Dark Before the Rising Sun

by Laurie McBain

  Francis had hold of Rhea’s arm as they stumbled up the stairs together, choking for breath. The upstairs was already filling with smoke.

  “I don’t understand how the fire could become so hot so quickly!” Francis yelled. “I just spotted it less than a minute ago. How could it already be here?” he asked. They could see flames climbing up the second-story windows.

  “Oh, Francis, I’m scared,” Rhea cried as she hurried along the smoky corridor. She could see smoke seeping out from under her door, where Kit was.

  Francis stopped at Conny and Robin’s room. “I’ll be right there, Rhea!” he called out to her as her figure disappeared down the hall. He threw open the door and shook the boys, one after the other.

  “W-what’s wrong?” Robin mumbled groggily.

  “Too early,” said Conny.

  “Get up!” Francis hollered, shaking him until he thought he heard Conny’s teeth rattling. He reached across and pulled Robin from beneath the blankets.

  “Francis, leave me be!” Robin yelled at him, thinking his brother had lost his mind.

  “The lodge is on fire! We’ve got to get out of here!” Francis cried, grabbing each and pulling them from the room after him. “Wait here. Don’t move! I’ve got to get Rhea,” Francis was saying when she appeared farther down the hall, a bundle wrapped up tightly in her arms as she hurried toward them.

  “The only way out is through the kitchens. Alastair must have gotten the maids and footmen out by now,” Francis cried as he led the way down the hall, trying not to jump backward when he saw how close the fire had traveled in only minutes.

  “Coooeee!” Conny coughed his favorite saying, his eyes terrified. The flames stood taller than he, and they raced along the floor of the hall where the family had dined that evening.

  Robin was blinking his tear-filled eyes, his hand tightening painfully on Francis’s. As they neared the base of the staircase, they could feel the heat of the fire like a blast from an oven door. “Francis!” Robin screamed when his hand slipped from his brother’s grasp. “I can’t see! Where are you?” he cried.

  “Here I am. Don’t worry,” Francis said, and choked. He wondered where his next breath would come from. The smoke had become so thick. “Rhea? Are you all right?” he demanded, for he had lost sight of her.

  “I’m here,” she said, and suddenly she was right next to him, Conny close against her side as he hung on to her waist. “Francis, where is the hall? I can’t see!” she cried out.

  Francis stared at the wall of flame approaching them, then turned around to stare at the flames licking up behind them, closing off the stairs. He was sure he was going to pass out.

  They were trapped.

  * * *

  Bess saw the flames as she approached along the lane to Merdraco, Bristol Boy snorting and shying nervously when he smelled the smoke. But Bess became iron willed as she saw the fire. Even from there, she could see that it was an inferno.

  As she drew close to the gatehouse, a figure in black jumped out and grabbed hold of her reins. Big hands grabbed her and pulled her to the ground.

  She tumbled, lying there stunned for a moment. But when she glanced up and saw Jack Shelby pulling the sidesaddle from Bristol Boy’s back, she struggled to her feet. “You bastard!” she spat, hatred and terror of this man consuming her.

  “Goin’ to see your lover, Bessie?” he snarled. “Ye’ll be findin’ him down on the beach. Maybe he survived without gettin’ a hole through that black heart. If he did, he’s goin’ to wish he were dead when he finds his wife and brat have been burned to cinders.” His harsh laughter echoed through the night.

  “You trapped them in there? In that lodge?” she cried, her heart pounding sickeningly. “My God, why?” she cried. “What have they done to you?”

  “He loves them, that’s why. Just like I love my Lettie, who was murdered by him,” Shelby said. “Let him know the hell I have known all these years. Let him cry for his dead, as I have cried for mine. He’ll never see that pretty wife or son again,” Shelby bellowed as he climbed onto Bristol Boy’s back.

  “You fool! You blind fool!” Bess screamed, and he paused for just a second. “Dante Leighton didn’t kill Lettie. He was with me that night. He was with me!” she yelled again just to make certain he understood.

  “Ye’re lyin’, tryin’ to save his neck. One of these days, I’ll get him. I’ll come back for him,” Shelby said.

