The Sacred Knife, page 4
In the meantime, he felt sorry for the teacher who tried to develop talent where none existed.
“Ah, that’s better,” said the teacher.
Eric looked at her and smiled sadly, “Thanks, Mrs. Lawson. But we both know I’m hopeless.”
Mrs. Lawson shook her head. “No, Eric, you are definitely not hopeless.” She took his hands and held them up in front of him. “These,” she said, gently rubbing his fingers, “play the music.” She tapped his forehead, adding, “You are trying to make your fingers play the music in your head. But that’s not where the music is, Eric. It’s here.” She tapped his chest gently. “Music comes from your heart, not your head. Allow yourself to feel the music, Eric, and your fingers will do the rest.”
Henry arrived at the parlour door, a signal that the time was up. The teacher packed up her books, looked down at the boy, and tapped his chest one more time. “It’s in there, Eric. I can see it when you’re playing. You just need to let it out.”
So, just maybe I’m not hopeless—at least, not entirely, he mused.
Rose Simpson was sitting at the writing table in the library, penning a letter to her sister and listening to Eric’s piano lesson. She knew the boy was probably getting frustrated at what he thought was a lack of progress. But Rose knew differently. She noted the progress that he was making, even if he didn’t. She could hear the music starting to flow rather than just being a connection of notes.
Beatrice would be visiting with her children at the end of the following month. They would be on their way to Halifax, where her family had passage booked to Le Havre, France. Rose would miss her sister, but it would provide an opportunity for her to visit Paris once they were settled—maybe next summer. It would be an experience that Eric would never forget. The purpose of the letter she was writing was to assure Beatrice that she and her family would be most welcome to stop by the manor for a few days, and to verify the expected dates.
She signed the letter, pushed away from the writing desk, and looked wistfully at the painting of her and Matthew above the fireplace.
In the painting, Matthew was wearing a peaked cap and a dark, double-breasted jacket fastened with gold buttons. He was tall with dark hair and a full but neatly trimmed beard that had streaks of grey, giving it a salt and pepper look. His face had a weathered, chiselled appearance, indicative of many years at sea. Matt was standing behind her in the painting, and she was seated in an upholstered armchair, one of his hands resting on her shoulder.
To Rose’s right, in the painting, there was a table—the writing table that she often used and was currently sitting at, which was normally in the corner of the library but had been moved for the painting. The artist had included all the details from the table, such as the inkbottle, quill, and the odd-looking letter opener.
Rose’s nostalgic examination of the painting was interrupted by a sharp knocking at the front door. A moment later Mildred, the maid, poked her head into the library and announced, “There’s a gentleman here to see you ma’am. A Robert Manse.”
Rose was unable to hide her surprise. “Robert Manse? Here?” What does he want? “Okay, Mildred. Bring him in, please.”
A few seconds later Mildred ushered Manse into the library. Manse was husky and stood a couple inches under six feet. She sensed his husky build was more muscle than fat, and he emanated a certain force that she found unsettling. He had a heavy moustache and a close-cropped beard that would have been becoming on most men, but on Manse, with his slightly copper-hued skin, he appeared more like a brigand.
“Mr. Manse,” she said. “This is indeed a surprise.”
Manse took her proffered hand and gently kissed her fingers. At least he has good manners, she thought.
“Forgive me, madam, for arriving unannounced,” stated Manse. “I felt it necessary to extend to you my apologies for our disagreement over Mr. Whitehead.”
Manse was here because of Whitehead?
“I don’t think an apology is really necessary, Mr. Manse. After all, it was more a difference of opinion—I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a ‘disagreement’. It definitely wasn’t necessary to make such a long ride from Charlottetown.”
“I appreciate your understanding, Mrs. Simpson,” continued Manse. “I fear my enthusiasm for a well-run orphanage may have blinded me to the possible detrimental effects such proficiency could have on the children. We both serve on the board, and I was uncomfortable should anything distract us from what we both hold paramount—the children.”
Manse tried to probe the woman’s mind, making use of his ability to sense what people were thinking, searching for secrets he could use against them. It wasn’t working, he was being blocked, which surprised him because the widow Simpson was not a Pegasi. Only the Pegasi were immune from his mind-probing powers.
Rose couldn’t read the expression on Manse’s face. “Yes,” she agreed, “the welfare of the children must always remain uppermost. I am sure that as long as the children’s welfare is our common goal, we shall have no difficulty working together.”
Manse’s eyes strayed to the painting above the fireplace. “Your late husband, ma’am?” he asked, inclining his head to the portrait. His eyes took in the painting and then focused on the writing table depicted beside Rose. He paled.
The knife? Not possible! Yet there it was, clearly displayed in the portrait.
His reaction must have been more evident than he thought, as Mrs. Simpson asked, “Mr. Manse, sir? Are you alright?”
“Ah, um, yes ma’am,” he stammered. “It was just a momentary fugue brought on by the heat of the ride.”
Mrs. Simpson was clearly perplexed. “Please forgive my poor manners,” she declared. She went to the hall and called, “Mildred! Please bring us some iced tea!”
