If Morning Never Comes - Episode Fifteen
In Which: Charles Has A Chat With His Pastor
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Albert Clarke had been at his parish for nearly nine years. Within that time, he had called at Ashwood about once a week. That made, to Charles’ calculation, at least four hundred visits from the insufferable cleric. And if each visit lasted approximately four hours, and the good Vicar talked for approximately seventy-five percent of those hours, that amounted to more than 1,300 hours of droning, self-aggrandizing talk. If Charles had spent 1,300 hours learning German or mastering the violin or sharpening stakes, he might have achieved something worthwhile. Instead, he had spent nearly half his life enduring unending encounters with this small, bespectacled man.
The day after Charles’ ordeal at Stryker’s house, the vicar stayed long past teatime and managed to finagle for himself an invitation to supper as well. The sun was lowering on the horizon as the Ashley family sat down, making room for Mr. Clarke. Charles would have given anything for another dead animal on the moor to excuse him from the table, but none seemed to be forthcoming.
He had been ordered to stay home that day. Herr Stryker said that while his physical training was important, the priority was still to gather information on the status of the Raines family. On a normal day Charles might have complained, but after the punishment he had taken, he was willing to comply.
“Splendid,” he had said, “So I’m to be your informant, then?”
“Nonsense,” Stryker replied, “You’re the bait.”
Charles laughed, but not as long as he might have. He stared out the tall windows at the bright orange sunset and felt a shiver of trepidation at the coming night. The excitement of the hunt far outweighed his fear, but he was not insensitive to it. He found himself wishing he had access to one of the dozens of stakes he had sharpened the day before. He worried a blister on his right hand.
Charles’ attention had drifted, but Vicar Clarke’s had not. And the man was close enough to catch him fidgeting with his blisters. He gasped and straightened his spectacles as he took Charles’ hand in his own.
“Charles, what have you done to yourself?”
Charles was made to allow the vicar to hold up his right hand and then the left for examination by the table.
“Nothing,” he said, “I forgot to wear gloves while riding yesterday.”
“You mustn’t grip the reins so, Charles,” corrected his mother, who had not been aback of a horse in decades, if ever.
“It’s true,” agreed the vicar with solemnity, “No horse can be expected to perform adequately if you keep too tight a grip on him.”
Charles managed to pull his hand away. But Charity continued to probe.
“I thought you spent the day with Mr. Stryker?”
“Stryker?” asked the vicar, renewing his attentions on Charles. “Herr Georg Stryker, from our last supper together?”
This was Mr. Clarke’s way of gauging how to respond, while sounding smart and sophisticated at the same time. It was that kind of underhanded manipulation that made it so difficult for Charles to be patient with the preacher.
“Yes sir,” he answered, “The same.”
“I should say so,” interjected Mrs. Ashley. “I tell you, Mr. Clarke, that man is nothing but trouble. He’ll bring the devil down on this place, you mark my words.”
Vicar Clarke laughed his deep laugh, so contrastive to his frail body, and slid into his role as soothing pacifist.
“Mrs. Ashley, that is hardly a charitable thing to say.”
“You are too modest, Mr. Clarke. Why, it was only last Sunday that we saw him berate you in public. The very thought of it still sets me to shudders. I do hope he didn’t hurt you, sir?”
To Mrs. Ashley’s credit, she had been able to go the whole day without bringing up this subject. For Charles, the memory of Vicar Clarke browbeaten by Georg Stryker was a happy one. He was looking forward to watching Mr. Clarke squirm. The vicar did not seem to find it troubling, however.
“Of course not, Mrs. Ashley. Herr Stryker and I were merely having a doctrinal disputation.”
“What sort of person could be so animated by doctrine?” asked Mrs. Ashley. “Rather distasteful, if you ask me.”
“Doubtless, it’s the German blood in him,” joked Mr. Clarke. “Intellectual descendants of Luther, you know. Now there was a man who believed that doctrine was worth fiery disputation.”
“Did he knock people to the ground on Sundays, too?” asked Charity. Charles chortled and took a sip of wine to cover it up. Vicar Clarke blushed and Eleanor hissed.
“Not that I know of, Miss Ashley,” said Mr. Clarke. “But some ideas are so important, so powerful that they can excite men to do great and terrible things.”
“And what exactly was exciting Mr. Stryker on Sunday?” asked Mrs. Ashley, not allowing the vicar to steer away from the topic.
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Clarke, conceding. “Well, Herr Stryker felt that I had been too free in my proclamations about the ability of man to understand God. You see, most men in the Church are of the mind that what can be known about God is fixed, encapsulated in the scriptures. As you know, I spoke on Sunday about the possibility of transcending that truth to something greater.”
