Free The Low Road by James Lear

writing to his bishop in Paris, hiring MacFarlane or even Ethel to kill him. Of course, I pursued none of them.
    On one of my nocturnal wanderings in November I had been surprised to see MacFarlane, that shadow that haunted the estate,
skulking across the lawn towards the stables. Certain that he was up to no good, I followed him, took an alternative route through the coppice and, thanks to my youth and stealth, arrived before him. He came panting into the exercise yard and nearly screamed when I jumped out from behind the water trough.
    â€˜God in heaven, Master Charles, don’t scare me to death!’
    â€˜What are you up to, MacFarlane? Who are you spying on now?’
    â€˜Nobody, sir. You know that. I’m a reformed character.’
    â€˜You’re a sinner, MacFarlane, and you’ll burn in hell no matter how much you repent. What were you doing near the house?’
    â€˜Nothing, sir.’ He would not look me in the eye; I knew he was lying. ‘How are you, sir? Have you been taking care of yourself?’
    â€˜I am very well, MacFarlane, as you see.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, very well indeed. I trust you have all the... help... that you need, as it were?’ The old lecher was trying to distract me. I wanted to knock him down, but a sharp stirring in my balls implored me to let him in.
    â€˜Thank you, MacFarlane, if I ever require your services in that area I shall ask for them.’
    â€˜Perhaps you have someone else to do the job now, sir.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Well, sir, I thought perhaps your tutor...’
    â€˜Lebecque? What are you talking about, you disgusting old fool?’
    â€˜He seems to be a man of... taste... I should say?’
    He was mocking me. ‘Watch your tongue, MacFarlane, or the proctor will cut it out of your dirty mouth.’
    â€˜You didn’t complain about my dirty mouth before, Charlie.’ He was openly playing with himself. I was determined not to repeat a mistake that had put me so much into his power.
    â€˜Good evening, MacFarlane.’ I turned on my heel and walked away, hearing him laughing behind me.

    Walking back to the house I saw a light in my tutor’s room. What had MacFarlane meant, a man of taste? Had he spied on Lebecque the way he had spied on me - alone, aroused? But surely a man of the cloth was above such pollution. Yes, but he was a man for all that, a young, fit man. It was possible that Lebecque, like me, had ways of keeping a clear head.
    As I neared the house I saw the shadow of not one but two figures against Lebecque’s window. My heart leapt into my mouth; my mother in his room! That was too compromising, too indiscreet. Whatever their future plans, he was still a servant! I crept nearer. No, it was not my mother; it was a man’s shape. I saw Lebecque, unmistakable in his long black garment, hand a package to the other. They kissed lightly on both cheeks in the French way. Of course, it was Girolle, the priest’s servant. Their shadows disappeared from the window.
    I was overcome by curiosity. What was Lebecque doing in the house? He was now, to all intents and purposes, unemployed. I had seen to that. And yet he stayed, he ordered his servants around, he acted like the master. I would find out.
    An ancient vine clad the west wall of Gordon Hall, a huge sturdy plant that, according to my mother, held the house up. It never bore grapes, and was generally considered an eyesore, but now for the first time I blessed it. Years of poor husbandry had left it sprawling and woody; strong enough, I had long since discovered, to bear my weight. In happier times I had climbed as high as the first floor and ambushed Ethel as she sorted linen, swinging through the casement with a loud ‘Tally-Ho!’. Lebecque’s room was on the second floor, where the branches were undoubtedly thinner and weaker. It was a risk I was prepared to take.
    I waited until I saw Lebecque again; he