A Death in Norfolk

Chapter Fourteen

James Denis hired men of a type-most of them former fighters, all of them large and strong. Many, but not all, had criminal pasts. Six had accompanied Cooper to Norfolk to search for the lost artwork, which still had not turned up. Denis had brought three more with him. All nine filed in, one after the other, sat opposite me, and answered my questions.

I'd been used to thinking of them collectively-Denis's men-but as each came in and either stood or sat in front of me, they solidified into individuals, men with separate pasts, characters, ambitions.

One man told me he had a son he was raising on his own, his wife having passed six years before. He worked for Denis because Denis paid so much, and if a man kept his head down and got on, he had a place for life. He'd tucked his son away in a school in Scotland, far from Denis's exploits.

Another, younger man, who called himself Tom and gave no surname, had been thought slow in the Yorkshire village where he'd grown up. At age fourteen, his father had more or less turned him out to fend for himself. He'd become an exhibition fighter for trainers who also thought him slow, but had been tossed out when he hurt other, more valuable fighters.

Tom had then worked his way south toward London, doing odd jobs, usually being paid only in a meal and a place to sleep. People feared him and did not like him lingering, so he'd never stayed anywhere more than a day or two. When he'd reached London, street toughs had lit into him, and Cooper had happened by during the fight. Liking how Tom had held his own against four men, Cooper had broken up the fight and brought the young man to Denis. Tom had been working for Denis ever since.

He related all this in short sentences with long pauses between. Not so much slow, I saw, as careful. Tom was happy in his employment now, with no ambition to go anywhere else. He was grateful to Cooper, but he did not know where Cooper was, nor did he know what had happened to Ferguson. He'd been searching Easton's attics for the art when the cry had gone up at the windmill, and he'd run out to see what was the matter.

I believed him. The way he spoke, leaving out no detail but not embellishing, told me that here was a man not comfortable with lying.

The next person to speak to me was the man who'd beaten me on the boat a year ago, the same one who'd stood behind me in the dining room when Denis had explained that he owned me.

He sprawled in a chair, folded his arms, and grinned at me. "What am I supposed to tell you, Captain?"

I shrugged. "Where you think Cooper is, who you think killed Ferguson. Anything unusual you've seen these last few days."

"Besides you poking your nose into our business? Not a damned thing."

I went on asking the same questions I'd put to the others. "Cooper never mentioned wanting to leave, or wanting to follow someone?"

"Not to me. He never talked to me much. And I never talked to him. Never wanted to."

Very helpful. I kept my voice steady. "Is there anything else you would like to mention?"

"Only this." He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Last year, when I did you over, I was going easy on you."

I remembered his ham fists in my face and the way he'd stomped his large boot on my bad knee, not to mention kicked me square in the groin-all of this after I was down.

"I was also half senseless with opium and unable to defend myself," I said. "I agree that a fair fight would produce different results."

The man's grin widened, and he lurched up out of the chair. "When you want to have a go, you just tell me."

"I'll do that," I said, and then he was gone.

I interviewed the rest, some of whom were quiet and spoke readily, some openly hostile. I was surprised how much they opened up to me, but I supposed Denis would have instructed them in what they could tell me and what they were not allowed to say. But they talked to me more readily than I'd thought.

None, however, had any idea where Cooper might have got to or who had killed Ferguson. None had gone anywhere near the windmill the night of Ferguson's death before Grenville had given the alarm, or so they claimed. Most hadn't had opportunity to know Ferguson well, although the last man I interviewed put forth the theory that Ferguson had it coming.

He was the man I'd yelled at to leave alone my mother's sitting room. He was the smallest of the lot and a bit older as well. He had a wiry build, but I'd seen him breaking my walls with his large sledgehammer without worry. He sat, arms folded, but not in resentment. He was the most evenhanded of the men I'd spoken to, not at all caring about our previous argument.

"Gave himself a lot of airs, did Ferguson," he said. "Stands to reason-he were a champion until he got himself the sack, like a fighting cock who's for the cooking pot. He'd been treated like a princess so long he didn't know how to be a slavey. Fancied himself his nibs' next lieutenant." He chuckled. "Cooper never will leave Mr. Denis's side. He'll die in harness." His smile faded. "Sounds bad now, don't it? Cooper probably got himself offed by the same bloke who did Ferguson."

"You believe Cooper dead, then?"

"Most like. Cooper is that devoted to his nibs. Like father and son, though Mr. Denis is more like the father."

"Is Mr. Denis fatherly to all of you?"

He burst out laughing. "You are funny, Captain. Most amusing. I see why he keeps you around. Mr. Denis ain't fatherly to no one. Me own dad was a drunken layabout, so he wasn't too fatherly either. It is nice to work for someone perpetually sober. As long as Mr. Denis don't expect me to be."

"I've never noticed drunken revelry in Mr. Denis's house," I said.

"Course not. He's got rules, and if you break 'em, you're out. Don't no matter what. But that makes sense, don't it? He's got to be so careful, and some drunken fool could muck up the works. His nibs knows how to get the most out of what he has."

