A Conspiracy of Ravens (12 page)
“Very good, sir.”
He moved out of the room and descended to the kitchen where he was questioned at once by the housekeeper, Mrs. Swifton. “How is he, Mr. Crinshaw?”
“Not well, if you ask me.” He sat down and she poured him a cup of tea and one for herself. He sipped at it and shook his head. “Lady Trent says that the master’s fall was no accident. The girth of his saddle was cut.”
“Do you tell me that?” Mrs. Swifton exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing?”
“The man who shot at him last month.” Crinshaw nodded. “I hope Lady Trent will use her gifts as a detective to find out who’s behind all this.”
The two sat at the table, old friends, and finally he got up. “Keep your eyes open, Mrs. Swifton. There’s some evil in all this, and I fear we’re not done with it yet!”
Dylan saw that Serafina was worried. Matthew had left them to ride in the carriage, and the two of them were on horses borrowed from Sir Edward’s stable. “You’re worried about Lord Darby, yes?” Dylan said.
“That was no accident, Dylan.”
Dylan did not answer, but he cast a curious glance at her. “It doesn’t sound like it.”
They had not ridden far when they passed a field. Suddenly some dozen ravens rose into the sky. Dylan watched the huge black forms rise and muttered, “My grandmother would have called that an omen.”
“Would she? She believed in things like that?”
“Oh, yes, we all did. Ravens are sinister birds. Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, the American, has written a rather marvelous poem called ‘The Raven.’ A rather disturbing poem. You must read it sometime.”
“I don’t believe in things such as that.”
“My grandmother did.” He hesitated then said, “She was alone one day, and suddenly her husband appeared to her. He was working in the mines, and she didn’t know what he was doing home. She started to speak, and suddenly he wasn’t there.”
“What do you mean he wasn’t there?”
“I mean he just disappeared. Two hours later the manager of the mine came and told her that her husband had been killed in a cave-in.”
Serafina turned to stare at Dylan. “She really believed that she’d seen the spirit of her husband?”
“Yes. The Methodists call that a
visitation
.”
The two rode on silently, and finally she said, “Dylan, do you know what a collective noun is?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the name that identifies a group. All animals have such names. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, a pack of wolves.”
“And that’s a collective noun?”
“Yes, and you know what a group of ravens is called?”
“No, I don’t.”
“A conspiracy,” she said. “A conspiracy of ravens is what we’ve just seen.”
Dylan suddenly felt a chill. He looked up at the ravens: dark, ugly birds, scoring the air with their harsh cries. “I hate those birds,” he muttered. He turned, his eyes fixed on her. “Do you think it means something, Lady Serafina?”
“I don’t believe in premonitions,” she said almost violently. “It was an accident.”
Dylan said nothing, but the two of them watched as the ravens circled the sky uttering harsh, guttural cries. He saw Serafina watch as they planted their black imprints against the November sky, and he knew, despite what she said, that Lady Serafina Trent did believe in premonitions.
F
ather Francis Xavier moved about the small greenhouse, pleased with the vivid greens, reds, and blues. He liked the colours so much because they contrasted violently with the grim, grey world of Brixton Prison for Women. Father Xavier served as a volunteer chaplain in the prison. He was unpaid and was content with the small amounts given to him by the Catholic Church. He had managed to create—inside the prison confines of concrete, steel, and misery—a small world of his own, a little cosmos that burgeoned with fragrant flowers and shimmering colour.
Father Xavier suddenly smiled as he thought of his battles with the warden, James Hailey, who had no fear either of God or man. When Father Xavier requested permission to create the greenhouse, Hailey grunted and scowled. “You’re here to save the miserable souls of these women, Father, not to grow petunias.” He nevertheless gave grudging permission to the priest.
