A Death in Norfolk

Chapter Five

"Grenville," I said, my heart in my throat.

Matthias shook his head, sweat dripping from the blond giant's hair. "No, sir. Not Mr. Grenville. You need to come."

I wasted no time. Grenville had, once before, investigated by himself on my behalf and come to grief. Despite Matthias's assurances, I wanted to find him quickly.

The horse I'd borrowed from Lady Southwick had wandered off who knew where. Searching for him would take too long, so I hobbled after Matthias the best I could.

Denis's men followed us, and Matthias led us south and east, a couple of miles across farmland to a silent windmill. It stood dark and tall above us, and I recognized it as the one I had seen through the windows at Easton House.

The fan blades hung still, one coming to rest just above the windmill's door, which had been broken open. Grenville stood in the doorway. Four of Denis's men were there as well, one with a lantern, and Grenville was arguing with them.

He was trying to keep them out. Matthias pushed fearlessly through the lot, opening the way for me.

Grenville did not bother with a greeting. He beckoned to me then stepped through the door into the windmill. I confiscated the lantern and ducked under the low lintel.

The interior of the windmill was dark and silent, with a wide board floor covered with broken pieces of a stair that had once led to the rooms above. Water trickled somewhere below us. In this dank place, my lantern shone as a warm star.

The light fell on the outstretched body of a man lying on his back, his face black with blood. It was a gruesome sight, a bloody pulp where his face had been, his hair soaked red, his arms outstretched, hands open.

"Dead." Grenville sounded stiff. "He's cool, and I couldn't detect breath."

The man was tall, his limbs large, hands and feet huge. He wore a workman's shirt, serge coat, cotton knee breeches, and heavy shoes, a costume no different from those of the men who waited outside.

"Is it Cooper?" I asked.

"I have no idea. I never met Cooper."

"Do they know?" I gestured to the men peering through the doorway.

"They were all for dragging him out, putting him in a cart, and dumping him into the sea. But this was a murder. We need a magistrate."

I looked down again at the man sprawled on the damp stone floor. James Denis was a law unto himself, the men who worked for him, his deputies. I did not know whether they wanted to keep the death quiet so they could exact vengeance on their own, or to keep up Denis's facade of invulnerability. Much of Denis's power lay in the myth that he and his could never be touched.

The men at the door turned way abruptly, and worried conversation arose. I handed Grenville the lantern and went back outside.

Another large man was coming down from the house, also carrying a lantern. Next to him walked the unmistakable form of James Denis.

Denis was striding down the path toward the windmill, his tall, slim form emphasized by his high hat and the cloak that flowed from his shoulders. He walked briskly, and his lackeys fell silent as he approached.

Denis swept his gaze over the scene. He was a youngish man, thirty at most, with an unlined, square face, a long nose, and dark blue eyes that looked black in this light. Those eyes were cold, as always, and now the look in them was glacial. I noted that his men tried very hard not to be caught in the path of that icy stare.

He ignored them to rest his gaze on me. "Who is in there, Captain?"

"It might be Cooper," I said. "He's not been seen all afternoon. But the man's been beaten, and I cannot tell who it is."

"Cooper." Denis's gaze flickered. Had he been any other man, I would have sworn he showed uneasiness, even concern. "Let me see."

I stepped aside to let him through the door. Denis removed his hat and handed it to a startled Matthias, then he swept his cloak behind his shoulders, entered the windmill, and got down on one knee. Grenville obligingly brought the lantern low.

Denis touched the dead man's chin, the only thing not battered. He stayed there in his half-kneel, staring at the wreck of the victim's face.

"It is not Cooper," he said.

Did I detect a faint loosening of the shoulders… in relief? I'd never seen Denis show an emotion other than irritation or anger, and even those had been muted.

"Who, then?" I asked.

"His name is Ferguson. William Ferguson."

"Bill Ferguson?" Grenville asked in surprise. "Good God."

The name meant nothing to me. Grenville noticed my blank look and continued, "One hell of a fighter. Unbeatable. Retired a few years ago, to the dismay of the Fancy."

The "Fancy" consisted of mostly upper-class gentlemen who were avid admirers of the sport of boxing. Prize fighting was illegal, but having two men fight for show was not, and boxers and their sponsors found many ways around the laws. The private betting that went on among the Fancy moved fortunes.

