A Parish Darker: A Victorian Suspense Novella by Rhys Ermire Page B

knot entwined my throbbing heart and troubled stomach. “A man is dead here, Baron. You—” I caught myself. “We—were involved. It is our duty to report what has happened. His trespassing and our self-defense are evident! This man may have a family out there; people who will look for him. If we do not report this—”
     
    My host feigned no interest in my plea, replacing the rat that favored him so dearly back into its cage and saying only, “Should someone come seeking him, it is to our greatest benefit that he never be found.”
     
    His large hand rested on my shoulder from behind, squeezing my collar with gentle yet convincing grip. “Edwin, there are things that you cannot trust to the hearts of men. They are feeble creatures, you see, ones that do not know the difference between what should be done and what should not.”
     
    The pool of blood beneath us began pouring outward toward our feet. “What do we—” I stammered, unable to find the phrasing that would articulate the conflict swelling in my mind.
     
    “ ‘ Do’?” the Baron asked, completing my thought. “We are to do nothing. Nothing more than is necessary, of course. This is not a complicated matter. A man intruded upon my home and nearly killed my guest! I say we owe him nothing, not even a burial. The only crime here is that his blood,” he paused, using his boot to move the man’s outstretched arm closer to his body, “has stained the floor of my study. That will not do. It will take considerable work to clean this.”
     
    Baron von Savanberg began humming an unfamiliar tune as he pranced about the study to make his way to the liquor cabinet. On his way, he stepped over the dead body as if it were a mere lump in the rug. “You look as if you could use a drink,” said he, preparing a concoction and pouring a glass without seeking my approval.
     
    After filling a glass for himself with a heavier brand, he passed my glass and insisted I drink. “Baron, this is—” The words escaped me with an exasperated message all their own.
     
    “Tell me something,” said he, downing the considerable contents of his glass in only one swig, “what is it you think is the difference between the right and the wrong? Both just words—words with history and perceived meanings, but words all the same. These words vary in their severity and applicability, no? Can we make such sweeping determinations of one’s actions with the precious little information we have in a given moment? I would say not. What say you?”
     
    The glass in my hand, while full, felt empty all the same. I had no thirst or appetite of any kind. The Baron guided the glass to my mouth, leaving me little choice but to drink.
     
    “Baron,” I said with a light air as I finished drinking, “I have to ask you something.”
     
    With cheer in his demeanor, the Baron replied in turn, saying, “Yes, my friend? What is it?”
     
    I looked down to the body, resolved to the inevitability of both my question and its answer.
     
    The Baron smiled.
     
    My confused state lingered as I was unable to reconcile my previous impression of the Baron with this reality. My host had no qualms of any kind, and the further distanced we were from the event itself, the more at peace he seemed.
     
    My head began to ache with remorse, confusion, and a litany of related sensations I cannot put to words even now. Something terrible was happening and I was powerless to act without a better understanding of what had brought us to this point.
     
    Balance became secondary to merely keeping my eyes open. The details now are inexact in my memory, just as they were then, but I recall my weight wobbling beneath me and the Baron placing his hand on my back. He did so with absolute firmness and expectation. I knew in that moment that he had waited by me with that purpose in mind.
     
    I turned and clutched at his shoulder, placing all my weight upon him.
     
    “Come now, Edwin,” said he in comfort.