by Kay Kenyon
They began picking their way down a narrow path along the cliff face, where a missed step on the uneven track could mean a nasty fall to the beach.
He looked back to encourage her. “You aren’t afraid?”
“So far, so good!” Halfway down the cliff, the path narrowed even further. She picked her way with care. Ahead, Powell moved sure-footedly and quickly down.
With some relief she planted her feet on the hard-packed sand. Sheltered from the morning sun, the cove was in cold gloom, with the headland throwing its shadow past the sea henge.
Powell looked out to sea. “When I was young, I used to sneak down here and search for agates. Mother forbade me to come, but she was always too fearful for me. Only son and all that.” He stooped down to examine a small rock. Seagulls rode thermals above them, shrieking, but in the sheltering bay the wind had subsided.
“Can we walk out to the henge?” The tide had withdrawn from the forward curve of the circle, and Kim felt drawn to stand among the monoliths.
Startled, he came over to her. “No. That one is sacred ground. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course. But they do rather beckon, don’t they?”
“I’ve always thought so.” He smiled. “I’m glad you do too.” He put an arm around her. “You aren’t cold?”
The move was forward of him, but she felt she couldn’t move away without insult. “Oh, not at all, really.” The memory surfaced of Erich von Ritter sharing his coat in the cold and rain of the gazebo. An excuse to be close, and though she had felt certain von Ritter was a spy and she should not let down her guard, she had felt it would be prudish to say no.
“Kim, I have a bit of bad news. I’m afraid that Mother’s turn for the worse means we won’t be able to have your company for the whole weekend.”
She had feared that she was going to be sent home a day early, but she could hardly ask to stay under the circumstances. “Oh. I do understand, of course.”
“Have you enough information for your article?”
“Perhaps I could call if I have follow-up questions. Or, I would love to come back when Lady Ellesmere is feeling better.”
“I would like to say yes. But we have to see how Mother fares.” He turned to her, bringing them face-to-face. “I’ve enjoyed our conversations. More than you know.”
He was going to make a pass at her. But she had now had a few more hours in the man’s company, and the initial spark she had felt had not rekindled.
“I would like to kiss you,” he said. “If that’s all right. If you wouldn’t mind.”
She thought it the most awkward proposition she had ever encountered. “Perhaps, given that I’m on assignment, it may not do.”
“Surely, that doesn’t matter.”
She thought of Lady Ellesmere and suddenly wished to thwart the woman. The scene in the sickroom left little doubt that the dowager would disapprove a kiss on the beach. As well, the thought flickered: she would be more likely to get a return invitation. “Well,” she said, “perhaps it’s not a rule.”
He put his hand on the back of her head and, turning her face up toward him, he kissed her, inexpertly but sincerely.
This had been a bad idea. She had now passed a rotten milestone: pretending affection to further her aims.
Awkwardly, they moved apart. “I wish you didn’t have to go. My lady friends always go,” he said artlessly.
I’ll bet they do, Kim thought. If not put off by Powell’s clumsiness, then driven off by Dorothea.
Their moment of intimacy suddenly over, he bent down to retrieve a beach stone and hurled it at one of sea gulls. He had no chance of hitting it, but she was unpleasantly startled by the gesture.
In the silence that had fallen, she searched for something to say, coming up with, “What gift would you like to have? If you could choose.”
“Well, you’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, I should like the gift of charisma. Of people liking one at once.”
I liked you at once, she thought to say, because it was true. When he had met her in the sitting room on Friday, he was immediately appealing, though less so now. It was difficult to admire a man who allowed himself to be so manipulated by his mother. But she could see why he wanted that “gift.” He might wish for the devotion that his mother had enjoyed all these years. He did seem to thrive on admiration; and no wonder, with his mother an expert in dispensing and withdrawing of approval.
She felt sorry for him. But now she was being sent home and found herself much sorrier on that score. How hard it was to ply such a subtle thing as the spill; how disappointing when others were counting on you and you had not come through.
