Secret Reflection

Secret Reflection - By Jennifer Brassel



Journal of Edward James Ditchley,

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England.

October 21, 1861

Tonight it shall be done. At midnight. He thought he would escape justice. Murderer! Foul murderer! All these years. I trusted him. My friend. My cousin. How could he have done it? I looked up to him. I cannot fathom it. The miserable bastard.

My poor Elizabeth – he swore an oath to protect you, to keep you safe. I still cannot believe he could do such a thing as that. But the evidence – there is no other answer.

Forgive me not being here to stop him, my sweet Elizabeth, but I will have vengeance for you. I promise, my darling one. His hell will be endless and I swear he will beg for death before I am done with him.





Prologue


October 21, 1861

Stanthorpe House

A tiny trickle of sweat slid down John’s spine.

‘Why do you not fight, you fool?’ Edward sneered, showering droplets of warm spittle over John’s impassive face. ‘The great John Tarrant reduced to cowardice. Killer of defenceless women. You disgust me, cousin!’

Squaring his shoulders, John drew a tortured breath and awaited his doom.

Without warning Edward swung his clenched fist with surprising ferocity.

John didn’t flinch or try to deflect the blow; in his heart he knew he deserved whatever Edward had planned.

But at the last instant Edward danced aside, his fist failing to connect. A taunt only, Edward’s usual way. Instead his cousin spun about and laughed – a manic cackle that chilled John to the bone.

‘You see, Plunkett?’ Edward grinned at his faithful valet who looked on with an equally appalling smugness. ‘A coward. I always knew it.’

John lifted his chin in defiance but he knew any attempt at defence was useless. The madness raged like a fire in Edward’s eyes and he wouldn’t listen to reason even if John tried to explain.

Reason. What reason could he offer? He’d made a solemn vow to Elizabeth. A secret he would honour even unto death. And death appeared likely given his cousin’s fury. In fact, John almost welcomed it. No matter how he tried to justify it – he had taken Elizabeth’s life and, on the slim chance his cousin deigned to spare him, John would have to live with this heavy, breath-robbing stone that filled his chest, the guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Yet his heart still pounded as he prepared to meet his fate. His bedroom, a place designed for comfort and leisure, would become his gallows. He’d never thought about death, not really. Of course, he’d seen it many times on the battlefield during his short period of service, but its touch always felt far away, remote. Now it was upon him, and all he could think was to have it done and over.

Outside, lightning flashed and the storm that had been brewing all afternoon unleashed its hostile power. Driving rain pelted the panes and the trees beyond bowed as the wind whipped to a frenzy. The cacophony sounded as if the world would soon end. The air inside the room became thick and damp, and John almost smiled at the appropriateness of it all.

A quiet knock had Plunkett’s face contorting with savage pleasure. The valet was a little man with an even smaller character. John often privately questioned why his cousin kept the man so close. Elizabeth had quietly feared the secretive little man and once she’d bemoaned his presence in her house though she’d never challenged Edward on it. Well, she no longer had to be afraid. She was dead and John knew his own life was forfeit. He just wondered how his cousin intended to accomplish the deed.

The knock came again and Plunkett opened the door with an eager grin.

To John’s astonishment, a stranger dressed in what appeared a druid priest’s garb stepped into the room and came to stand before him. His hooded white cloak, covered in rusty streaks of mud, or perhaps even blood, hid his features in shadow.

Druids and their magics are surely relics of the distant past. What madness is Edward up to now?

True to form, Edward turned even an execution into theatre. John could appreciate the paradox. He had to credit his cousin’s sense of the ridiculous … and he supposed the play-acting would allow his executioner a degree of anonymity.

‘Is this the one?’ the druid asked in an accent thick with the flavour of the West Country. He carried a small copper bowl filled with roots and herbs that smelled rich with the earthy aroma of rotting leaves. At the centre he placed a smooth egg-shaped stone then handed the bowl to Plunkett with a flourish.

At Edward’s nod the druid lifted a tiny silver knife.

Instinctively, John drew a sharp breath and edged a step back, but the mirror behind him left no room to escape the blade. He stiffened and braced for the inevitable stab of pain. But to John’s utter surprise the druid’s hand merely flashed up to deftly slice away a lock of his hair. His head jerked back, more in shock than fear.