The small priest was not built on a heroic scale. He was short, rotund, with a baby face that did not show his age. He smiled often, despite the miserable world that he moved in, and had a vibrant spirit within his aging body. Now as he moved among the fragile flowers, savoring their fragrance and delighting in the rich dignity of their colours, he paused before his pride and joy—a graceful, long-stemmed crimson rose. He plucked off a dead leaf and added a pinch of fertilizer from a paper bag. He stood back to admire the elegant flower.
Suddenly he heard his name being called, and he turned to face Warden Hailey, who had stepped inside the small greenhouse. Inmates and guards alike called Hailey the Great Stone Face, and he had a violent temper that he struggled to control. He was a short man, no more than five feet seven, but his huge shoulders and limbs and deep chest gave him the appearance of a wrestler. People tended to move out of his way when he entered a room.
“Good morning, Warden.”
“Morning,” Hailey grunted. His face was set in a perpetual scowl, and he said without preamble, “You know Old Meg?”
“Margaret Anderson. Yes, of course.”
“Well, she’s dying. Better get down there,” he said, a rare grin creasing his meaty lips, “and offer up a few prayers that will get her into heaven. Not that there is a heaven,” he added finally. The warden seemed to take delight in mocking the priest’s faith. For several years now he had tried his best to shake the chaplain’s calm but without success. Now he took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, examined the result, then shrugged and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. “Poor woman’s got the notion that there’s pie up there in that sky. She thinks she’s going to sit around plucking on a harp for the rest of eternity.” He laughed shortly and without humor. “Well, Chaplain, you’d better hurry. She’s not going to last long.” He turned but then suddenly wheeled and stared at the priest with something like animosity in his eyes. “Of course, you can pray all you want. It won’t make any difference. There ain’t nothing out there. When we die we’re gone—just like dumb animals.”
Father Xavier had no chance to reply, for the warden disappeared out the door slamming it behind him. He thought for a moment of how he might answer the chaplain but finally gave up. He left the greenhouse and made his way through the labyrinthine passageways of the prison, barred at intervals by steel doors. He greeted every guard by name as he did the inmates whom he passed. When he reached the door marked Hospital, he stepped inside, where he was greeted by a small man with sunken cheeks and moody eyes.
“You come to see Old Meg, I expect.”
“Yes, Dr. Zambrinski.”
“Well, you’d better speed it up. She’s almost gone.”
Quickly the priest moved into the ward and saw the woman lying under a thin white sheet. He hurried toward her, leaned over, and studied her face. He thought for a moment she was already gone, but then her eyelids fluttered slightly and opened, revealing watery eyes staring vacantly from her emaciated face. Her lips were dry as leaves as she whispered in a tone barely audible, “Father—?”
“Yes, Margaret, it’s me. Would you like to confess?”
The dying woman nodded slowly and began to gasp out her sins. Father Xavier was not easily shocked, but the catalog of wrongs and iniquities of all sorts and fashions that the woman had stored up in her memory was monumental. He listened without speaking, and finally her voice faded and her eyes closed.
“I’m going to pray for you, my sister.”
“Wait.” Meg’s eyes opened, and she said in a husky voice, “One more . . . sin, Father.”
The priest leaned forward, for her voice grew fainter. He caught every word, and as the old, dying woman spoke, Xavier’s eyes opened wide, and his lips parted with an expression of amazement. The voice droned on until finally it faded, and her eyes shut. There was a grimness about it, and Xavier stood by her side, whispering consolations and giving the last rites. It was thirty minutes later that the thin breast of Margaret Anderson suddenly rose then fell with the finality of death.
For many moments Father Xavier stood there beside the woman, studying her face. His mind was reeling with what he had heard, and he knew that though Margaret Anderson had gone to meet her Maker, the effects of her life were still in force.
It’s like throwing a
pebble,
he thought,
into a still pond. The circles spread out farther
and farther until they reach the shore.