They began their climb up the cliff face, and her thoughts went to Ewan, Rupert, and Frances. I’m not giving up, she assured them.
PENGEYLAN
At the railway station, Awbrey waited with her, peering down the track to catch sight of the train.
Kim looked at the old retainer and thought it likely that he didn’t miss much of what went on at Sulcliffe. She wished she could ask him about the name Idelle Coslett had written down for her, but Idelle had been at pains to keep it secret. To reveal that she knew the name might put the Cosletts on guard.
Before she left the castle, she had seen Rian and told her that she’d like to thank Miss Coslett for her hospitality. Rian allowed as how Idelle liked to help in the kitchen, and showed Kim the way. But then there were the three of them in the scullery, with Idelle looking alarmed—and pointedly continuing to peel potatoes. No chance to ask her a private question.
Now SIS would put their people on the task of uncovering who Flory Soames might be.
Her intelligence product for Crossbow had certainly been disappointing. The Office would sift through her report, following up on anything they found interesting, but it was hard to think what that might be. The Cosletts were Nazi sympathizers, a viewpoint shared by many in England. Oh, to be a higher rating for the spill, she thought, and to have uncovered something of real import.
Such a wish surprised her. She knew the downside of her Talent; she had lived with it, and had often longed to be free of it. How quickly she had slipped into the role of spy, wishing to cull yet more secrets, wanting to know. Willing to live with the consequences in her personal life.
For a purpose, though. And this time, to prevent the slaughter of children.
Crossbow could not be a leisurely investigation. It had been nine days since Frances Brooke had died at Avebury. No one assumed the killer was finished.
Awbrey still watched down the tracks. A taciturn and loyal Coslett retainer, but conversation was her art, and she must put it in play. “Lady Ellesmere told me the King came to visit at the summer solstice. Did you get to see him?”
He screwed up his lips, regarding her with skepticism. “D’ye mean to say her ladyship was talkin’ of that?”
“Why yes, just briefly. Were you on the premises for the visit, then?”
He paused, obviously unsure, but finally went on, “Aye, but not close, like. We was all kept well back. An’ told to keep silent.”
“Well, it won’t go in my article. The baron asked me not to mention it.”
Awbrey nodded, perhaps eager now, to brag. “And that woman, she come too. Not royal, that one, but in his favor, y’ know.”
“Oh, Mrs. Simpson, you mean.” Most people were well aware that the King was besotted with Wallis Simpson, not only married, but married twice, and despised by many for her influence over Edward.
He frowned. “Might be, might be, but no business of mine.”
The train came into view. On the trip home she would write down the possible spills or indeed any salient details. Flory Soames; Powell’s determination to lead Ancient Light despite the gift/Talent obstacle; Helena Cumberledge, a possible rival; even the sea henge, where few visitors were allowed. Any of these divulged matters—as well as seemingly innocuous things people said—might be spills, and therefore i
mportant. As always, the question remained, Was there a spill, or more than one? And if so, Which utterances were they? The thing about the spill was that it was often the very thing you needed most to know, since the subject had a desire not to tell it.
The train chuffed into the tiny station with clanking couplings and hissing brakes. Having assured Awbrey that she could manage her two bags, they said their goodbyes and she boarded the train.
In her private railway compartment she found a copy of the Times. The issue was full of the Berlin Olympics. She read with pleasure, JESSE OWENS WINS 4TH GOLD. That should give the lie to Hitler’s myth of Aryan supremacy, she thought. In fact, Owens was the most successful athlete at the games.
Eventually, she took out her notebook and began recording her observations from Sulcliffe. One phrase that gave her pause was Only the gifted can rule. Dorothea and Powell Coslett placed great importance on the special qualities needed for leadership. It was something Erich von Ritter had believed, too. That the bloom meant that people of great Talent would lead the world, improving it. How wrong that was. She didn’t know the significance of the bloom, but it wasn’t a brighter future. It might mean a far more dangerous one. The reign of the unscrupulous, with powers they should not have. She thought of Hugh Aberdare during her first mission and Lady Ellesmere on this one, and how they abused their powers. In people like that, uncanny abilities were dark Talents, indeed. Hard, sometimes impossible, to contain.
