Beyond
the kitchen, they descended to the lower level of the castle, the air turning
colder, like a crypt. As they approached the first narrow passageway, Thomas
reached for the wall torch and lifted it aloft. He glanced back at Billy to see
if there was any discernible change of expression.
There
was. He looked worried, his eyes moving slowly over the gray stone.
"Prepare
yourself for another world, Billy," Thomas warned, "and watch your
step," he added. "It's not far, but it's hazardous."
For
the first time in three weeks he heard words coming from the young man.
"Thomas," Billy whispered, "where are we—"
So!
It had worked. "You'll see," he promised. "You'll see a sight
you've never seen before. Only a short distance farther—"
Thomas
stepped down into the central chamber. Quickly he hurried around the walls,
lighting three additional torches. Then he moved back to the door where he'd
abandoned Billy and drew him close to the center where he could look in all
directions at the kegs, barrels, and chests.
"Now,"
Thomas exulted, "do you know where you are?"
From
the confusion on his face, Billy did not know. He seemed to be shivering in the
damp cold, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Thomas
smiled. They were surrounded by the perfect remedy for chills. He moved toward
the kegs of brandy and commenced dragging one forward. Halfway through his
effort he stopped, his eyes falling on a strange sight. There against the far
wall was a stack of coverlets, mussed, as though someone had recently lain upon
them. He started forward for a closer examination when Billy called,
"Thomas? Where are you?"
"Coming,"
he called back, looking again at the curious nest. Perhaps one of his men had
decided a guard was needed.
Quickly
he returned to the keg and dragged it to the center of the room, stopping to
retrieve two sampling cups from atop a barrel. He broke the seal, poured two
full cups, and handed one to Billy. "This will warm you," he
promised.
Still
looking about, Billy took the cup. "What is this place?"
Before
Thomas could reply, he stopped again, ears alert. There was a sound coming from
the lower staircase.
Thomas
heard it, but obviously Billy didn't. "Where did all this come—"
"Shhh!"
warned Thomas, hushing him. Both men stood still, Thomas keeping a sharp ear on
the staircase to his left. He heard nothing now except the faint creaking of
the old support timbers.
Slowly
he sipped from his cup. "I thought I heard something," he muttered,
keeping his eye on the small black opening.
Growing
weary of the mystery Billy sat on a nearby barrel. Thomas glanced at him, one
ear still listening. "What do you think?" he said with a smile.
Billy
shook his head. "I don't remember this. I thought that as a boy I'd
covered every square foot of Eden Castle."
Laughing
outright, Thomas drank again. "Of course you don't remember it," he
chided, "Because it wasn't here." He gestured with his cup. "All
this was mere stone, Billy, until a few years back. Then one day I
decided—"
There
it was again, a discernible footstep. He whirled on the doorway, demanding,
"Who is there?"
Thomas
was aware of Billy standing beside him.
Alarmed,
the boy whispered, "What is it?"
Thomas
shook his head, indicating the need for silence. "Listen!" It came
again, someone moving in the darkness, just out of sight. A thief, perhaps,
someone who'd found the opening in the cove. "Who is there?" he
called again.
Still
hovering behind him, Billy whispered, "Let's go, Thomas."
At
that moment a specter emerged from the doorway. Thomas started forward, then
stopped. It was Ragland, or what was left of Ragland. He stood in the doorway,
scarcely resembling a man, with his anguished face and distended eyes, his lips
blue with cold. There were white patches on his sldn. He was covered with
filth.
Thomas
stepped forward, relieved at finding the old man safe. "Ragland, I—"
He stopped as from the folds of the black soiled coat Ragland withdrew a
pistol.
Behind
him, Thomas heard Billy start to retreat. At the sight of the movement Ragland
stepped further into the room, lifted the pistol, and took aim.
"Wait,"
Thomas soothed. He forced himself to move in front of the pistol, all the while
taking note of the glazed look in Ragland's eyes. Thomas saw a derangement in
the old face which suggested the futility of speech. Still he had to try.
"Ragland," he began softly, "we've been so worried. I've had men
out—"
Suddenly
the old man interrupted him with a sharp wail. "Damn your men and damn you
as well. Do you know what I've lost? Do you even know she's dead?" Tears
slipped down the soiled cheeks, but he continued to hold the pistol upright,
his finger crooked on the trigger, the weapon pointing directly at Thomas.
Thomas
felt death grinning at him, the same feeling he'd suffered the night in William
Pitch's house. Quietly, without looking, he warned Billy, "Remain
still."
But
Ragland heard and stepped closer. His face mysteriously softened. He spoke gently,
pleading, "Why? She was nothing to you. There were a hundred others. Why
Elfie? She was my only—" Tears overtook him again. Assessing the old man's
weakness, Thomas inched forward. His goal was to disarm him as quickly though
as gently as possible.
Ragland
saw the movement and angrily lifted the pistol higher, aiming it straight at
Thomas' heart. "Stay!" he commanded. "Not one step closer, I
warn you—"
Thomas
obeyed. He glanced over his shoulder at Billy, who stood by the opposite door.
Then he turned his attention back to the old man. "Would you like brandy?
You must be frozen."