  “I’m not lying. For once in my life I am facing up to the truth. But it’s too late. I am responsible for this,” she cried, and something of her despair seemed to reach Shelby, for he remained where he was, staring down at her as if truly seeing her.

  “The truth, woman,” he growled suddenly, and Bess looked up to see the pistol pointed directly at her head.

  “The truth, Jack Shelby? All right. But you won’t like it, because when I tell you, you won’t have anything to hate anymore. Certainly not Dante Leighton,” Bess told him, staring up unblinkingly into that pistol barrel.

  “Dante Leighton was with me the night Lettie was murdered. He stayed with me the whole night, and did not leave until morning. But the next day, when we learned of her death and learned that he had been implicated, I said nothing. I said nothing because I was selfish, because I had learned from my grandfather that Sir Miles had been to see him and had told him that Dante was in debt. When Dante fell under suspicion, I wasn’t about to risk my reputation by saying that I was his mistress. I was young. I wanted a good match. I couldn’t risk the scandal. And Dante said nothing about us. He allowed me to keep my spotless reputation while he lost his own. He was run out of Devonshire.”

  “You could still be lying,” Shelby thought wildly, trying to put everything together and make it look the way it always had.

  “Yes, I could be, but the woman found murdered on the moors yesterday was killed in exactly the same fashion Lettie was killed. This time I gave Dante his alibi, for suspicion was cast upon him again, but I—”Shelby interrupted her.

  “What woman?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No. What murder?” he asked again.

  “Esma Samples. And I find it strange that you didn’t know about her, for if her family is to be believed, then she was murdered because she knew too much about your smuggling gang,” Bess told him. “But don’t you understand? If Dante didn’t kill Lettie, and if another murder was committed in exactly the same way yesterday and he didn’t do it, then someone else killed both Lettie and Esma Samples. You saw Dante at Seawyck last night. You know he didn’t kill Esma Samples.”

  “He could have done it after he left you. Or before he got there,” Shelby stated.

  “No. You see, Sir Morgan Lloyd was there as well, and Dante and Sir Morgan were together the whole evening. Dante is not the man who killed either Lettie or the other woman. Why would he make it look like Lettie’s murder?” she continued, ever aware of the pistol pointing at her unwaveringly. She had his full attention, and she rushed on. “I was talking to the man from Merleigh who found the body. It’s unbelievable, but that man also found Lettie’s body. What he remembered was the strange shape he saw on Esma’s body, a bruise. It reminded him of another bruise. He’s going to take the information to the authorities tomorrow.”

  Shelby was deadly quiet. “What kind of a bruise?” he finally asked.

  “He said it looked like a dog’s head, something like that. He swears he saw it on Lettie’s body too.”

  As Shelby sat there on the back of Bristol Boy, Bess sensed a horrible change taking place in the man. The horse felt it too, for he whinnied nervously. The pieces of a puzzle were falling into place for him, and as Bess watched fearfully, the pistol began to shake. At last he spoke. It was just one word: “Miles.”

  Then Jack Shelby turned Bristol Boy around and laid the whip to his backside as he galloped down the road, leaving Be
ss standing there afraid to believe that she was still alive.

  * * *

  “Damn, I don’t see how he could have gotten away,” Dante swore softly.

  “I don’t think he did. A lot of bodies were carried out into the cove,” Sir Morgan reminded him. “Eventually, he will wash ashore.” That Shelby could be walking around was unthinkable.

  Dante and Sir Morgan had reached the top of the cliff and were walking through the ruins when they both caught sight of the flames dancing high into the sky, lighting up the heavens with a sullen, orange glare. Both froze, then raced ahead.

  Dante reached his horse first and was already galloping down the road when Sir Morgan sent his mount in pursuit.

  By the time Dante reached the lodge, it was totally engulfed in flames. The heat was unbearable, and the small group huddled close together were standing back against the trees, cringing as if they were watching the end of the world.

  Dante jumped down, letting his horse gallop away from the flames as he ran toward them. It was only when he drew close that he heard the weeping and moaning. But what stopped him in his tracks was the sight of Alastair sitting on the ground, his head in his hands, sobbing.