He folded the woman’s hands, then turned slowly and walked between the two rows of beds. Dr. Zambrinski looked up from another woman he was treating. “Is she gone, Father?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but she was no pleasure to herself. Probably glad to be out of this world. We’ll arrange for the funeral to be held this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Moving slowly with a strange expression in his eyes, the small priest made his way back to the warden’s office. He was permitted to go in by an orderly, and Warden Hailey looked up. “She dead?” he demanded.
“Yes, she’s gone.”
Hailey shrugged his beefy shoulders. Death was no stranger within the walls of Brixton Prison. “Well, it’s all over for her. Too bad.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the priest. “You’ve been a long time. I suppose the woman had a lot to confess—drunkenness, foul language, adultery?”
The mind of the priest went back, and he seemed to hear the woman’s thin, frail voice as she spoke her last confession to him.
“It was more than that, Warden, more terrible than that.”
E
dward Hayden was standing at one of the tall windows in the drawing room staring out at the dead world. November of ’57 was scheduled to be one of the coldest on record, and now the dead, grey tint of the grass, the trees stripped of their leaves and holding their naked arms toward the skies, seemed to cast a pall on the earl. Quickly he walked over to the large fireplace, turned his back to it, and put his hands behind him, locking his fingers together. He gave a quick glance at his wife, who was sitting at a Louis Quatorze desk writing a letter.
He kept his eyes on her, thinking how she had kept her attractiveness even through her later years, and his mind went back to the time when he had first seen her. It had been at her coming-out, and he had first seen her bowing to the Queen in a graceful curtsey. She had turned, and her eyes had met his, and although Edward Hayden, Earl of Darby, had courted other women in his youth, somehow he had known at that instant that this was the woman for him. A smile touched his lips, turning the corners up, and the thought came to him,
I was a romantic young devil. I certainly was.
He did not regret it, however, and now he stood before the fire, the silence of the room broken by the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the regular beat of the huge grandfather clock on the east wall.
Growing uncomfortably warm, Edward moved across the room and sat down in a chair that seemed altogether too fragile for his weight. He despised the new fashion in furniture, for portly crinolined ladies and well-upholstered gentlemen had to lower their weight carefully on the spindly chairs and impossibly elegant settees. He glanced around the walls, which were padded and gilded, and the ceiling, which was broken up by rococo garlands and elaborate dust-catching friezes. The room was crowded, as were all Victorian drawing rooms and parlours. Wallpaper covered some of the walls, and the carpets were thick and rather dowdy. Paintings adorned the walls, and everywhere the room seemed crowded.
“I wonder why we have to have all this . . . this stuff.”
Heather looked up at her husband with surprise. “What stuff?” she asked.
“Look at this room. You can hardly walk through it without running into something.”
“It’s fashion, dear.”
“Fashion be hanged. It’s bloody nonsense, that’s what it is.”
Heather stared at her husband. He very rarely swore, but she had noticed that since the ball and the fall from his horse, he had been short-tempered. “It is a bit busy, isn’t it, Edward?”
“Oh, it’s all right. I’m just in a bad temper. You must excuse me, my dear.”
Heather got up from the desk and walked around. She moved behind him and laid her hand lightly on the side of his face that was bruised in the fall. “Are you still having your headaches?”
“Not bad.”
“That means you are. I think we’d better have Dr. Goldsmith out to have a look at you.”
“No, I’ve seen enough doctors.” Edward reached up, covered her hand with his, holding it close to his face. “You’re the medicine I need. Nothing like a beautiful woman to cheer a fellow up and drive his headaches and all of his problems away.”
Heather kept her hand on his smooth cheek and rested her other on his shoulder. She stood there for a moment, thinking what a good man and fine husband he was. Very few men during the reign of Victoria wanted large families. The Queen herself, and Prince Albert, had produced practically a troop, nine in all. This was especially true of their peerage. Men such as the Earl of Darby wanted a son to pass Silverthorn and his title to. She thought over the years that he had never once rebuked her or even hinted that he was unhappy. Heather knew that Edward loved her deeply, and her failure to produce a son was the sorrow of her life.