Serpent in the Heather

by Kay Kenyon

  “All right,” Kim said. “I have come on false pretenses.” The baroness drew herself up, eyes hateful. “You are being investigated for banking and tax fraud with Ancient Light revenues. We have already assembled a mountain of evidence, so sending me away won’t be the end of it.”

  The dowager regarded Kim with lofty disdain. “It is an outrage that you have been sent here under a false flag. My solicitor shall be apprised of your tactics, and there will be swift consequences.” She heaved herself to her feet. “You will pack your things immediately. I will have the car brought around when Awbrey comes back from his supply errand in the village. Until then, I must ask you to stay in your room.” She made her way slowly to the door, the shaking of her hand on the cane the only disturbance to her bearing.

  At the door, she turned. “I told Powell that you were not our sort. Breeding always rings true.”

  As Lady Ellesmere left the room, Kim saw that Donald was standing guard outside.

  Her mouth had gone dry. She was being kicked out, and all because of Lloyd Nichols. Somehow the man had penetrated the operation at least to the extent of divining a connection between the Register and . . . what? How could he know there was a connection to the authorities, much less the intelligence service? She didn’t think they would hurt her. If they thought she was with the police or the intelligence service, they would not dare.

  At least, she acutely hoped so. She pulled in a few steadying breaths. Coslett had said she would be sent away. It would be all right. At the bedside, she reached underneath, finding Idelle’s key. Opening the window a crack, she let it fall.

  That done, she replayed in her mind the uncomfortable scene with Lady Ellesmere. The old woman had given a splendid performance in self-righteousness and wounded faith.

  But if Kim’s part of the operation must end early, at least it had happened after her visit to Powell’s room. The lines of the swords in the castle emblem: not proof, by a long measure. But the Sulcliffe Castle symbol was used in orchestrating the murders. Someone with the Coslett family or Ancient Light wanted the murders to reinforce those sword lines. And though it was a breakthrough, she wanted so much more.

  But she knew the old woman could hardly wait to see her gone.

  THE SULCLIFFE ESTATE

  3:25 PM. Dries had been stalking the boy for several minutes. He had gone to the cliffs to look at the beach in the clarity of daylight and had noted the steep descent that he would have to make in the dark. It was a question of whether he should go to the beach now when he could see his path more clearly, or wait.

  Then, leaning against a stunted tree that afforded some camouflage from observation, he noted that on the cliffs some half-mile away, someone was standing. It looked like a young man.

  And he shone.

  For a few moments Dries stood in the shelter of the tree and stared. It was a beautiful thing, this dance of light that sprang forth even in the bright sunlight. A thing he loved to see. Ach. He had known this for a truth throughout the long years. One could not keep one’s eyes from the halo of power.

  And this halo. It was the strongest he had seen since arriving in England.

  Dries slowly made his way back the way he had come. He must return to the cabin to collect his things. What he had in mind was daring, perhaps foolish, but he knew he would do it.

  Once inside the hut, he uncapped the jar of chloroform and soaked a cloth with it, jamming it into the right-hand pocket of the jacket Coslett had brought him. The plan had come to him in a moment, fully formed. First, overpower the boy. He was skinny and would be no trouble. Then, after dark, and one last time in Britain, he would perform the act of revenge. To do so here at Sulcliffe, Dorothea’s complicity would be strongly suggested, even proven. It would give this last slaying a particular sweetness.

  It would have to be timed exactly. The body left in a location on the estate where it would be sure to be discovered: the stone circle in the field. He would need cover of darkness. And also, it must not be too early, lest the police come and, searching, find him. Nor could it be so late that afterward he had not enough time to rendezvous with the ship.

  Dangerous, yes. But with any luck, by the time they found the boy, he would be at sea, on his way to Germany.

  Of course, he would have to ask for Himmler’s forgiveness for betraying the baroness. One did not go against such a master, but they needed him in France and Poland, did they not? Himmler’s displeasure would be the worst of it. It gave him pause. Then he chuckled. The old serpent deserved this; it would be the perfect farewell.