Unless there were equal Talents ranged in opposition to them.
The compartment door swung open. She looked up to find a man in an ill-fitting suit. He clicked the door shut behind him.
“This is a private compartment,” Kim said.
“Oh, I kin see that. Nice posh seat you got there.” He was about fifty years old, a man on whom a slim frame had become rangy. His face was tense, but lit with energy, perhaps fueled by a pint or two.
“What is this about?”
“I might ask you the same, Kimberly Tavistock.”
That couldn’t be good, that he knew her name.
He swayed at the door, as the train rounded a curve. “You come marchin’ into the Register claiming you’re onto a story that we happen to be already workin’ on.” He nodded at her. “That’s the question might be asked.”
“What story?”
He rolled his eyes. “What story. Earth mysteries, that’s what. It was my story, my idea to chat up Baron Ellesmere. All arranged, nice like. And then the boss, he says he’s got a girl onto it, and she’s some big writer from the States, with credentials, and we sodding well don’t need Lloyd Nichols.”
Kim drew herself up. “I think we can leave it to your editor to decide. If you have a better story, you’ll have to convince him. Meanwhile, I’ll thank you to leave or I’ll summon the conductor.” She carefully closed her notebook.
He noticed this. “Oh, so that’s your interview, is it? With her ladyship and her son? That was to be my scoop. Far as I’m concerned, you pinched it.”
“I’ll thank you to leave. Now, Mr. Nichols.”
“I know all about the mess you made of things at your big Yank newspaper.” He came closer, looming over her, his breath reeking of gin. “Got yourself sacked, is the truth. And now you come looking for my job, so I’m buggered, ain’t I? Buggered.”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the conductor.” She rose to push the bell.
Nichols wiped his chin and its faint stubble. “This ain’t the end of the discussion.”
“Yes, it is,” Kim replied. “And I plan to be in touch with Maxwell Slater.”
Nichols bit his lip. “You don’t need to get Maxwell into this. I’ll lose my job.”
“If I don’t see you again, we’ll leave it at that.”
Nichols swayed out of the compartment and slammed the door.
When she changed trains at Chester, she glimpsed Nichols waiting at the platform for the train to London. He’d had the look of a heavy drinker, red-faced and disheveled, and she wondered that he was still employed at all. She considered reporting him to Owen, but she mustn’t give the service any reason to think she was particularly vulnerable for being a woman and one traveling alone. She had had to keep Owen firmly reminded of this fact to counter his bouts of overprotectiveness. In any case, even though Nichols had investigated her—to the extent of her stint with the Inquirer—he was just a harmless, if aggravating, drunk.
THE TOWN WALL, YORK
THAT EVENING. “The problem always is,” she told Owen Cherwell, “that it’s impossible to know for sure if I’ve gotten a spill.”
Dusk had already claimed the Old Town area of York, its medieval warren of streets a faintly glowing maze. Here on the city walls, the day lingered. At Kim’s last call-in from Sulcliffe they had arranged this meeting place, a stopover on her way home.
“I mean, if someone tells me they’re having an affair with their cousin, and they blurt it, I might suspect it was one. But even then . . .” It was hard to explain. So much of the spill was a dance of intimacy and avoidance.
“You don’t have to be sure, you just have to be aware.” Owen leaned on the wall abutment, looking north to the York Minster with its soaring Gothic towers. “What sounded off ? When did the conversation suddenly veer away?”
“Yes, I know, but that’s how all conversations go, if they’re very long.” She drew her notebook out of her coat pocket. “Well. Here is my list of things I learned, whether spill or not.”
Owen squinted at the list. “The estate is in financial trouble; Powell Coslett fighting for succession to Ancient Light’s leadership; the dowager sending away a girlfriend of her son’s; the name Flory Soames.” He glanced up. “What’s that one about?”