Charles thought that sounded strange. Eleanor seemed to think so too. She cocked her head at the little man’s explanation.
“Would it not be heresy to go beyond Scripture, Mr. Clarke?” she asked.
Mr. Clarke chuckled kindly, “Oh no, my dear. What I advocate is to expand our base of knowledge about God, not abandon it. Luther himself gave us a fine example of a man who transcended the thought of his time and increased our understanding. He was branded a heretic by many, but now we celebrate him as an innovator and forward-thinker. That is what we all must strive for.”
“Amen,” said Mrs. Ashley.
Encouraged by the approbation, Mr. Clarke continued, “In fact I believe that there are entire planes of thought and universes of truth that we have yet to even discover. Perhaps forgotten for millennia, yet close enough to reach out and touch. If we can but rid ourselves of our human idiocy.”
Something about the vicar’s speech struck Charles as wrong. It did not sit right in his mind. Not least of all, the way the conversation animated the vicar’s usual reserve unsettled him.
Eleanor asked, “But surely there have been far more insane heretics than brilliant innovators? We can’t all be Luther.”
Vicar Clarke leaned over the table, eyes gleaming, “But how can we know if a heretic was exactly that or simply a misunderstood hero? Take Jan Hus of Bohemia for instance, or Galileo.” He raised a finger, “It is only when we dare to move beyond artificial boundaries that we can discover new truth.”
Charles laughed and cut his meat, “With all due respect, sir, that sounds exactly like the sort of thing a heretic would say.”
“I think he’d know better than you, Charles,” his mother retorted.
But the vicar only smiled and added, “That is the great trial of faith, Charles. If we are not willing to risk death and Hell, we will never find the truth.”
By this time, the sun had set completely. The lamps were lit and the company moved into the sitting room. The vicar was rejuvenated by their last discussion and Mrs. Ashley did not seem to be tiring of him yet. Charles was obliged to stay with the group. The roaring fire held his attention while Mr. Clarke blathered on. Charles thought about Jenny. And Amelia.
Then, quite unexpectedly, a servant opened the door. She announced to general shock, “Mr. Edgar Raines, madam.”
In the doorway, tall, dark and looking perhaps a little drawn, stepped Edgar Raines himself. His hat was in his hand, his hair perfectly groomed as always. He wore a long riding coat that hung to his knees. Per usual, he was all in black. He took a quick survey of the room and narrowed his eyes.
Eleanor leapt to her feet. “Mr. Raines!” she cried out.
Mr. Raines paid her no mind. Charles thought his eyes looked darker than usual – murderous. He felt his heart begin to pound. Did he know? But in a moment, the man turned to Eleanor and donned his roguish smile.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, and stepped with long legs to where she stood and kissed her hand, their eyes meeting for a long second.
He turned to Mrs. Ashley and Charity and gave his greetings to them as well. He said nothing to Charles. He turned to Mr. Clarke and gave a small bow.
“You must forgive me, sir, but I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
Mr. Clarke smiled, set his tea to one side and stood. “The pleasure is all mine, sir. Albert Clarke, at your service.”
The two men shook hands. “Edgar Raines,” said the dark man, slowly, “at yours.”
The two let go of their hands, still standing. Mr. Raines looked at Mr. Clarke like a cat does a bird in a cage. Mr. Clarke seemed waxwork with his hooded eyes and half smile.
Mr. Raines broke the silence, “So you are the man of the cloth in this part of the world?”
Mr. Clarke laughed, “I suppose you ought to say that. I oversee the local parish. But I do not believe you have seen fit to grace us with your presence at service, sir? No doubt, I would have remembered you.”
Mr. Raines grunted, “Yes, well, we’ve been adjusting to life here, and my sister has taken rather ill.”
“Amelia?” exclaimed Mrs. Ashley, her dress rustling as she clasped her hands. “Mr. Raines! The poor dear.”
Eleanor reached out with a hand to touch her admirer, but brought it back. She lowered her eyes and offered a quiet word of sympathy. A log on the fire cracked and Charles started. He caught his breath.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Clarke with the same pained expression he reserved for all of his wayward sheep, “I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Raines. Is she quite alright?”
“She is,” said Mr. Raines, “A resurgence of an old childhood ailment. It will mend, but it needs time.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Mr. Clarke. “Time heals all wounds, as they say.”
“Does it?” asked Mr. Raines. Charles felt a chill in his spine.
“Certainly,” soothed Vicar Clarke. “Even death itself will be defeated. Does that not comfort you, Mr. Raines?”