  Back in the woods, he made his way down a slope to a gully between the jutting rocks, then up the other side to the outcropping where he had seen the boy.

  No one stood on the bald cliffs. Dotting the headland here and there were crooked firs, some lying almost horizontal from coastal storms. These gave way to long grasses bending in the wind, and then, in a glen below, a stand of trees.

  Between the black trunks, light moved. Dries skidded down the embankment, following.

  He was still a hundred yards away when the boy turned around. Dries waved, and with this friendly gesture, he was able to approach. It was remarkable: the face and hands sheathed in a muted, pulsing light. Underneath the light, the dark hair, the thin face on a neck with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Are you from the fair?” Dries asked. “I imagine you are. I, too.”

  “I was just looking around,” the boy said, in the manner of someone who’d been caught at trespassing. He squinted as the sun shone into his eyes through a gap in the trees.

  “A fine day for a walk. My name is Dries. And you?”

  He hesitated. “Martin.”

  “Where are your parents, Martin?”

  “I’m old enough to be here by myself. I’m eighteen.”

  He was much younger than that. But how excellent if he did not have parents who would search for him.

  “I will walk back with you, then,” Dries said. He stepped a few paces closer. A mistake. The boy looked into his face and instantly knew his peril.

  The youngster made a savage turn to flee, but even as he did so, Dries whipped the reeking cloth out of his pocket. He wrapped his free arm around the boy’s chest, imprisoning one of his arms. With the free arm flailing, the boy struggled, trying to thrust up a knee. After a few moments of struggle, he weakened, allowing Dries to aim the rag squarely over his nostrils. He sank against Dries, still managing a muffled scream.

  Dries laid him out on the ground and knelt for a few minutes, catching his breath. His wounded shoulder ached terribly from where the boy had hit him in the struggle. Looking up the hillock toward the cabin, Dries steeled himself for the labor of carrying his prize.

  He not only had to make it to the cabin but then, under cover of darkness, to get to the stone circle. He should be able to enter it without anyone noticing; from his observations of the fair, people did not usually enter the circle except for ritual events. It was also very close to the line of trees at the edge of the field.

  He heaved the boy onto his good shoulder and with a mighty effort stood up and lurched away through the woods.

  34

  COVENT GARDEN, LONDON

  3:30 PM. Gustaw Bajek’s first experience of London was only three hours old, but so far it had been exemplary. The British intelligence service had thoughtfully directed him to the Lamb and Flag pub, where he was now enjoying a pint of ale and the excellent Stilton pork pie.

  He had not eaten since setting sail from Calais and was just tucking into his meal when a man entered the pub, wearing a bowler hat and with a book under his arm. At the bar, nursing a pint, he glanced from time to time at a good-looking woman at a table under the window. When he left, Gustaw followed him.

  Within a few blocks the man in the bowler hat entered a fruit and vegetable market. Here on this minor street, dodging horse droppings from farmers’ cart horses, Gustaw caught up to his contact as the man examined a cantaloupe for ripeness.

/>   Without looking at him, the agent said, “We’ll take the underground, old boy. Stick close, we’ll make a dash for it.” With that, they crossed through the market stalls and passed under a round sign outlined in red. They descended into a noisy rail station. Letting the first train pass, the man stood well back. When the second train pulled in, he waited until all the passengers had boarded. At the last moment, he slipped on, Gustaw right behind him. Within two stops they alighted and took a train in the opposite direction. Once at street level his man hailed a taxicab. Gustaw thought it all rather elaborate for an SIS meeting with a low-ranking Polish intelligence officer.

  The cab swung through a warren of streets, the driver expertly navigating a steady onslaught of cars, double-decker buses and hairpin turns. Within a few miles they were headed through the tree-lined North London suburbs, where eventually the taxi deposited them in front of a white-painted home. The paint had chipped, revealing the brick underneath.

  “One of our best,” the agent said, noting his passenger’s gaze.

