Master of the Moors

For the readers, without whom I'd be lost in the fog.

1

BRENT PRIOR,

Dartmoor, England

1888

SHE IS WEEPING.

The cold glaring eye of the moon peers at her over a pillow of fog. Arms crossed over her breasts, eyes swollen from crying, the woman stumbles blindly across the moors, her clothes torn, hair in disarray, streaks of shadow like dark fingers on her cheek. The air thickens as if it has gained the weight of her misery. Around her, half-glimpsed ghosts rise with imploring arms from the fog, shifting and stretching, then are just as quickly consumed. She stumbles on across the uneven landscape, once her haven, now the canvas upon which her fear is painted in pale strokes. Sphagnum moss breathes its cloying scent at her; unseen creatures flee at her uncertain approach, and the ground shifts from cushioning loam to unyielding stone.

She is lost.

Then a sound, a footfall, and she whirls, the fog rushing away from her in cyclonic waves. Eyes wide, she struggles to discern the slightest sign of life from this maddening colorless void between earth and moon. Hello? Her whisper dies before it crosses her lips. There is someone there. She sees nothing and has yet never been so sure of anything in her life. Amid the roiling clouds of fog, someone is approaching.

She is frightened.

Without direction, every step is treacherous, for there are mires and bogs strewn across these fields, but in the absence of visibility she allows her other senses to guide her, trusting in them as she has trusted them all her life, relying on instinct to spirit her away from harm. Head down, and despite the best efforts of her skirts to send her sprawling, she quickens her pace. Ahead, there is nothing but a wall of shimmering white.

A bird cries out; it is the sound of a scream.

She stops. Face upraised to the blanketed moon she closes her eyes and draws in a breath. Sudden pain carves fiery lines across her stomach. There is so much left to do, she thinks, it cannot end now. They will need to know what they are. A moment passes, marked by a sound that might have been her pulse thudding against her skull, or the protests of the child in her womb. She puts her hands to her belly, and whispers. They'll need you. They'll need their savior.

She is cold. The moon peers like a frightened child around the edge of a cloud.

Serpentine shadows sprawl at her feet.

When at last she opens her eyes, there is a man standing before her, smiling, a shard of moonlight gleaming in his hand.

GRADY AWOKE FROM DREAMS of thunder to a pounding on the door. For a moment he lay still in his bed, the sheets clutched tight to his chest against the early morning chill, and waited for the impatient knocking to reveal itself as nothing but lingering echoes from sleep's theater. But when the window above his bed shuddered in its frame as fist met wood again, he sat up, blinking, and slowly got out of bed. As he dressed, he heard the floorboards creak in the room above his own. The cacophony had roused Mrs. Fletcher and it would make a devil of her for the rest of the day. With a sigh, he shrugged on his dressing gown and made his way out into the hall. The brusque persistence of the man at the door filled the hallway with muffled gunshots, inspiring Grady to quicken his pace, despite the protestations of joints unaccustomed to such urgency.

All right, I'm on me way, he complained, flapping a hand in the direction of the door, as if the displaced air might carry his words to the visitor.

Mrs. Fletcher's voice startled him. Heaven save us, Grady, the bloody sun isn't even up. Whoever's there, I hope you intend to give them what-for for wakin' the house.

Grady looked over his shoulder at the large scowling woman standing at the head of the stairs. The reddish cast of her face emphasized the few strands of silvery hair that had escaped the confines of her crumpled nightcap.

That I will, he murmured and opened the front door.

A slender figure all but fell in on top of the old man, who backed away as if someone had thrown something unpleasant over him. Startled, he aided the gentleman in righting himself, realizing as he did so that the man was none other than Edgar Callow, yeoman and master of the hunt club.

Sir, whatever's the matter? Grady asked, alarmed.

The huntmaster's face was only a shade darker than the morning fog. He composed himself, brushing some imaginary dirt from his greatcoat. Is your master here?

What's happened? Mrs. Fletcher inquired from the stairs.

