A Death in Norfolk

by Ashley Gardner

  "Seven feet should not be difficult to overcome," Denis said.

  "And I intend to make the attempt once I can stand up without falling over," I answered.

  I heard Denis push himself to a sitting position. His voice, when it came, was close to my ear. "I haven't had to fight anyone in truth for a few years now. I am going soft."

  "I suppose attending Gentleman Jackson's is not something you can do."

  He made a quiet sound, like a laugh. "Gentleman Jackson would turn away the likes of me. I do have a go with my bodyguards to keep my hand in, but the trouble is, they hold back."

  "They are afraid of the consequences if they hurt you," I said.

  "I know. I will have to correct this oversight."

  "You can always spar with me," I suggested. "I am a good fighter, in spite of it all, and I would not hold back."

  "No, I imagine you would not." Denis made another sound, this one of pain, as he shifted. "Which begs the question, why did you not kill me while I lay here?"

  I shrugged, though I knew he could not see me in the dark. "Maybe I had no wish to be trapped down here with your dead body."

  I knew he did not believe that, but he said nothing. We sat in silence for a time, each of us gathering our strength.

  The fight had taken much out of me, and my leg hurt like fire. Denis was younger and stronger--he'd recover faster. Then I might have to face the possibility that he, who had far less honor than I pretended to have, would kill me here, ridding himself of the captain who so irritated him.

  But then, he'd shot Cooper, when the man would have beaten me into certain death.

  "I am sorry about Cooper," I said.

  He did not answer right away. I imagined he was glad of the dark, where he could fight his demons without me being able to see.

  "Cooper was a mistake," Denis said. "I'd thought . . ."

  He'd thought Cooper had come to care for him as he had for Cooper--like father and son, one of Denis's men had said. Cooper had taught Denis to fight, had brought him safely through the rough life on the streets. If Denis had not become wealthy, had not provided Cooper a soft billet and much money, would Cooper have turned on him long ago?

  Denis must be wondering the same thing. I might have taken satisfaction that he was getting a taste of what it felt like to be used, but at the moment, I pitied him.

  "You shot at him," I said. "But you only grazed him. On purpose?"

  "Not at all," Denis said, voice as cold as ever. "I shot to kill. He heard me and moved in time. Believe me, my aim is true."

  I could not stand. I had to half crawl, half drag myself to the nearest wall, brace myself on it, and climb to my feet. I did not bother stifling my sounds of pain. I leaned against the wall and struggled to catch my breath.

  "Perhaps you should pay your lackeys more," I said. "Easton tried to take all those paintings from you. Ferguson found them in the windmill. I wonder whether Ferguson would have tried to make off with them, if Cooper hadn't come across him."

  "I pay them more than they would get trading their talents to anyone else," Denis said. "Easton made more out of me than from his farm or the half-pay he receives from the army."

  "Even so, those paintings could bring them much more."

  I heard Denis trying to leverage himself to his feet. His words came breathily. "What you are seeing is the natural greed of man, Lacey. If a man catches a whiff of untold wealth, he will do anything to get it. Even a small amount of money can release the greed." One more puff of breath, and his voice returned to normal. "I've seen men kill each other over a few coins."

  I had too, so I could not argue. "You now have untold wealth," I said. "At least, you seem to."

  "Yes, and I did everything I could to get it. I vowed, when I was a lad, that I'd never sleep in a dung cart again. Granted, the cart was warm."

  "I am sorry about that."

  "You are, aren't you? Captain Gabriel Lacey, friend to the downtrodden. You grew up in a manor house, protected by many, while I grew up alone, fending off those who would prey on me. Now, you eke out a living while I live in luxury. And yet, you are highly respected, while I will ever be the boy who slept in the dung cart." He did not sound resentful. He stated a fact.

  "I am sorry about that as well," I said.

