by Kay Kenyon
Meanwhile, Julian was left with the apparent suicide of Powell Coslett, and a hysterical Lady Ellesmere, who had collapsed in her room. Julian thought that Lady Ellesmere might be at risk of suicide. He put Fin in charge of her and someone whom Fin had encountered outside the castle walls. A man named Royce had come out rather on the worse end of an altercation that had left Fin with a dislocated shoulder. Still, Fin would be able to keep the dowager and her thug under guard.
He did not trust that Kim had gotten to the train station. Was the lift to the village a ruse, and she had been silenced in the woods along the road? The critical pieces of this long day eluded him. Idelle Coslett was elderly. That she was missing was surely part of the story here. He went out to the terrace to see if, in the moonlight, he could discern the Ancient Light gathering or any sign of Elsa.
A gibbous moon had risen over the distant trees, showering a fey light over the plain. He could just make out the road crossing the flats, but nothing moved upon it.
Something had happened here tonight to cause Powell Coslett to kill himself and Kim to go missing. If Awbrey could not fix the telephone, Fin would have to take the car into Pengeylan and call the police, but that would take an hour. Verhoeven was likely here. Kim was missing. And Lady Ellesmere might be the only one who knew what was going on, but she had received a sedative from her nurse and was useless for questioning.
In the distance, a light from a flashlight. It bounced along, approaching the castle.
He went down the stairs to the main door and opened it. There, standing in the car park, was Elsa. A very thin old woman stood by her side.
And Martin.
THE SULCLIFFE ESTATE
9:03 PM. Distant flashes of light confirmed that the ship lay offshore. His rescuers.
Dries put the lantern on a rock so that the crew of the boat would have a beacon. The shoulders of the cove on either side reared up, jagged and black, cradling the shore. In this embrace, the beach sloped down toward the crash of the surf, visible in the distance as a white lather folding onto the sand.
And there, very far out, a small light bobbing on the sea. The dinghy.
The water would be very cold, yes, but he would be exerting himself, and it would just be a few minutes. He removed his boots, stockings, and jacket.
The tide was coming in. They had timed this very well, his German friends. Another half hour and there would be no beach.
As the boat drew closer, its crew waved a flashlight. It was time.
He took off his glasses—now he would not be able to see much of anything—tucking them deep into his shirt, and buttoning the top buttons. He began walking toward the sound of the waves. It took all his courage to wade into the vast sea, an inky, lurking presence, invisible to him.
The cold water shocked his calves, his thighs. Verdomme, verdomme, that it had come to this graceless departure, swimming out to a miserable rowboat. He hoped the boat would be able to see him once he swam closer.
Hip-deep in water, he turned to take one last look at England. It was a profound blur.
Except—was it real?—a pale glow on the side of the cliff. It had the look of a Talent shining. Very feeble, without his glasses. But still.
He knew who this was. The girl, the reporter, the informer. Incredibly, she had followed him, not just content with driving him away. Now she wished to end the thing.
Strange. That was the very thing he wished, as well. To end the thing with a decisive act. It had galled him more than he had wanted to admit that she had taken the boy from him. But this woman, this dogged, relentless creature who had brought it all down, she would serve even better.
She was half American, he had been told. That gave him pause. Of course, she was half English, as well.
He turned back to the beach, fumbling at his shirt for his glasses. She wished to find him, and find him she would. There was the gun, yes. But he would claim to surrender to her. She would not kill him, how did they say, in cold blood. The blur of light had made it to the sand. It moved to the south end of the cove, away from him. She could not see him yet.
He cut back at a diagonal in her direction. As he left the water, the icy air bit at him. The beach sucked at his feet, a soup of sand and water that made for slow going.
A few jagged rocks that he hadn’t noticed before lay in his path. He detoured around them. The girl, the light, had stopped moving and turned toward him. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
As he took his next step, his foot sank very deeply into the sand. Yanking it out, he plodded on. The girl must have seen him. She raised her gun.
“Don’t shoot!” he started to say, but his next step went very deep into a muddy, wallowing depression.
When he tried to lift his foot, the other went in deeper. Panic struck. He flailed his body forward, only to sink deeper, up to his knees. It could not be, but it was. The beach was not firm. It was pulling him down.
Kim heard the man cry out. Somewhere down the slope of the beach he shouted to her. She followed the direction of the voice.
There were dark, looming shapes before her. The sea henge. Exposed. Those rocks with their tooth-like shapes, and there, not far from them, her target on his knees in the sand.
“Help me!” he cried.