  “I am honored,” Gustaw dutifully responded.

  The agent ushered him inside the house, redolent of good pipe tobacco. The entry hall led to an empty dining room, and then the parlor. Gustaw entered this room, where he found someone waiting for him.

  Julian Tavistock sat smoking a pipe and reading the Times. He stood up, nodding to dismiss the agent. “Monsieur Bajek, good to see you again.”

  “Gustaw, I insist. And you, Julian, you are better dressed than I remember.”

  Julian smiled. “Not my finest hour.”

  “It was a bad day for all of us.”

  A bottle of whisky on a sideboard. Julian brought three glasses, Gustaw noted.

  They chatted for a few minutes as they waited for the third glass.

  Gustaw wondered if the room was wired to record. There was nothing he could do if it were except to leave, and he had already decided he would not do that. And, besides, if he asked if it was wired, Julian would be forced to lie about it, and he would rather it didn’t come to that. A little trust was needed, now that they finally were on the right trail.

  “You’ve come a long way,” Julian said. “You said that you have news, important news for us.”

  “I do. Once I received your letter about the murders here, I knew I had to come. To tell you about a man called Dries Verhoeven.” Nodding at the glasses, he said, “I will tell you when your company arrives.”

  Julian poured Gustaw a drink, and one for himself. Then he knocked the ashes out from his pipe and tucked it into his breast pocket. Whoever was coming did not like pipe smoke.

  Swirling the fragrant liquid, Gustaw said, “I am sorry that Nachteule has come to England.”

  Julian flashed him a startled look. “Has it?”

  “I believe your murders and mine are committed by the same man.”

  “By Christ. What makes you think so?”

  They were interrupted by voices in the back hall. An aristocratic-looking man entered the parlor. Older than Julian, he was impeccably dressed, with a trim mustache and a long, patrician face. He cut a decidedly military figure, Gustaw thought.

  “This is my associate, Richard Galbraith,” Julian said. “Richard, Gustaw Bajek.”

  Gustaw rose and shook hands. This certainly was Julian’s superior. He took the best chair, which Gustaw had left empty when he had first entered and noticed that Julian had not taken it.

  Julian began, turning to Gustaw. “Your news is related to a possible common assassin for both sets of murders. . . .”

  Richard Galbraith narrowed his eyes. Yes, they were most anxious to know. Julian went on. “Let me just say first that we now know that Dorothea Coslett personally murdered a child, although it was not one of the recent killings. I said in my letter that we have an asset in place at her residence in Wales.”

  Accepting a whisky from Julian, Galbraith said, “I understand we have you to thank for putting us on to Dorothea Coslett.”

  Gustaw nodded. It would have been helpful if they had returned the intelligence favor sooner, but why quibble? Here they all were.

  “Up in Pengeylan,” Julian went on, “a few miles from the Coslett estate, we’ve just managed to engage a member of the Coslett family for a trauma view. It was a stunner. The view disclosed that Dorothea Coslett murdered a youngster some years ago. Flory Soames. The memory was from her sister-in-law, who helped cover up the murder.”

  “By God,” Galbraith said. “Our mystery girl was killed by the dowager baroness.”

  “Yes. She used a knife, rather brutally. Our trauma view asset thinks the dowager must have been some twenty years younger at the time. This intelligence came in about an hour ago.”

  “So, the old woman has committed at least one murder of a child.” Galbraith shook his head. “Still . . .”

  Julian looked at Gustaw. “Now, if you would tell us your side of things, Gustaw. We’d love to have a decent lead.”

  Gustaw took a sip of the very fine whisky, savoring it. “I believe what I have to say gives you at least partial answers. It began with you, Julian. The uncle of Tilda Mazur told you that a man had followed his niece, a man with a Dutch accent. And he knew about old dolls.” Gustaw sighed. “We had talked to this same uncle, but he did not trust our intelligence service. Instead, he trusted yours.”

  Galbraith shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. Of course, sending agents undercover against one’s allies and getting caught was always awkward.

