And then she was gone. But he had no intention of sleeping. Sleep had to be fought off. There was only one place where he needed to be if he was to stop himself from going mad. He had to think. He had to try to understand. He had to accept what his mind told him was true.

He had to be where he found a greater peace and a surer wisdom than he could find here among these dead books and the empty eyes of the busts. He made his way quietly out of the room, closing the door behind him, through the great hall, now in darkness, and to the back of the house, past the kitchen and through the side door into the garden. He felt neither the strength of the wind nor the cold. He passed the old stables, then went through the formal garden to the stone chapel.

As he approached through the dawning light, he saw that there was a dark shape on the stones outside the door. Something had been spilled, something which shouldn’t be there. Confused, he knelt down and touched its stickiness with trembling fingers. And then he could smell it and, raising his hands, saw that they were covered with blood. He struggled forward on his knees and, willing himself to stand, managed to raise the latch. The door was bolted. And then he knew. He beat against it, sobbing, calling her name, until his strength gave out and he sank slowly to his knees, his red palms pressed against the unyielding wood.

And it was there, still kneeling in her blood, that the searchers found him twenty minutes later.

Chapter 6

6