John Saul - The Right Hand of Evil

SILENCE.

SHE STOLE OUT INTO THE NARROW CORRIDOR THAT LED TO THE BACK STAIRS, THEN MOVED ALONG THE MEZZANINE UNTIL SHE CAME TO THE ROOM IN WHICH MISTER FRANK'S BRIDE WAS STAYING. GLANCING AROUND ONCE MORE TO BE CERTAIN SHE WASN'T BEING WATCHED, BESSIE OPENED THE DOOR AND SLIPPED INSIDE.

THE ROOM'S OCCUPANT WAS LYING ON A CHAISE NEAR THE OPEN WINDOW, HER EYES CLOSED, A BOOK OPEN ON HER BREAST. BESSIE CROSSED THE ROOM AND BENT DOWN. "MISS ABIGAIL?" SHE ASKED. "MISS ABIGAIL, ARE YOU AWAKE?"

STARTLED OUT OF THE DOZE THE SOMNOLENT SUMMER AFTERNOON HAD BROUGHT HER, ABIGAIL SMITHERS SAT UP TOO QUICKLY AND THE VOLUME OF POETRY SHE'D BEEN READING FELL TO THE FLOOR. IN AN INSTANT, BESSIE SNATCHED IT UP AND RETURNED IT TO ITS OWNER.

"CAREFUL," THE MAID CAUTIONED. "BOOKS ARE VALUABLE."

"IT'S ONLY SOME VERSE," ABIGAIL SAID, SMILING AT BESSIE.

BESSIE'S EYES REMAINED SERIOUS. "ALL BOOKS ARE VALUABLE," SHE SAID. "ESPECIALLY THIS ONE." SHE UNWRAPPED THE BIBLE AND PLACED IT IN ABIGAIL SMITHERS'S HANDS. "I BEEN HOLDING THIS," SHE SAID. "I BEEN HOLDING IT FOR NEAR ON TO FOURTEEN YEARS. IT BE YOURS NOW."

HER BROW KNITTING IN PUZZLEMENT, ABIGAIL STARTED TO OPEN THE THICK VOLUME, BUT BESSIE LAID HER HAND GENTLY ON THE OTHER WOMAN'S, STAYING IT.

"IT'S FOR LATER," BESSIE SAID SOFTLY. "YOU DON'T WANT TO BE READING IT NOW, NOT THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING."

ABIGAIL'S EYES FIXED ON THE SERVANT. "THEN WHEN SHOULD I READ IT?" SHE ASKED.

BESSIE DELACOURT STRAIGHTENED UP. "YOU'LL KNOW," SHE SAID QUIETLY. "YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO READ WHAT'S WRITTEN IN IT, AND YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO WRITE IN IT YOURSELF. BUT IT BELONGS TO THE WOMEN OF THIS FAMILY. IT HOLDS ALL THE SECRETS. THE MEN DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT, AND THEY DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT IT!"

AS BESSIE DELACOURT LEFT THE ROOM, ABIGAIL SMITHERS GAZED APPREHENSIVELY AT THE BIBLE, HER FINGERS STROKING ITS ALREADY WORN LEATHER. SHOULD SHE OPEN IT?

BUT NO-BESSIE HAD SPECIFICALLY TOLD HER SHE SHOULDN'T READ IT NOW. AND SHE WAS CERTAIN SHE KNEW WHY. UNDOUBTEDLY, THE PAGES CHRONICLED ALL THE INEVITABLE TRAGEDIES THAT HAD BEFALLEN FRANK'S FAMILY OVER THE YEARS, AS WELL AS THE JOYS ALL FAMILIES SHARED, AND THE SERVANT DIDN'T WANT HER TO CLOUD THE HAPPINESS OF TOMORROW BY READING THE SAD PARTS TODAY.

CARRYING THE BIBLE TO THE TRUNK SHE'D BROUGHT WITH HER LAST WEEK FROM BATON ROUGE, SHE BURIED IT DEEP BENEATH THE LINENS AND LINGERIE THAT WERE HER TROUSSEAU.

THE SERVANT WAS PROBABLY RIGHT-SHE WOULD KNOW WHEN TO READ THE ENTRIES IN THE BIBLE, BUT IT CERTAINLY WAS NOT TODAY.

OR TOMORROW, EITHER.

BESSIE DELACOURT POLISHED THE LAST SMUDGE OFF THE LAST PENDANT OF THE IMMENSE CHANDELIER THAT HUNG OVER THE GREAT MAHOGANY TABLE IN THE DINING ROOM. THE CLOCK IN THE LIBRARY WAS TOLLING THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT, AND EVERY MUSCLE IN HER BODY PROTESTED AS SHE CLIMBED DOWN OFF THE LADDER.

BONE-WEARY, THAT'S WHAT SHE WAS.

JUST PLAIN BONE-WEARY.

BUT THE WORK WAS DONE-LEASTWAYS THE HARD WORK WAS. SHE AND FRANCY WOULD STILL BE UP UNTIL DAWN POLISHING THE SILVER, BUT THEY COULD DO THAT AT THE WORKTABLE IN THE KITCHEN, WHERE AT LEAST SHE WOULDN'T HAVE TO STRETCH HER BACK AND TWIST HER NECK EVERY WHICHWAY LIKE SHE'D HAD TO DO WHILE STRAINING TO GET A GOOD LOOK AT EVERY FACET OF THE CRYSTALS ON THE CHANDELIER.

