Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (28 page)

“He hurt Andrew!” cried Will.

“He’s a bad man!” Rob shouted angrily.

“I know he is,” I said, kissing them all over their beautiful, outraged faces.

“Did you kill him?” Rob asked, craning his neck to peer at the motionless body.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “That’s why you have to run back to the castle as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything. Run to the castle and get Damian. Can you do that for Mummy?”

Before the boys could answer, I saw Abaddon stir.

“Go!”
I screamed, and pushed them toward the castle.
“Run!”

They took off, the soles of their bare feet flashing white as they splashed down the path, lit by chains and forks and ghostly sheets of lightning. I prayed that the path’s high banks would keep them safe until they reached the castle, then picked up another rock, larger and more jagged than the first, and stepped toward Abaddon. He could have me if he could take me, but he would not touch my sons.

I was less than five yards away from him when he slowly raised one arm to point at me. There was a brief, bright pop of light, and something smacked into my shoulder, spun me around, and knocked me off my feet.

Time seemed to stop, and my senses seemed to sharpen. As I lay facedown and trembling, I could hear each separate raindrop, each shifting pebble, each curling wave that crashed against the cliffs. I could also hear the slow tread of approaching footsteps.

I tried to push myself to my knees, but my left arm was useless, so I rolled onto my back to confront him. A face loomed above me, pale as milk against the lightning-slashed sky, with eyes as black and empty as holes in a coal seam. He raised his arm a second time, to point at me.

The very air seemed to shudder. A thunderbolt screamed from the heart of a cloud. There was a blinding burst of light and then a deafening explosion. Shards of rock peppered my face, a numbing grayness closed in around me, and all was silence.

I
was floating dreamlessly in deep clouds of sleep. Something was wrong with my left arm, but it was not of any great importance. The light annoyed me, though. It was too bright, too insistent. It tugged at the frayed edge of memory, reminding me of something that had happened—a blinding flash, a thunderclap, a pair of eyes as black as the pits of hell.

My heart clutched, and the deep clouds fell away.

“My babies,” I whispered.

“They’re here,” said a low voice. “They wouldn’t leave you.”

I opened my eyes. The room wasn’t as brightly lit as I’d thought, though I couldn’t be sure if the haze blurring my vision was in the air or in my mind. A white ceiling gradually swam into view, then a stainless-steel pole, an IV bag. The bed was comfortable but unfamiliar. There was no telling what time it was.

“Lori?” the voice said.

With an effort I focused my eyes and recognized Damian. He stood at my bedside, gazing down at me and holding my right hand tightly in both of his.

“You’re in Dr. Tighe’s surgery,” he said softly.

“Will and Rob are here, too.”

He stepped back, and I saw on the far side of the stark white room two small cots, two mounds of blankets, and two identical, tousled heads nestled on two pillows.

“They’re not hurt,” Damian assured me. “They insisted on spending the night with you.”

“My brave boys . . .” I murmured.

“They also insisted that I bring you . . . this.” One hand released mine and disappeared from my field of vision. When it reappeared, it was holding Reginald. “Will and Rob told me that this little fellow would help you to get well. I’ll leave him on the bedside table, shall I?”

I smiled lazily while Damian set my pink flannel bunny aside and returned to his original position. It was considerate of him to stand, I thought. It kept me from having to strain my neck to look at him.

Another memory intruded. “Andrew?”

“Dr. Tighe is with him,” Damian informed me.

“He took a nasty blow to the head, but Dr. Tighe is confident that he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank heavens.” I drifted for a moment, then frowned in concentration. “Why am
I
here?”

Damian’s grave expression softened. He reached out to smooth the hair back from my forehead. “You were shot, Lori.You were shot just below your left collarbone. We’ll have matching scars.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” I said, with a drugged giggle.

He clasped my hand again. “I knew you’d be pleased.”

“My face?” I was dimly aware that something wasn’t quite right there.

“Nicks and cuts,” Damian explained. “From fragments of flying rock. They’ll heal nicely.”

“No scars?” I said, vaguely disappointed.

“Sorry.” He shrugged apologetically. “You’ll have to settle for the one. Rest now. Your husband is on his way. He’ll be here as soon as the wind subsides. We’ll talk more later.”

