Colleen McCullough - Morgan’s Run

Consternation beganat the Cooper’s Arms well before William Henry was due home from school at a quarter past two; news of the Head’s death had twinkled around the city at the speed of sunlight on water. The school was closed for the day, but William Henry had not come home. When Richard, tired and discouraged, walked through the door at three o’clock, he was greeted by two agitated grandparents and the news that his son was missing.

A crawling march of numbness paralyzed his mouth and jaw, but his physical exhaustion fled immediately. He tried to speak, open-close-open-close, and finally managed to mumble that he would start looking for William Henry.

“You go in the direction of Colston’s,” said Dick, untying his apron. “I will go toward Redcliff. Mag, shut up shop.”

Words were a little easier. “He will have gone to Clifton, Father. I will go across Brandon Hill, you go along the rope walk. We will meet at the Hotwells House.”

His heart was pounding at twice its normal speed, his mouth was so dry that he could find no spit to swallow, but Richard hurried as much as pausing to question everybody he saw allowed; by the time he reached the Brandon Hill footpath there were few to inquire of, but he stopped to knock on the doors of the apartment houses around Jacob’s Well-no, no one had seen an errant little boy.

At Boyce’s Buildings he had his first success; Richard the groom was still pottering around the stable yard.

“Aye, sir, I saw him early this morning-devilish fine young chap! Helped me hay and water the horses, and I gave him a bit to eat and drink. Then he went on up Clifton Hill, free as a bird.”

There was nothing in face or eyes to lead Richard to suspect that the man lied; Richard the groom was exactly what he purported to be, a friendly fellow who enjoyed the company of errant little boys without stopping to think that his first duty ought to have been a box on the ears and a boot up William Henry’s backside to push him in the direction of home.

With a muttered thank you, Richard toiled at an accelerated pace up Clifton Hill until he was high enough to see for miles. But the downs were deserted save for grazing sheep, and though he probed the eaves of every grove of trees, no William Henry emerged from their shelter.

At six o’clock he walked into the Hotwells House to find Dick already waiting there, and big with news.

“Richard, he was here for dinner! Came on horseback with a man in his forties-good-looking fellow, according to Mrs. Harris-an old lady who was here at the time. And they stood on very good terms. Laughed and joked as if they knew each other real well. They walked off toward St. Vincent’s Rocks. About an hour later, Mrs. Harris and two other women saw the man ride off alone, looking sick. William Henry was not with him.”

The lessee was hovering, very alarmed at developments. All he needed at this moment was a scandal, so he thrust a big glass of the Hotwells water into Richard’s hand free of charge and slunk off a little way to watch.

Without tasting its bitterness or smelling its odor of rotten eggs, Richard drained it at a gulp. His whole body was trembling, his clothes soaked with sweat; the eyes he turned to his father were horrified. “Come,” he said curtly, and walked out.

There was evidence that William Henry and his companion had been in the spot Richard knew from that previous visit; the grass was trampled and daisies had been picked, lay in a wilting heap. They called and called, but no one answered, then they climbed the rocks to inspect every crevice, ledge, hollow. No one was anywhere. The Avon, ebbing now, was shrinking backward into its gorge.

Dick made no attempt to persuade Richard to cease searching until twilight came, then he put a hand on his son’s arm and shook it gently. “Time to go back to the Cooper’s Arms,” he said. “In the morning we will mount a full party and look again.”

“Father, he is here, he did not leave here!” said Richard on a sobbing breath.

Do not mention the river! Do not put that thought into his poor head! “If he is here, we will find him in the morning. Now come home, Richard. Come home.”

They plodded toward Bristol, neither man vouchsafing a word-Richard in a fever of anguish, Dick cold to his marrow.

Though the door to the Cooper’s Arms bore a sign that it was closed, three men sat around the table near the counter, looking at their hands until the door opened. Cousin James-of-the-clergy, Cousin James-the-druggist, and the Reverend Mr. Prichard. Between them on the table was a sketchbook, face down.

“William Henry!” Richard cried. “Where is William Henry?”

“Sit down, Richard,” said Cousin James-the-druggist, who, as senior member of the clan, was always the one delegated to break bad news. Cousin James-of-the-clergy served as his assistant, ready to take over once the bad news had been given.

“Tell me!” said Richard through his teeth.

“William Henry’s Latin master is a man named George Parfrey,” said Cousin James-the-druggist in even tones, and managing to meet those half-crazed eyes. “This afternoon Parfrey shot himself. He left this.” He turned the sketchbook over.

The identity of the subject was unmistakable, even through the spatters of blood. “I have caused the death of William Henry Morgan.”

His knees gave. Richard fell upon them, his face whiter than the paper. “It cannot be,” he said. “It cannot be.”

“It must be, Richard. The man shot himself dead.” Cousin James-the-druggist crouched down beside Richard and smoothed his matted hair.

“He imagined it! Perhaps William Henry ran away.”

“I doubt that very much. Parfrey’s words indicate that he-he killed William Henry. If ye have not found the child, then he must have thrown William Henry into the Avon.”

“No, no, no!” Hands over his face, Richard rocked back and forth.

“What have you to say?” Dick asked Mr. Prichard aggressively.

Prichard wet his lips, turned grey. “We heard the shot and found Parfrey with his brains blown out. The drawing was near him. I went straight to the Reverend Morgan”-he indicated Cousin James-of-the-clergy-“and then we came here. I am-I do not know-words cannot say-oh, Mr. Morgan, if you knew my sorrow and regret! But Parfrey had been at Colston’s for ten years, he seemed a decent man, and his pupils thought him wonderful. What lies at the base of this is a mystery I cannot even begin to solve.”

Still on his knees, Richard heard as if in the far, far distance the voices rising and falling; Dick was recounting today’s expedition to Clifton, the events at the Hotwells House, the trodden grass and the plucked daisies in the little cove along the Avon.

“William Henry must have fallen into the river and drowned,” said Mr. Prichard. “We wondered at the way Parfrey phrased it-as if he witnessed the death, rather than committed murder.”

“Though he caused the death,” said Cousin James-of-the-clergy, in tones harder than a minister’s had any right to be. “May he rot!”

The voices continued to come and go, accompanied by the sobs of Mag in a corner, her apron thrown over her head, Hecuba mourning.

“He is not dead,” said Richard what seemed like hours later. “I know William Henry is not dead.”

“Tomorrow we will have half of Bristol looking, Richard, that I promise you,” said Cousin James-the-druggist. What he did not say was that most of the looking would be done along the banks of the Avon and the Froom, especially at low tide. Bodies did wash up-cats, dogs, horses, sheep and cows in the main, but occasionally some drowned man or woman or child would be found lying on the mud, one more piece of wreckage vomited up by the rivers.