The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [310]
I nodded to that; and as I proceeded to think the rest of the matter over, I really couldn’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go home and celebrate. “So why are we standing around here?” I asked. “And how come it doesn’t feel like we can just cut loose?”
Miss Howard turned to me. “Remember those men in Stillwater, Stevie?” she said. “You wouldn’t have thought they’d have had anything to fear, either—it’s been years since the Muhlenbergs’ house burned down. But the feeling never went away …”
“Oh, fiddle-faddle, as my grandmother used to say,” was Mr. Moore’s answer to that. “We’ve got the woman caged, and her fate is sealed. Come on, all of you, let’s get back home and start patting ourselves on the back!”
“Yes,” Mr. Picton finally agreed with a nod. “I do think we owe ourselves at least one evening free of anxiety. Why don’t you all go along and get started? I just want to review a few things and get my proposal to Judge Brown ready—and I’ll thank you not to dispose of all the champagne before I join you, John.”
So the rest of us departed, passing out into the warm night and starting the walk home at a good clip. Our spirits continued to pick up as we moved down High Street, and though I can’t say that we were exactly ecstatic when we reached Mr. Picton’s house, we were feeling sound enough to break into general cheers when we discovered that our host had called ahead and had Mrs. Hastings bring a few bottles of the champagne up from the cellar and put them on ice. Dinner was laid out and waiting, and the amiable old housekeeper’s handiwork had never looked so inviting: there was roast capon, cold curried lamb with raisins, a variety of delicious potatoes (included salty fried ones for me), and a positive bounty of young vegetables what had come in just that day from local farms. Add to that fresh strawberry shortcake and homemade ices, and you had a feast what we simply couldn’t wait for our host before diving into. Laughter and high spirits filled the dining room in ever-greater amounts as we ate and drank; and though I was only downing root beer, my behavior, before long, was just as loose as that of the wine-swilling adults. Caught up in this mood, I don’t think any of us were really conscious of how much time was slipping by: we might’ve stayed at that table all night, so powerful was the general feeling of relief at knowing that we were finally on the verge of what looked to be a happy conclusion to the case of Libby Hatch.
Then, just before midnight, we began to hear a bell tolling in the distance.
Marcus was the first to take note of it: in the middle of laughing at a story what Mr. Moore was relating about being chased around Abingdon Square by a bunch of Hudson Dusters during his recent trip to New York, the detective sergeant suddenly cocked his head and looked toward the front of the house. He didn’t stop smiling, but his laughter died down pretty quickly.
“What the hell,” he mumbled. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Mr. Moore answered, going for more champagne. “You’re delusional, Marcus—”
“No, listen,” the detective sergeant replied, taking his napkin from his lap and standing up. “It’s a bell…”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Doctor’s head jerk up: in an instant he, too, had registered the noise, and the rest of us soon did likewise.
“What in the world?” Lucius said.
El Niño moved quickly to the screen door out front. “It comes from one of the churches!” he called back to us.
“Services?” Cyrus said. “A midnight mass in August?”
Feeling suddenly uneasy, I looked to the Doctor, who was holding out a hand in an effort to get the rest of us to be quiet. As we followed his instruction, another sound began to rise over the pulsing chirp of the crickets and grasshoppers outside:
It was a man’s voice, calling desperately for help.
“Picton,” the Doctor whispered.
“That’s not Rupert’s voice,” Mr. Moore answered quickly.
“I know,” the Doctor said. “And that is precisely what frightens me.” With that he raced for the front door, while the rest of us followed close behind.