He did. I finished with the man and prepared to retire, but the man acting as butler returned and told me that Denis wanted to see me.

I found him in the study as usual, but he was looking out the window into darkness. The storm still raged, rain beating against the windows with the sound of pebbles on glass.

Denis turned when the door closed behind me. "Have you finished?" he asked.

"I have."

"Did any of them confess to murdering Ferguson? Cutting off Cooper's hand and dragging him off into a convenient patch of quicksand?"

"No," I said. He'd known that of course. He'd been indulging me.

Denis did not invite me to sit down. He looked out the window a final time then pulled the drape across it. "I will have to appoint a new lieutenant if Cooper does not turn up. I do not relish the task."

"A change in the pecking order always causes troubles," I said.

He gave me an ironic look. "To be certain."

"One of your men suggested that Ferguson had been hankering for the post."

Denis's brows lifted. "Ferguson did? He never would have been offered it. He is-was-too volatile."

"Perhaps Cooper heard of Ferguson's ambition, did not like the idea, and so decided to give him a drubbing."

Denis sat down behind his desk. Instead of taking his usual upright posture, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated me. "You are fond of the idea that Cooper murdered Ferguson," he said. "You harp on it."

"And you seem to want to ignore the possibility." I stopped waiting for an invitation to sit and sank to the straight-backed chair before the desk. My leg was hurting after the long day. "Think on it-Cooper wants to teach Ferguson his place. Cooper meets him in or near the windmill, they fight, the fight grows violent. Cooper kills Ferguson, whether on purpose or accidentally, who can tell? Cooper comes to himself and realizes he needs to hide Ferguson and get away. He shuts Ferguson into the windmill, and runs off."

"Then what? He steals the horse, rides to the marsh, and cuts off the hand that did the murder in penance?"

"I mean nothing so Shakespearean. Perhaps when the fight grew violent, Cooper's wrist was severed."

"Ferguson had no weapon," Denis pointed out.

"Perhaps Cooper took it with him. Why leave behind a perfectly good blade? When Cooper reached the marshes, he realized that he'd die if he did not lose the hand. It is a difficult decision to make, but I've known men who've made it."

"That still will not wash, Captain." Denis tapped his fingertips together. "Why leave the horse? I understand why Cooper would not seek a local surgeon, lest he be discovered and arrested for Ferguson's murder, but he would have been able to run away faster with the horse."

"The answer could be as simple as Cooper having trouble mounting again. When I was on the marsh, I had to lead my horse back to the nearest village before I could find a way to climb back into the saddle. Add to that, he was injured and in great pain, and likely not thinking straight."

"You seem to have a solution for everything."

"You asked me to find out. This is why you are keeping me on a close tether."

"I asked you to find Cooper," Denis said impatiently. "I am not interested in your theories that he is a terrified murderer. If he killed Ferguson in a private fight, that is their business. He would know that. He would have come to me."

I gave up. I knew that my idea had many holes in it, which Denis was quick to point out, but I could not produce Cooper out of the air.

"I agree he needs to be found," I said. "For better or worse. While I am haring around the country looking for him, will you do something for me?"

Denis pulled his hands apart and slowly rocked upright. "You are working off your debt to me, Captain. Are you certain you wish to pile on more?"

"This will be an easy task for you. I had planned to ask my Bow Street Runner to do it, but you would be more efficient, and Pomeroy always expects a reward for his services."

Denis gazed at me with dark blue eyes that had seen too much. This was a man who had no friends, I'd realized long ago, no one he could call a colleague, no one with whom he could talk at the end of a day. While Grenville and I could spin out an evening over brandy, cheroots, and idle conversation, Denis never allowed himself that luxury. He had to be constantly alert and was constantly alone.

"Tell me what the task is, and I will decide," he said.

"Find a Cambridge man by name of Edward Braxton. He is either a banker's clerk or a solicitor. I gather he no longer lives in Cambridge, but someone there must know where he went. I want to discover his whereabouts, whether he is married to a woman called Helena Quinn, and where she is now."

"Your vicar's daughter, yes. Why does she fascinate you so, Captain?"

"Worries me, rather. It bothers me that no one has heard from her since the night of her disappearance. Her cousin went to Cambridge to find her and could not. I would like to reassure myself-and her family-that she is alive and well."

"A fairly simple inquiry. I will have it done and add it to your debit column."

I ran my fingers along the carved arm of my chair. "I'd enjoy having a glance at this book where you calculate who owes you what, and what sort of thing will pay off the debt."

"You would have difficulty with that, because I keep no such book." Denis touched his temple. "It is here."

I raised my brows. "You remember everything every person in England-or the world-owes you?"

"I remember every favor done me, every one asked of me, every slight, and every assistance." He said it without inflection, without boasting. He stated a fact. "That is why people consider me dangerous."

"Not to mention your small army of former pugilists who carry out dire deeds for you with no questions," I said.