Callow opened his mouth and closed it again, then braced himself against the doorframe. It's my wife, he said softly. Sylvia...She didn't come home last night.

Though he had little love for Callow, who on any other day would have treated him in a manner usually reserved for vermin, Grady felt a pang of pity for the man. He had only recently married, and whether fate or betrayal had spirited his wife away, it was obvious he already feared the worst. With a sharp nod of assent, Grady moved out of the doorway. You'll come in out of the cold?

There's no time, Callow protested. "I have men waiting at the Fox & Mare, horses at the ready. We'll need them all in this horrid weather, but your employer knows the moors better than any of us and I'd consider him an invaluable asset. Please...rouse him, won't you?"

Grady turned and met Mrs. Fletcher's expectant gaze. There was no need for words. She sighed heavily and went to wake Mr. Mansfield.

THE FOG WAS A LIVING thing, creeping across the moors like an animal in search of food, until its hide made twins of earth and sky. From within the low clouds came the sound of clopping as hooves met stony ground, then stopped. Then all was quiet, but for the occasional shrill cry of a lapwing.

There were six of them in the party, including Callow, who surveyed the terrain as if he could see through the fog. Behind him rode Peter Laws, owner of The Fox & Mare, and whipper-in for the Sunday foxhunts, and Greg Fowler, the local shopkeeper. Alistair Royle, coal merchant and inveterate gambler, followed at a pace that reflected his sluggish mood, with Mansfield and Grady bringing up the rear.

He's mad if he thinks we'll find her in this, Royle muttered, his face still red from the strain of leading his intemperate mare up the slope to the rocky tor—a misshapen spire of weathered granite bearded by fog. The heavyset old man had been hungover and still half-asleep when Callow had roused him, a condition reflected by his shabby state of dress. His breeches were stained, his coat buttoned only at the top, allowing his swollen gut to hang over his belt. Would've been far more practical to stay at home and send for a constable.

Eyeing the red ribbon cinched around the tail of Royle's horse—a warning to those in the rear that the mare was known to kick—Mansfield rode up beside him and leaned in close so they would not be overheard.

If he hears you, you're likely to get a thrashing.

Royle scoffed, spittle flying from his piscine lips. Oh, come now. He smiled slyly. Are any of us here surprised his little foreign lass has run away?

Royle's inability to keep his thoughts to himself frequently got him in trouble, but on this occasion at least, Mansfield had to concede that no, he was not surprised it had come to this. Though all outward signs suggested a gentleman, Callow was known throughout the village as a cruel man, quick with his fists and undeterred by the sex of his chosen targets. He had, on one drunken night at The Fox & Mare, even confessed a certain respect for the so-called Whitechapel Murderer, who he believed represented 'a force of purification in those Stygian ghettos.' How he had managed to woo a striking and intelligent woman like Sylvia Callow, who must surely have seen through his charismatic facade as soon as she'd set eyes on him, was a mystery to the villagers. But not to Mansfield, who had heard from her own lips how Edgar had been little more than an escape for her from the poverty of Calinesti, her village in Romania, where Callow had spent a year fulfilling the stipulations of his philanthropist father's will.

Do you realize how much medicinal whiskey I drank last night?

Mansfield shook himself out of his reverie and looked at Royle. No, and I don't care to know. Just listen to Callow and do what he says.

Bah! I'll wager she's on a train to Paddington right now. If she has any sense, that is.

Mansfield sighed and moved his horse along the line until he was level with Callow.

On a clear day, the rolling, rugged moors were awe-inspiring, but today there was nothing but a dense floating field of gray ahead of them. Here and there more tors could be seen poking their craggy heads through rents in the clouds, but it wouldn't be long before even those were obliterated completely. Mansfield could feel the fog pressing against his skin.

What do you wish us to do? he asked Callow.

The huntmaster, eyes glassy, didn't respond, and for a moment Mansfield wondered if he'd heard the question at all. Then, without looking at him, Callow said, I loved her, you know.

