The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  “Is Oliver with you?”

  “No, my dear. Perhaps you ought to sit down.”

  His admonition drapes over me like a burial shroud. Nothing good ever follows such a caution. I shove down a rising wave of alarm and retreat a few steps, then stiffen my shoulders and my resolve. I am far beyond quailing like a frightened schoolgirl.

  “I am no frail flower, Mr. Ward. I may hear whatever you have to say as well on my feet as on a chair.”

  Something flashes in his greenish eyes, though it is hard to tell if it is pity or admiration. I pray for the latter. Pity would mean something is terribly, horribly wrong.

  A small chuckle rumbles in his throat, and he swipes some grit off his brow with the back of his hand. “You are a rare one.”

  His words squeeze my heart, so familiar are they. “Your son has said the same, several times.”

  “Yes, well, I am afraid we are more alike than he cares to admit. Do you mind?” Lifting a finger, he points to the coffee urn. “It’s been a long morning.”

  Hah! It’s been a long night. A long week. A longer year. I want to scream at him to explain where he’s been and why he’d told me to sit down, but the haggard lines on his face quiet that urge. The weary bend of his shoulders affirms his request. Who am I to refuse him?

  “It is your house, sir. You do not need my permission.”

  Without another word, he crosses to the sideboard and pours a cup. After his first drink, relief sighs out of him, and he turns back to me. “Thank you for your indulgence. I am not accustomed to hard riding so early in the morning.”

  Not wishing to appear a vulture pecking for information, I pick up my tepid cup of tea and take a sip. It goes down like lead, but it at least gives me some semblance of restraint before I ask, “Where have you been?”

  “Mr. Hunter sent one of his men here to fetch me just before dawn.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To identify a body.”

  My cup crashes to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces along with my heart. Have I lost Oliver before I’ve even gained him? I sway and reach for the table, negating all my flimsy words of bravado. I gape at the barrister. “Please don’t tell me…” I choke. I cannot even finish the words.

  The barrister slams down his cup. In two long-legged strides, he guides me into the nearest chair.

  “Take heart, Miss Lee. It was Mr. Groat. Apparently he’d made such haste in fleeing with his newly found wealth, he was thrown from his horse.”

  I sag against the back of the chair. Thank God! But then shame charges through me. The death of any man ought not be so callously dismissed, even a greedy blackguard such as Mr. Groat. “And the jewels?”

  “Recovered.” The barrister pulls a chair close to mine and sinks into it. “That leaves Mr. Corbin alone to take the blame for the theft of his wife’s ruby necklace. He admitted as much to me and signed an affidavit.”

  Once again I gape. Is this morning to be nothing but surprise after surprise? “Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

  A rogue smile curves his lips. “Somehow he got the idea his sentence would be lightened if he confessed. He provided me with the names of the two witnesses and the judge he bribed to have Oliver convicted, along with the messenger he paid off to call me out of town that week.” Something dark flashes through his eyes.

  Hmm. Had the Hawk of Crown Court struck again? I eye the man. “An idea planted by you, perhaps?”

  “A lesson in the law, Miss Lee. Never directly answer a question when you can avoid it altogether.” He winks—and my heart stops. He looks entirely too much like Oliver.

  “Last I saw Mr. Corbin,” he continues, “the man was bound and headed for prison.”

  “I am happy to hear it.” I am. Truly. Justice will finally be served to a man who deserves shackles and a cold, cold cell. But it is an empty victory without Oliver to share it. “Thank you for telling me, yet what news of Oliver? Have you any word of him?”

  “I do.” He scrubs his hand over his face, aging five years in a blink of an eye. “I fear, Miss Lee, that he’s met the same fate as Ambrose. And in light of such, there is no time to lose.”

  After three days in the saddle, Sebastian Barrow was finally home. So why didn’t he feel elated to see the stark walls of Dartmoor Prison? He was free of the stench of the city. Free of the press of crowds. Free of the devilish Groat. Better yet, he was returning the guilty to the pit. Life didn’t get any better than this. But the smile that stretched his lips as he closed in on the gates felt thin, pinched.