"I suppose that might be part of it. Time for you to retire, Captain. Rise early tomorrow and continue the search."

No brandy, cheroots, and gossip for the pair of us. I stood, said good night, and left him.

Bartholomew fetched me the bath at last, and I soaked out the day's rain, dirt, and tension. Denis believed in living in luxury, so I had a large tub, plenty of hot water, a big cake of soap, and towels as tall as my body. The bedchamber was lit with a profusion of candles and heated by a well-stoked fire.

The boy growing up on the streets had made certain he never had to feel the pinch of want again. I wondered at Denis's hint that his childhood was unusual, even for a street boy, but I knew he'd tell me only if he thought he'd benefit by my knowing. He'd told me the story of Cooper to appeal to my compassion so that I'd be more willing to help find the man. I knew that, but I also believed finding him important.

After the bath, I did not succumb to the temptation of the turned-down bed. I told Bartholomew to take his well-earned rest, and I sat in a chair and opened my mother's notebook that Bartholomew had kept safe for me in his coat pocket.

The first part of the book held recipes and remedies, practical things my mother had noted. For a cold, soak a collection of peppermint leaves in hot water and apply to a towel, to be used as a compress… A syllabub of cream whipped with good port layered with fresh berries of the season makes a fine summer pudding.

Later came more of a journal, and I found, to my surprise, passages about me.

He walks and runs about everywhere now, very sturdy and strong. A fine boy. He has brown eyes like his father and a build that makes me believe he will be as tall. I hear from his nanny that he is very clever too.

A proud mother's words. The page blurred, and I had to wipe my eyes before I could continue.

She wrote of me growing from baby to child to boy, how I confounded my tutors with my constant questions, how I ran about like a wild thing despite frequent punishment, how impetuous I was, how affectionate.

He never minds his mother kissing him, and he returns the kisses, throwing his arms about my neck in true affection. Mr. Lacey does not like this, however, and so I embrace my son only when we are entirely private.

My father had thought any form of sentiment weak and unmanly. Lest his son grow up and seek the company of male paramours, my father forbade any acknowledgment of softer emotions. My mother and I, happily, managed to remain fond of each other. As I grew into boyhood, I became less patient with hugs and kisses, but I always reassured my mother that I loved her.

My mother wrote of missing me when I went off to school, but that she enjoyed knitting and sewing things for me. She'd sent hampers to the school, as well, which she'd done in secret, because my father thought any comforts from home also made boys soft. I'd gained many friends trading the contents of those hampers, keeping the best bits for myself, of course.

My mother hadn't dated her entries, but I followed the passage of the years based on her references to me, my father, my school years, my holidays. About a year before her death, her musings grew strange.

I pen these words to give me courage. To screw my courage to the sticking place, as the Bard says. But what will become of my boy?

I had no idea what on earth she meant. I had been growing fatigued with reading, the clock ticking into the small hours of the morning. The next entry made me come alert.

Miss Quinn is a lovely child. I quite think of her as my own. She is here often when Mr. Lacey is away, and we have tea and play with her dolls. I wish, I so wish, I could have a daughter such as she! But perhaps I will not have to wait so long. My limbs tremble as I think on it.

Think on what? Had my mother been with child? I had never heard word of it. I read rapidly onward.

What a heavenly thing it is to love. It makes one do mad, mad things. I shall have to compose a letter, such a letter as I have never contemplated writing. I want to go. But then I think of my boy, and I falter. I would be kept from him, never to see him again.

My heart beat faster, and I turned another page.

Really, is it so wrong to long for happiness? I am kept from my son, the only person who loved me until now. Mr. Lacey does not even like me to entertain poor Helena, though the vicar and his wife are glad she has such a friend in me.

He is younger than I, yes, but what of it? We love, and we will love. Perhaps a daughter will come of it, to replace the son I must lose.

I turned the page and found it held the last entry. The time is nigh. I must steel myself. Oh, my boy. My poor, dear Gabriel.

The rest of the journal was blank. I sat, staring at the last page while the candles around me guttered.

My mother had been preparing to leave my father. Her words never openly stated it, while at the same time, they shouted it.

That she had wanted to leave should not surprise me. My father had made her miserable. What did surprise me, however, was that she'd wound herself into the courage to do it.

Or had she? I wish I knew the exact dates these entries had been written. She'd put the journal under the floorboards and never written in it again.

Because she'd grown sick and died? Or because she had run away, and my father had only claimed her dead?

The last thought made no sense. I'd attended her funeral. Someone must have ministered to her in her final illness. Helena Quinn, though she'd been a child at the time, had been close to her. Perhaps Helena would know.

How very convenient that Helena was not here.

And who had been this man with whom my mother had fallen in love, had loved so well that she'd convinced herself to turn her back on her husband and son? She never named him. She'd never even hinted. She'd been faithful to her unknown lover to the last.

I shut the book and clasped it to my chest, closing my eyes. This journal, which I'd bless Donata forever for finding, had brought me closer to my mother, and at the same time, had made her all the more distant.