Lost Souls

28

The Manor house was quiet. Everyone, with the exception of Michael Rusk and Innes MacBlaine had retired for the evening. Mrs. Rusk had insisted Christopher stay the night, and she'd made up a bed for him on the large couch in the lounge. Before she herself went to bed, she'd made up two large log fires, one to keep her guest warm, and the other in the library, where she knew that her husband, and the vicar intended spending some time discussing the situation that they'd found themselves to be in.

​The two men were now slumped in reclining chairs, each watching, deep in thought, as hot, red and yellow flames licked at the stacked wood, sending bright, glowing, sparks of heat, high into the chimney breast, and pushing grey swirls of smoke out through the gaps between the logs.

​Mr. Rusk popped open another can of lager. The refreshingly cold beer was sliding down effortlessly, and he was savouring the taste, and the comfort it provided.

​MacBlaine took a small sip from his own can and shuddered. "Never been a big fan of this stuff to be honest. Much prefer a nice chardonnay or maybe a glass of champagne. My own wine hit's the spot of course."

​Mr. Rusk ignored the fishing for a compliment, took several long gulps of his drink, and then shook the can to make sure it was empty. He then squeezed hard, and watched as the thin metallic container crumpled easily between his fingers. "I'd love to do this to whoever murdered these kids," he said absentmindedly.

​MacBlaine carefully placed his drink onto the small coffee table beside him, and crossed his legs before he responded. "We don't know it was murder Michael."

​"I think it was vicar. I can't think of any other reason why all this spooky stuff is going on if it's not to help us solve a crime."

​MacBlaine stared into the fire, as if trying to pull out the correct words, or to find divine inspiration. As the heat began to sting his face he turned back to Mr. Rusk. "We can't be certain anything that's happened is a direct attempt to contact us. Perhaps the house is just haunted and whoever stays here will be tested?"

​Mr. Rusk pulled the tag on another can. The loud hiss of gas escaping briefly filled the room.
​"Not to many more or your head will be pounding in the morning," MacBlaine pointed out jovially.

​Mr. Rusk looked down at the five empty cans beside his chair. "I'll be fine for a few more yet. No need to worry."

​The old vicar settled back into his chair without comment. He understood as the family's father and protector, that Mr. Rusk needed to unwind. He just hoped it wouldn't be to the detriment of the mission at hand.

​"Christopher seems a nice lad," Mr. Rusk said, as he took another swig of beer.

​"Yes. Yes. A lovely lad. I think he has his eye on your Katie, if I'm not mistaken."

​"I saw them gazing lovingly at each other. It's about time Katie found a nice boy. She's never been one for boyfriends really."

​MacBlaine laughed. "Ah yes. I'm glad I never had to go through any of that with children."

​"Can I ask why you never had kids?"

​"Of course. My wife wanted to devote all her time to the church. I myself have always wanted a daughter. Someone to look after me in my old age. Now I'm at the mercy of my cats."

​Mr. Rusk caught the wistful look on the wrinkled face of the old vicar, and felt a pang of sorrow. He had everything he'd ever wanted in a family. More in fact. One of each had been the joke he and Grace had shared when they'd first planned to have children. "Have you never thought about remarrying?"

​"My goodness no. Gladys wouldn't put up with that. Anyway, I'll be reunited with my wife when I die,"  MacBlaine answered confidently.

​"Are you sure that's what happens vicar? Nobody knows that for sure," Mr. Rusk asked doubtfully.

​MacBlaine smiled brightly, his face positively glowing under the fiery reflections from the log fire. "My belief is that we are all brought together again in Heaven Michael. It can't all end when our bodies fail us. Our souls are what make us who and what we are. Besides, you've seen life after death in this house. Even you can't dispute that!"

​Mr. Rusk nodded slowly. The alcohol was beginning to take affect, and he could feel his body drifting away, as the stresses of the day were slowly lifted from his shoulders. The empty can he was holding fell from his fingers, his eyes closed as his chin dropped onto his chest, and he fell into a deep sleep.

​"I wish it was that easy," MacBlaine muttered, as he made sure Mr. Rusk was as comfortable as possible in his chair. He then placed a fire guard in front of the still blazing fire, picked the empty cans from the floor, popped them on the table, and finally with a last look at the now snoring Mr. Rusk, switched off the lights, and made his way to the spare bedroom Mrs. Rusk had told him about earlier.

​As he climbed the stairs, his muscles ached, and his joints protested with every step. MacBlaine felt totally exhausted, but he knew the story about to unravel inside Dovecot Manor, had only just begun.