Although it unsettled Mansfield to hear the man refer to his wife in the past tense, he nodded his understanding. Of course. And I assure you, if she's here, we'll find her.

Why wouldn't she be here?

Well you have to consider the possibility that she... He trailed off, unsure how best to suggest that Sylvia might simply have left him.

That she what?

"That she might not be here."

For the first time since he'd gathered the search party, Callow smiled. It was faint and not at all pleasant. She knows better than that.

Mansfield stared at him for a moment, then at length said, I'll go scout up ahead.

By all means.

Mansfield rode away, finding himself in agreement with the boorish Royle now more than ever. A search on a day like this was a preposterous idea, and yet here they were trouping blind across an unpredictable landscape. He was also bothered that Callow had recruited him for his 'navigational skills'. Mansfield had, like Laws and Fowler, grown up by the moors, but such intimacy with the terrain did not guarantee safe navigation, especially in the fog. Callow would have known this. There were boulders, bogs, excavation pits and mires scattered throughout, all of which could be lethal to man or mare alike. Only total dark could be more forbidding, and dangerous. Today, superior navigational skills were worthless, which begged the question of why Callow had asked him, or any of them for that matter, to accompany him at all.

Just as Mansfield reached a black stunted oak he recognized, Grady, his groundskeeper, rode up beside him, peaked cap raised high on his head, allowing a few spidery strands of silver hair to poke out. Despite the considerable differences in their ages, the men were steadfast friends. Ned Grady had been tending the grounds at Mansfield House for twenty years. As a result, it was impossible to picture the place without his slightly stoop-shouldered form ambling to and fro in the foreground.

There's more hope of findin' Jesus out here today than that woman, I'd say, he said in his distinctive Irish brogue. His horse snuffled and rattled his bridle, drawing a gentle Quiet, now, from Grady.

You'll get no argument from me there. Any other man would have put out a telegraph to Merrivale. They'd have sent constables and bloodhounds. That he'd settle for us instead...

Doesn't feel right, sure it doesn't?

Not a bit.

When he came to the house this mornin' he looked like a man who'd been to hell and back and stopped for a few pints along the way. Now he's as calm as anythin'.

Mansfield looked at him, at the striations of age that bisected the groundskeeper's cheeks, the red-veined, hawk-like nose, and the calm blue eyes that peered out from beneath the brim of the cap. He was not yet sixty, but he looked a decade more.

What do you think he's up to? A facade, maybe, to cover the fact that she's left him?

Grady squinted into the fog. "I don't know, sir. Honestly. The man has me flummoxed. But I'll say this much: You can usually tell what a fella's thinkin' by the look in his eyes. I looked into his eyes today and they were just holes. Like lookin' into two pools of oil."

We'd all look the same in his situation.

That may be, but it might be best to stay on yer guard with him anyway, sir. He raised his whip and pointed it back the way he'd come. Just to be safe.

Mansfield nodded.

Oh, by the way, Grady added. Did you happen to notice that Fowler brought his pistol?

No, and I'd rather you hadn't told me.

I wouldn't worry, said the caretaker with a smile. The way he shoots I'd say his foot's the only thing in danger.

A muffled groan told them the group was close, and when they emerged from the fog, Callow like a specter in front, Mansfield saw that Royle was slouching in his saddle and perspiring heavily.

He's lookin' fairly crawsick, Grady observed.

Callow drew to a halt in front of them and Mansfield felt his insides writhe. Grady had not been exaggerating. The man's face was like a theater mask, the eyes elliptical slits of darkness.

Anything? Callow asked.

Not yet, Mansfield told him, but I can tell you where we are. The Tavy River should be about half a mile straight ahead.

Good. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Help him off his horse. His gaze was directed at Royle, who looked moments away from sliding out of his saddle.

Royle smiled and raised a hand. "I'm sorry, awfully sorry, but perhaps it would be better if I turned old Lightning here around and headed home. I'm really feeling rather ill. Too much of the old vintage last night, I imagine."