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she touched Manse’s elbow and said, “Let’s go outside onto the veranda. There’s a cool breeze, and Mildred will bring some iced tea. Unless you would prefer something stronger?” she added.
Manse smiled. “No, iced tea would be sufficient.” He would actually have preferred some brandy, but it would not have been appropriate to request it, even though it had been offered. He needed to stay on Mrs. Simpson’s good side.
“Would you care to stay for dinner, Mr. Manse?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Simpson. But I need to return to Charlottetown. It’s a long ride, and I have business I must attend to tonight.”
Mildred appeared with a tray bearing two cups and a pitcher of iced tea, condensation running down it. As Mildred was pouring, a boy bounded up the steps and rather breathlessly asked, “Mrs. Simpson, can I go to Tommy’s for a while?” He stopped when he noticed Manse.
It took all of Manse’s effort to control his reaction upon seeing the boy. Impossible! A Pegasi! Here?
Rose smiled at Eric. “May I go,” she corrected. “Yes, but be back in time for dinner.”
Eric nodded, but he was still looking at Manse. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and was gone.
Although Manse had been to the orphanage, it was unlikely that Eric would have seen him, let alone know who he was. Nevertheless, Rose observed the worried look that Eric expressed upon seeing Manse.
“Is that the boy from the orphanage?” asked Manse. “He seems to be very happy here.”
“Yes. That’s Eric,” replied Rose. “He has been adapting very well, and to be truthful we are as happy to have him as he is to be here.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Eric with Manse and changed the subject by asking again, “Are you certain you cannot stay for dinner, sir?”
Manse paused for only a moment before declining. “No, I have business to attend to, and so I must return home.” His business was actually a prostitute that he had been cultivating for several weeks—and tonight he would harvest the rewards of that cultivation. He then added, “But I would truly like to call upon you again, Mrs. Simpson.”
His interest in the widow was heightened by the discovery that the knife might indeed be in her possession if the portrait was accurate. That was not the only reason. He had detected that the boy was Pegasi. The knife and a Pegasi under the same roof had taken him completely off-guard. He needed time to revise his plan. The presence of a Pegasi was a threat, even if the Pegasi was only a child.
Rose would have preferred to say “no,” but she was also reluctant to be impolite. For reasons she didn’t fathom, she had misgivings about the man. She nodded hesitantly and said, “Well, it is a long ride, Mr. Manse. If you send word you are coming, we would arrange for an early dinner to accommodate your travel.”
“You are too kind, madam,” he grinned. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
Rose watched as Manse mounted his horse and rode off. She was relieved that Manse had not accepted her offer to stay for dinner, and she shared Eric’s reaction of distrust. The boy had reason to be distrustful of adults he didn’t know, but she had no reason to distrust Manse. But she did, and although she had agreed to receiving further visits, she was not looking forward to them.
She knew it was unreasonable, but she sensed a darkness, an evil about the man.
Chapter 5
Eric had been living with the Widow Simpson for almost five months now, and he was beginning to believe that just maybe the huge house overlooking the bay would really be his home.
In the library, he often looked at the painting of Rose and Matthew Simpson. At first, he had found the likeness of Matthew Simpson a little intimidating, and was reluctant to be alone in the library, despite his love of books. However, when he took time to study the painting, he noticed small details captured by the artist that indicated the true nature of the man. What Eric had first thought was a severe, disapproving glare was softened by a slight smile, as if the captain was amused by the initial impression the painting created.
It was the eyes, however, that stood out. Steel grey in colour, they seemed to follow you no matter where you were in the library. As Eric got to know Mrs. Simpson—developing through her an understanding of her late husband—he felt comforted by the watchful eyes of the captain rather than nervous. Not having had a father, Eric wondered what it would have been like being his son, and he sometimes drifted off to sleep, dreaming about the two of them sailing around the world.
Mrs. Simpson had made arrangements for a painting of Eric to be done, which meant he had to sit unmoving for extended periods—which, in his case, was anything longer than thirty seconds—while the artist worked at his easel. After several sittings, the artist had successfully captured his head and shoulders, but a number of further sittings would be necessary to finish.
Today was the day before his twelfth birthday, and the day started like any other day, except that on this occasion Eric was perhaps a little more impatient than usual for school to end.
He was in an unusually buoyant mood despite the wet October weather. Tomorrow was his birthday, and for the first time someone besides himself actually cared. He couldn’t remember his birthdays when he was younger—during his pre-orphan days—but when he lived in the orphanage, they were typically ignored.
“Mrs. Simpson? Gertrude? I’m home,” Eric called out as he entered through the rear foyer that provided access to the kitchen.
He was greeted with silence. He experienced a moment of panic—he still harboured a degree of insecurity because of his previous experiences—but it passed quickly as he realized that because it was Friday, Mrs. Simpson and Gertrude would have gone to the market. That would mean Henry, the jack-of-all trades (butler, coach driver, gardener) would also be gone, as he would have driven the ladies in the coach. The only other employee was Mildred, the maid, but today was her day off. This meant he would be alone for several hours.