  He actually laughed, but it was a controlled laugh. "You may keep your respectability, Captain. I will take the disapprobation of the many, while I lie in clean sheets and gaze at beauty created by men who also had to grub for their living. So many artists never received the money promised them for their paintings. They died in poverty while their patrons ate from silver spoons and hung the stolen artwork on their walls. At least what was in the painters' hearts lives on for us to enjoy today."

  "Very poetic," I said.

  "I am apt to wax poetic in dire circumstances. Can you walk over here? I believe I have found the trapdoor."

  I limped toward his voice. My walking stick was in the room above us; at least, it was if Cooper hadn't absconded with it. He'd been badly hurt, and the tide must still be rising. Had he made it to dry ground or would he be waiting for us to emerge?

  One obstacle at a time.

  I reached Denis. I lifted my arms to feel what he felt, but I had to lean against him to do it. He remained firmly in place, letting me rest my weight on him.

  "Here," he said.

  I felt wood set in stone, boards about a foot above our heads. Without a word, we both pushed.

  The boards would not budge. Cooper must have wedged the trapdoor or dragged something heavy over it.

  "Hmm," Denis said, as though we faced nothing more dire than a bad hand of cards. "How are you at digging?"

  "With my bare hands, through the walls?" I thought of the cool, damp stone that lined the room. "It could be done, I suppose, but I imagine we'd hit water right away. We might drown instead of starving to death."

  "How about digging upward? We find floorboards instead of whatever Cooper has used to wedge the trapdoor."

  "Worth a try, I suppose."

  In the next hours, I realized what a resourceful man Denis was. He had both of us turning out our pockets for whatever useful tools we might have, and allowed neither of us time to speculate what would happen if we did not escape.

  My pockets produced, in addition to my flask, a small knife, a gold card case--a gift from Lady Breckenridge--a few coins, and a handkerchief. Denis had a knife--larger and sturdier than mine--a handkerchief, a short piece of rope, and balls and powder for his pistol. Denis also had a watch fob, but it was unadorned, unlike Rafe Godwin's, which had been hung with all sorts of junk. Like Grenville, Denis dressed expensively but austerely.

  "Rope," I said, touching the small coil.

  "Useful for tying things," Denis said. "The black powder interests me the most. We might use it to shatter stones above us."

  "Or bring the ceiling down on us. And there is the question of lighting it."

  "It takes only a spark, and fortunately, inhabitants of Norfolk use much flint in the building of their cottages. A challenge, yes. Impossible, no."

  "May we try that as a last resort?" I removed my knife from its leather sheath and carefully poked at the stone surrounding a beam.

  It was painful work, balancing on my good leg while I worked my already sore arms. Painful, yes, but I had no wish to remain in this cellar forever.

  "Over here," Denis said. "The earth is a little softer, and this beam is rotting."

  I hobbled over to join him. "Cooper might be up there, with your pistol. And my sword."

  "If he is, then we will face him."

  Nothing more to be said.

  We worked in silence, chipping away at stone that rained in our faces. I understood what Denis was trying to do. Even if we brought down the beam and part of the ceiling, if we could shield ourselves from the falling debris, then we could climb out.

  I continued our earlier conversation. "I suppose that, to you, I grew up privileged and protected. The tru
th is we were quite poor but not allowed to let on. I was protected from everyone but the one supposed to be protecting me."

  "Yes, your father," Denis said. "I have heard the tales." No doubt he had.

  "A boy's public school can be as mean as the London streets, believe me," I said. "A lad is at the mercy of bullies until he learns to be a bully himself. There is little tolerance for the weak."

  "I imagine you held your own," Denis said. "And I know that you are fishing for more information about my childhood, Captain."

  I grunted as I worked. "I profess to curiosity."

  "Let me see--when I was seven, I lived in Lancashire with a lady who loved gin and young boys, in that order. The least said about that, the better. One night, she drank a few gallons of gin and never woke up. I stole everything I could carry and left on my own, making my way to London. From there my life took the turns I've already mentioned."

  "Why on earth did you stay with the woman?" I took a step back as dirt rained into my face. "I did not think you were the sort to put up with much."

