The Secret of Pembrooke Park(130)

A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from Abigail’s head. Clutching at the ribbons, she frowned up at the churning grey sky. “Are you sure you should ride out in this alone?”

“If Andrew is willing, I’ll take him along. But either way, I’m going. I think Papa found the dog somewhere in Black’s Wood last time. But it’s a huge area to cover, and I—”

“Wait!” Abigail grabbed his arm as the memory struck her. “That night I sat with you while Mac was out late searching. I think he said something about a ravine. . . .”

William stilled. “Snake Ravine?”

“Yes! That’s it.”

He grasped her by both shoulders and pressed a sound kiss to her cheek. “God bless you, Abigail.”

He already has. . . . She cupped her cheek as though to capture a butterfly, and watched him canter away.



The rain began to fall. Of course it did. William tried not to grumble, but the cold rain matched his mood and dragged it lower. It would not make his search any easier. Was his father all right? William’s spirit remained troubled. Was his own conscience smiting him for some reason? Or was the Holy Spirit actually nudging him to hurry?

In reply, he urged the horse into a gallop across the field. He had to stop at two gates to let the horse through—this old boy was no jumper. And neither was he.

He reached the southern tip of Black’s Wood and followed the road through the scrubby forest, bordered on one side by a winding stream. As he rode farther, the stream narrowed and deepened into a ravine, the current now a mere trickle at the bottom of a steep rocky cut, the thirsty roots of pine and black oaks fingering through the soil of the bank, clawing for water.

William rode carefully along the rim, looking this way and that, but saw no sign of his father or his telltale tartan hat.

“Papa!” he called out. “Mac!” He paused to listen but heard nothing save the wind whistling and the pine trees swaying in reply. Overhead a hawk shrieked and circled. At least it wasn’t a vulture.

Deep in the wood, the sky, already grey on the rainy evening, darkened even more, the faint daylight blocked now by the canopy of trees. As the wood grew more dense, riding on horseback became increasingly difficult.

He was about to dismount and continue on foot, when he saw his father’s horse ahead, its rein tied to a branch. Pulse racing, William urged his horse faster.

Suddenly a dog barked, and his horse lurched in a violent sidestep. Caught unawares, William slid from the saddle, losing his toehold in the stirrups and his grip on the rain-slick reins. He fell, hit angled ground, and rolled, down, down, into the ravine.

Branches scratched his face, and his knee and shoulders banged against rock before he came to a stop against a mound of leaves and dirt, which thankfully stopped his fall before he reached the muddy stream. For a moment he lay there, stunned breathless, then began a mental inventory of his limbs. Nothing seemed broken. He reached out and laid his hand on the mound to push himself into a sitting position. His hand rested on something hard, a rock or stout branch. He glanced down and recoiled instantly, snatching his hand back—it had been resting on a skeletal bone.

Another bark startled him, and suddenly Brutus bounded over, wagging his tail and licking William’s cheek. Meanwhile Toby, the Morgans’ hound, sniffed the mound, then lay down and began gnawing on something. A leg bone, perhaps? William shuddered at the thought, relieved that most of the skeleton was covered by silt and leaves.

“Stop that, boy,” he commanded and gingerly rose. His knee throbbed, as did his shoulder, but he thanked God he was otherwise unhurt.

“William . . . ?” came a reedy call. His father’s voice.

“Papa!” William shouted, wheeling about. A muddy hand lifted from the underbrush on the other side of the water. William leapt across the narrow stream and bounded over, heart hammering.

Please let him be all right. . . .

His father lay on the ground, hat missing, coat askew and mud streaked. His hair, normally neatly combed back, fell in damp disarray around his pale face.

“Am I glad to see you, lad.”

“What happened?” William crouched beside his father. “Where are you hurt?”

Mac raised himself on one elbow with a grimace. “Fell down the blasted ravine chasing after that hound. I sprained my ankle, I’m afraid. I might have hobbled home with a stick, if that’s all it was, but I think I may have cracked a rib or two in the bargain.”

“Thank God I found you.”

“I do indeed.” He looked beyond William at the sniffing dogs pawing at the mound across the ravine.

“Intended to come down and investigate what has that dog all worked up. I called and called but he wouldn’t leave his find, whatever it is. Now Brutus has the scent as well. Some animal, I take it?”

William grimaced. “I’m afraid not. It’s a human skeleton.”

His father gaped at him. “Human?”

“Yes. I, um, met him when I fell.”

“Sorry, lad. That can’t have been pleasant. Help me over there, so I can have a look.”

“But, Papa, we need to get you home. It’s getting dark. Perhaps I should go straightaway for Mr. Brown.”

A strange light sparked in his father’s green eyes. “First let me see it.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you worse, trying to move you.”