  “I followed this small lead,” Gustaw continued, “to Belgium. There are many repairers and makers of dolls, but one in particular stood out. His name is Dries Verhoeven. He was on holiday when I tracked him to Beselare. He was not at home, but a villager who knows him well told me a clarifying story. Dries Verhoeven is an individual with a special Talent, one we have never seen before. He perceives those with Talents.”

  Silence, as the two men looked at him in some skepticism.

  “I am saying that he can see them, you understand. They are as clear to him as a lamp that has been turned on.”

  “By Christ,” Galbraith murmured.

  “How do you know?” Julian said. “People claim things.”

  “Yes, but it is common knowledge in his village. As a youth he got in trouble over it. The villager, an old woman, told me they call it aura sight. In fact, she said, his eyes themselves are odd, even deformed. A crooked light.” He shrugged. “So it is said.

  “During the war there was a great crime in this village. The British shelled a school, deliberately, having had word that the school was a front to hide military ordnance. It was no front, only a school. Many children died. Verhoeven and his mother, a teacher there, almost escaped, but when she threatened to expose their bombing of the school, British soldiers killed her in front of her son.” He saw that he had their rapt attention. “So, you see, Verhoeven is not just following German orders, he has a personal stake here in England: revenge.”

  He ended by telling them that there had been no new deaths of military Talents since the middle of July. “The youth murders began shortly after?”

  “They did,” Julian said. He glanced at Galbraith. “We have the man’s identity, then. Dries Verhoeven. And we know at last how he identified Talents here.” He shook his head wonderingly. “He can see them.”

  Galbraith nodded. Gustaw could almost see the man’s mind trying to work it all through. It was a break, but they might still be a long way from capture.

  Julian said, “If the killer is the same for both sets of murders, then the English deaths are, what, a sideline to the German Nachteule plot?”

  “This is my belief,” Gustaw said. “Perhaps Monsieur Verhoeven says to his Nazi handlers that he will continue working for them, but he would like to include the English in the list of targets, and young people, in order to avenge the young who died at Beselare.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he soon comes back to Poland and carries on the true Nazi purpose.”

  “Or, it might not have
come from Verhoeven,” Julian said, “though he was happy to participate. Suppose that Dorothea Coslett, knowing highly placed Nazi officials and having some particulars of the Nachteule operation and its prized assassin, begs to have Verhoeven for a couple of months. For her own purposes. The Germans, in no hurry, indulge her.”

  That surprised Gustaw. “What purposes could the woman have?”

  “Power,” Julian responded. “And a demented belief that killing innocents at key places will accrue power to the slayer.” He must have noted Gustaw’s incredulous look, because he went on. “Dorothea Coslett is deeply involved in a spiritualism cult. It has taken a turn down a very dark path. Her son, Powell Coslett, is a man looking for his Talent—which Ancient Light believes is a gift of the earth itself. In some kind of mystical sense.”

  Gustaw shook his head. The world was going mad again. Sacrificing youngsters. It was not only the Nazis whose theories were unhinged.

  Julian looked at Galbraith. “We go into Sulcliffe for an open investigation?”

  His boss shook his head. “The circumstantial evidence is compelling. But we have nothing hard. Your theory of key places tying the murders together . . . You have no telling pattern in the geography. That aspect remains for now sheer conjecture, Julian. But we do have two things to help us make a case: Verhoeven’s motive: the murder of his mother and the schoolchildren. As well that the baroness was funding murders in Poland and France and committed one herself, though some time ago.”

  Gustaw was astonished at this temerity. “The facts so far are surely strong enough to question Dorothea Coslett.”

  Galbraith shook his head. “Unfortunately, trauma view would not be admissible in court.”

  “It would not?” Gustaw asked.

  “The British justice system has not quite accepted visions.”

  “For now, I want to put Sparrow on alert,” Julian told his superior. “This is not just a fishing expedition anymore. She could well be in a nest of vipers.”

  Galbraith said, “Perhaps pull her out.”