by Kay Kenyon
He gestured her inside. When he had closed the door behind him, he whispered, “Is it true?” He gazed at her as though trying to recognize her, to reconcile who he’d thought she was with this new image of spy and rotten friend. “Is it?”
She kept it simple. “Yes.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and she went on: “Ancient Light’s finances are under investigation. Some of this money has been transferred to Germany, and the circumstances may be more troubling than the Crown had first thought. My job is to discover how deep your Nazi ties are.”
He was shaking his head, trying to sort it out.
“I’m sorry, Powell. I never meant to hurt you. Sometimes I don’t like what my job is.”
“Your job. What is your job?”
“I’m with the police.” By his expression, it wounded him, even though he had already been told something of the sort. She watched him carefully. Was he capable of killing her? She had rejected him romantically, perhaps an additional incentive. Picking up her handbag with the Colt, she placed it on the table to be within reach.
“I knew there was something wrong when Mother told me you had a gift. All our conversations, and you never told me that. What is it?” He looked at her with something between longing and desperation. “Charisma?”
“Yes.” How could Dorothea have known that she had a Talent?
Powell took a step toward her. “There’s something you should know. It’s about Martin.” The room grew coldly quiet. “There is a person here. At the cabin.”
What a strange beginning to something that had to do with Martin!
He looked in what might be the direction of this cabin. “If you follow the line of the cliffs, you’ll come to the knoll where the highest cliff juts out. It’s the headland surrounding the beach I took you to.”
She listened, perplexed and growing increasingly anxious. How could this be about Martin?
“In a cabin nearby the cliff is a man, the one who has killed all the youngsters. He has a boy named Martin.”
Her intake of breath was like a fist jammed down her throat. Impossible, it was impossible. “Martin is here? Martin Lister?” And with the killer?
“Dark hair, a lanky, thin frame.” He said, without expression, “He is going to die.”
How could Martin . . . it was the Dutchman . . . but Martin . . . had run away. Her thoughts swarmed like wasps. “Stop him,” Kim said. “Stop him.”
Regarding her, Powell looked dazed, aggrieved, as though she owed him something more than he got.
“Get to the phone, Powell, and call the police.”
“I’m not going to do that.” His words, flat and exhausted. “There is Mother to consider. Police crawling over the castle. A desecration.”
“Powell. Another youngster is going to die.” How could he think of the dowager’s feelings at a time like this? But how twisted it all was for Powell, and always had been.
“And I have things to take care of here. Rather important things.”
Martin was in terrible danger, and she was the only one who could help him. She had a gun. She knew the location. Martin was there. “Then let me go.”
He nodded. “I’ll give you a lift down to the village. On the way, I’ll just let you out of the car. You can make your way through the woods. Stay clear of the field. Don’t let anyone see you.” He reached behind into his waistband and drew a gun.
Kim started in alarm.
“You’ll need a gun. I presume at your job, they taught you how to shoot.” He offered her the pistol, a .38. “It’s loaded.”
“I have a gun.” She picked up her handbag and camera case. He returned his gun to its place in his belt but made no move to leave. “We have to hurry, Powell.”
His gaze had drifted to the view out the windows. He seemed like a ghost of himself, a man who, even in this crisis, couldn’t pay attention.
“Powell. We have to hurry,” she repeated.
He turned back to her. “His name is Dries Verhoeven. He can see Talents. Like lights, he says.”
Lights . . . Oh, God. It was all as she had surmised. But it wasn’t Powell who could see Talents; it was the man at the cabin.
“The killing,” Powell said, barely audible. “I helped him. You may have figured out.”
The confession. Whether a spill or a man’s unburdening when he had given up pretending, here it was at last.
“It never did any good.”
“What good did you think it would do?”
“To bring me my gift. So she said.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. She was wrong. I was never going to have it. And Verhoeven lied, saying he could see the lights coming into me, getting stronger with each death. He bolstered Mother’s belief that we could feed the ley lines with the blood of innocents.”
“Ley lines?”
He waved his hand. “Never mind. I just want to tell you that the fellowship of Ancient Light—they didn’t set great store by the lines, not like Mother did. They were all about the usual places of earth power. They knew nothing of the killings. It was never Ancient Light.” He barked a laugh. “Just Mother and me.”
The dowager and the baron. Of course it was both. One the deluded mastermind, one the gullible executioner.
She had to get him moving. Walking over to where he stood, she handed him her valise. “Let’s go.”
If he were man enough, he would take her to this cabin. But Powell Coslett was a stew of emotions, and whether he even knew his own mind, she could not be sure. She was on her own.
Taking her valise, Powell stopped for a moment, as though he wanted to say something. But there was nothing to say. He was the accomplice, the man who had helped to kill four young people and tried to kill a fifth. Perhaps he repented now. But no one would forgive him, least of all her. Still, she pitied him. “I’m glad you told me, Powell. It was the right thing to do.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as though trying to sort through whether he could accept thanks. Whether redemption was even possible.
“You know if you go up to the cabin, he will see you coming.”
“Yes. Like a light.” There was no help for it. In the dark, she would be an easy target.
