The priest nodded.
Leech gave the door a wary eye. “You’ll be all right?”
The priest smiled. “I’ll be perfectly safe, Mr Leech, but thank you for your concern.”
Leech rapped the key ring on the door and placed his mouth against the metal grille. “Visitor for you. The Reverend’s here.”
Leech waited.
“You may enter.” The voice was male. The soft-spoken words were measured and precise. There was something vaguely seductive in the tone of the invitation that caused the short hairs on the back of Mordecai Leech’s neck to prickle uncomfortably. Slightly unnerved by the sensation, though he wasn’t sure why, the keeper unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped back.
In the corner of the room, a shadowy figure rose and moved slowly towards the light.
The priest stepped over the threshold. Leech closed and locked the door, then waited, head cocked, listening.
“Good evening, Colonel.” The priest’s voice. “How are you this evening?”
The reply, when it came, was low and indistinct. Leech tipped his ear closer to the door but the conversation was already fading as the occupants moved away into the room.
Leech stood listening for several seconds then, realizing that it was pointless, he turned on his heel and made his way back down the corridor. As he approached the stairwell his ears picked up the sounds of discordant singing and he groaned. Sounded as if they were still at it. It was going to be a long night.
Half an hour after midnight, the bell rang in the keepers’ room. Amos Grubb sighed, wrapped the blanket around his bony shoulders, and reached for the candle-holder. Attendant Leech had warned him to expect the summons. Even so, Grubb felt a stab of resentment that he should have to vacate his lumpy mattress in order to answer the call. The wing was quieter now, after the recent disturbance. It was quite astonishing the effect a bit of laudanum could have on even the most obstinate individual. One small drop in a beaker of milk and Norris was sleeping like a baby. Most of the others, nerves soothed by the resulting calm, had swiftly followed suit. A few were still awake, snuffling and whispering either among or to themselves, but it was relatively peaceful, all things considered. Even the rain had eased, though the wind was still whistling through the gaps around the window frames.
It was bitterly cold. Grubb shivered. He’d been hoping to get his head down for a few hours before making his early-morning rounds. Still, once the visitor was on his way, Grubb thought wistfully, he could look forward to his forty winks with a clear conscience.
The elderly attendant swore softly as he squelched his way along the passage.
He halted outside the locked door and rattled the keys against the grille.
There was the sound of a chair sliding back and the murmur of voices from within.
Grubb unlocked the door and stepped away, holding his candle aloft. “Ready when you are, Reverend.”
Grubb saw that the priest was already wearing his cloak. He’d donned his hat and scarf, too. The clergyman turned on the threshold. “Goodbye, Colonel, my thanks for a most convivial evening. And very well played, though I promise I’ll give you a good run next time,” he said, wagging an admonishing finger.
Stepping through the door, the priest drew himself tightly into his cloak and waited as Grubb secured the door behind him.
Together, they set off down the passage. Grubb led the way, candle held at waist height, on the hunt for puddles. He was conscious of the priest padding along at his side and glanced over his shoulder, trying to steal a look at the clergyman’s face. Leech had asked him about the scars a month or two back. Grubb had confessed his ignorance and was as curious as his colleague to learn their origin. He couldn’t see much in the gloom. The priest’s head was still bowed as he concentrated on watching his footing, his face partially obscured beneath the lowered hat brim, but Grubb could just make out the scars along the edge of the jaw. The attendant’s eyes searched for the jagged weal across the priest’s right cheek. There it was. It looked different somehow, more inflamed than usual, as though suddenly suffused with blood.
As if aware that he was being studied, the priest glanced sideways and Grubb felt the breath catch in his throat. The priest’s eyes were staring directly into his. The obsidian stare made Grubb blanch and lower his gaze. The old attendant sensed the priest raise the scarf higher across his face, as if to repel further examination.
Wordlessly, Grubb led him to the front hall and waited as the clergyman adjusted his hat. Then he unlocked the door.
Across the courtyard, almost obscured beyond the veil of drizzle, Grubb could just make out the entrance columns and the high main gates.
“Can you see your way, Reverend, or would you like me to fetch a lantern?”
The priest stepped out into the night then paused, his head half turned. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “Thank you, no. I’m sure I can find my way. No need for both of us to catch our death. Good night to you, Mr Grubb.” He set off across the courtyard, head bent.
Grubb stared after him. The priest looked like a man in a hurry, as if he couldn’t wait to leave. Not that Grubb blamed him. The place had that sort of effect on visitors, particularly those who chose to come at night.
The priest vanished into the murk and Grubb secured the door. He cocked his head and listened.
Silence.
Amos Grubb drew his blanket close and mounted the stairs in search of warmth and slumber.
It was the pot-boy, Adkins, who discovered that the food tray had not been touched. An hour had passed since it had been placed in the gap at the bottom of the door, and the two thin slices of buttered bread and the bowl of watery gruel were still there. Adkins reported the oddity to Attendant Grubb, who, shrugging himself into his blue uniform jacket, went to investigate, keys in hand.
Adkins wasn’t wrong, Grubb saw. It was unusual for food to be ignored, given the long gap between meal times.
Grubb banged his fist on the door. “Breakfast time, Colonel! And young Adkins is here to take your slops. Let’s be having you. Lively now!”
Grubb tried to recall what time the colonel’s visitor had left the previous evening. Then he remembered it hadn’t been last night, it had been early this morning. Perhaps the colonel was in his cot, exhausted from his victory at the chessboard, although that would have been unusual. The colonel was by habit an early riser.
Grubb tried again but, as before, his knocking drew no response.
Sighing, the keeper selected a key from the ring and unlocked the door.
The room was dark. The only illumination came courtesy of the thin, desultory slivers of light filtering through the gaps in the window shutters.
Grubb’s eyes moved to the low wooden-framed cot set against the far wall.
His suspicions, he saw, had been proved correct. The huddled shape under the blanket told its own story. The colonel was still abed.
All right for some, Grubb thought. He shuffled across to the window and opened the shutters. The hinges had not been oiled in a while and the rasp of the corroding brackets sounded like nails being drawn across a roof slate. The dull morning light began to permeate the room. Grubb looked out through the barred window. The sky was grey and the menacing tint indicated there would be little warmth in the day ahead.
Grubb sighed dispiritedly and turned. To his surprise the figure under the blanket, head turned to face the wall, did not appear to have stirred.
“Should I take the slop pail, Mr Grubb?” The boy had entered the room behind him.
Grubb nodded absently and slouched over to the cot. Then he remembered the food tray and nodded towards it. “Best put that on the stool over there. He’ll still be wanting his breakfast, like as not.”