He wasn’t sure if he lay in a bed or a coffin.
Buzzing. Bees or flies. No, a woman’s voice. An upset woman. Fox didn’t open his eyes at the noise. Everything hurt too much for him to care. If they were going to kill him, he just hoped for them to hurry.
The woman’s voice again and then a man’s. But the man’s voice softened. Concerned. Not angry. Not violent.
‘I did find out who he is.’ The male again. ‘I spoke with the servants at the earl’s house, letting them know we have criminals on the loose, and I have the victim here.’
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mrs Pritchett didn’t want me to know, but the earl sent them a letter telling them to brighten up a room for...a new vicar. Said to expect him any day now.’
‘Oh, Father...’ The word ended in despair.
‘Now, Rebecca. The earl only wants the best. Don’t look so upset.’
‘I’m not.’
The room was silent. Nothing. Then the rustle of clothing, someone moving, stopping at his side. He tried to open his eyes.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ the soft voice asked. Even in the blackness surrounding him, he could tell she leaned over him. The perfume of lilacs and just-cooked porridge touched his nose. She wasn’t anyone he knew.
But even the scent of his favourite flower didn’t ease the pain in his face. His eyes hurt and they wouldn’t open properly. He couldn’t open his blasted eyes.
He just wanted to rest. Rest. He needed to tell her.
He parted his lips to speak. Pain hobbled his words. His breath rushed from his lungs to throat and even thinking ached his head. He clenched his fist, barely trapping bedclothes in his hands. Rest.
But the first part of the word was too hard to speak. He couldn’t talk with her. The feeling of bones crashing together tensed his body.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ she asked again.
Rest. He wanted to rest, but it hurt too badly. He pushed out as much of the word as he could. ‘...esss...’
The woman spoke. ‘He said yes’
He didn’t care who she thought he was. He hurt worse than he’d ever hurt when he awoke after going twenty-four hours with nothing to sustain him but brandy. That hadn’t been this bad. He wanted to ask for brandy. He really did. He wanted to tell them he’d pay a hundred pounds for a good brandy to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. Or at least make him forget it.
‘His lordship has been saying for quite some time I should take a pension. We knew he was hoping to find a new vicar, Becca.’ A man’s voice. The man’s voice rumbled again. ‘He said that was part of the reason he was travelling. It’s to be expected.’
‘I know,’ she said.
The woman leaned in again, touching the bed, jostling Fox. Pain shot through the top of his head. She was going to kill him if she didn’t stop moving him. They’d already stripped him and cleaned him and dressed him in a sack. Whatever they’d given him to drink had left a bitter taste in his mouth and mixed with the other tastes. He needed a shipload of brandy.
He’d heard the crack when the club hit his face before the blackness had overtaken him. The breaking noise had been the same as when someone strong took a dried branch and snapped it. He’d not known a face could make such a sound.
The memory of the cracking noise warred with the pain.
‘Do you think I should give him some milk, Father?’
No, he wanted to scream. Brandy.
‘Put some on a flannel and drip it into his mouth.’
He raised his hand an inch, fingers spread, palm out. No milk.
‘I think that’s what he wants,’ she said. ‘Look. He’s clasping his fingers for the glass.’
Forcing the effort, he lifted his hand and put it up, over the area of his mouth.
‘He’s not thirsty,’ the male said.
‘But he should drink something.’
‘Leave him be. He probably can’t get it down anyway. He said no, so let’s give him some quiet.’
‘He’d probably like it if I read from the prayer book to him.’
The male voice sounded from further away. ‘Yes.’
Clothes rustled and the lilacs touched him again. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her. His fingers closed around something else. A book.
‘Oh, Father. He wants the prayer book.’ The words lingered in the air, floating, and wafted outwards, awe colouring them with praise. Much the same as his voice would have been if he’d been able to thank her for some brandy.
‘Scriptures have always given me comfort in my time of need,’ the gruff voice stated.
The sound of bustling clothing and a chair being moved close to the bed. ‘I think I should start with the January ones until I get to this month,’ the soft voice said. ‘And I’ll read the best parts slowly.’
It was autumn.
He was in hell.
And if he was going to be punished for all the wrongs he’d done...he would not be leaving for a while.
The old man interrupted the woman. ‘He’s not struggling and if he...doesn’t make it...well, he’ll be in a better place.’
No. No. He preferred London. It was good enough. It was wonderful, in fact. The best of everything the world could offer was at his fingertips. He’d been mistaken to leave it.
His hand slid sideways, and he clasped at the bedcovers to keep the feeling of floating from overtaking him.
‘I’d best go spread the word that we’ve got some cutthroats in the area.’ The gruff voice spoke again.
‘Did you let the earl’s servants know...he’s here?’
The man let out a deep sigh. ‘Yes. I told them it’s best not to move him and that you’re giving him the best care there is. You know as much as an apothecary does about treatments.’
‘I learned from Mother.’
‘Did you notice...?’ The male’s words faded. ‘In his time of need, he reached for comfort. A sainted heart lives inside that battered body. At least I can rest easier knowing a man who appreciates goodness is replacing me. I just think I have a lot of Sunday Services left in me.’
‘You do, Father. And you can teach the new