He nodded, then he opened the door. Standing on the landing was Idelle.
“Aunt . . .” he said. They stared at each other a long moment.
Looking at her nephew, Idelle’s lined and narrow face was softened by a profound tenderness.
How long had she been outside the door? If she had heard Powell’s confession, she did not seem horrified or even surprised. Perhaps she had always known.
Then she looked at Kim, and shook her head in a way that looked like despair.
Kim and Powell descended the stairs to the gallery hall.
Powell was temporarily lending her a hand. But he was also an accomplice to murder. Outwardly, he was a pleasant-faced aristocrat with at least a modicum of charm who bought his clothes in Savile Row and pursued an eccentric interest in mysticism. But she had learned how little one knew of others’ inner lives when she had fallen under the spell of the disturbing and elegant Erich von Ritter. How little she knew of people, despite the spill, that great magnifying glass turned to secret things.
Lady Ellesmere waited for them in the hall. Beside her were Donald and Royce. Old Awbrey too, looking at Kim as though she were a vile abuser of hospitality and, worse, an American.
The dowager took one look at her son, and was taken aback. “Heavens, Powell.” She came up to him. “Get ahold of yourself!”
After a pause, he said, “I’ll give her a lift into town.”
“Donald will take care of that.”
“I would rather do it myself.”
“Perhaps you would. But Donald has his orders. He is to wait at the station until she has boarded the train and is gone for good.” She nodded to Donald, who strode forward and took the suitcase from Powell.
Kim’s nerves were stretched so tight, she thought she might scr
eam. It was not supposed to be Donald; it was supposed to be Powell.
Incredibly, Powell met her frantic gaze and shrugged.
She was in the most dreadful hurry. The awful plan came into her mind of killing Donald at a bend in the road. Or wounding. Yes, wounding.
“I’m ready, and would like to leave immediately.”
“I imagine you would,” Lady Ellesmere said, ice in her voice. She lifted a hand to signal Donald to escort her away.
She followed him out to the terrace, and then down the stairs to the driveway. Martin, she kept thinking. Martin. Then, forcing herself to be deliberate: they would drive a mile or two, and then she would place the gun against her escort’s neck. Let me out of the car. They would pull over. She would tie him up. A lot was wrong with that.
Meanwhile, Donald was putting her suitcase in the boot. They drove off.
Out of the jaws of the castle. The world opened up, with sky and fresh air, all overlain with the most urgent panic. As they made their way down the approach road, they were heading in the wrong direction—away from the cabin.
As they drove, Kim saw that getting back unseen across a plateau with only grasses for cover would be nearly impossible. The view from the castle commanded the road for several miles. Furthermore, she would have to pass the castle, or go through the field of the gathering, unless she made an elaborate detour into the adjoining valley.
But there was one way to take a direct route: let an hour pass for the cover of darkness. If Dries Verhoeven would wait to kill.
And would he?
The sun had dropped behind the headland. The last light spilled across the water, out of sight, but still surging brightly in the great mirror of the sea. She pulled back her sleeve to check her watch. 6:34.
They approached a small stand of trees. She reached into her purse and pulled out the Colt revolver.
“Donald. Pull over the car. I have a gun, and I will use it.”
He jerked his head around and flinched at what he saw.
“Just pull over. Do it now.”
The car jostled into a small ditch at the side of the road and the motor died.
“What . . . what . . .” he stammered.
“Throw the keys onto the road. Carefully. I want them in the middle of the road.”
He rolled down the window and tossed the keys onto the dirt road.
Kim let herself out of the car, leaving her door open in case he tried to lock himself in. “Get out.”
She was shaking. Damn, damn. It didn’t help her plan of scaring him into compliance. Steady, now.
“Open the boot.”
He looked at it in panic.
“If you try to run, I will shoot you. At this distance I can hardly miss, I assure you.” He went to the boot and opened it.
She gestured the gun at it. “Take the valise out and get in.”
He shook his head.
“If you cooperate, I’ll be back in one hour to free you.”
He was breathing hard, his eyes darting, looking for rescue. There might indeed be one, if anyone came along the road. The road was well traveled this weekend. She had to hurry.
“If you don’t get in, I’ll shoot you. Starting with your legs.” She cocked the gun.
At last he moved to comply, removing her suitcase and stepping into the boot. Once he was curled up inside, she slammed it shut. She had lied to him. It would not be one hour. She would have to wait an hour for sunset.
And that was just the beginning.
37
A ROAD NEAR SULCLIFFE CASTLE, WALES
7:35 PM. Dusk had many shades, Kim learned. The difference between soft and deep evening, or a heavy, blanketing dusk was excruciating. Each moment of waiting could put Martin in mortal danger.
She had driven the car off the road, as far into the heavy shrubbery as possible, but the vehicle still looked conspicuous. Nightfall would camouflage it entirely, if it would only come.
At seven forty-five, heavy, nearly impenetrable dusk blanketed the plain. She left the road and began to cross the flats leading to the castle, a clear landmark in the gloaming shadows. She knew her way to the headland from the castle, having gone that way with Powell during her first visit.