“No,” I protested, fighting to stay awake. “Abaddon, on the cliffs—what happened?”

“He was struck by lightning,” Damian replied. “Or perhaps it was the wrath of God. He’s dead in any case. You’ll never have to worry about him again.” A quiet sigh escaped him as he stroked my hand. “It’s supposed to be the other way round, you know. I should be lying where you are, and you should be standing here.”

“I’ll get it right next time,” I promised, and let the inexorable tides of drowsiness sweep me away.

 

 

I slipped in and out of sleep for the next twelve hours. Visiting hours at Dr. Tighe’s surgery were apparently quite flexible, because every time I woke up, a different face was hovering over me—Sir Percy, Peter, Cassie, Kate, Elliot, and Pastor Ferguson each put in an appearance. Dr. Tighe, who looked too young to be a practicing physician, showed up at regular intervals to take my pulse and blood pressure, fiddle with my bandages, and hang fresh IV bags.

Rob and Will were always there, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my hospital bed or playing quietly near their cots with their seal pups and their knights. Damian was their constant companion, and Reginald, of course, stayed within arm’s reach. If one or more of them ever left my room, I was unaware of it.

By the time Bill arrived on the island—five hours later, by helicopter—I was strong enough to sit up in bed. Since words couldn’t convey the range or the intensity of our emotions, the first moments he and I spent together, with the boys, were devoted to purely tactile communication. The hugs, kisses, and caresses continued long after Will and Rob, confident in their father’s ability to look after me, allowed Damian to take them back to the castle.

After they were gone, Bill settled himself on the foot of my bed, with his shoes off, a pillow tucked between him and the footrail, and his legs stretched parallel to mine. His gaze shifted restlessly from my face to my bandaged shoulder, as if he were debating with himself whether or not I was well enough to hear what he had to say.

“Bill,” I said, guessing his thoughts, “if you
don’t
tell me, I’ll die of curiosity, so you may as well get it over with.”

“Patience never was your strong suit.” He smiled, but his eyes were shadowed with melancholy. “It’s an ugly tale, Lori.”

“I didn’t expect light comedy,” I said gently. “Go ahead. I promise not to swoon.”

“Okay . . .” He held up a warning finger. “But if I see the faintest flush of fever, I reserve the right to continue the story at a later date.”

“Agreed,” I said promptly, and rested my head against my pillows, to demonstrate my willingness to remain calm.

“Our part in the story began nine months ago,” said Bill. “Sir Rodney Spofford asked me to draw up his will. I’d never worked with Sir Rodney before, but he was referred to me by an old client, so I took him on. The will turned out to be absolutely straightforward. Sir Rodney was a widower. Upon his death, therefore, the vast bulk of his estate would go to his only child, Harold Spofford. It took me less than a week to complete the paperwork.”

I wrinkled my nose in puzzlement. “Why did he come to you? You specialize in messy, complicated wills. Why would he pay you big bucks to do something any run-of-the-mill solicitor could do?”

“I asked Sir Rodney the same question,” Bill answered. “He told me that my firm had acquired a certain cachet among his circle of friends, but he was lying through his teeth. I know now that he came to me because I was unacquainted with the Spofford family. I had no reason to disbelieve him when he told me that Harold was his only child. I didn’t find out until two days ago that Sir Rodney had another son, an older son: Alfred.”

“How strange,” I said. “Why did Sir Rodney lie to you about Alfred?”

“Because twenty years ago,” Bill replied, “at the tender age of fourteen, Alfred Spofford was incarcerated in a private asylum for the criminally insane.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Why? What had he done?”

“He had a history of psychotic behavior,” Bill answered evasively. “The family’s nanny had a religious mania which she passed on to little Alfred, but he wasn’t very stable to begin with. He had violent outbursts of temper. Whatever he wanted, he took. From an early age, he saw it as his duty to . . . punish . . . small animals as well as other children, for their sins.”

I felt a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach but kept my expression neutral. I didn’t want Bill to start worrying about my temperature.

