The Devil and Drusilla Read online

  ‘He threatened me with ruin,’ half-sobbed Toby. ‘I might have known that I was doomed either way.’

  ‘There was no need to drag us down with you,’ sneered Mr Harrington. ‘And now I will have to deal with Devenish before he hands us over to the authorities—as he surely will. And then…’ he paused and smiled ‘…Apollyon will deal with you. And to make sure that you don’t go whining to Devenish you’ll not leave Marsham. You may send your groom home to report that you have drunk so heavily that you prefer to stay here overnight.’

  He was left with no alternative. He was simply poor Sir Toby Claridge whom stronger-minded men and women manipulated for their own use. He had been caught between a rock and a hard place—which was as good a way as any to describe that unholy pair, Leander Harrington and Lord Devenish. He could only hope that he might not at some future date either share Jeremy Faulkner’s fate or swing on the end of a rope at Tyburn.

  Devenish had ordered horses for himself and an attendant groom to be ready to leave for London shortly before eight o’clock in the morning. He was not to know that Mr Harrington, with several of his most faithful servants who were as deep in the Brotherhood’s doings as he was, were, from six o’clock onwards, keeping watch a couple of miles down the byway which led from Tresham to the road to London.

  Mr Harrington had sat up a great part of the night debating with himself what Devenish’s next move would be. He was now certain that his unexpected visit to Tresham Hall was connected with the authorities wishing to know exactly why there were so many strange deaths and disappearances in the district.

  If he were right, then Devenish would not go to the Lord Lieutenant, he would go straight to the Home Secretary for advice and help—which was what Mr Harrington would do if their positions were reversed. It would do no harm to keep watch on the byway from Tresham Hall and see whether or no Devenish was travelling on it—and by what means. He would then need to improvise.

  Devenish, in fact, wished to travel light in order to travel quickly. He had debated setting out the previous evening, but there had been reports of highwaymen working the byway at night and it was a risk which he preferred not to take. Nor did he wish his journey to look other than casual and innocent—as his visit to de Castellane had done.

  He had told Rob that he would be back within the day. The full moon was due by the weekend and it might be possible to arrange—with Sidmouth’s permission—for the whole gang to be caught at their evil orisons in the crypt and dealt with. How, he was still not sure.

  Rob walked with him to his horse, saying below his breath so that the other servants might not hear, ‘What bee is buzzing in your bonnet that you must be off to London at such short notice? And so soon after the last time.’

  Astride his horse Devenish looked down at his friend. ‘I have a mind to visit an old acquaintance,’ he drawled. ‘Tresham is beginning to pall.’ He still dare not tell Rob the truth of the matter.

  Rob took this for the empty lie it was. ‘Very well,’ he said, resigned. ‘I’ll not question you further. Only, take care of yourself. Not all highway robbery is committed at night—and I wish that you might let me accompany you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m armed,’ Devenish told him. ‘And so is Martin. I’ll be back tonight.’ He smiled a little provokingly. ‘This reminds me of night rides in Spain. You were a deal more light-hearted about my riding off alone then—behind the French lines as I recall. This is England, Rob.’

  He was not quite as airy as he sounded. He had no wish to alert Harrington in any way, make him suspicious. Neither could he be sure that none of the servants at Tresham was involved in the conspiracy of the Brotherhood. He had brought Martin with him from London and could be sure of his loyalty—which was why he had chosen him, and only him.

  He was only sorry that he had not been able to leave the morning after he had winkled the truth out of Toby, but there was no plausible explanation which he could give his guests for such a sudden excursion.

  Rob watched him ride down the drive, Martin following. Devenish was behaving in a manner which suggested that there was danger, and Rob thought that he might be taking too much for granted by travelling without a proper escort—but there was no moving him when his mind was made up.

  He shrugged his shoulders and went back into the Hall. Surely Devenish must be right—this was England in peace time, not Spain during the war. Nevertheless, unease rode on his back for the rest of the day.