She held her gun at the ready and approached. The moon had come over the cliffs revealing the sloping beach, the rocks of the henge, and Verhoeven, kneeling. As she came closer, she saw that he was not kneeling but rather up to his knees in sand.
“I am sinking!” he cried. “Help me!”
He twisted back and forth, but it did no good. “Throw me something,” he shouted. “I cannot move!”
It was a sinkhole of some kind, a place only loosely filled with sand, and deep enough to hold him captive. Shoving her gun into the front of her trouser waistband, she yanked off her jacket and edged closer to him. He was afraid, she saw that at once. But if she saved him, in the scramble of getting him out of the sand, he would surely turn on her.
“Hurry!” he grunted.
He appeared to harbor no doubts that she would do the noble thing, but she hesitated.
“You can’t leave me like this!” He turned his shoulders to look behind him. “The tide!”
In the moonlight, the crashing surf approached across the gray sand.
But if she pulled him onto his hands and knees clear of the sinkhole, she would be at risk. She must have her gun drawn before he could attack. With no more plan than this, she switched the gun into the back of her waistband.
How close could she get to him without entering the sinkhole? With a tentative step forward, she gradually placed her full weight on the foot. The ground held.
She looked at Dries Verhoeven, trapped in the sand, a man who deserved to die, who would die at the hands of a British court. The tide was coming in, and fast. To die was to die. Did it matter how?
“You killed them,” she said. “The children.”
Silence from Verhoeven.
“You killed four young people. Say it.”
His eyes wild, he looked at the jacket that she held in her hand. “I did. I killed them. But where is British justice? To die like a dog!”
Already the sand had come partway up his thighs. She nodded. It was important that he say it. She lay down on the sand and threw one end of her jacket toward him. He snatched at it.
Too far away. The tide approached.
Stretching out the full length of her body, she felt the sand giving way beneath her elbows. She could go no farther. Holding onto the sleeve, she threw it again, straighter this time.
He grasped it with clawed hands.
Then began a dreadful pulling. It was no good to lie on her stomach. It gave no leverage to her arms. She sat up, leaning forward to pull.
“Harder!” he barked. But he had sunk to his waist, terrible to see. Turning around, he shouted in the direction of the sea, the direction of the boat: “Help me! Help! I am drowning! Come in to shore!”
“Lean toward me,” she said. “Lean hard!” As he did so, she jammed her feet into the sand to anchor herself and pulled with all her strength. He came forward a few inches, but she could not keep tension on the jacket, and it slipped from her grasp. He fell back, up to his chest.
This was how he would die. The tide was close now, coming in along one side of the cove more than on this side. He looked at it in terror.
Out in the surf, no boat appeared. They would not risk coming to shore.
Time slowed, counted off by the waves collapsing and retreating on the beach. She was covered with wet sand and shivering hard.
There was nothing she could do. She looked to the top of the cliffs, where help should come. But who would come? There was only her and Verhoeven, and out in the bay, the German boat crew who could do nothing.
When she looked back, his arms had disappeared into the sand.
“Kill me,” he said. “You have the gun. You must do it!”
She stared at him in horror.
“Quickly! To have it over. Quickly!” He swiveled his head to see the tide slicking forward.
She heard her voice, strangled deep in her throat. “No . . .”
“But yes!” he cried. “Do not let me die like this. The water. I hear it behind me. Do it!”
The rocks of the sea henge reared up, darker shadows against the black. They stood like silent watchers. Leave him. Leave him to us and the sea.
And why shouldn’t she?
“God in heaven,” he pleaded. “You must do it.”
Though he was a slayer, monster, sadist, she could not kill him. She could not.
“Make it quick! It is justice, you see?”
Make it quick. Justice was to drown slowly. That was justice for all he had done. Except.
He was sinking in mud. He would die in a way that had kept her awake nights without counting. So many nights lying awake thinking about Robert’s last moments. The horse thrashing, the heavy mud like iron manacles around its legs, and then around Robert’s, anchoring him as the sides of the crater gave way. The mud moving toward him . . .
She drew out the gun from its nesting place in her trouser waistband.
He had closed his eyes. His lips formed the word please. . . .
He did not deserve this mercy. A finger of tide reached his neck.
Please, his lips formed.
She aimed the Colt.
9:23 PM. Julian and Elsa were just topping the ridge when they heard the sound of a gunshot.
They searched for the cliffside path, as Idelle had described it. Now that they had seen a lantern burning on the beach, they knew where Verhoeven was making his escape, but where was the trail?
Then he saw it. Julian shouted, “Elsa, here!” He plunged down the narrow trail, faintly outlined in moonlight.