He turned to stare at his cousin only to see a satisfied expression light Edward’s face.

‘Just get it over with,’ John said on a tired sigh. His cousin might be enjoying his little game but John was certain that the act of drawing it out would provide no salve for Edward’s grief, nor for his own guilt.

Again Edward cackled as he leaned in close and breathed into John’s face. His breath stank of whisky and though his eyes had seemed crazed, they sharpened and became hard as chips of glass. ‘I have plans for you, dearest cousin. Grand plans.’ He glanced at the knife the druid still held. It glinted in the lamplight. ‘Elizabeth would be delighted if she knew your fate, you mongrel.’

Another spurt of guilt surged through John’s chest at the mention of her name. Why did I promise?

Still, whatever torture Edward planned it was nothing more than John deserved. He turned to face the priest, to face death, praying the knife was sharp and the hand that wielded it quick and sure.

‘Your waistcoat, if you please,’ Plunkett ordered after passing the bowl back to the druid.

John frowned at the delay but didn’t argue, silently divesting himself of the garment with an economy of motion. As he took in the unique rasp of silk on fine cotton for the last time, he almost laughed at the covetous expression that crossed the valet’s face as he smoothed his hands over the expensive fabric. John didn’t doubt that the man would make fast with any belongings he could lay his hands on after his demise.

No matter. If such objects were of importance to his plebeian sensibilities, then he was welcome to them.

It is said that one reassesses priorities when death is imminent, and John could not agree more. But he had no time to reflect upon any newfound wisdom: the druid had set the bowl aflame and the room began to reek of burned hair. The man waved the bowl about and chanted in some Celtic dialect that sounded ancient and forbidding.

Again he drew his knife, motioning for Edward to put out his arm.

Edward didn’t move a muscle when the druid sliced his forearm, his rabid gaze almost gleeful as his lifeblood dripped into the bowl with a slow hiss. The stench of burning hair and sizzling blood pervaded the room and John struggled not to gag as acid rose up his throat.

For pity’s sake just do it!

The druid lifted his head and gestured over the bowl as he recited his ancient hex.

Perhaps his cousin had asked for a spell to turn him into a toad or lizard, John thought. Or maybe a hunting bird … Edward would see the irony of keeping him tethered and almost starved in order to do his bidding.

John understood next to nothing of the druid’s words, though he spoke of celestial spheres and the rising of the sun and moon.

Lightning lit the room as if heralding his end.

Then with a final flourish the druid blew the smoke into John’s face.

Coughing and spluttering, John’s eyes stung as he tried to draw a clear breath.

Another bolt of lightning lit the room like day, cutting through the smoky haze.

‘Fate, cousin,’ Edward growled beside his ear.

Before John could even turn his head, the druid called upon the combined power of Jupiter and Saturn, and as a deafening peal of thunder rolled through the manor, he pressed his open hand over John’s heart and pushed.

Astonished, John stumbled backward and braced for the explosion of glass. The ice-cold mirror resisted momentarily, but instead of shattering, it transformed to the texture of thick mud as he fell back. An instant later, John found himself surrounded by complete blackness. Utter cold pierced his chest.

So this is hell.

Journal of Edward James Ditchley,

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England.

October 22, 1861

It is done, my one and only love.

When I confronted him, he admitted it. Admitted it – the murderer! I have no words to explain the desolation his betrayal has caused me, my darling Elizabeth. Such bastardry cannot be believed. I begged him to tell me why but he refused to speak, he just kept saying that he loved you, too. How much? I asked. How much had he loved you, my Elizabeth? Had he loved you in other ways? – I demanded directly. But still he refused to speak. It is the only answer … he wronged me! Did he rape you, my poor Elizabeth? Because that is all it could have been – I know you would never have submitted to him, betrayed our love, our marriage. Oh, Elizabeth, why did you not fight him? When I told him that I planned to destroy him, he all but gave his blessing, the murderous fool. It was almost as if he wanted to die.

Little did he suspect my plan for retribution.

So, my darling Elizabeth, our vengeance has begun and his hell will indeed be without end …