From Across the Ancient Waters (7 page)

The Fleming woman’s description matched the place exactly. He crept toward its corner, paused briefly, then moved around it and temporarily into the thin glow. He did not hesitate. He set hand to the door and quickly entered. No homes in this region possessed locks.

A sound of startled wakefulness from the occupant was brief. “What are … Who are you?” he said in the darkness.

“Shut up, old man,” growled a low voice at the bedside. It made no attempt to disguise itself.

“What are
you
doing here, Rup—”

A large hand clamped over the aged lips. “Quiet, I told you!” rasped a whisper which could not hide its menace. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

The sleeping old man could hardly argue. Already his unwelcome visitor had rousted him from bed and was dragging him from the cottage in his bedclothes. The old man of eighty struggled feebly as he was pulled from his home. But the hand across his face prevented so much as a peep from escaping his lips.

Twenty minutes later, away from the village on a lonely expanse of shoreline and beyond the hearing of all save the waves, which never slept, at last assailant and hostage stopped.

The younger of the two released his prisoner and threw him rudely to the sand. “I’ve been patient all these years,” he said. “Now I want to know where it is.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the old man. He attempted to climb to his knees.

A rude kick sent him toppling over on his back. “You told me there was a coin.”

“A small thing, of no value.”

“You said it would lead to the rest.”

“I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Maybe the whiskey loosened your tongue to tell the truth.”

Silence was his only answer.

“Where is it, Drindod! I want it … I want it all!” He bent to the sand and raised his hand to strike.

“I told you before. The old man was dead by the time I saw him.”

“Then how did you get the coin?”

“I never had it.”

“You said you saw it.”

“Only once. And just for a moment. I could never get my hands on it.”

“But you know who has it. Tell me and I may let you live!”

“She has it!” the old man burst out, at last divulging his secret of many decades. “She’s had it all along.”

“Who? Tell me!” cried the younger man. He grabbed Drindod with a huge fist and viciously yanked him to his feet and within six inches of his own leering face.

“Little … little Bryn,” whimpered the old man in terror. For the first time in three-quarters of a century he spoke the nickname of his childhood acquaintance of that fateful day.

“I’ve never heard that name! Who are you talking about?”

“I tell you, the girl has it. She would never give it to me. It was she who found the body. She was just a little girl.”

Enraged at what he took for another lie, the hysterical prodigal seaman clutched his prey by the throat. A loud whack sounded across the wrinkled cheeks. The blow sent the weak old man sprawling again to the ground.

A few more wrathful attempts to coerce the information from him gave way at length to the full force of the younger man’s fury. The struggle was brief. Soon all that could be heard was the rhythmic inflow of Tremadog’s waters.

Five minutes later a shadowy figure, alone now and unseen of human eye, scrambled across a few rocks and up onto the moor. It then hastened northward away from the village.

Behind him, on the very shore whose secret had possessed him in vain for seventy-six years, lay the form of him who now followed the salty old pirate to a place it might be hoped was better than this.

Condemned to the Country

T
he first sensation to reach sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond’s ears the morning following his arrival in the Gwynedd foothills of North Wales was the sound of a bird chirping somewhere in a tree outside his window.

He and his father had reached his uncle’s home by coach after dark the night before. A round of tedious reintroductions to relatives he had not seen for five years had been punctuated by looks from his two cousins, Courtenay and Florilyn, that did not invite optimism about his prospects. Boring conversation followed on stiff chairs with tea altogether too strong for the occasion. Mercifully he had finally been allowed to retire for the night to his new quarters.

A prison cell would be a more apt description! Maybe he had been wrong—a Glasgow jail
might
have been better!

How would he possibly live through the summer in this country wasteland?

Perhaps after his father left, Percy thought, he could steal some money and make an escape. There might be some fun to be had out of this after all!

