Free The Shrouded Walls by Susan Howatch Page B

Ned. You forget I still have the whip in my hand.”
    “You can’t frighten me! You can beat me and sneer at me and send me away into the army, but I’ll still spit in your face, you bloody murderer ... ”
    There was the stinging vibration of leather on flesh, a sharp cry of pain. “You knew Father had altered his will in your favor so you killed him with Rodric’s gun and then pushed Rodric in the Marsh before he could deny the charge!”
    The whip struck again. I listened transfixed, unable to move. Then: “You liar,” said Axel between his teeth. “You ... ” And he used words I had once overheard my father use, syllables never used in civilized conversation.
    Ned was half-sobbing, half-laughing. It froze me to hear him. “Deny it as much as you wish!” he shouted. “Curse as much as you please! But who inherited Haraldsdyke when Father died? Who inherited all the land and the money? Who had the best reason for wanting Father dead?”
    “Get out! Get out, do you hear? Get out of my—”
    “Not Rodric, George Brandson! And Rodric never killed him! Rodric wasn’t a murderer!”
    There was the sound of a scuffle, the impact of fist against flesh, a small spent sigh and then a jarring thud as if something very heavy had slumped to the floor.
    Silence fell.
    Very softly, almost unaware of my own actions I crept forward, snuffed my candle and hid behind the curtains that concealed the window at the far end of the corridor.
    The silence seemed to go on and on without ending.
    At last after an interval which seemed to endure as long as an eternity, the door opened and through a chink in the curtains I saw Axel walk away down the passage to the head of the stairs. His head was bent, his shoulders stooped and he moved slowly.
    I went at once to the room. Ned was sprawled half-conscious on the carpet, the blood soiling his black hair as it oozed from a cut above his temple. As I knelt beside him and reached for his pulse he groaned and stirred feebly, so I poured him a glass of water from the pitcher in the bedroom and tried to help him to drink.
    He opened his eyes and looked so ill that I thought he was going to vomit. Hastening into the bedroom again I seized the chamber pot, which was the first receptacle that I could think of, and brought it to him just in time.
    Afterwards he started to tremble. He was chalk-white with the nervous reaction from the scene and as I helped him drink from the glass he seemed very young and defenseless, very frightened and alone. He seemed utterly different now to the enraged defiant accuser whom I had overheard earlier and I suspected he had only spoken in that manner out of bravado.
    I was reminded of Alexander; my heart ached suddenly.
    “I slipped,” he said. “I was trying to hit George when I slipped, fell and hit my head.” His voice was little more than a whisper and his eyes were dark with humiliation. Then: “What are you doing here? Leave me alone. ” He wrenched himself free, and as I stared at him with mute sympathy he stumbled towards the couch where his coat lay and dressed himself with shaking fingers.
    “Why did you let Axel beat you?” I said at last. “You could have struggled and escaped.”
    “I did struggle,” he said wryly, “and fell and cut my head.” He sat down abruptly. I guessed that he was feeling dizzy again after his experience, and I went to him, as I would have gone to Alexander, and put my arm around his shoulders to comfort him.
    He recoiled instantly. “Don’t,” he muttered.
    “I only want to help you.”
    “I shall be well in a minute. Leave me alone.” He looked at me suddenly. “George would be angry,” he whispered. “He would be angry with you. Don’t let him see you with me.”
    His eyes were bright with tears. I saw then that he was desperately afraid of Axel and terrified at the memory of the scene which had just passed. And as I stared at him in appalled silence there were voices far off in the distance and