  A side door opened and out popped Hoff with a “Ho, ho!” and a jagged smile. Half his teeth were missing on the left side, lost in a tussle with a red-raged ox. A fearsome enough sight, but even more unsettling when combined with the mis-sewn scar that reached from his jaw to clear over the top of his head.

  “Well, well! If it isn’t Barrow,” he crowed. “We been taking bets on when you’d be back, and if you’d get your man.” Hoff craned his neck past the horse’s rump to where Ward stumbled behind. A loop of rope around his neck connected him to the saddle, and his hands were bound behind his back. It was always better to make an escaped convict walk the final ten miles so that he’d remember every last step. Yet Sebastian shifted uneasily in the saddle. After having spent so much time with the wicked Groat, it seemed too much like something he would have done.

  With a huff, he refocused on Hoff. “Don’t know why anyone would be foolish enough to wager against me. Besides, gambling’s a sin.”

  “Only if you lose—which I didn’t. Looks like I just earned myself a pint at the pub tonight.” Hoff’s laughter was as ragged as his face. With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the gate and swung it wide enough for the horse and prisoner to pass through. “Cutter won’t be so happy to see you, though. But Cutter be hanged! Stop by the Plume of Feathers tonight and tell us yer tale, eh?”

  He gave another grunt, this one noncommittal. Sharing the victory with his fellow officers would be a fine way to end this mission, but doing so in a den of iniquitous drunkards might taint his triumph.

  With a click of his tongue, he urged the horse onward. Once past the gate, he glanced back at Ward. Dirt flecks covered him like the pox. His trousers gaped open at the knees, torn from hitting the gravel so many times. Stubble, blood, and dirt darkened his face—but not nearly as black as the fury burning in his eyes. He hobbled along, careful to keep pace lest the rope bite into the raw skin at the back of his neck, but never once did his ferocious stare lose strength.

  Blast the man! This would be so much easier if Ward just would show a little penitence. Barrow jabbed his heels in the horse’s side, upping the pace. By the time he cantered across the parade ground and reached cellblock A, Ward breathed hard behind him.

  Sebastian’s boots hit the ground and he winced as sharp pain stabbed the pad of his foot. Blast! He still needed new boots, and all because of Ward. He yanked on the rope, pulling the man close to him. “You’ve been nothing but trouble, you know that? You’re a worthless excuse for a man.”

  Ward’s jaw worked, the bruises riding up and down with the movement. Then he closed his eyes, releasing a slow breath. “No man is worthless in God’s eyes. Every soul holds value.” His face hardened. “Even one possessed by a demon.”

  A tremor shot through Sebastian. How dare Ward lump him together with the likes of Groat. He backhanded the man, the smack of it bouncing off the rock walls of the gaol, then jerked Ward toward him, face to face. The stench of him was enough to gag an elephant. “Mind your manners, Ward, or I’ll have to mind them for you.”

  Loosening some slack, he stalked to the door and pounded his fist against it.

  A slidey hole scraped open. Two bloodshot eyes peered out, widening as recognition flickered. The hole slammed shut, and the door opened. Smyth, the doorkeep, cuffed him on the shoulder. “Flying carps, Barrow! Yer a sight. Welcome back, man.”

  Sebastian clenched every muscle, readying to flatten the add
lepated fool yet again for touching him. Then the image of Groat in front of the pub, his black eyes burning holes, froze him. He wasn’t Groat, being that he worked for God, not the devil. Yet the image was enough to anchor his fist to his side. He dipped his head at the man and yanked Ward along, not stopping until he reached the front desk.

  “Warden in?” he asked.

  “No, and I didn’t figure you’d be either.” As predicted by Hoff, Mr. Cutter, the turnkey on duty, folded his brow into a magnificent scowl.

  Sebastian peered at the man from beneath his hat brim. “Don’t go pretending you didn’t miss me.”

  Cutter spit out a few inglorious profanities. “You think your boys in the cell are going to be any happier to see you than I am?”

