begin, so I think we might be confident in his recovery. Matilda instinctively knows to keep him warm by staying near him, which is kindhearted of her. She was the runt and so would have been picked on and bullied by the other puppies, including Harold. If he is alive by morning, he can thank Matilda for it, and I daresay we could tell the duchess he has been found.”
“’Tis just a shame that a person who would need an extra ten pounds of reward money didn’t stumble across him,” Mrs. Splunket noted.
“Ah, but that’s exactly how it was,” Sir Richard said. “It was Henry, not I, who found the rascal. Harold would have succumbed to the elements if Henry hadn’t spotted him lying at the base of tree.”
Mrs. Splunket looked pleased. Henry was stunned. Ten pounds? His wages were only six pounds a year. “But, sir—”
“Nonsense, Henry. We won’t say another word about it,” Sir Richard said in a firm tone.
Mrs. Splunket gave Henry something bitter to drink that eased the pain in his back. It had a dreamy effect on him, and he lay with one arm hanging down, scratching Matilda’s ears. He fell in and out of dozes as Mrs. Splunket crept in every hour, wrapped in an oversized blue robe, her hair up in curl papers. As the sky lightened to gray, it occurred to Henry that now that they knew where Mary had taken up residence, it would be easier to do something about her. While he was thinking about what it was they should do, he fell into a deep sleep.