  "Fortunately, she spent most of her nights stone drunk and asleep. But she fed me and taught me to pick locks. She was friends with a housebreaker who sent me down chimneys to open doors because I was so thin. I grew tired of chewing on soot, so I asked the woman to teach me about the locks. I knew she could pick them, because whenever she took a job as a maid or charwoman in a respectable home--bringing me with her to help her--she came away with bits of their valuables that had been locked away in cabinets."

  "And if the discovery that they were missing was connected with her stint, she blamed you," I finished.

  "Naturally. The boy from who-knew-where was a more likely suspect than the respectable-looking maid. Beat the boy, cry and return the things, and all was well."

  Denis spoke coolly, with his curious detachment, as though these things had happened to someone else. But his tales explained some of his coldness. Every person in his life had used and betrayed him. He'd learned to remain distant, to watch and learn people's weaknesses. He soaked up whatever knowledge he needed from them and walked away.

  "Is your curiosity satisfied, Captain?" he asked.

  "For now. Except--is James Denis your true name?"

  "It suffices for the moment."

  I was not certain whether to believe him, or whether I pitied him. The world threw at us what it did, and we chose what to make of it. Denis could have become an enraged and violent man, or drunk himself into nothing. Instead, he'd made himself into this emotionless being who did what he pleased and dispatched those who got in his way.

  I'd noticed that he avoided the excesses of other men--never drank much, nor indulged in enormous meals or cheroots or beautiful women. He could have all that now, and yet, he chose an almost Spartan existence, excepting his comfortable house and brilliant artwork. He was no hedonist.

  Denis had chosen control. His early life had given him none, and so he'd learned to wrest control from those who'd tried to rule him.

  "Few know my sad tale, Captain," Denis said. "I will not threaten you to keep you from telling it, but I will ask you, as a courtesy, to refrain."

  "I never repeat confidences," I said. "I will treat this as one."

  "Of course you will. Your honor. And you cannot be certain that what I have told you is the truth."

  No, I could not. With Denis, nothing was certain.

  His tale did explain to me why he had never married, or I thought it did. Falling in love, pledging oneself to another, unto death, was the ultimate giving over of control. I was rushing headlong into it for the second time, and I did not mind at all.

  The thought of Donata, dressed in her finery, complete with the odd, feathered headdresses she favored, cigarillo in her gloved hand, made my heart twinge. I would leave this place, travel to her home in Oxfordshire, pluck the cigarillo from her fingers, and show her how much I reveled in the chaos of marriage.

  "I find it ironic," I said, "that one of the few people who hasn't betrayed you, is me."

  "Yet." We both stepped back as another rain of dirt showered to the floor. "Everyone betrays, in the end. I should have remembered that before I grew sentimental about Cooper."

  "I also find it ironic that you shot at him to keep him from killing me."

  "Because I still need you, and he was, after all, trying to run off with my paintings. This beam is giving, I think."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The beam did more than give. It tumbled down, worn through with salt and damp. Stone, flint, and dirt fell with it. I grabbed Denis and hauled him out of the way, landing with him against the wall as half the floor poured down.

  I shielded him, feeling rock batter my back, while I pressed my forehead to the wall so my face would not be cut. Dust filled the air, and we coughed.

  With the dust came light, not much, but enough for me to see the pile of rubble that had fallen. I also saw, when he raised his head, the pale smudge of Denis's face, splotched black with blood.

  He pushed me away, his arm over his mouth, and shuffled back to the fallen ceiling. The debris made a scattered pile, and the hole above was small. Denis reached up with his knife and broke the stone and floorboards that hemmed it in.

  "I'll boost you out first," he said. "You're not steady enough to hold me, but you're big enough to pull me out."

  "Are you not worried I'll run and leave you here?" I asked. Not that I'd run far on my weak and aching leg.

  "No," he said without inflection. "I've come to know you well, Captain."

  He had, damn him. "Better make the hole larger, then," I said. "Or I'll stick like a cork in a bottle."