"Ferguson came to work for me a year ago," Denis said. "He'd tired of every youth wanting to prove themselves on him, and he sought obscurity. He also needed money." He spoke in a flat voice, whatever emotion I thought I had seen gone. "Who did this?"

Again, he directed his words at me. "We do not know," I said. "Grenville chanced upon him here not thirty minutes ago. I've been at my house all afternoon, trying to keep a few walls standing at least."

The increase in Denis's frown as he got to his feet told me he hadn't been informed of events here. I leaned down and lifted a heavy piece of wood, which had once been part of the stair leading to the next floor. It was covered with dried blood.

I showed it to Denis. "Someone fought him and fought him hard."

"This Cooper fellow, perhaps?" Grenville asked.

Denis swung to Grenville so quickly that Grenville, who had as much sangfroid as Denis ever did, took a step back.

"No," Denis said, his voice going colder still. "Cooper would not have done this."

"Is he here?" I asked. "He left my house early this afternoon, without saying good-bye. I assumed he'd returned here."

"He is not at the house," Denis said. He obviously was not at the crowd around the windmill either. "What the devil was Ferguson doing out here?" This he asked of the men at the doorway. Not one of them answered.

"Looking for your artwork, I imagine," I said.

"Looking for it," Denis repeated. "And Cooper? Why was he with you, Captain?"

"The same reason. He was worried about what you would do when you arrived and found Easton gone, the artwork nowhere in sight. I sent Easton away-Cooper and your men had nothing to do with that."

I sensed every witness within earshot tensing. These men had been in a frenzy all day to find the paintings before Denis arrived so that his anger at their failure to kill Easton might be assuaged. The fact that Easton had run away, leaving the artwork hidden, had not yet been conveyed to Denis.

Denis's expression did not change. "I fully expected that you'd help Easton flee," he said. "Cooper should have understood that."

His dark blue eyes held no ire, but I grew suddenly angry.

Of course. If Denis had wanted Easton dead, a silent assassin in the night could have done the deed quite easily, and Denis would not have bothered to warn Easton at all. But he'd sent me, because he'd wanted Easton to run, not die-for whatever reason, only Denis knew. He'd used me and my ever-present sense of honor.

I broke away from him. "Matthias, find something with which to cover the body. We'll need the magistrate and coroner out here."

"No." Denis's word was flat and final. "He was one of mine. I will take care of it."

"Someone fought and killed a very strong man," I said. "The killer might still be wandering the countryside, a danger to others. He should be found."

"And I will find him. A coroner will tell us only what we already know-that Ferguson died from blows to his head, delivered by a person or persons unknown. That will be the end. Or the coroner and magistrate will accuse and arrest someone at random, probably one of my men, guilty or innocent. Tell me what good that would do, Captain."

As we spoke, Grenville removed his greatcoat and handed it to Matthias, who spread it over Ferguson, lying battered and silent. The man who'd accompanied Denis from the house directed others to fetch a board on which to carry Ferguson's body.

I could only let them. Denis was correct about the conclusions the local magistrate and coroner would draw. Many of Denis's men had criminal pasts, and it would be simple for a magistrate to pick one at random to arrest, not caring much which he chose to be the culprit. Denis would at least try to ferret out the truth.

Denis went outside again, followed by Grenville. The others got Ferguson onto a makeshift litter and carried him back toward the house. I was struck by the care they all took of him, if not showing grief then at least reverence and respect.

Denis remained behind as the train of men moved slowly up the path. Once they were out of earshot, he turned to Grenville. "I wish to speak to Captain Lacey by himself. Please take your footman and go home."

Grenville did not much like taking orders. He sent me a swift glance, but I nodded at him.

"Tell Lady Southwick not to wait supper for me," I said. "And bid Lady Breckenridge good night for me if I do not return before she retires."

Grenville kept his cool demeanor in place, gave me back the lantern, and tipped his hat. "Good night then, Lacey. I'll have brandy waiting for you on your return. Matthias."

Matthias gave me a nod as well and fell into step with his master. They began their walk eastward, in the direction of Southwick's grand home, leaving me alone in the night with James Denis.