A flock of tabloid vultures roosted briefly at Dundrillin, but Sir Percy kept them so befuddled with effortless charm—and flowing whiskey—that Erinskil’s curious prosperity went unnoticed.
Peter and Cassie contributed greatly to the press-distraction project by announcing their engagement. Since a wedding at Dundrillin would have drawn even more unwanted attention to the island, they regretfully rejected Will’s sage advice and decided to be wed in the family chapel at Cassie’s ancestral home in Kent.
Dr. Tighe declared Andrew and me medically unfit to comment on our experiences with Abaddon, and Bill referred all questions to Chief Superintendent Yarborough, whose answers were so blandly uninformative that the press had to resort to hounding Sir Rodney Spofford and laying siege to Brook House.
Jack Nunen’s brutal concussion robbed him of all memories of his encounter with Abaddon, but it didn’t stop him from writing an exclusive exposé about Sir Rodney’s psychotic son. The story ran for two consecutive Sundays in the Morning Mirror, until yet another sex scandal took its place.
Chief Superintendent Yarborough wrapped up the investigation quietly and efficiently. No charges could be brought against the late Alfred Spofford, but Harold served time for supplying Alfred with a gun, and Sir Rodney was held to account for destroying the scrap of paper he’d found in the charred ruins of the summerhouse.
“Scotland Yard doesn’t look kindly upon those who cover up cold-blooded murder,” I commented to Aunt Dimity when I finally had a chance to speak with her.
I should think not. If Sir Rodney hadn’t been so intent on protecting his family’s reputation, much travail would have been avoided. And it was all for naught.The sad truth was revealed despite his ill-conceived efforts at concealment.
“I almost—almost—feel sorry for him,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do if one of the twins went mad. Mental illness is a horrible thing.”
You might call it mental illness. I call it evil. Alfred Spofford tortured animals and small children. He murdered his mother. He would have murdered your five-year-old sons if you hadn’t stopped him, and he most certainly tried to murder you. After twenty years of the most intensive therapy, he crept back into the world craving blood, and he used sacred texts to justify his lust.When Damian ascribed Abaddon’s death to the wrath of God, he was not being entirely facetious. I do not mourn the loss of Alfred Spofford. If ever anyone was evil, it was he.
I reflected that Alfred Spofford’s timely demise had less to do with the wrath of God than with his unwise decision to stand in an exposed spot during a lightning storm while holding a hunk of metal at arm’s length, but I had no doubt that he was evil. Something not quite human had peered back at me from the chilling emptiness of those coal-black eyes.
“Do you think he’s . . . tainted the cottage?” I asked. “Bill wants to cut down the old hedge, Dimity. He says it’ll always remind him of how close Abaddon came to killing us.”
It’s pointless to fight evil by destroying life.
“How do we fight it, then?” I demanded.
We kiss our children.We make sticky lemon cake for our husband.We cherish our friends.We leave the great hedge standing tall, to serve as a haven for birds and mice and spiders.We defeat evil every time we commit an act of kindness.When necessary, we hit it with a rock.
“I get it.” I nodded slowly. “Fill each day with acts of grace, but keep a rock handy, just in case.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself.You must do it in needlepoint, my dear, as a reminder of a valuable lesson learned.
I’m still digesting the lessons I learned during my time on Erinskil, but the nightmares have grown fewer and I’ve almost lost my fear of thunder-storms. The twins, thankfully, have shown no ill effects from their ordeal. They expected me to rescue them from the bad man, and I did. End of story.
Much to their delight, I’ve taken a serious interest in cricket over the past few months. My batting still leaves much to be desired, but I can bowl a wicket clean nine times out of ten. I never miss a chance to strengthen my throwing arm.
Just in case.