  Devenish and his groom had travelled exactly two miles down the byway when Leander Harrington and his men rode out of the stand of trees where they had been hiding to confront the pair of them.

  ‘Ah, Devenish, there you are. I have been expecting you ever since that broken reed Claridge babbled in his cups to me about your blackmail and coercion of him. I must ask you to accompany me to the Abbey so that we may debate on what to do with you.’

  ‘Alas,’ said Devenish, smiling as easily as though he had not a care in the world, ‘I have urgent business elsewhere. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Alas, not.’ Mr Harrington was mocking him. ‘I have no desire for you to go elsewhere. We may, I suspect, usefully debate why that should be at the Abbey.’

  Devenish looked at the silent party of mounted men who were now surrounding him and Martin. ‘You are determined not to allow me to travel on my way?’

  ‘Quite so, Devenish. I always thought that you were sharper than many give you credit for.’

  One of the mounted men sniggered. Martin called to his master, ‘M’lord, we are not going to allow him to delay us, surely?’ and before Devenish could stop him, he drove his horse between two of the men, shouting, ‘Let me pass, sirrah,’ and was on his way towards London again.

  What followed next shocked even Devenish, who had always counted himself unshockable. Mr Harrington leaned forward negligently, pulled his horse pistol out of its holster and shot Martin in the back. He was flung from his mount to lie, broken, in the road.

  ‘Catch his horse,’ Mr Harrington shouted, ‘don’t let it escape. Now,’ he added, turning to Devenish, his smile vicious, ‘you know that I mean what I say. Try to imitate your lackey there and I shan’t hesitate to shoot you in the back. It would be a pity for you to die before you have done me a few small services, but you must see that there is no question of my ever releasing you.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ drawled Devenish, nothing about him betraying his anger, both at Harrington for what he had done, and for himself for putting Martin in the way of his death. ‘I can quite see that, having committed murder upon murder in the foul name of Apollyon, you will not be able to let me survive to be a potent witness against you.’

  ‘Quite so. Now, you may either ride quietly back to the Abbey with us without trying anything so foolish as to escape, or I shall be compelled to ask my men to manhandle you sufficiently to ensure that you arrive there without having caused us unnecessary trouble. The choice is yours.’

  Since it was futile to try to escape at this point it would be foolish to do anything other than surrender gracefully.

  ‘Oh, I always submit to force majeure,’ Devenish said coolly. ‘I learned that lesson from my late beloved grandfather. The trick is to do it as gracefully as possible.’

  Afterwards he was astonished at his own apparent cold-bloodedness in the face of his faithful servant’s murder. He thanked his grandfather for a gift which he had unwittingly blessed him with: the ability to remain impassive while undergoing both mental and physical torture.

  ‘What a sensible fellow you are, Devenish,’ commented Mr Harrington approvingly as he turned his horse for home. ‘Just like your grandfather. You resemble him greatly, you know.’

  ‘Do I? I am not of that opinion, but you knew him better than I. Did he join in your fun and games when he was alive?’

  ‘Now, now, Devenish, you know about that already. I had you followed to London before, and knew only that you had visited that mongrel de Castellane. It was only when our friend Claridge
spilled his guts to me that I was certain why you had visited him.’

  Oh, he had underestimated Harrington all along, had he not? And was about to play a bitter price for it. Although, to be fair to himself, he had not been certain of the elder Harrington’s connection with the Black Mass and the Brotherhood before he had visited de Castellane.

  ‘I always guard my back, you see,’ Harrington continued. ‘I was worried when you returned to Tresham Hall so suddenly after such a long absence, and when you spoke so lightly of the Devil—and behaved so oddly in the crypt—I became even more worried. Hence I had you followed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Devenish thoughtfully, rather as though Harrington and he were discussing a problem in logic instead of a problem involving murder and blasphemy. ‘We have, I gather, been playing a game of chess in the dark—and now, it seems, have reached checkmate.’