“Needless to say,” Bill went on, “the Spoffords couldn’t send Alfred to school. They kept him at their country estate, under close supervision, until, finally, he set fire to the summerhouse in which his mother was napping. She burned to death.”

“He murdered his mother?” I said weakly.

“Nothing could be proved conclusively,” said Bill, “but Sir Rodney found a telling scrap of biblical verse half burnt among the ashes. He concealed the evidence from the police and clapped Alfred into Brook House—a high-security, private institution. He then proceeded to eliminate Alfred’s name from the family records. Harold, the younger son, became his
only
son, as well as his heir.”

“How old was Harold when Alfred disappeared?” I asked.

“Twelve,” said Bill. “An impressionable age. He never forgot his older brother. When Harold was in his twenties, he began visiting Alfred, on the sly. He encouraged Alfred to take occupational therapy classes. Alfred studied electronics and computer technology and became a model inmate. Years passed without a single psychotic episode. Harold came to believe that his brother had been rehabilitated.”

“Did he mention Alfred’s progress to his father?” I asked.

“Sir Rodney refused to acknowledge Alfred’s existence.” Bill shook his head. “As far as he was concerned, Alfred had died in the same fire that had killed Lady Spofford.”

“So Alfred became Harold’s little secret,” I said.

“Alfred became Harold’s obsession,” Bill corrected. “He believed that Alfred had been treated disgracefully and strongly disapproved of the will I’d drawn up.”

“I’ll bet Alfred wasn’t too happy about the will either,” I commented.

“He was outraged.
He
was the eldest son.
He
was the rightful heir. No one had the right to disinherit him.” Bill put a hand to his breast. “In his twisted vision, I was the instrument that had robbed him of his patrimony. He saw it as his duty to punish me. Alfred became Abaddon.”

“The king of the bottomless pit,” I murmured. “Did Alfred send the creepy e-mail to you from Brook House?”

“He didn’t have to,” said Bill. “He escaped from Brook House three months ago, aided and abetted by his younger brother. Sir Rodney hired private detectives to find Alfred, but Harold helped Alfred to outmaneuver them. Harold gave Alfred money, hid him, rented a car for him, bought the laptops Alfred used to send the e-mail threats. He also provided Alfred with a gun taken from Sir Rodney’s collection of firearms.”

“I wondered where he got the gun,” I muttered. “Where was Sir Rodney while all of this was happening?”

“He was going about his business,” Bill said matter-of-factly. “He didn’t know that Harold had been in contact with Alfred until he spoke with a nurse at Brook House, after Alfred’s escape. Even then he had no reason to suspect that Alfred was threatening me.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding. “Sir Rodney couldn’t have known about our situation until the Scotland Yard team showed up to interview him.”

“It was just as you predicted it would be,” Bill observed, patting my leg. “The team finally knocked on the right door. Their questions roused questions in Sir Rodney’s mind, and he began to see a pattern. Alfred’s escape took place after the new will had been drawn up. Only three people were aware of the will’s contents—me, Sir Rodney, and Harold. Since neither Sir Rodney nor I had spoken with Alfred about the will, the finger of suspicion pointed at Harold.”

“Did the detectives question Harold?” I asked.

“Chief Superintendent Yarborough questioned Harold,” Bill replied, with a look of grim satisfaction. “It took less than an hour to get the truth out of him. Well, most of the truth. He didn’t tell Yarborough about the gun.”

“And that’s when you called me,” I concluded, “to let me know that Abaddon was as good as caught.”

Bill sighed. “I thought he was.”

Dr. Tighe interrupted the proceedings at that moment, to make sure that his patient wasn’t being overtaxed. I took the opportunity to ask after Andrew.

“He’s awake,” Dr. Tighe informed me, “but he’s still quite weak. It’ll be some time before he’s up and about.” He slid the blood-pressure sleeve from my arm and nodded to Bill. “She’ll do. Tough as a nut, your wife.”

“I know,” said Bill, with feeling. “Believe me, Doctor, I know.”

W
hen Dr.Tighe had gone, Bill insisted on pouring a glass of water for me, fluffing my pillows, and making a clumsy attempt to feel my pulse. He’d just reached the alarming conclusion that my heart was no longer beating when a quiet knock sounded on the door.