Laws dismounted and helped Royle from his horse.

Callow's mouth twitched, as if the ghost of a smile had momentarily possessed it but found no reason to linger. Good riddance.

Royle gaped. I beg your pardon?

It is, I believe, rather typical of you to back out of any situation in which you do not stand to benefit directly. You've made a career out of being a parasite, so much so that to do something as a favor or—God forbid—out of the goodness of your heart, seems a preposterous notion.

Now wait just one bloody second— The color had returned to Royle's face.

Laws, Callow said. Since you provided him with the spirits that are now making him ill, you can accompany him back to the village. Besides, you know the terrain better than he does and I would hate to have to feel responsible if he fell and cracked his worthless skull.

I'm not altogether sure what you imbibed last night, Mr. Callow, said the furious Royle, but it must have been a devil of a drink to leave you with the impression that you can address your fellows in such a manner. He wiped a hand across his mouth and shrugged off Laws' attempt at pacifying him. Why...I wouldn't talk to a dog that way!

As if attuned to the mood of her master, Royle's horse snorted and back-stepped. He made a half-hearted attempt to soothe it before turning his glare back toward Callow. If that's how you speak to that woman of yours, then it's no wonder she ran off and left you.

All trace of a smile vanished from Callow's face.

Mansfield raised a hand. Royle, leave it alone for God's sake.

But he was not to be silenced. The nerve! Say what you like about these others if you feel compelled to, but you won't talk down to me no matter how bloody high your horse might be!

Grady stepped forward. Hold yer tongue, Royle, and have a bit of compassion fer the man. He's out here lookin' for his wife, not a quarrel.

Royle turned on him. "Ah, the Catholic peasant speaks. How humbled we are to hear from you. Too bad you're not worth a—"

That's enough, Mansfield interrupted. One more word and I swear I'll blacken your eye.

Easy, gentlemen, said Fowler, with a nervous laugh. Now that Grady had brought it to his attention, Mansfield noticed the holster strapped to the man's belt. A polished walnut handle protruded from the sheath like the top of a question mark.

The tension curdling the air was eventually broken by Callow. We're wasting time.

Agreed, Mansfield said. Laws, take Royle home. We'll carry on from here. Laws nodded and moved behind Royle's horse to where his own mount awaited him.

It then became horrifyingly clear that the tension had not only affected the men. Royle slapped a hand against his horse's flank in frustration and the mare started, its eyes wide and frightened as it rose on its hind legs and whinnied.

Royle, calm that blasted nag! Grady yelled.

Royle, cursing, grabbed the horse's reins and tugged. "Steady there! Steady, Lightning."

Laws, get out of the bloody way! Grady called.

But despite the sudden ruckus, Laws attention was elsewhere. He had turned almost fully away from the group and was squinting into the fog, one finger raised and pointing back the way they'd come. I just saw—

Laws!

Lightning threw a kick so fierce and sudden it proved her title an apt one. There came a sound like someone hitting a sack full of meat with a hammer and Laws was knocked off his feet, arms aloft as if he were trying to fly. He landed heavily on his side and flopped over on his back, a single shuddering breath sweeping about his head like an attentive ghost. Royle, still struggling to calm the mare, looked around, confused by the sudden flurry of motion as the group hurried to Laws' aid. Only Fowler and Callow remained on their steeds.

Mansfield got to him first. The innkeeper lay with his legs apart, mouth moving soundlessly, expelling nothing but blood. His eyes were like swollen red rubies. Mansfield, unsure whether or not the man could still see, resisted the urge to grimace, and put his hand on the man's shoulder.

Laws, he said. Peter. Can you hear me?

Grady squatted down on the other side and put his index and middle finger to Laws' wrist. He's gone, he said a moment later.

But he's still moving!

Nothing but sparks, sir. His head's been pulverized.

Royle, who had finally managed to placate his mare, moaned loudly. It was his fault. I did nothing to him. He knew better than to—

"Shut up, for feck's sake," Grady said, and all there knew that on any other occasion, such a command would have earned him a world of trouble. But, perhaps unwilling to draw the ire of anyone else, Royle did as he was told.