Beyond the walls of Sulcliffe lay the steep cliffs and treacherous hillsides. She told herself that on the headland, she would have the last of the light from the setting sun, but she had waited for dark, and now it was exactly that. How could she find her way in such terrain and through the woods to a cabin she had never visited? It was obvious now that that her decision was unforgivably incompetent. She should have rung up the police from the village. Or she should have doubled back to the castle when she had put Donald in the boot. With luck, at least at that time of day, no one would have been looking out from the terrace or a castle window.
At last the north curtain wall of Sulcliffe loomed up before her. In the shadow of the castle face, all light had drained away. She could creep by the entrance unseen—no one would look straight down from the terrace to see her. She moved around to the eastern wall. Along the foot of the castle, a slope of loose rock made for hard going. She had one advantage: she still wore her walking shoes that she had chosen for tramping around the fair that afternoon.
Oh, Martin. Why did you come here? How was it possible that he had done the very worst thing he could do? It had come full circle: his parents rejecting his abilities, his lying about them, reading Robert’s journal to fake his visions. And now, paying the dreadful price for having a light after all. The light of his Talent. Why had he lied in the first place? How sad if he thought that telling her about her brother would make him more valued, would have secured his place at Wrenfell. They would have loved him without such things. Would have loved him for himself.
The minutes sped by as she moved along the castle wall. Why would Talon—Dries Verhoeven—wait to kill Martin? Surely, there would be no reason to delay. Perhaps she was already too late. But she crept forward, anger alternating with panic. Martin had been under her care. Her care. And by God, he still was.
A flash of light ahead. Kim flattened against the wall. Who was outside? Had Dorothea Coslett put Royce or Awbrey on watch out here?
The light came closer. Someone carrying a flashlight. By its wobbling light, she saw a person picking their way along the foot of the castle wall. She backed up. No matter what, she was not going back to her turret room. Reaching into her handbag, she removed the gun.
The person stopped a stone’s throw away. Whoever it was, they had seen her. The beam of the flashlight flashed upward to the face.
Kim lowered the gun. “Idelle,” she whispered.
The old woman came closer, sending rocks skittering down the slope. When she stood before Kim she said, her voice a strangled rasp, “I . . . know . . .”
They stared at each other. “What do you know?” Kim whispered.
“The way.”
By God, the way to the cabin. But they dared not speak. “Turn off the flashlight.” When Idelle did so: “Which direction?”
Idelle pointed along the line of the castle wall.
In the heavy dark, they crept forward, Kim steadying the old woman on the uneven ground. They crossed the road, picking their way in the dark, until they came to a dip in the hillside, where Kim thought they could not be seen from a castle window.
“The light, Idelle.”
She turned it on. Kim saw that the woman was dressed in workmanlike trousers and a cable knit sweater. So, she was not quite the Victorian woman Kim had imagined.
“At the cabin there’s a killer,” Kim said. “He holds a young man. You know?”
Idelle nodded.
“Is the boy alive?”
A worried look and a shrug.
How involved was Idelle in all this? But now that the fear of discovery had subsided, Kim knew. “You were listening at the door. When Powell told me about Martin and the cabin, you were listening. Is that right?”
A nod.
I
delle was the guardian angel of her mission. The key. Meeting her out here. Even with her fading grasp on everyday things, she might well have known how her nephew had been driven to terrible crimes and his anguish about it.
“His name is Martin Lister. And we have to hurry if we are to save him. Are you ready?”
Idelle nodded and led the way. They were in a narrow ravine, with steep shoulders on either side. Kim took Idelle’s arm, but she shook it off. The old woman was more sure-footed than Kim would have thought. The beam of the flashlight flashed over their path, showing them their next steps. A rivulet of water slid down from a ridge. Idelle pointed the way, and they began ascending the hill, following the trickling cascade of water.
At the top, Idelle was out of breath. They sat on a rock, not yet in view of the sea.
“How far now? Is it close?”
Idelle nodded.
“What is this cabin? Does anyone live there?”
“My brother,” Idelle whispered. “It was . . . his. His place. Peaceful.”
This remarkable speech gave Kim hope that she would say more. “Do you know if the man in the cabin is armed?” She had forgotten to ask Powell that.
“I . . . don’t know.” Idelle rose, and they continued. They faced a black ravine and descended into it. At the bottom, they were in a thick stand of trees. Here, the dark was absolute, their beam of light a golden tunnel that showed only a square foot of their path. They picked their way through the trees, Idelle stumbling on the more uneven ground, at last leaning heavily on Kim’s arm.
At length, Idelle snapped off the flashlight and pointed. Ahead was a crack of light from an imperfectly covered window. Idelle sank to the ground, propping herself against a sapling. It had taken all her strength to come so far.
Kim could make out the cabin’s outline, even obscured as it was by darkness and trees growing beside it. The door, however, was not visible.
“I’m going in,” Kim whispered. “Stay here.” She took Idelle’s hand in hers. It was damp and trembling. “You’ve been very brave. Thank you.”