The Admiral’s glance flicked up inland, and then down again. He nodded slowly.
Still the deathly smile in front of him. ‘More bad news, Bellamy: Jessel isn’t coming to save you.’ The first suggestion of a frown on the Admiral’s face. ‘He’s been your guarantee, like always, hasn’t he? I knew he wouldn’t stay in the same place as you last night, because you rightly assumed that I would check whether you were coming alone as instructed. To be ready this morning, there was only one tavern Jessel could have stayed in. I know the place, as it happens. The landlord is a vile man, a great, broken brute of every possible vice and crime, who has lived a life without a single aspect of decency or humanity. He fits in fine around here, of course; we’re almost fond of him. Old Henry’s one redeeming quality – and he tried hard to hide it – was his attitude to his son. He beat him until he was too big to beat, and he never stopped cursing him for a fool, but in some dark place deep inside he loved the boy for his independence and his learning and his making a success for himself. Strange world.’ The Admiral’s frown was harder now. ‘The landlord’s name is Henry Hillyard. His son was Simon Hillyard – my friend, and my Captain, and the man who drowned out here because he refused to be corrupted by you. Dick Jessel’s eaten his last meal, Admiral, served by a man from whom he stole the future, and his only hope was a quick death.’
Another heavy nod, and eventually Bellamy said, ‘Mm. I see.’ Another pause, and the eyes never wavered from the man in front of him, as the mind continued to work. ‘You and Kinnaird seem to have managed things very cleverly. I rather think this will turn out to be a successful episode for the Comptrollerate-General after all.’
‘Still calm, Admiral? Still calculating? Now he’s beaten you, Kinnaird will want to use you, won’t he? Find out what you know. Turn you so that you can work against Fouché. And you wouldn’t mind that.’
A little shrug on the big shoulders. ‘The thought of being subordinate to the whims of that shrivelled old wizard I find appalling. But your recent exploits have made London a rather more stable prospect for the time being. So, yes, it seems that I shall accommodate myself to Kinnaird and his scheming.’
‘I’m sure he’d like that as much as you’d hate it. The man’s extraordinary, isn’t he? In the middle of it all, when he could barely hope to keep the Comptrollerate-General going and stave off invasion for more than a week, part of his mind was still planning months and years ahead. When Gabin, the French policeman, met me he used what he thought was a code phrase that I would recognize. It was gibberish – meant nothing to me. My guess is that Kinnaird had identified half a dozen people whom he suspected of being Fouché’s agent in London, and that he let each of them discover a different phrase to use should one ever meet the mysterious Roscarrock. Now he’ll know who the spy is. Remarkable.’
He was looking into the wreck, and shook his head in wonder. ‘So I’m sure he has plans to exploit a prize like you.’ The eyes snapped up. ‘Unfortunately, he’s going to be disappointed. I don’t work for Sir Keith Kinnaird or for anyone. I’m here for myself, alone, and that’s why you’re going to die instead.’
The Admiral was baffled, scornful. ‘You envisage us fighting some sort of duel out here on the beach?’
‘No, Admiral, I envisage you dying, and me finding a life again. Your final lesson in seamanship for the day. This isn’t a beach; it’s a sandbar. Exposed at low tide; surrounded and then covered at high tide. This bank has been death to many ships and sailors over the centuries. They call it the Doom Bar.’ He glanced around them, at the encircling water and the tiny patch of sand on which they now stood. ‘Round here, the tide comes high and it comes awful fast. It’s a terrible thing even to those who know it well. Perhaps, Admiral, you weren’t looking at the sea. Or perhaps you thought Jessel would be here with a boat, like someone has always been for you. But there’s no one else now. It’s just us, and the sea. And I can swim, and you can’t.’
Hugo Bellamy looked about himself, through eyes that flickered with unfamiliar fear, on a world that now was changed terribly. He saw the unavoidable sea all around him, and he saw the eyes of the man in front of him, bleak and final, and the magisterial control collapsed. He launched himself across the few feet of wet sand.
The stranger hit him, one straight jab to the centre of the charging, incoherent face. He hit the Admiral with the weeks of anger behind him, and the faces of all the dead souls in front of him, and the Admiral dropped like a shattered mast.
He floundered on his knees, hands splashing in the chuckling water. ‘Roscarrock!’ he called out, but the stranger had turned and was striding into the waves. The voice rose, desperate, afraid and alone. ‘Roscarrock – please!’ Building to a scream: ‘Roscarrock!’
But there was no one to answer to that name now. As the sea surged up against the land, wiping clean everything in its path, the man who had been Tom Roscarrock began to kick with long steady strokes towards the shore.
The Emperor's Gold Page 43