  He had, for no reason at all, a sudden brief and agonising vision of Drusilla smiling at him. Drusilla, who had in her possession his letter to Sidmouth detailing his suspicions about Leander Harrington. After Martin’s death he dare not put her at risk by threatening Harrington with it. He was sure that if the jovial murderer riding beside him learned of its existence he would not hesitate to hunt down everyone connected in any way with Devenish in an effort to find it and destroy it.

  So he said nothing, hoping against hope that they might meet someone on the way back to Marsham Abbey, but, as is always the way, the only people they saw were a few labourers in the fields who stared uncomprehendingly at them as they rode by.

  There was no salvation there.

  Nor at the Abbey, either. He thought again of Drusilla as though he were holding a talisman in his hand to keep the dark away. He wondered what she was doing—and Giles, too. If he ever managed to get himself out of this trap—which seemed increasingly improbable—he would ask her to marry him so that he might look after them both.

  He gave a cynical inward laugh—what a vain hope from a man who could so palpably not look after himself!

  Drusilla was having her usual busy day. She half-expected Devenish to visit her, but tried not to count too much on it. Giles, missing the jolly fun and camaraderie with his fellows which he had enjoyed at Tresham Hall, pronounced himself dead bored and lounged about the house yawning.

  In the afternoon he persuaded her to allow him to ride the little mare which had already arrived from Tresham. He set off with Vobster whilst Drusilla was sitting on the lawn with Miss Faulkner. They were embroidering kneelers for Tresham Church—which activity, of course, constantly kept Devenish at the forefront of her mind.

  As always that mind circled around his contradictions, and to keep herself steady—and fair to him—she began to list her own contradictions, finding them more and various than she had supposed!

  Miss Faulkner said, for once showing some insight, ‘Are you thinking about him, Drusilla? Lord Devenish, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ which was the truth. The other truth was that she was remembering herself in his arms, remembering his whispered endearments and the last words which he had said to her as she left Tresham Hall.

  ‘Perhaps I was wrong about Devenish,’ conceded Miss Faulkner grudgingly. ‘He’s very kind to Giles and not many men are. When I remarked on it he told me that he had once had a little brother, and had never liked being an only child after his brother died. Mr Peter Clifton told me in confidence when we were at Tresham Hall that the rumour was that his grandfather was very harsh with him when he first arrived at Tresham. Perhaps that’s why he’s so stern.’

  Was Devenish stern? Perhaps he was. Perhaps seemed to be a word associated with him.

  Miss Faulkner had not quite finished. ‘The late Earl’s harshness apparently stemmed from the fact that when he found his grandson he was, in manners, speech and habits, little more than a street Arab, and he was determined to make him a person fit to inherit as soon as possible. He was, in fact, the only male heir left. It seems that after his father died he and his mother lived in extreme poverty.’

  Drusilla’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the poor boy who had been handed over, friendless, to a cruel old man. His pride, his hauteur, and his apparent coldness stemmed from first his harsh life as a child, and afterwards from his determination to surround his shattered and betrayed self with a hard shell of indifference so that no one should ever come too near him again.

  She remembered the tenderness with which Devenish had held little Jackie Milner in his arms, and the stark simplicity with which he had told her, ‘I had a little brother once.’

  ‘Why did Mr Clifton tell you this, Cordelia? And how did he come to know what is known to few, if any?’

  Miss Faulkner flushed and looked away. ‘I spoke to him because I could see that you were strongly attracted to Devenish—which worried me. I asked him for his advice—as you know he is reputed to be remarkable for his common sense—because I was fearful for you. He told me that he had reason to know that beneath his haughty exterior and cutting tongue Devenish had a kind heart.

  ‘As to how he knew Lord Devenish’s history, he became a friend and confidant of the late Earl in his old age, and shortly before he died he had spoken to Mr Clifton of his regret concerning his harsh treatment of his grandson after he had brought him to Tresham.’