  Denis did not smile. I supposed he reserved his laughter for the pitch dark when no one could see him.

  Together we widened the hole, pulling down rock until our fingers bled. Denis put his hands around my right boot and heaved me upward.

  I landed facedown, scrabbling on the floor to get purchase. Denis shoved some more, and I crawled out.

  The light came from the cottage's back windows, the afternoon bright outside. The wind blew, bringing chill sea air through the broken panes. I heard the water on all sides of the house and knew we were cut off.

  But alive. The windmill keeper had food and water, and we could rest inside and either wait for the tide to turn, or take one of his rowboats and make for shore.

  I turned around on my stomach and reached down for Denis. He lifted his arms to me, clasping mine, and I started hauling him upward. I'd gotten him halfway through the hole when I heard a step.

  I looked up--and let go of Denis. Denis fell back into the cellar, but he didn't ask why I'd dropped him, didn't say a word.

  Cooper stood above me, blood caking his face and body. He had Denis's pistol, cocked and pointed at me. Where he'd gotten more powder and a bullet, I did not know, but I had no doubt the thing was loaded.

  "You did not make it away before the tide," I said, stating the obvious, so Denis would hear and understand.

  "I was coming back for ye," Cooper said. "You didn't have to work so hard. You are going to row me out of here, Captain, and he will die."

  "Leave the paintings," I said. "And him. I'll take you somewhere safe. I know all the hidden places on this coast. You can go and never see him again."

  Below me I saw Denis stop short of rolling his eyes.

  "And what would that get me?" Cooper asked.

  "Your life."

  "You will row me anyway, Captain. With the paintings, after I shoot him."

  "And then you'll kill me," I said. "I'll not do it."

  "You will. This pistol is loaded and primed for him, but I have a long knife to take care of you if you give me trouble. Or I could do it the other way around. I haven't decided. Bring him out of there. Or I'll shoot you first."

  In the cellar, Denis nodded. I reached down for him. He let me pull him out by the arms again, but he used only one hand to assist me. The other was tucked against his
chest.

  As soon as he got himself onto solid floor, Denis rolled hard away from me and flung a large handful of gunpowder up into Cooper's face. Cooper jerked back, but the powder clung to his face and chest, sticking in the blood all over the right side of his body.

  Cooper swung the gun around, but I shouted. "The spark could ignite you, man. Stop!"

  As Cooper hesitated in rage and confusion, Denis launched himself up like a cat. He grabbed the pistol from Cooper and slammed the butt of it into Cooper's forehead. Cooper, spent from bleeding and pain, went down.

  Cooper groaned, and Denis hit him again. This time Cooper's big body went limp. Denis lifted the man's head, opened his eye, and let the head fall again.

  I got myself to Denis and took the pistol from him. I unlocked the hammer and gently closed it before it could spark. "You have gunpowder all over you too," I said.

  Denis ignored me. "What the devil did he do with my paintings?"

  I had thought Denis would take out his knife and stab Cooper to death then and there, but he left the man on the floor while he went outside into the wind.

  I limped across the wrecked floor and found the sword and sheath of my walking stick on opposite sides of room. I retrieved the pieces and slid the blade into the cane, happy that the thing had survived intact. I breathed a sigh of relief as I leaned my weight on it.

  Cooper was alive, I knew from his loud breathing. Morgan, on the other hand, was dead.

  I walked out of the miller's house to see Denis pull a canvas bag from one of the saddles and take a quick look inside it. The windmill keeper was nowhere about, but I saw that one of the rowboats had gone. Had Waller rushed to the nearest village to bring back a constable? Or fled entirely?

  "Morgan is dead," I said.

  Denis did not look up. "I know." He closed the bag. "Are you a good oarsman, Lacey?"

  "I have not used an ocean craft in years," I said. "Though I rowed on a pond in Oxfordshire this summer and seemed to remember a bit."

  Denis did not look in the mood to be amused. "You told Cooper you know all the secret ways around this coast. Were you lying?"