He turned over sleepily, stuffed his pillow over his head, and did his best to go back to sleep. But it was no use. The blasted bird was too close, too loud, too persistent. If he had a gun, he would shoot the infernal thing. If it insisted on waking him every morning, he would see about getting one! His uncle surely had a well-supplied gun cabinet somewhere about the place.

Reluctantly he climbed out of bed, dressed with the enthusiasm of one preparing for his own execution, and left the room. He descended to the main floor of the house. He heard voices coming from the breakfast room. The last thing he wanted was to see anyone.

The gnawing in his stomach, however, reminded him that such a thing as food existed and that sixteen-year-old boys consumed great quantities of it. He therefore walked along the wide corridor toward the sounds and entered. He found his aunt and uncle and father seated about the table.

“Ah Percival—good morning!” exclaimed his uncle.

“Hello, Uncle Roderick,” he replied with an imperceptible nod. He did not offer much of a smile to accompany it.

“Come, Percival,” said his aunt Katherine, beckoning him to one of the empty chairs. “The tea is just come.”

Percy approached and sat down. Somberly he took the plate offered by his aunt and helped himself to generous portions from the contents of several platters on the table.

“I see nothing to be gained by glossing over the affair,” said Edward Drummond as his sister poured tea into Percy’s cup. “I have been explaining to your uncle Roderick and your aunt Katherine exactly the nature of, shall we say, our
problem
with the authorities in Glasgow. Should you think to dupe them, Percy, rest assured that I have urged watchfulness. There are no false pretenses about your presence here. They know what you have done and exactly why I have requested that they take you in for the summer.”

Percy busied himself with breakfast. He saw no advantage in making a reply. His father’s words rankled, but an argument now would not help his cause.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Edward,” put in Westbrooke with blustery confidence. “We shall have an amiable time of it. Although I dare say the country life may be more dangerous than you bargained for,” he added, laughing.

“How do you mean?” asked the vicar.

“Tilman Heygate, my factor, came to the house early this morning to tell me that the body of an old man was found on the shore a mile south of the harbor just after daylight by one of the village fishermen.”

“Who, Roderick?” asked Mrs. Westbrooke in alarm.

“Old Sean Drindod.”

“The poor man!” she exclaimed as her hand came to her mouth.

“Drowned?” asked the vicar.

“No, actually. That’s the curious part,” answered Westbrooke seriously. “Seems his neck was broken.”

“What happened?” asked his brother-in-law.

“No one knows. There appears no sign he’d fallen among the rocks. I’ll ride into town later this morning and speak with the magistrate. At the moment it appears he was murdered.”

His wife gasped as her face went white. Silence fell around the table.

Lord Snowdon quickly resumed his zestful spirits. “I assure you such occurrences are most out of the ordinary.” He laughed, though his wife’s face remained pale. “As I said, Percival will be most welcome. We shall make a man of the young Scotsman! Once he has a taste of the country life, you may never get him back to Glasgow.”

“Thank you, Roderick,” replied the vicar. “You cannot know how much this means to Mary and me.”

“It is the least we can do for your brother, is it not, Katherine?” replied the viscount. He glanced briefly across the table to his wife. “If the lad proves troublesome,” he said, throwing Percy a quick wink and grin, “I shall hire him out to one of my tenants to help with the sheep shearing or send him to sea on one of the fishermen’s boats. Eh, Percival, my boy? Hard work and country air—that’s what’s wanted. We shall provide both in good measure.”

Lord Snowdon’s words rang a little hollow in his wife’s ears, seeing as how he had never taken the slightest interest in making a man, as he put it, of his own son, who would sooner have jumped over the moon than soiled
his
hands in the matted wool of a dirty sheep. But the moment her brother’s letter had arrived from Glasgow with its request, the viscount had perceived his opportunity to reestablish himself in his wife’s good graces. Well knowing her family’s notions of spirituality and Katherine’s fondness for her older brother, Westbrooke determined to assist her side of the family in the matter of their wayward son. Secretly he hoped for the result of his wife’s loosening up her purse strings. Toward that end he would make himself everything an aristocratic country uncle should be to a Glasgow-bred youth. Thus he would win favor with the brother-in-law
and
his wife.