  “I’ll have them smiling in no time.” A faint smile lifted his own lips, then vanished. “Now, where’s the warden?”

  Cutter leaned back in his chair. “Over in cellblock B. Ought to return by the time you lock up your man.” His gaze slid to Ward, and a low whistle followed. “That one’s a little rough. Give you some trouble, did he?”

  Something in Cutter’s reaction made his gut clench, but he held his gaze steady. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Ward’s cell ready and waiting?”

  “All nice and cozy like.” Cutter reached into a drawer and tossed a key in the air.

  Sebastian caught it and set off again, now and then jerking the rope to be sure Ward knew who was in charge. It always paid to assert one’s authority, especially over a convict who’d managed an escape. He couldn’t have the man thinking he’d ever accomplish that mistake again.

  Most of the cell doors were open, the prisoners being employed for the day. Not Ward’s. Barrow shoved the key into the lock and, after an accompanying click, flung the door wide. He tucked the key into his pocket, removed the loop of rope from around Ward’s neck, then pulled out his knife and yanked Ward close. “Turn around.”

  Ward’s nostrils flared. “You brought me all this way just to stab me in the back?”

  “I said turn around.”

  Ward stared him down a moment longer, something flickering in his eyes before he faced the gaping maw of his cell, muttering about justice and repentance. Sebastian began sawing through the man’s bindings. While not sharp, the back end of the blade still drew blood from the thin skin where the rope had chafed, yet Ward didn’t so much as gasp. The man had fortitude, he’d give him that. Much more than that weasely Groat. Were he not a convict, why, Ward might have been a man he would have felt proud to call a friend.

  The bindings fell. Sebastian lifted his knife, then smacked the butt of the hilt square between Ward’s shoulder blades. The man hurtled into his cell.

  And it was finished. The captive brought home. The prodigal returned. He could only imagine what was going on in Ward’s head right about now. As for him, the victory of the moment warmed through him like a sweet August afternoon.

  Sebastian reached for the door. But before he could shut it, Ward spun, a strange light in his eyes. What was this? Sebastian paused and peered closer.

  All the fury in Ward’s stare was gone. Not one shred of anger flared in his gaze. Instead, pity welled. An entire flood of foreign compassion—and Sebastian got the distinct impression that it took Ward as much by surprise as it did him.

  “Go ahead, Barrow. Lock me up. But know this.” He straightened, though it must’ve cost him after being forced to walk so far. “For all your talk of right and wrong, sins and salvation, you don’t know the first thing about God or mercy.”

  With a mighty shove, Sebastian slammed the door so hard, the reverberation echoed throughout the gaol. “I’m not the guilty one in a cage.”

  Wheeling about, he strolled down the passageway toward the stairs. “You don’t know the first thing about God.” No, Ward had it wrong. Must be. Because he had brought another sinner to justice just for Him. God surely was smiling upon him.

  Wasn’t He?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You don’t know the first thing about God or mercy.”

  Oliver ground his teeth as he paced circles in his cell, his words from several days ago yet plaguing him. He’d meant for Barrow to wrestle with the accusation, but an ugly twisting of fate turned the indictment right back on him. Being locked in isolation had given him more than enough time to ponder his own charge. Was it a mistake or a mercy that he was back in this hole?

  Growling, he dropped to his knees and lifted a ragged prayer.

  Why, God? Why the shackles when You know I am innocent? What sort of justice confines a man for a crime he did not commit?

  His throat closed. Captivity, loss, every right and dignity stripped from him—all choked the very air from his lungs. It took several deep breaths before he could even think of continuing.

  I assume that You have placed me here for a reason, Lord. But I cannot fathom why. What good can come from ruining me in every way possible? Please let me see, glimpse what You are doing. Grant mercy, for me, for Jarney, and…

  He gritted his teeth a moment more, the thought of Maggie almost too much to bear. If Groat had gotten away, how awry had the rest of the evening gone? Had they succeeded in getting Corbin locked up, or had he once again bribed his way out of culpability? And if the man were still on the loose… He squeezed his eyes tight.