Mr. Raines seemed put off by the question. Charles noticed him clench his fists, then immediately relax them.
He was gruff in his response, impatient, “I’ve never much seen the value of religion myself. Rather shameful for a grown man, Vicar.”
Charles heard Charity gasp under her breath.
The fire blazed and the shadows danced their tribal ritual around the walls. The two men stood, close but so very different. Charles sat still, trying not to draw attention to himself. Eleanor’s hands were clasped at her chest, waiting.
Finally Mr. Raines continued, “I’m terribly sorry to have spoiled your evening. I only meant to come and pay my regards to Miss Ashley after a long unexcused absence.”
“Oh, that is quite alright,” absolved the vicar, “I suppose I ought to be going anyway.” He made his farewells to the ladies then turned one final time to bid Mr. Raines farewell.
Edgar Raines nodded his head curtly and turned to watch Vicar Clarke leave. His eyes were shadowed by the firelight. Mr. Clarke exited the room with his doughy smile and stepped down the stairs to the entrance hall.
It took a moment for Edgar Raines to settle down, but once he did the ladies took no time in overwhelming him with consolations and compliments. Eleanor and Mrs. Ashley tactfully changed seats so that he could be near the younger woman. Charles sipped his tea and said nothing.
Mr. Raines spoke about his sister, but added no new details for Charles to report. He would only say that she suffered from a chronic illness and would recover in time. And despite Mrs. Ashley’s subtle and less-than-subtle attempts to wheedle more information out of him, Mr. Raines was not forthcoming.
“No, I will not speak about it further,” he said firmly. “I’m only here to refresh my spirits.” He gripped Eleanor’s hand for a moment. “It was so good of you to see me, Eleanor my dear.”
More simpering talk went on while Charles tried to think. Edgar was here, and he had promised Amelia’s eventual return. This meant she was not dead, and so whatever plans they had were still in operation. Unfortunately, those plans still seemed to include Eleanor and his family. Charles felt constricted. His clumsy attempts to drive him off had done nothing, so perhaps there was another way. Should he encourage as many future visits as possible? If they knew where he was going to be, he and Stryker could plan an ambush. But that could be difficult. Eleanor would not let him out of her sight, and it was not as if Mr. Raines took any time for him.
“And what about you, Charles? You haven’t said much,” the gravelly voice of Mr. Raines resounded through the little room.
Charles had to clear his throat after so long a silence. The other man’s eyes were intense. “Yes sir, so sorry. But,” this was embarrassing, “could you refresh my memory as to what was just said?”
Mr. Raines laughed at him. Eleanor’s annoyance was enhanced by the red firelight. Mr. Raines said, “I didn’t say anything, lad, I only wanted to know what you cared to offer to this conversation.”
Charles was caught in the middle again. He had nothing to say, but shrugged his shoulders, “You’re the guest, Mr. Raines. Make yourself right at home.”
“I have,” said the man with a shining grin. “Charles, I think it’s time that you and I became more acquainted, don’t you think?”
Charles’ heart stopped. Herr Stryker had said vampires could not read minds, but could this be just a coincidence? He swallowed.
“Well, yes sir, of course. We must.”
Mr. Raines laughed at him again. “We’ll go hunting, you and I.”
Charles nodded automatically and was going to speak, but was pushed aside by his younger sister.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Raines. Charles doesn’t know anything about hunting, it might be embarrassing for him.”
Charles felt his ears heat up.
“It’s true, Mr. Raines,” lamented his mother, “The boy has no manner of gentlemanly skills at all. I wouldn’t want to put it upon you to have to slow down for him.”
Charles fumed. The issue of the vampires set aside for a moment, he spat out, “I’d be delighted, Mr. Raines.”
“Splendid! The day after Sunday? That way we can observe our Sabbath just in time to stride out on the hunt. Eh, Charles?”
The rest of the room laughed politely and returned to other topics. Charles sat, dumbfounded. He knew. He had to know. Had Amelia told him? Could she have done? She may not have had a choice. Now it seemed Charles had no choice but to go alone with Edgar Raines out onto the moor. He needed to talk to Stryker. He did not care to end up gracing the bloody table in the workshop.
His mother and sisters sat chatting in the firelight with a vampire. It was all too strange. He filled up a glass of sherry, needing something stronger than tea. Mr. Raines saw him do it and smiled at him with his long, pointed incisors. Next to him sat his own dour sister, Eleanor. She was staring daggers at him.
He took a sip, feeling the soft burn of the alcohol. Hunting alone on the moor with Edgar Raines. Well, he decided, at least he’d have a gun.
