There was no judgment in nature. No staring and whispered conversations as he passed. No hurtful monikers behind his back. He knew that the people of Theydon village called him the Phantom and, in some cases, the Ghoul. Julian smiled mirthlessly. Perhaps the nicknames were apposite.
He unconsciously flexed his gloved hands against the reins.
Those hands would make a ghost of any person he touched. Of any living thing. He would not inflict that on any person, though he loved plants and animals more than people anyway. He had never had the courage to test the efficacy of the curse against other living things. Neither the courage nor the stomach.
He patted Rufus’ neck and the horse tossed its head, giving a soft snort which Julian knew was a sound of pleasure. Rufus was used to his master’s nocturnal wakefulness and always appeared restive and frolicsome in his stall while Julian’s other beasts were lowering their heads to sleep. He smiled, a thin smile that lacked the depth of true happiness. Life was lonely and dark for a man who shunned society and preferred the disguise of the night. The sun was stark and revealing. Better to be a phantom in the night.
A shriek opened his eyes.
He frowned.
It had been a female sound, and it came from ahead, its origin swamped by shadow. Halting Rufus, he waited for a moment, closing his eyes once more.
Another scream and the unmistakable sound of a blow being struck. A man’s grunt and the sound of a body falling.
These roads were stiff with brigands and highwaymen. Julian carried a brace of loaded pistols, secured to Rufus’ saddle strap for just such an eventuality. Digging in his heels, he urged Rufus forward, trusting the horse’s experience to avoid pitfalls. Fifty yards ahead was the old boathouse. The sound had come from there. Julian urged more speed from Rufus, knowing that the road between here and there was flat and even. When a man appeared at the side of the road, climbing the embankment up from the boathouse, he almost ended up beneath Rufus’ hooves.
The stallion was well-trained enough not to rear as the sudden danger presented itself. Instead, he turned without bidding by Julian, and presented a hefty shoulder to the potential threat. Julian heard a man cry out, and the twin sounds of a body rolling down the short embankment and the unexpected noise of clinking metal. Spilling coin, perhaps? Convinced that he had just interrupted a highwayman about his work, Julian reached down to draw a pistol, cocking it, and turned Rufus so that there was an uninterrupted field of fire down to where the man had rolled.
“I am armed and ready to fire!” he called into the night, “surrender!”
Running footsteps came from below, heading along the lakeshore. Julian’s sharp, dark-accustomed eyes made out the shape of a man, running hard along the shoreline. He didn’t bother firing but instead looked around, turning Rufus slowly in case the robber had any confederates nearby.
There was no other sound.
Keeping the pistol cocked, Julian relaxed. He swung from the saddle in a swift, easy motion and began to lead Rufus down the slope by the reins. Before long, his boot hit something hard, producing a metallic clink.
Relinquishing the reins, William reached down and found the straps of a leather satchel. Reaching one gloved hand inside, he found it to be full of coins, as expected. William slung the bag over his shoulder. It would have to be presented to the nearest magistrate or justice of the peace to be returned to its rightful owner or owners. That was not his business, however. Crammond could take care of it.
Another sound reached him, bringing the pistol up into readiness once more. A break in the clouds provided brief illumination. Julian saw another figure moving along the side of the boathouse, some twenty yards away. It moved unsteadily but not stealthily, turned the corner, and began walking along the old jetty. He heard footsteps on the wooden walkway clearly. Perhaps a hidden ally of the robber was making their way to a boat.
Julian was about to call out to the figure when a gust of wind disturbed the hood of the cloak the figure wore. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw long, curling locks and a pale face in profile. It was a woman. Suddenly, she was running. The last few yards of the jetty were swallowed by quick strides before she launched herself into the water.
Julian stood for a moment in shocked disbelief. A woman in cloak and dress would not last long in deep water, even at the warmest time of year. Her garments would become sodden and would drag her to the bottom in short order. But this was late January and the water several degrees colder than the air, which itself was cold enough to raise a shiver. The shock of such frigid water would steal the breath from her lungs.
Julian dropped the pistol and grabbed Rufus’ reins. Knowing that time was of the essence, he put one foot in the stirrup and urged Rufus forward, aware the horse could cover the required distance faster than Julian could run. He clung precariously as Rufus leaped across the ground to the boathouse.
As it loomed over him, Julian dove clear. Rickety wood clattered beneath his boots as he sprinted along the jetty, discarding his overcoat as he ran, followed by his coat and vest. Ahead was a spreading circle of ripples where the woman had entered the water and disappeared. The bottom of the lake was an underwater cliff edge, dropping away steeply. It was the reason the boathouse had been built in that location long ago, providing pleasure boating to the lords of Theydon Mount.
That was when the Earls of Theydon had ruled over these lands. That title was now defunct and the estate shrunken by death duties and taxes. Only the castle, hidden in the depths of Epping Forest, remained.Theydon Mount, now the property of the Barrington family as represented by Julian. A home many miles from the home he had inherited and could not bring himself to live in.
He didn’t stop to remove his boots but leaped from the edge of the jetty, hands outstretched and feet together. He hit the water like an arrow, scything through the icy blackness towards the spot where he had last seen the ripples.
Opening his eyes did little, the water was inky.
Instead, he quested outward with his fingers, stretching and reaching all around. But the gloves were an impedance, they hampered his ability to feel anything in the water. Impatiently, he stripped them away with his teeth, holding them clenched between them. It was dangerous, but the woman would die anyway if he could not find her. When his lungs felt about to burst, something brushed his fingertips, hair, or fabric. Julian kicked directly upward and broke the surface, sucking in a lungful of air and then upturning himself and diving downwards. In the darkness, the distance seemed to stretch until he wondered if he were about to reach the bottom. Then, something curled around his fingers again. Hair, unmistakably.
Julian reacted instantly, clenching his fingers around the hair and, once again, kicking for the surface. The woman did not seem to be supporting herself or helping him. She was a deadweight. Julian broke the surface and hauled with both hands on the thick hair. When the woman’s head joined him in the air, he began to kick for the shore. The gloves had slipped from his teeth in the swim up from the depths but he could not waste time looking for them. The woman was unconscious, not coughing or struggling.Not breathing.
He swam past the rotting piles of the jetty until his boots kicked against the shale of the lake bottom in the shallows. Still holding her by the hair, Julian hauled the woman up onto the shore, clear of the lapping water.
Then he fell to his knees beside her and put his ear to her mouth.
Nothing.
Next, he listened for a heartbeat.
Nothing.