  Alastair felt a hand touch his shoulder, and he knew without looking whose hand it was. He just shook his head, his sobs coming harder.

  “Cap’n,” Kirby whispered hoarsely, his face streaked with tears and smoke, “it happened so fast. One minute everything was fine, the next the place was all in flames.” His gnarled hand shook as he kept rubbing Jamaica’s ruffled fur. The cat’s eyes glowed with reflected fire.

  “Mr. Marlowe came running in and woke us, said it was spreading. He said Francis and—and—” But Kirby’s voice broke. He started to cry. Then, sniffing, he gasped. “Lord Chardinall and Lady Rhea had gone upstairs to get Conny and Robin and young Kit. They were coming back down. W-we saw them. Then suddenly there was this sheet of flame. It cut them off. That was the last we saw of them. Oh, Lordy, I-I—”Kirby sobbed, his body shaking as he buried his face in Jamaica’s fur, holding on to the tomcat as if he were the dearest thing in the world.

  Sir Morgan shielded his eyes against the flames. He had heard Kirby’s story, but even though he was staring at the raging fire, he still could not believe that Lady Rhea Claire and her brothers, and her son, and young Conny had all died that fiery death.

  Glancing at Dante, he thought he’d never seen a man look so devastated, or so lifeless. It was as if he had somehow died himself in that moment when he had learned that his wife and child had died.

  Sir Morgan jumped a foot as someone touched his arm. He looked down to see Bess Seacombe staring up at him, her dark eyes wild with despair.

  “It was Jack Shelby. I-I was coming here to explain to Lady Jacqobi about the other night when he jumped me on the road and stole my horse. He boasted about setting fire to the lodge. He’s raving mad. He did it because of Lettie, because he thought Dante killed her. But I told him he hadn’t. I think he finally believed me. Then he said the oddest thing.” Bess’s breath was coming raggedly.

  “What?” Sir Morgan questioned, his arm around her waist all that kept her legs from giving out.

  “He said, ‘Miles.’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a murderous look on somebody’s face.”

  “What did you say to him?” Sir Morgan asked, trying to go slowly to coax the answers from her.

  “I was trying to convince him that Dante didn’t kill Lettie, or Esma Samples. I told him that Dante was with me that night when Lettie died, and he already knew that Dante was at Seawyck the other night. Then I told him that you had been with him all night. He knew then that Dante could not have killed Esma Samples. I told him about the bruises on the bodies,” Bess said tiredly.

  “What bruises?” Sir Morgan questioned impatiently.

  “Bruises that looked like a dog’s head. The man who found the body said he remembered seeing one just like it on Lettie’s body. And that was when Jack Shelby said ‘Miles.’”

  “Dante! Don’t! Come back! No matter what, you can’t do it!” Sir Morgan called suddenly. But it was useless, for Dante had overheard all of it, and Sir Morgan knew where he was going.

  Dante had reached his horse and flung himself into the saddle when, suddenly, he slid back to the ground and stood staring straight ahead.

  “What the devil?” Sir Morgan whispered as Dante suddenly broke into a run across the stretch of cliff that led to the towers of Merdraco. For a horrible moment, Sir Morgan thought that Dante had lost his mind from grief and was going to throw himself off the cliff.

  But then they all caught sight of figures making their way across that windswept ground. There were four of them. One of them was a woman cradling something close to her breast.

  “Oh, my God!” Kirby blubbered, his sobbing loud and unrestrained as he understood. He recognized those two short figures running ahead of the other two now, and awkwardly he ran out to meet them, Jamaica eyeing the little steward as if he had bats in the belfry.

  Francis Dominick’s face was nearly black from the smoke, and his teeth seemed startlingly white as he grinned, stumbling into waiting arms. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Rhea disappear entirely as Dante embraced her and their son in his arms, holding them as if he would never let them go, as indeed he never would.

  Thirty-six

  Truth is truth

  To the end of reckoning.

  —Shakespeare

  There was no darkness before the rising sun on that day, for the skies had been aflame all night long. When dawn broke, the first streakings turned to scarlet, reflected by the smoky skies above Merdraco.

  The daylight revealed a lodge reduced to little more than ashes, soon to be blown away on the winds.

