She’d also managed to stretch the gag somewhat, enough that, when Nunsworth’s tirade against the villagers of Saltford ran down, she managed to mumble reasonably clearly, “It was you who I sensed watching me.”
She was perfectly certain she needed to keep him talking as long as she could. She hadn’t yet worked out how to free her feet.
His hands in his pockets, Nunsworth blinked at her. “Was I the one watching you?” When she nodded, he smiled, transparently pleased by what he saw as his own cleverness. “Yes, indeed. I made sure I knew all about you before I acted. I required the better part of a day to enact the scenario I’ve devised as most likely to cause your father the maximum excruciating pain.”
He paused, looking over her head as if relishing the thought of her father’s agony, then lowered his gaze to her face and smiled smugly. “I needed a day during which no one was likely to realize you were missing. Well, other than your landlady, the estimable Mrs. Macintyre, but I believe I can rely on her to dither. She won’t want to go to the authorities in case she’s acting precipitously and ends somehow sullying your reputation. I know how those like her—like the villagers here—think. No. Mrs. Macintyre will wait to see if you return, and by the time she realizes you aren’t going to, it’ll be far too late.”
Nunsworth’s smile of anticipation grew. “Far, far too late for anyone to save you.” He studied her for a moment, then went on, “Sunday, of course, was the obvious day. As a clergyman’s daughter, your movements on Sunday are entirely predictable—you go to church in the morning and return to your lodgings to take luncheon with your landlady, and she is the only one to see you through the rest of the day. The Sabbath, our day of rest.”
Except, Sylvia thought, Kit had been coming to walk out with her. She glanced upward, at the softening sky visible through the skylight. She didn’t know what time it was, but surely Kit would have called long since. He would guess that something had befallen her...
Was it possible he might realize what had happened and be driving to her rescue?
She couldn’t see how. Surreptitiously wriggling her still-anchored right hand, she decided she couldn’t hope for rescue; she would have to save herself.
In gloating vein, Nunsworth continued, “Indeed, Sunday is the perfect day—the day of the week on which your father is at his most righteous.” Nunsworth all but preened. “I’ve laid my plans quite brilliantly, if I do say so myself.” He looked down at her, yet didn’t seem to actually see her, and purred, “This is going to be so very satisfying.”
She got the distinct impression that, in looking at her, he was seeing not her but some vision that pleased him to no end; her skin crawled.
But she almost had both her hands loose. Desperate to keep him dwelling on his plan rather than acting it out, she mumbled, “But why here?”
Refocusing on her, he tipped his head, then ventured, “Why bring you here?”
She nodded, trying to let nothing more than sincere in
terest show in her eyes.
He arched his brows in a superior way. “I would have thought that obvious, my dear. I want your father to see your body, and that sooner rather than later, so he can appreciate it in all its gory glory. As close as we are to the vicarage, I think that’s guaranteed. I want him to see what his piety has bought him.” Nunsworth’s features contorted, viciousness overtaking his expression as he raised his head. “I want to watch and see his shock. I want to watch him grieve! And ultimately, when he reads my note, I want to see guilt swamp him and bring him to his knees!”
The last was said like a clarion call—a summons to battle.
Abruptly, Nunsworth looked down and pinned Sylvia with his gaze. All humanity had leached from his face. “I want,” he stated, “your father to understand that your death and the manner of it is a judgment I’ve passed on him. He took from me the life I should have had. In return, I’ll take a life from him.”
Kit was crouching by the corner of the slab, a mere two yards from Sylvia. His blood ran cold at Nunsworth’s words. The man might be insane, but he was also deadly serious, driven by compulsive intent and a hatred fueled by obsession.
A rack of tools off to Kit’s right offered a pair of long, heavy iron tongs, the most useful implement Kit had spotted. But in going for the tongs, he would immediately be seen by Nunsworth.
The man was droning on, “I admit that I will regret marring such loveliness, but sadly for you, my dear, you are your father’s only child. So I fear it’s you who must pay.” Nunsworth bent, reaching for something on the floor.
Kit couldn’t see what Nunsworth was about to pick up, then his gaze was caught by movement on the floor behind Nunsworth. The watchman was starting to stir.
An in-drawn breath close behind Kit had him nearly jumping from his skin. He glanced back and saw Ollie just behind him, peering over the top of the slab, his eyes widening and a horrified look breaking across his face.
Kit snapped his gaze back to Nunsworth.
Just as Nunsworth said, “And now, it’s time for my revenge.”
His face alight with unholy fervor, in a two-handed grip, Nunsworth hefted a heavy iron bar, swung it high, and brought it down with maximum force.
Sylvia screamed.
Kit’s heart stopped. He died—or so it felt.
But at the last second, Sylvia tugged one hand free and flung herself to the right—toward Kit.
The bar hit the edge of the stone slab, and shards flew.
Kit leapt to his feet and raced for the tongs.