But
Ragland cut him off by merely lifting the pistol and steadying his aim. Thomas
could see the resolution in his face. "Ragland," he began, "whatever
happened, I'm truly sorry. It was not my intention—"
The
old man wept uncontrollably, repeating over and over, "Oh God, oh God, oh
God."
Over
the weeping, Thomas was aware of a new sound, the pressure of a single step a
distance behind him. He'd warned Billy to hold still. He was on the verge of
repeating the order when suddenly a shot rang out, coming not from Ragland's
weapon, but from the opposite direction. He saw a fireball exploding into old
Ragland's chest and sweeping him backward into the narrow staircase. Thomas
flattened himself on the floor. He was aware that Ragland's gun had discharged
in a reflexive action. This second explosion went wildly up into the ceiling,
the small chamber resounding with the echoes of shots. The reverberations
lashed at Thomas as he raised up and caught a glimpse of Ragland's bleeding
chest, the old man fallen in a black and red heap. Behind him Thomas heard the
excited voice of Russell Locke. He felt Locke's hands on his shoulders.
"Look, milord," the man shouted, pointing up.
Thomas
looked upward at the fine silt sifting through the ceiling. He heard a low
distant rumble, growing in intensity, the silt increasing to a steady rain.
Locke
shouted, "
Cave
-
in
!" Thomas felt himself being dragged
toward the opposite door where Billy stood ready to bolt. Locke herded them a
few steps up the passage. The distant rumbling grew louder. It seemed to be
moving closer, the towering stone walls dissolving like breakers, furiously
darting sprays of dust which filled their nostrils. Billy crouched on the
steps, both arms thrown over his head. Locke shielded Thomas with his own body,
the fearful noise still increasing as the frail timbers gave way, releasing the
rain of stone, huge wedges falling in the central chamber, the narrow passage
warm and close and dust-filled.
Thomas
closed his eyes to wait out the endless thunder. The entire ceiling was
collapsing. He thought of Ragland, trapped, and raised his head to see if the
man had made it to safety. Then he remembered the torn chest and realized in
despair that it made no difference.
At
last the rumbling subsided, though smoke and dust continued to roll over them
in billowing waves. Behind him he heard Billy choking. He glanced backward and
saw him stumbling up to the top of the steps.
Locke
stood aside. The man's face was covered with white chalky dust. In his hand
Thomas saw the pistol which had saved his life. And taken Ragland's.
Apparently
Locke saw Thomas' expression. He spoke coldly to the floor. "I've
suspected, milord, for some time that Ragland was hiding here," he began.
"When the servants told me that you had come down—"
Thomas
sensed the man's uneasiness and tried to reassure him. "You saved our
lives. I am in your debt."
Clearly
relieved, Locke bobbed his head. Thomas looked back into what had been the
central storehouse. Now it was a clogged, still smoking mass of fallen
boulders, the destruction extending beyond the staircase to the far wall, the
wall itself gone, everything buried. Thomas saw in his imagination the old man
buried, his frail body crushed, a torn chest the least part of his broken
frame.
At
the top of the stairs behind him he heard the servants gathering, their voices
pinched on a thin edge of hysteria. Somewhere off in the distant recesses of
the tunnel he heard a final shattering collapse, the lower timbers giving away.
Silence.
Thomas
could not move. Softly he slumped forward on the steps. Resting his head on his
arms, he was only vaguely aware of the movement at the top of the steps,
Russell dispersing the little band of gaping servants as though he knew his
Lordship did not wish to be seen in such circumstances. He felt something
fragile being born within him. What a trail of death and destruction there had
been, starting on the Twelfth Night Celebration and extending here, to the
death of his most trusted friend.
A
feeling of distress took possession of him as he confronted his own
responsibility, his own undeniable and painful part in the tragic sequence of
events. With his head bowed, choking on regret and dust, he experienced an
intolerable shame. He laid one hand against the cold wall and wished fervently
that this last corridor too would collapse.
From
the top of the stairs he heard Russell Locke. "Milord, please. It will
serve no purpose to—"
In
spite of his debt to the man, Thomas shouted, "Leave me be! Escort Mr.
Beckford to his room and see to his wants, but leave me be."
There
was no reply. Thomas heard footsteps moving away, the man apparently willing to
follow his least command. Like Ragland.
Thinking
the name caused new grief. Ragland gone, Ragland dead and buried less than
thirty feet away, no way even to retrieve the body and give him an honorable
burial. Ragland alone, hiding out for days in the tunnel, senseless, waiting to
catch Thomas unaware.
A
horrible thought occurred to him. The pistol had been pointed at him, not Billy.
Ragland must have thought that
he
was the one responsible for—
He
stretched upward and hurled himself toward the fallen boulders. Somehow he had
to reach Ragland, had to tell him it was Billy who had done damage to the girl.
Thomas had not touched her, not once.
He
cried out, "Ragland, you must listen! Can you hear?" His eyes moved
across the fallen stones, trying to determine where the far staircase had been.
"Ragland, listen!" he cried. "It wasn't me. I swear it. Can you
hear?"
He
lost count of the number of times he cried out, was aware at last of his throat
burning with effort and the residue of dust. The darkness of the steps was no
match for the darkness in his mind. Everything he touched he destroyed.
Everything
.
Everything! Inside his soul the elements were raging. Somewhere the bells were
ringing an alarm, a storm was gathering, the most terrible storm he had ever
known.