Kim described Idelle Coslett and her vow of silence that apparently did not prevent her from writing notes. “She may dislike the baroness. She’s a hard woman to like. But if she meant to speak against Lady Ellesmere, she didn’t give me much. And if it was a spill, it’s of a sort I’ve never had before. Written. Also, Idelle Coslett is elderly and losing some of her competency.”
Owen read on. They stood on one of the main gatehouses of the York city walls, the one called Bootham, its pathways and stairs worn smooth by eight hundred years of sentries and tourists. The stones were still warm from the sun, unlike the stones of Sulcliffe, which perhaps never lost their chill.
When Owen came to Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson’s visit to Sulcliffe, he raised an eyebrow. “The King?”
“Yes, Lady Ellesmere told this to me when she was heavily sedated. Later, Powell said that the King is also a donor to Ancient Light.”
“The Cosletts are solidly in the highest circle, then.” Owen frowned. “And a visit at the summer solstice, no less. Do you suppose His Majesty is partial to spiritualism?”
“Why else would he go there on the solstice, a rather significant date for the spiritualism crowd?”
“Indeed. But it may complicate things. We’re already warned away from unnecessary meddling with the baron and the dowager. Now this.” Owen tore out the pages from her notebook and stuffed them into his breast pocket.
She had only a few minutes before the 9:40 to Uxley. “You’ll see in my notes that the dowager has a Talent. I’m guessing it’s hyperempathy. She’s very shrewd at deducing moods and things left unspoken.” Such as when the subject of the war came up. All losses are specific, she had said, as though she had seen into Kim’s heart. “She thought she caught a glimpse of unease in me. It gave me a start, but I don’t think she could identify my . . . duplicity.”
“Don’t think of it like that. It’s not a lie, it’s a cover.”
Well. It was both. But it didn’t hurt to use the right words, the ones that helped you live with yourself.
Kim looked at her Helbros wristwatch. 9:04 PM. In their last minutes Owen expertly debriefed her, teasing out details for later consideration in that formidable mind of his, the one for which he had been plucked from the Cambridge psychology de
partment to work at Monkton Hall.
“Good to keep a watch on the baron, as you’ve done.” Owen said. “He may be keen to impress the Germans. He could even be Talon.”
“Hard to think why he would be.”
Perhaps the Nazis would reward him for killing English young people. But why? If they wanted to assassinate military Talents, they would come after her—and others whose names were listed in the logbook at Monkton Hall.
In any case, she must work on Powell Coslett, who liked her and who was less on guard than Lady Ellesmere.
Sulcliffe Castle was a dark well of secrets and longing. It was like the sea henge, its secrets covered by fathoms of water. But even the sea henge came into view sometimes.
She would go back. She must. A little more time, and the truth might be revealed.
But for the killer’s next target, time might be the one thing they did not have.
THE BLOOM BOOK
TALENT GROUPS
GROUP 2: MENTATION
Mentation capabilities are characterized by heightened mental processing. An individual can perceive facts, outcomes, conclusions, events, and associations derived from people, objects, or a setting. The nature of these perceptions appears to be tied to human emotional experience. The class is distinguished from the Hyperpersonal Group by the absence of personal interactions.
Hypercognition. Enhanced speed of deduction. This ability manifests in a manner that can be compared to what is commonly referred to as intuition. The individual grasps, in an unconscious manner, minor events or statements that point to an accurate conclusion. The insight so derived is often instantaneous. Manifestations spontaneous.
Hyperempathy. When in close proximity to a subject, practitioner perceives the presence of suppressed or hidden emotions. At the lower end of the rating scale, the specific emotion may not be identified, but merely its apparent strength. Underlying ability.
Object reading. Upon physical contact with an item, details relating to the object’s owner are perceived. The details may be clear or shrouded by a number of historical associations. Some observations of the ability show an object’s entanglement in an owner’s life such that perceptions can be gleaned whether or not the item was in the presence of the emotional event. Controlled by the intention of the practitioner.
