A Death in Norfolk

Chapter Twenty

The roll of canvas was thick, paintings around paintings. Under the roll lay small, perfectly painted pictures, gleaming with gold leaf, from even longer ago.

As I stared at them in shock, Cooper grabbed me around the neck with his large hand. I didn't have time to shout accusations at him before he had me up and thrown against the wall.

As the breath went out of me, I saw now what the shadows had not allowed me to see, Denis's bodyguard, Morgan, facedown in a corner, blood all over his head. Dead or alive, I could not tell.

Cooper's fist caught me full in the face. My head rocked back against the stone wall. Cooper put his boot heel into my bad knee, and I fell again. I put my hands over my head, but Cooper beat me thoroughly with the stout wood.

He'd have beaten me to death if the roar of a pistol hadn't filled the air. Cooper jerked to the side at the last instant and the bullet clinked to the wall. But the shot caught him on the fleshy part of his bad arm, and Cooper yelled as his blood rained over me in a warm shower.

Cooper turned in fury to face James Denis, who held a black pistol in his hand. The acrid bite of smoke filled the air.

Waves crashed on the breakwater around the house and windmill. If we weren't cut off by now, we soon would be.

I tried to get to my feet and gave up. Instead, I crawled to the paintings.

Cooper stepped on my knee. He brought up his cudgel, still ready to fight. "You should have stayed in the windmill," he said to Denis.

"You've been with me for twenty years," Denis said, voice calm, as though we stood in his pristine study in his Curzon Street house. "You have seen what I do to those who betray me."

"Twenty fucking years." Spittle flew with Cooper's words. "Twenty years watching you take the best bits for yourself and giving me the leavings. Even when you were a lad. You had to have everything."

It might have been the light, or lack thereof, but I swore I saw pain flicker through Denis's eyes. Denis trusted so very few, and now the man he'd admitted to caring for was throwing that caring back in his face.

"If you go now," Denis said to Cooper. "I will let you live."

"Your pistol is spent, and your men are down. I might let you live. I haven't decided."

"You are badly injured."

"I can still best you, you little runt. I always could."

I sat with my back to the wall, my bad leg out in front of me. I longed to be able to leap to my feet and bash Cooper over the head, but I could barely move. "Why kill Ferguson?" I asked him.

Cooper did not take his eyes from Denis. "Ferguson is dead? He were alive and well when I left him."

"You did fight him, though. With a cudgel, your favorite method."

"Aye. But I left him still breathing. He's a strong fighter, is Ferguson."

"Was," I corrected. "He is certainly dead, sent back home to his mother for burial. I believe I know why you fought him. He found the paintings, did he not? Brigadier Easton hid them in the windmill. Ferguson found them, you found Ferguson, you beat him, took the paintings, and lit out. Did he cut off your hand?"

"He's wicked with a knife, is Ferguson. Thought I could save it, but when I knew it was done for, I built a fire and sawed it the rest of the way."

I imagined him, knife in hand, sweat pouring down his face, knowing what he must do. I could not stop myself thinking of him making the final blow with the knife, the agony of thrusting the end of his arm into the flames. He'd stumble away in horrific pain, too distracted to care about leaving behind the horse and his own hand.

He must have found the isolated windmill and threatened Waller to keep his presence secret. He'd not been too distracted, however, to leave behind the paintings.

"You're a smart man, Captain," Cooper said. "But you don't know any of this for certain."

"I am certain," I said. "But it doesn't matter, because Ferguson will never tell his tale."

Denis and Cooper were watching each other. Two animals, ready to battle. I started to climb to my feet, not because I thought I could help, but because I wanted to divert Cooper's attention.

He never looked at me. A glance out the window confirmed what I'd thought-the water had risen, filling the low ground around the windmill and house. We were now on an island.

Cooper went for Denis. Then the two men fought in silence-close, ugly, hard fighting. Thinner and younger, Denis was wiry and fast to Cooper's strength and bulk.

Cooper had taught Denis to fight. Now Denis was trying to kill him, fighting as dirty as Cooper ever had.

I got my hand around my walking stick. The sheath had rolled away somewhere, but the blade was still whole. I would have to kill Cooper, but so be it.

As I raised the sword to deliver the death blow through his back, Cooper managed to break Denis's hold and shove him away. Before Denis could duck out of the way, Cooper slammed his cudgel across Denis's head. Denis tried to roll from the blow, but blood streamed down his face and his eyes lost focus.

Cooper raised his stick, ready to end Denis's life, but I lunged my sword at Cooper. In my hurry, I missed his back but caught him on the healing stump of his wrist. He howled.

He swung around to me, cudgel swinging. I fought him back with my sword, but his cudgel landed on my wrist and the sword fell from my nerveless fingers. He crowded me into a corner, and then he beat me, swiftly and thoroughly, until I slid to the floor.

Denis had not moved, and I could not see whether he still breathed. I could barely move myself. Cooper ripped up more of the floorboards, never turning his back to me while I lay in a crumpled heap, pathetic and in pain. He pulled up a ring of a trapdoor, similar to the one in the windmill. There wouldn't be much room down there but enough in which a man could hide. Cooper must have gone to ground there when Matthias and Bartholomew came searching.

Copper dragged Denis by the feet to the hole and dropped him in. Then Cooper came for me. I was still awake, still ready to fight, but Cooper stepped his entire weight on my bad knee. Horrific pain spread through my body.

"Get down there, Captain," he said. "Keep him company."

He assisted me with his boot. I slithered face-first through the hole, and landed seven feet down, on the inert body of James Denis. The trapdoor slammed shut above me, and all was darkness.

I did not have the good fortune to lose consciousness. I rolled off Denis's body, lay on my side, and hurt.

I could not see in the dark, but when I touched Denis again, he remained unnaturally still. My heart beat swiftly in worry as I turned him over.

He was alive. His skin was warm, and I felt his breath on my fingers.

I exhaled in relief. Ironic for me to be thankful that the man I'd so often wanted to kill had survived.

I had the opportunity to kill him now. He was unconscious, vulnerable, helpless. I could close my hands around his throat and squeeze until he died.

But, no. I had a modicum of honor left, and killing him in such a manner would be less than satisfying, in any case.

I retrieved a flask from my pocket, slid my arm under Denis's head, parted his lips with the head of the flask, and poured a bit of brandy into his mouth.

The brandy spilled, but Denis coughed and then swallowed. I fed him more. He swallowed that and pushed the flask away with a shaking hand.

"Is that you, Lacey?" His voice was little more than a croak. "Where are we?"

"In a cellar underneath the miller's house. You'll ask me next where Cooper is, but I do not know. He's hurt, but he survived."

"If Morgan is dead, Cooper will pay." His tone held finality. Cooper would not escape.

"Only if we can get out of this cellar," I said.

"It will not matter. He will pay. Even if I do not survive, Morgan's brother is not the forgiving sort." Denis groped for the flask in my hand, took it from me, and had another sip. "What interests me more is why Cooper did not kill us."

"Maybe he has. If Morgan and the windmill keeper are both dead, we might be stuck here. The tide has cut us off. It might be a week or more before anyone realizes that Waller has not come to the village for his provisions."

"I do not intend to wait a week. Tell me about this cellar."

In the pitch dark, I could do no more than recall what I'd seen before the trapdoor slammed shut. "About ten feet by ten feet, seven feet to the ceiling. Nothing down here but earth."

"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 truth 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."