“Your services are no longer needed here,” Simon snapped. “You’re to leave London as soon as you pick your sorry carcass up from the floor.”
Malcolm spat blood and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’ll leave when I’m ready, and not before. Not for you nor any man.”
A splash of cold water hit both men in a drenching wave, bringing them to a sputtering silence.
“Out! Both of you!” Penny roared, holding an empty bucket.
“Bloody hell, woman!” the dark Scotsman bellowed, wiping at his dripping face. “The fight was already over!”
Penny’s fist balled on her hip. “Good thing, then, or I would have shot the both of you.”
“What about my pistols?” muttered Malcolm.
“Come back for ’em when you regain your senses.” Penny shook her head. “That’s the last time I try to introduce friends.”
Simon stiffened and extracted his damp wallet, laying a considerable amount of currency on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Carter.”
Under the engineer’s stern glare, the two drenched men slogged from the shop much to the curiosity of those on the street. They retreated into an alley around the corner and faced one another.
“You’re wrong, Archer,” Malcolm muttered through clenched teeth, meeting Simon’s haunted eyes. “On my honor, you are.”
“Your honor,” Simon hissed, but something in the Scotsman’s forlorn acceptance made him let go of his rage. Maybe it was the pain in Malcolm’s eyes that matched his own. With a face like stone, he held the man’s gaze, debating what he should do.
Malcolm’s hand rested again on his blade. His body was tense with muscles coiled. “Let’s get this over with if you demand it.”
“Still ready to defend your father’s name then?” Simon retorted icily.
“I’ve long since stopped trying.”
“Tell me why I should believe John MacFarlane didn’t kill my father when I’ve always known he did.”
“I know the story of that night, and it’s nothing to be proud of for my part. My father was ordered to kill a man named Edward Cavendish, but he drank so much he wouldn’t have been able to stab a dead goat. He couldn’t go through with it.”
“How do you know this?”
“He told me.”
“Why should I believe that?”
Malcolm’s eyes flared angry. “The MacFarlanes aren’t adverse to killing, as is well-known. My father would have admitted to the deed if he had done it. It would be better to be a killer than a coward.”
Simon’s body was rigid. “So then, who murdered my father that night in Scotland?”
Malcolm’s shoulders slumped in sympathy. “I don’t know. My father never knew. My father never rose above the bottle again. He died in a puddle of his own making.”
Simon studied the Scotsman, watching every twitch of his muscles, every turn of his lips. This man, regardless of what his father had or had not done, believed that his father was innocent of this one crime at least.
Malcolm’s face struggled not to reveal any emotion. “If I had the answer, Archer, I’d give it to you.”
“Lucky for you, Mr. MacFarlane,” Simon said with a sad smile. “I don’t hold the son responsible for the sins of the father.” He clasped his hands behind his rigid back and walked away, leaving the hunter standing alone.
Chapter Seven
The interior of St. Giles was flickering in the candlelight. Drafts made the flames shudder, and created a disturbing pattern of moving shadows around the space. Two thick candles in heavy stands were posted on both ends of the casket.
Simon sat in the front pew. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the handle of his walking stick. His mother’s gold key dangled from his fingers like a rosary. He watched the coffin in which the body of Beatrice rested.
He could recall spring afternoons when he had been boyishly content that he would spend his life with her. The pinpricks of light reflecting in her eyes the first night she blew out the lamp in her bedchamber. Her gentle touch warming his neck. He remembered the smoothness of her thighs under his own palms. She laughed constantly. She loved poetry and would often cry when reading aloud. He had taught her the proper pronunciation of runic spells.
Simon heard the sound of a man clearing his throat and shuffling his feet. He glanced up to see the sexton in the darkness near the altar. The man bobbed from foot to foot, eager to be on his way but still respectfully silent.
Simon took a breath and rose. He laid a hand on the rough wooden top of Beatrice’s coffin. He lifted the lid a few inches and slipped a few clippings of newsprint inside. The few articles she had saved as evidence of his advancement in the mystic arts. He closed the casket, unwilling to look at her in the winding sheet. He preferred to remember her from that spring night long ago. The sexton came forward with a credible look of sorrow and comfort. The man raised a finger to his forehead in deference.