Colleen McCullough - Morgan’s Run

“Damned bitch!” Richard shouted, turning his head to glare at Annemarie, quite as frightened as Trevillian. Shivering, she eeled up the bed and tried to retreat into the wall. “You bitch! You whore! And to think that I acknowledged ye as my wife to save your reputation! I did not deem ye a whore, madam, but I was mistaken!” His furious gaze went from her to the window-sill, whereon sat Trevillian’s watch, purse and fob. “Where is your candle, madam?” he asked, snarling. “Whores advertise for custom by putting a candle in the window, but I see no candle!” He reeled, staggered, sat heavily on the side of the bed and put the hammer to Trevillian’s forehead. “As for you, Ceely, ’twas you forced me to call this slut my wife, so you can take the consequences! I’ll have you up in court on charges of wife-stealing!”

Trevillian tried to slither away; Richard took his shoulder in an agonizing grip and tapped the hammer very gently against his sweating brow. “No, Ceely, do not move. Otherwise your blood will be all over this pretty white counterpane.”

“What are you going to do?” whispered Annemarie, sounding very afraid. “Richard, you are drunk! I beg you, not murder!” Her voice rose shrilly. “Put the hammer down, Richard! Put the hammer down! Not murder! Put it down!”

Richard obeyed with a spitting sound of contempt, though the hammer remained much closer to his hand than to Trevillian’s.

Think, Ceely Trevillian, think! He is murderous but not by nature a murderer-work on him, calm him, get this thing going in the direction it was intended to go!

Richard lifted the hammer amid Annemarie’s shrieks of terror and used its head to flick Trevillian’s shirt up around his belly. Then he looked at Annemarie in feigned amazement. “Is that what ye wanted? My, ye must be desperate for gold!” He didn’t know which one of the guilty pair he hated more-Annemarie for selling her favors or Ceely Trevillian for putting him in this cuckold’s situation by forcing him to indicate that she was a wife; so he hurtled, rum-impelled, down the only path he could see would make both of them pay. At least on this memorable evening and for however long after it that his rage endured. Not as far as a court, no. Not as far as a profit, no. But if he died for it, he would make them fear him and fear the consequences.

His hand shot out too quickly to see, took Trevillian by the throat and lifted him bodily to kneel in the middle of the bed. “I have here a witness that ye stole my wife, sir. I intend to prosecute ye for”-he hesitated, plucked a figure out of nowhere-“a thousand pounds in damages. I am a respectable artisan and I do not relish the role of a cuckold, especially when my cuckolder is a turd like you, Ceely Trevillian. Ye were willing to pay for my wife’s services-well, the fee has just gone up.”

Think, Ceely, think! It is going where I thought I would have to lead it without his aid. He is talking more, acting with less violence. The rum is slowing him down at last.

Trevillian wet his lips and found the words he had rehearsed. “Morgan, I acknowledge that ye have the right to take measures at law, and I admit that ye’d get some damages. But let us not air this matter in a court, please! My mama and brother-! And think of your wife, of her public reputation! Were her name to be bandied about in a court, she would be jobless and cast out.”

Yes, the rage was dying; Morgan looked suddenly confused, ill, at a loss. Trevillian babbled on. “I admit my guilt freely, but let me settle this out of court-here and now, Morgan, here and now! Ye would not get a thousand pounds, but ye might get five hundred. Let me give you my note of hand for five hundred pounds, Morgan, please! Then we can call the matter settled.”

Thrown off balance by this cow-hearted surrender, Richard sat on the edge of the bed wondering what to do now. He had envisioned Trevillian fighting back, resisting, daring him to do his worst-why had he envisioned that? Because of memories of the slim, crisp excise defrauder stripped in the moonlight of his fancy clothes and fancy manners? But that, he realized now, was a Trevillian in complete control of a situation. The man had no genuine sinew, he was a fraud in every way.

“ ’Tis a fair offer, Richard,” said Willy Insell timidly.

“Very well,” Richard said, and got off the bed. “Dress yourself, Ceely, ye look ridiculous.”

Having scrambled any old how into his plush jade green outfit embroidered in peacock blue, Trevillian followed Richard into the back room and sat down at Annemarie’s desk. Hopeful that he would see a share in Richard’s windfall, Willy Insell followed; what Willy did not realize was that Richard had no intention of cashing any note of hand. All Richard wanted was to make the fellow sweat over the next few days at the prospect of losing £500.

The note of hand for £500 was made payable to Richard Morgan of Clifton, and signed “Jno. Trevillian.”

Richard studied it, tore it up. “Again, Ceely,” he said. “Sign it with all your wretched names, not half of them.”

At the top of the stairs the temptation was too much; Richard applied the toe of his shoe to Trevillian’s meager buttocks and sent him pitching down with a roll and a somersault, the noise of his body when it struck the flimsy board partition echoing like thunder. By the time he reached the tiny square of hall, Trevillian was yelling at the top of his lungs. No cool excise defrauder now! He tugged at the door and fell into the lane, weeping and howling, there to be succored by all the neighbors.

Richard shot the bolt and went up the stairs to Annemarie, but without Willy Insell, who scuttled down into his cellar.

She had not moved. Her eyes followed Richard as he crossed to the bed and picked up the hammer again.

“I ought to kill you,” he said tiredly.

She shrugged. “But you will not, Richard. It is not in you, even with the rum.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Ah, but Ceely believed for a moment that you would. A surprise for that one, so confident, so full of himself, so fond of complicated schemes.”

He might have fastened upon this remark as betraying a more intimate knowledge of Ceely Trevillian than a chance encounter in a bed, but someone was pounding on the front door. “Now what?” he asked, and went downstairs. “Yes?” he called.

“Mr. Trevillian wants his watch back,” said a man’s voice.

“Tell Mr. Trevillian that he can have his watch back after I have had satisfaction!” Richard roared through the bolted door. “He wants his watch back,” he said as he re-entered the bedroom.

The watch was still lying on the window-sill, though the fob and purse had gone.

“Give it back,” said Annemarie suddenly. “Throw it out the window to him, please.”

“I’m damned if I will! He can have it back, but when I am good and ready.” He picked it up and examined it. “What a conceit! Steel. All the go, top of the trees, very dapper.” The watch went into his greatcoat pocket alongside the note of hand.

“I am out of here,” he said, feeling very sick.

She was off the bed in an instant, throwing on a dress, shoving her bare feet into shoes. “Richard, wait! Willy, Willy, come and help me!” she called.

Willy appeared as they reached the bottom of the stairs, face dismayed. “Here, Richard, what are ye going to do? Leave be!”

“If it is Ceely ye’re worried about, there is no need,” said Richard, stepping into the lane and inhaling fresh air deeply. “He ain’t here now. The performance stopped two minutes ago.”

He set off toward Brandon Hill, Annemarie on one side of him and Willy on the other, three vague outlines in the pitch darkness of a place not lit by any lamps.