The Sin Eater(96)

‘But you’d confess straight afterwards.’ Again the pain overwhelmed him, and he hunched over, gasping.

Declan thought, confess to murder? Five murders? Priests hearing confession were bound by absolute secrecy, but he could not believe a priest, hearing a confession of murder, would not find some way to invoke temporal justice. And who would believe Declan was confessing on behalf of a man who was himself dead?

He said, ‘Colm, let me try to get a priest to you . . .’

But Colm seemed not to hear. He said, ‘Declan, if I gave you something . . . Get my jacket – don’t argue, just do it.’ He waited until Declan passed him the jacket, and thrust his hand into the pocket.

‘What . . . ?’

‘The Title Deeds to Holly Lodge,’ said Colm. ‘You got them out of the house, remember? And that house is mine – it was left to me fairly and legally. But you take them and take the ownership of it. Find a way of getting your name on to the – I don’t know what it’s called – on to the ownership part of the Deeds.’

‘I’d never get away with it,’ said Declan, but something had tugged at his mind, saying, wouldn’t it be a marvellous thing to own a whole house . . .

‘Yes, listen. You’ll have to leave it a while – maybe as long as a year or even more. Then you turn up at a solicitor’s office, and give them some story. Say you met someone while you were travelling and he gave you the Deeds as he lay dying. That’s true enough, anyway,’ said Colm, bitterly.

‘But Flossie’s family—’

‘She didn’t have any,’ said Colm. He had fallen back on the sofa and his eyes were becoming distant. ‘I’m telling you, you’ll get away with it.’

Declan said, ‘Colm, even with this, I can’t do what you’re asking.’

‘I shan’t give up,’ said Colm, and broke off with a dreadful rasping cough. His hand, which Declan had taken again, seemed to be loosening. ‘I promise you, Declan Doyle, I shan’t give up.’





The present


He never did give up, thought Benedict, still seated in the soft dimness of the shack. He died here in this cottage, but he couldn’t be at peace. He believed he was the one who had taken the guilt of those other sins and he believed he needed someone to repeat the ritual to remove them. And to remove his own sins, thought Benedict. All those killings . . . It’s medieval and it’s impossible, but he believed it.

Declan wouldn’t do it . . . He wouldn’t repeat the ritual . . . Declan’s son wouldn’t do it, either, and nor would his grandson . . .

Benedict said, very firmly, ‘And nor will I.’

No . . . The word drifted through the desolation and the shadows, sadly accepting.

‘Did my great-grandfather bring the chess piece back to Holly Lodge all those years ago?’

He did. He couldn’t face destroying it. He got his name transferred to the Title Deeds and he went back to London. The chess piece went with him. You know the rest.

Aware of absurdity, Benedict said, ‘Can’t you – let go now?’

I don’t know. Aren’t I the ghost doomed to walk the night? The familiar irony was there.

Benedict said, ‘If I were to destroy the chessman? If I take it up to the watchtower and smash it? Would that – I don’t know the right expression – would it release you?’

There was a long silence, and for a moment he thought Colm had gone. Then, Let’s try, said Colm’s voice. Let’s try that now.

So they stood together in the burned-out watchtower, where a renegade priest had lived out a lonely existence in an attempt to contain an ancient evil, and where two boys had clung to a rock spur and listened to him die in screaming agony.

And, thought Benedict, where a set of figures that once haunted a castle library perished.

Except for one single piece, Benedict . . .

Benedict picked his way through the rubble and the charred debris. It was just possible to see the outline of the room that had once existed. There were even fragments of furniture that had survived the fire – he could see a small chest with a carved lid, several chairs, even a few strings of fabric that must have been curtains or rugs. The hearth was filled with grass and birds’ nests and the tiny skeletons of birds themselves, but above it still hung an oval mirror, the frame black with age, the surface so smeared it gave no light and no reflection.

Benedict took the chess figure from his pocket. He had the fleeting impression that it resisted him, but he took a deep breath, and flung it hard against the stone fireplace. It described an arc through the dimness, and there was a moment when it reflected eerily in the old mirror. The shadows stirred briefly, and for the space of two heartbeats he thought shapes formed on the stones – the silhouettes of prancing horses, marching warriors, imperious figures who wore crowns or mitres . . .

Then the illusion vanished, and there was a small splintering sound, like frost icicles cracking. He saw the chess figure fracture against the stones. Tiny glinting chips flew out – some caught the silvering moonlight. The small sounds died away and the shadows were quiescent again.

Benedict said, very softly, ‘Colm?’

But nothing moved within the ruined room and Benedict drew in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It’s all right, he thought. He’s gone. As he crossed to the door, something seemed to shiver within the tarnished mirror, and he turned, his heart skipping a beat. But there was nothing there, of course.