  Keep Your watchful eye upon Maggie and protect her as I am unable to. Comfort her as she grieves the loss of her father.

  Father. The very word gouged his own wound deeper. Was his father thinking of him too? Or had his disappearance been the last straw, and his father decided to give him no more thought at all? If only he had made amends sooner!

  How, God? How am I supposed to keep my promise and make things right if I’m locked up here?

  Out in the passageway feet shuffled. Doors slammed. The fading light filtering in through the window high up in his cell confirmed the sounds. Another day spent. Or rather another day wasted. Thunderation! At this point his whole life was wasted. There’d be no recovering his political career, no chance of getting his legislation passed, not with the added stain of being a recaptured escapee. Not even the precinct rat catcher would listen to a convict, let alone the prime minister. Without his leadership in the House, it would be up to the other few men who fought for underprivileged souls like Filcher and Bodger. Clearly there was nothing more he could do. Ever.

  His hands curled into fists, but this time he stopped short of punching the wall. What was the point? His knuckles were already scabbed over, with nothing to show for the blood but the continual latent rage simmering inside him.

  So he bowed his head instead.

  God, I surrender, for I can do nothing else. If not me, Lord, then raise up another to fight against Corbin, for Your people’s sake. For Your sake.

  Blowing out a weary sigh, he rose and crossed to the wall between his and Jarney’s cell, then slid to the cold stone floor. He may not be able to do anything for the poor on Avon Street, but he could yet offer encouragement to his friend. He turned his face to the barrier between them, speaking loud enough for Jarney to hear. “How are you holding up, my friend?”

  “I have lived another day—” A fit of coughing barked rough and phlegmy, severing Jarney’s words.

  “Blast! You need a doctor!” This time Oliver did punch the wall. Though he couldn’t see his friend, the man’s reedy voice boded ill. Truly, it was a miracle Jarney yet lived.

  The barking continued. There was nothing for it but to wait—and pray—that his friend would ride the wave of his lung fever and not get dragged under.

  Finally, the storm ceased, and Jarney’s weak voice started and stopped in spurts, his already throaty accent made even thicker by his condition. “God knows… my needs… my friend. He will provide… at the right time. He’s kept me and you alive for a reason.”

  A bitter chuckle welled, and Oliver leaned his head against the wall, speaking more to himself than to Jarney. “If I had half as much faith as you, I’d be a
saint.”

  “It only takes… a mustard seed.”

  Footsteps thudded down the corridor. Oliver clamped his mouth shut. If Barrow caught them talking, there’d be yet another bruise to purple his flesh. When the steps stopped outside his door and keys jangled, his gut clenched even tighter than his jaw. Had Barrow heard him?

  Oliver shoved to his feet. Facing the man while seated was just asking for a kick in the teeth.

  The door screeched open. Barrow stood grim-faced, truncheon in hand, a dark god bent on meting out crooked justice. Did the man never go home? It was late. Why was he still here?

  “You’ve got a visitor,” he growled.

  Oliver tensed, wary of taking his eyes off Barrow. Was this some kind of trick?

  Barrow stepped aside and another man swept past him, ducking lest his skull crack against the low header. Before the man even straightened, Barrow slammed the door shut. When the fellow did finally stand tall, Oliver sucked in a breath.

  His visitor was his father?

  “Oliver?” In three long strides, the barrister closed the distance between them and held his lantern higher. The longer he stared at Oliver, the deeper grief carved lines into his face, aging him well beyond his fifty-seven years. Oliver shrank back, his stench, his grime, the weight of the manacles assaulting him afresh. But God had heard his prayers. Here was his chance to make at least one thing right. He opened his mouth, but nothing would come out.

  His father moved closer, eyes narrowing as he scanned every bruise and each cut. “Who did this to you?”

  Oliver bit back a maniacal laugh. For all the years his father had worked to send offenders to gaol, did he really have no idea to what sort of hell he condemned them? He shook his head, evading his father’s question. The truth would do no good anyway. He turned partially away, fists clenched against the tremor trying to tear him apart. “Why are you here?”