Whether eighteen-year-old Courtenay would greet the presence of his city cousin with equal jubilation was doubtful. He had behaved himself last night. Yet from the moment Percy’s eyes met those of Courtenay Westbrooke, his elder by a year and a half, it was clear that a contest for supremacy was inevitable. Courtenay’s fifteen-year-old sister, Florilyn, was every bit the equal of either boy in feisty self-centeredness. But she would gain her ends by wile rather than bluff. She possessed the face and physique of an eighteen-year-old, with cunning and coquetry in equal measure. She was already turning more heads among local old youths than either of her parents had any idea and had bewitched several to attempt foolhardy exploits to gain her notice.

That both young Westbrookes were as spoiled as money could make them was as much a grief to their mother as it was object of humorous jocularity to their father. The viscount was not a man for whom character was life’s highest ambition, either for himself or his offspring. Even now, with the evidence before his eyes every day, he yet remained oblivious to the danger he continued to perpetuate by pampering his son and daughter in their self-indulgence. Westbrooke was of the school that taught a man to get what he could and watch out for number one. His foresight, therefore, was not altogether perceptive in the matter of what he might be passing down unto the third and fourth generations of his progeny.

The axiom “Lead by example” works in many directions. The result generally reinforces tendencies already well established within the garden of personhood. A good example is not usually sufficient to counteract a bad one willingly emulated. In this case, as their father was the stronger personality of the marital union, the children had taken his model as their standard. Neither Courtenay nor Florilyn had any desire to become a saint. Both appeared likely to be granted their wish.

Breakfast concluded, Percy wandered back to his quarters. Alone again, he stood for a moment gazing absently out the window, then turned again into the room and threw himself on the bed. It was less than twelve hours since their arrival. Already he was bored silly.

His father found him unmoved forty minutes later.

Their good-byes were stiff and awkward. Hoping for a word or glance or gesture that might indicate a softening in his son’s soul, the vicar remained a moment more beside the bed.

But none came.

Drummond turned at length and left the room. Tears gathered in his eyes as he made his way down the hall.

An hour later he sat in the coach on his way to the train that would take him back to Glasgow.
God
, he prayed silently,
his mother and I have done the best we knew. It certainly did not turn out as we had hoped
. He sighed disconsolately then added in an inaudible whisper, “Do what You can for him, Lord. Fulfill the words of the proverb that he will one day return to the training we gave him.”

Shortly after lunch—a strained affair with aunt and uncle now that he was alone with them—Percy wandered out behind the great house. He had seen neither of his cousins since the previous night and was glad. As much bluster as he tried to wear, he was, after all, still a boy in many ways. One would think that city life might have made him more worldly wise than his country-bred cousins. Just the opposite was in fact the case. Without any noticeable spiritual component to their existence, in spite of their mother’s efforts, and a sense shared by both of their own superiority as wealthy son and daughter of a lord, Courtenay and Florilyn had matured rapidly in that ugliest of character flaws—hauteur. They were in love with themselves.

Percy Drummond, on the other hand, had grown up as the only child of a manse. That fact alone had shielded him from many of the very influences bearing such foul fruit in the personality gardens of his cousins. He at least had
heard
values espoused that, though he now eschewed them, had been part and parcel of the soil in which his being had sent down its first roots.

Percy’s rebellion was a phase of youth. The conceit of his cousins was more deeply endemic to their natures. It would thus be more difficult to purge.

The Stables

F
or the rest of the day, which seemed fifty hours long, Percy wandered about, did his best to avoid human contact, returned to his room, stared out the window, lay on his bed, wandered out again, and nearly went mad with boredom.

The family did not gather for dinner as the viscount and Courtenay were gone to the neighboring estate. A buffet had been spread out in the dining room. Percy ate with his aunt, though the conversation was mostly one-sided on her part.