  It revealed, too, all that remained of the smuggling gang, footprints in the sand, soon to be washed away on the tide.

  News of the fire spread quickly, and soon the homeless were on their way to Sevenoaks House, having received an invitation from Sir Jacob Weare to be his guests until Merdraco could be made habitable.

  But before the master of Merdraco could rest, he would have to face his enemy. So Dante left Rhea and his son with Sir Jacob and rode from Sevenoaks House to Wolfingwold Abbey, the home of Sir Miles Sandbourne and the place where Jack Shelby would surely be found. With him rode Sir Morgan, Alastair, Francis, and Kirby.

  What that group of bedraggled, grim-faced riders had expected was not what they saw.

  Sir Miles’s servants were standing in the great hall of the onetime monastic property, their faces clearly showing fright. Jack Shelby had indeed come to Wolfingwold Abbey demanding to see Sir Miles. Apparently he had found him in the salon. None of the servants had dared to open those closed double doors since they had heard the pistol shot ring out.

  Dante and Sir Morgan put their shoulders to the locked doors and broke through. The sight which met their eyes was enough to sicken even a man accustomed to death.

  Jack Shelby had discovered that he had been duped by Sir Miles all these years. It had been that fine gentleman, in fact, and not his stepson, Dante Leighton, who murdered Lettie. When Shelby started to choke the life out of Sir Miles, the older man managed to reach inside his coat pocket and grasp his pistol. Pulling the trigger, he shot the larger man in the chest. But Shelby, his big hands still clasped around Sir Miles’s throat, continued to crush Sir Miles’s windpipe before he succumbed to his own wound. Finally, both lay dead at each other’s feet.

  They had not lingered at that scene of such vileness. Back at Sevenoaks House, Dante found Rhea freshly bathed, smoke washed from her hair, and clad in a gown borrowed from Sir Jacob’s niece, the hard-of-hearing Essie.

  Kit was snuggled on her lap, his eyes drooping heavily as he nodded off. Rhea sipped a sherry and tried to put the horrible memory from her for at least a while.

  Sir Jacob, sti
ll wearing his dressing gown, was waiting for Dante. He knew there would be more to this day. Essie was in her chair by the fire, and Dante wondered idly if anything ever budged her.

  Alastair, Francis, Kirby, and the boys had found seats around the room. They had scrubbed their hands and faces clean of the black smoke, but their clothing still reeked of it. Dante ran a weary hand through his own disorderly hair and, finding a footstool, drew it up close to Rhea and Kit, a large snifter of brandy in his hand.

  Jamaica, understanding that they were guests in the strange house, made certain of his next meal by attaching himself to Essie. He began to weave in and out around her legs, much to Kirby’s annoyance. When it came to his stomach, that cat had no loyalties.

  “They killed each other,” Dante startled everyone by suddenly announcing into the expectant silence.

  “Sir Miles is dead?” Sir Jacob asked. Perhaps repeating it would make it absolutely true.

  “Yes, but he managed to shoot Jack Shelby before he died,” Dante said.

  “Good Lord, the madness that comes of hatred!” Sir Jacob shook his head. “Well, at least neither one of them will be able to hurt anyone anymore. Is it all over now, do you suppose? So many years, so many long, wasted years all because of one man’s corruption.” After a silence, he said, “May I ask why Jack Shelby went after Sir Miles all of a sudden? If what I have heard is correct, then Sir Miles was the leader of the Sons of Belial, and the two of them have been working together for years. Why did he turn on Miles now?” Sir Jacob asked, thinking about rabid dogs turning on their masters.

  All eyes moved from Sir Jacob to Dante, who explained, “Sir Miles was indeed the leader of the Sons of Belial, but, as was his way, he stayed in the background for all these years, letting Jack Shelby be visible, and letting him enjoy the small tastes of power Miles allowed him. If anything had gone wrong, then the rope burns around the neck would also have been Shelby’s. I suppose I am partly to blame for Miles’s involvement with the smugglers, for I caused him to become almost bankrupt. He had to have some revenue coming in,” Dante speculated, staring into his brandy as if seeing everything clearly in the glass.