  Drusilla looked away. ‘Thank you, Cordelia,’ she said at last, ‘for telling me this sad story. It explains so much about him, does it not? But who, looking at him now, would have thought that he had such an unhappy past?’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Miss Faulkner, whose tender heart was also bleeding for the poor lost child whom Devenish had been. ‘So unlikely, is it not? It shows, however, that we must not judge people too hastily. One could never have guessed that m’lord had ever known real privation or suffering.’

  Their embroidery forgotten, the two women sat silent, considering the wheel of fortune which, as the old poets said, raised some men high and brought some men low.

  It was thus quite apposite that Vobster should come running on to the lawn, his honest face distressed. ‘Oh, madam, I’m sorry to bring you sad news, but there’s nothing for it. Through no fault of his own Master Giles has had a bad fall…’

  ‘Not from his horse,’ exclaimed Drusilla, jumping up, her face white.

  ‘Alas, yes, madam. We were on the path by the brook when a stray dog, a great brute of a thing, ran at the mare so that she reared and unhorsed poor Master Giles in an instant. The mare was unhurt, but Master Giles was knocked unconscious, and although we could not find that he had suffered any real injury he didn’t recover, so we brought him home. He has been carried to his room—still unconscious. He has the worst luck, madam, no doubt of it. I have been riding these many years and have had none like it.’

  Devenish and his childhood forgotten, Drusilla and Miss Faulkner hurried to Giles’s room to find him lying there still and white. The doctor had been sent for and they could only hope that he might be able to diagnose the cause of his condition.

  As Vobster had said, there was not a mark on him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By this time the same could not be said of Devenish. At first when they had arrived at the Abbey Mr Harrington had been everything that was civilised. He had produced a bottle of port, and asked Devenish, who had remained standing after he had been escorted to the little room off the Great Hall, to drink with him. They were not the only persons in the room: two of Mr Harrington’s largest servants stood on each side of the door, their eyes firmly on Devenish, and ready to do Mr Harrington’s bidding.

  Devenish had refused the offered drink politely. He saw no point in ranting and raving at his captor.

  ‘I must commend your common sense,’ said Mr Harrington, smiling. ‘Many men in your condition would be railing at me and demanding to be freed. Do try this port—it’s excellent.’

  ‘By no means,’ retorted Devenish coolly, ‘I never eat and drink with persons who are determined to kill me. I am, in fact, all agog to di
scover why I am still in the land of the living. It cannot be that you are merciful for you disposed of poor young Martin easily enough.’

  ‘Oh, I had no further use for him,’ replied Mr Harrington airily. ‘Now you are different. First of all I must ask you whether you have informed anyone else of your suspicions concerning the Black Mass and the Brotherhood. Secondly, when you have been good enough to oblige me on that score I shall keep you here until our next service at the time of the full moon. I decided some time ago that offering the Devil a male human sacrifice might spur him to some action on my behalf. He has been singularly idle lately.

  ‘I say my rather than our because the Brotherhood do not fully understand that the main purpose of our offerings to Apollyon is to bring about our long-delayed revolution in Britain. They believe that what we do is merely idle amusement—and see nothing serious in it.’

  Devenish was fascinated. ‘Idle amusement, indeed! The sacrifice of young women and the murders of your valet and of poor young Faulkner scarcely seem to come under that heading! And do I understand that I am to be added to the pantheon of your sacrifices? Are you quite sure that the Brotherhood will stomach the murder of a leading member of the aristocracy, the friend of Liverpool, Sidmouth and Canning!’

  Mr Harrington smiled. ‘I see that you underrate me again. They will, of course, not be aware of who is being sacrificed. You will be masked and dressed for this great occasion and Apollyon’s emissary on earth, myself, will tell them that you are a traitor who tried to inform on them to the authorities. Bearing that in mind, they will enthusiastically endorse your death.’

  ‘Will they, indeed? And shall I rest quiet while this delightful ceremony is going on?’

  Mr Harrington frowned at the bitterly jesting tone Devenish was adopting. ‘Your mockery is not fitting. You would not mock God in his church, so why should you mock the Devil in his? You will, of course, be gagged beneath the mask.’