Mansfield looked down at Laws, at his caved-in head, and swallowed dryly. A single slim shard of bone protruded from his shattered cheek as his head slowly drifted to the side. Mansfield feared he'd see that detail over and over again in his nightmares for years to come. He looked up at Callow, who seemed impossibly unaffected by what had just occurred.

We have to keep going, the huntmaster said.

SIR, WE CAN'T JUST leave the poor sod out here, Grady said.

Callow gave a curt nod. You're correct, of course. Royle can stay with him until we return.

Royle looked as if he'd been slapped. Me?

"Yes. He was willing to accompany you home, wasn't he? And as it was your mare that killed him, I'd expect you'd be only too glad to oblige. If nothing else, it will give you some time before you have to inform his widow of the tragedy."

Royle's mouth dropped open.

And keep the gadflies off him, Callow added, turning his horse.

Mansfield's unease deepened. Callow didn't look all that put out by the innkeeper's death. Worse, he saw that Grady was again correct, in that even the panic the yeoman had exhibited earlier was no longer evident. It was as if he really had been wearing a theater mask, and now it had slipped off, revealing the impassive face beneath.

Sir, if I may... Grady said. This isn't right. Laws was a friend. Someone should bring him back to the village, not to have him lyin' out here in the cold and damp.

I take it then, that you're volunteering for the task?

I am.

Good. Then do it, but I'll suffer no more delays. We're not on a hunt, gentlemen. The lives of my wife and unborn child are at stake. He looked at Royle. Help Grady with the body. Then take your mare with you back into town and present it to the widow Laws. I'm sure she'll appreciate being granted a look at her husband's killer.

For a brief moment, it looked as if Royle might object, but instead he muttered something to himself and went to help Grady.

Would it not make more sense for us all to go back? Mansfield said. What just happened doesn't bode well for the rest of this day. Perhaps if you summoned the constables in Mer—

It's too late for that, Callow interrupted. But if any of you want to head back, then do so. I'll find them myself if I must.

Mansfield considered doing just that, but knew if he did, he'd be at the mercy of his conscience forevermore. He looked at Fowler, whose face was positively gray with fear. Nevertheless, the shopkeeper cleared his throat and nodded. I'll stay and help. We've come this far...

They mounted their horses.

Be careful, Mansfield called back to Grady, who waved before leaning down to grab Laws by the shoulders. Royle grimaced and did his best to avoid touching the body until the groundskeeper glared at him.

Callow led Mansfield and Fowler onward at a steady pace.

Mansfield, Fowler called at one point, what do you think he saw?

Who?

Laws. Before the horse kicked him he was pointing into the fog. Didn't he say he saw something?

Maybe it was the Beast of Brent Prior? Callow said over his shoulder.

Fowler didn't look as if he found the reference at all funny. I can't believe he's dead. Poor Sarah will be destroyed.

She will, Mansfield replied, but there's consolation to be found in the fact that it was quick. I don't think he suffered. But as the land fell into a gentle slope, the horses' hooves crunching across the patch of stony ground that carpeted the hollow before the terrain softened again, he wondered if he truly believed that. An awful yawning emptiness had opened inside him and he realized that for a long time after this day he would walk into The Fox & Mare expecting to see Laws there, making jokes and polishing glasses as normal. But the gray faces gathered in the shadows of the tavern and the lines of mourning on Sarah Laws' face would bring home to him the reality of what had happened here today every single time.

They rode faster into the fog, damp earth flying in their wake.

Callow!

The huntmaster looked back at Mansfield, who asked, How far did she normally go on her walks?

Callow didn't answer. The fact that he was leading them now only served to reinforce Mansfield's belief that they were being drawn into something, that this whole search was nothing but a show, perhaps to aid Callow's case if Sylvia turned up dead, and that angered him. Even if it resolved that she had indeed taken that train to London,