SHE WAS JUST LEANING OVER TO PICK UP THE BUCKET WITH THE AMMONIA WATER SHE'D USED TO CLEAN THE CHANDELIER WHEN SHE HEARD THE VOICE.

"LEAVE IT!"

THE TWO WORDS STUNG BESSIE LIKE THE STING OF A WASP, AND SHE JERKED UPRIGHT, STARTLED. FRAMED BY THE DOUBLE DOORS THAT LED TO THE HOUSE'S CENTRAL HALL WAS FRANCIS CONWAY.

MISTER FRANK.

FRANCY'S FATHER.

"IT'S TIME," HE SAID AS THE LAST TOLL OF THE HOUR DIED AWAY. "COME WITH ME."

A COLD KNOT OF FEAR FORMED IN BESSIE'S BELLY, AND SHE WANTED MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD TO TURN AWAY FROM FRANK CONWAY, TO RUN AWAY FROM THIS HOUSE, TO TAKE FRANCY AND FLEE BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE.

BUT SHE KNEW SHE COULD NOT, BECAUSE THE MOMENT FRANK CONWAY HAD SPOKEN, BESSIE HAD LOOKED INTO HIS EYES.

SHE HADN'T MEANT TO.

SHE WISHED SHE HADN'T.

BUT SHE HAD, AND NOW, JUST AS THEY HAD SO MANY TIMES BEFORE, FRANK CONWAY'S BLUE EYES HELD HER. IT WAS LIKE THEY COULD JUST REACH OUT AND TAKE HOLD OF HER, MAKING HER DO THINGS SHE'D NEVER DO IF IT WAS LEFT UP TO HER.

THINGS SHE COULDN'T EVEN THINK ABOUT, LET ALONE TELL ANYONE ABOUT.

AND NOW, THE NIGHT BEFORE HE WAS GOING TO MARRY THAT NICE MISS ABIGAIL FROM BATON ROUGE, HE WANTED TO DO IT AGAIN.

AND SHE KNEW SHE WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO STOP HIM, NOT ANY MORE THAN SHE'D BEEN ABLE TO STOP HIM IN ALL THE YEARS THAT HAD GONE BEFORE.

NOW SHE FOLLOWED HIM THROUGH THE DOOR THAT LED TO THE BASEMENT STAIRS.

DOWN THE STAIRS.

THROUGH THE DOOR THAT WAS ALWAYS LOCKED, THAT ONLY MISTER FRANK AND MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR COULD OPEN.

INTO THE DARKNESS THAT WAS PIERCED ONLY BY THE LIGHT OF A FEW CANDLES…

BUT EVEN IN THE LIGHT OF THE CANDLES, BESSIE DELACOURT COULD SEE THE COUNTENANCE OF MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR GLOWERING AT HER.

AND SEE THE GLINT OF LIGHT THAT REFLECTED FROM THE BLADE OF THE KNIFE HE HELD IN HIS HANDS.

INSTINCTIVELY, BESSIE KNEW WHAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO HER.

THE SAME THING THAT HAD HAPPENED TO LITTLE LUCINDA-HER PRECIOUS LUCY, WHOM SHE'D BARELY SEEN BEFORE MISTER FRANK HAD TAKEN HER AWAY.

AS MISTER FRANK PICKED HER UP AND LAID HER ON THE TABLE BEHIND WHICH MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR STOOD, BESSIE FELT NO FEAR, FELT NO URGE TO SCREAM OUT.

BUT SHE KNEW, AS SHE WATCHED MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR RAISE THE KNIFE ABOVE HER, THAT SHE WOULD NOT RUN AWAY WITH FRANCY NEXT YEAR.

INSTEAD, SHE WOULD GO-THIS VERY MINUTE-TO JOIN LUCY.

AS THE KNIFE SANK INTO HER CHEST AND PIERCED HER HEART, BESSIE DELACOURT FELT A GREAT PEACEFULNESS COME OVER HER.

SHE, LIKE MISS LORETTA BEFORE HER, AT LAST WAS FREE OF THE CONWAY FAMILY.

Monsignor Devlin once again closed the Bible. Was it possible that Frank Conway could have killed his own child, as Bessie Delacourt said? But of course it was-a hundred years ago a child born of a servant in St. Albans was less valued than a hunting dog.

But even so…

The old priest flipped back, searching for an entry in the Bible that might have predated the one made by Loretta Villiers, but found none. Then, as he examined the ancient Bible more closely, he saw something: deep in the crevice between the two pages, cut so close to the binding as to be all but invisible, was the remainder of a page that had been removed from the volume.

Had Cora taken it out before giving him the Bible?

Or had it been someone else, someone who had gone before?

Sighing heavily, Monsignor Devlin put the Bible aside. Later, when his eyes were up to it, he would continue reading the rest of the entries made through the years by the women who had kept this strange journal of the family they had married into. But for now he turned to the histories of his own church-the parish of St. Albans-searching for some clue as to who this Monsignor Melchior could have been, this man who by the title associated with his name must once have been a priest.

A priest who had broken his vows and abandoned his vocation, yet kept his title?

Why?

He gazed dispiritedly at the thick journals filled with the scribblings of all the priests who had preceded him in St. Albans. Most of their hands were no more legible than that of the semiliterate servant, Bessie Delacourt. If he were truly going to find the answer to what might have been written on the pages that had been torn from the Conway family Bible, he would need help.

Father MacNeill!

Of course! He would talk to Father MacNeill, whose mind was much younger and sharper than his own.

Feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his back, Monsignor Devlin let his tired eyes close, and quickly drifted into the quiet of sleep.