Eric hung up his coat on a peg and kicked off his muddy shoes, slipping on the shoes reserved for indoor use. He entered the kitchen where his first stop was the cookie jar filled with still-warm molasses cookies. Mrs. Simpson allowed him to have one cookie after school with the proviso that he not spoil his dinner. Gertrude, who Eric was convinced was the best cook on Prince Edward Island, had told him the same thing; “One only, Master Eric. I’ll not have the missus blaming me if you won’t eat your dinner.”
By Eric’s logic, since both Mrs. Simpson and Gertrude each said he was allowed one cookie, he was therefore allowed to have a total of two. Of course, he never confirmed that assumption with either Mrs. Simpson or Gertrude.
The Simpsons were well off by island standards. Most island homes burned wood in the stove, but the Simpson house boasted coal-burning stoves for the kitchen and sitting room, however, they still used wood in the fireplaces. He checked the kitchen stove and noted that while there were still some embers, it was starting to get cold. He added some coal and carefully stoked the embers until they started to burn. He would add more in a couple of hours to ensure that Gertrude had a hot stove ready when she prepared dinner.
It was ironic that in some of the previous places he lived, keeping the stove hot was an expectation—one that was sometimes enforced with a cane. Here, he was not expected to do it, but did it gladly, it was the right thing to do.
Munching happily on molasses cookies, Eric headed for the library to do his homework. He wanted to get it done and out of the way, so he could spend a little time looking to see if maybe, just maybe, there might be some hidden birthday presents for him. At one time he never would have expected an acknowledgement of his birthday, let alone receive gifts. However, the past couple of days Mrs. Simpson and Gertrude—and even Henry, in fact—had been teasing him about little surprises that could be waiting for him on his birthday. Being alone in the house was just too much of a temptation for a young boy not to do a little snooping.
Eric put a log into the fireplace and started the fire using some small kindling. Once it caught, he added another log and sat down at the well-used writing table, glancing up at the painting of the captain and smiling as if he was communicating his happiness to him. He only did that when alone, as he had no doubt that anyone who saw him greeting a painting would surely think he was mad.
He settled back comfortably in the leather chair, feeling the warmth of the fire chasing off the fall chill. He didn’t notice the dark figure as it emerged from behind the drapes covering the library windows.
***
Robert Manse had searched the house, but the damn knife was not there.
He knew it had to be somewhere in the house, for not only was it depicted in the painting above the fireplace, but he had seen it on the large oak desk in the library. Over the last few months, he had made several visits to the Manor, attempting to solicit Rose Simpson’s affection. So far, the lady had resisted his advances, but he had seen the knife on more than one occasion.
Early that morning, he had mounted his horse and rode to Simpson Manor, following a rather circuitous route to avoid running into the widow. Today was Friday, so he knew that Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper, and their handyman would be going to the market. The maid, who lived in one of the farms near the village, was off on Fridays. That meant that for most of the afternoon, the house would be empty until the boy got home from school late in the afternoon.
He knew where the knife was, so it would not take long for him to grab it and get out of the house before anyone returned.
He dismounted and stood under a tree where he could watch the house. It was raining, but it was not heavy, it was more of a drizzle that kept things damp and made the roads muddy. He watched as the handyman helped the two women up into the carriage and drove off. He waited to be sure that they were not returning at the last minute for some forgotten item.
Satisfied they would be gone for the rest of the afternoon; Manse left his horse tied to the tree and crept carefully to the back door of the house. He slipped inside and listened, making sure he was indeed alone in the house. He felt an unfamiliar light-headedness from the excitement he felt as his plan was unfolding.
He carefully wiped his feet, making sure no mud would betray his presence. He moved quickly to the library and was dismayed to find that the knife was not in its customary place. He searched the desk drawers and those of the writing table in the corner. No sign of the knife.
He searched the dining room and then crossed the hall to the sitting room and parlour, but it wasn’t there. He cautiously made his way upstairs and searched the rooms, to no avail. Frustrated, he returned to the library, controlling the anger that was slowly building within him.
Where was the damn knife?
He tensed when he heard a boy calling, “Mrs. Simpson, Gertrude, I’m home.”
Damn! The boy was home early! Manse quickly stepped behind the heavy curtains and waited silently, listening, trying to determine where the boy was and decide on a plan to catch him unawares. He heard the sound of a metal grate opening in the kitchen and realized the boy was adding coal to the stove. Then after a short spell, he heard the sound of wood being inserted into the fireplace, right in the library.
He fought to control his breathing, positive the boy would be able to hear him. He carefully parted the curtains—cautious not to disturb the weak daylight that was filtering through small crack between them—to look into the room.
The boy was sitting at the writing table with his back to him. Eric’s head was down, and he seemed to be so engrossed with something on the table he was unaware as Manse stepped out from behind the drapes.
He was almost upon the boy when the boy started, turning towards him. One of the boy’s workbooks fell onto the carpet under the writing table. The fear on the boy’s face changed to an expression of confusion.
“Mr. Manse. You startled me, sir. I didn’t hear you enter.”