Down, down, he went, hugging the side of the cliff, his gun drawn. As he descended, rocks fell away from his feet, skittering over the side in a cascade as he stumbled and slid down the path. He came to a place where the trail disappeared. Stepping over the gap, he found where the cut resumed.
He jumped the last distance, hitting the hard-packed sand.
A lantern rested on a rock. And from the edge of the water, a figure walked toward him. It was Kim. A gun was in her hand, her arm hanging down, pointing the weapon at the sand.
She noted him and stopped. Her face in the lantern’s soft light was washed of all expression. In a hoarse voice, she asked, “Who are you?”
“Kim. It’s me, your father.”
Instead of answering, she turned back to the sea. In the near distance, jagged rocks thrust up from the surf as it rolled in.
He came to stand next to her at the tide line.
“There’s a German boat out there,” she said, her voice flat. “I don’t think they’ll come to shore.”
He squinted into the blackness, watching. “Is that who you shot at? The boat?”
She looked at him, as though noticing him for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“I came for you.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were in trouble.”
“I was.” She gazed at him a long few seconds. “How did you know? How could you possibly know?”
“Because I’ve been keeping rather close tabs on you.”
She frowned, seeming dazed. “You shouldn’t be.”
“Yes, I should. We are working for the same people.”
“Who do you think I’m working for?”
“The Office, Kim.”
“You . . .” She shook her head.
“I’m with the Office. Owen works for me.”
A very long pause. For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard him, but at last she responded with a soft, even voice. “That’s . . . good. I worried.”
“I know you did.”
She kept watch on the jagged rocks, where the whitecaps broke upon them. Her reaction to what he had just told her gave the impression that it hadn’t penetrated. “This beach is going away in a few minutes,” she said. “The tide is coming in.”
“Was the murderer here?” he asked.
She looked up as she noted Elsa on the beach. “Verhoeven. His name was Dries Verhoeven, who killed the young people.”
Julian ventured: “He got away, then.”
“No. He fell. In a mudhole.”
“Here, in the cove?”
She didn’t answer.
“Then he drowned?”
She looked at the gun in her hand, the Colt revolver she had been issued. Julian supplied: “He fell in a sinkhole and drowned when the tide came in?”
“He didn’t drown.”
Good Christ, she had shot him. While Verhoeven was trapped on the beach, she had shot him.
“He asked me to kill him. And I did.”
“Oh, Kim.” He had begged for death, and she had given it to him.
“I killed him.” As the tide streamed onto their shoes, she handed Julian her gun. “I suppose it was wrong. But I’m not sorry.”
He wanted to say that he understood, but he didn’t think she was looking for his approval. She was staking out her place in events, and in her own heart, her concept of herself. She’d killed him. In some twisted way, she’d had to.
With Elsa in the lead with the lantern, the three of them climbed up the side of the cliff.
39
SULCLIFFE CASTLE, WALES
10:30 PM. By the time they had made their way back to the castle, the local police had arrived.
The sorting-out of authority, Julian knew, would not be simple. It was both a police matter and a national security one. Julian would have to take control, but the Wales police must be handled with tact. One thing was certain: he would not allow Kim to be interviewed tonight. They needed a few hours to plan the story they would tell.
Kim had the presence of mind to tell the police there was a chauffeur in the boot of a car down the road, and the man was soon retrieved. She had needed to immobilize him in order to make her way secretly back onto the property to save Martin Lister. Martin had told the police about the kidnapping and the threat to kill him.
Julian arranged for the police to transport Kim to a suitable hotel in Pengeylan, accompanied by Elsa. She was under no circumstances to discuss what had happened with the officer in charge, Chief Constable Stanley Voyle of the North Wales Police.
Voyle was not much impressed by Julian’s connections to Scotland Yard and the Secret Intelligence Service. SIS had carelessly inserted itself into a murder investigation, possibly contaminating evidence, tipping off a fugitive, and even driving Lord Ellesmere to suicide by pushing their way into the castle in the dead of night. But as long as Kim was not leaving the area, Voyle would wait to question her. She was the only one who seemed likely to have the full picture.
Julian had only a few pieces of the puzzle, but he had not yet revealed to Voyle what Kim had told him on th
e way back from the beach: that Powell Coslett had been a murderer. When he did, it would not be in front of the other police officers.
Near midnight, Julian drove with Fin and Martin into the village. Finding Fin a doctor at last, Julian secured two rooms in the same hotel as Kim and Elsa. Then he made a telephone call in the hotel lobby.
The special exchange put him through to E’s residence in London. The telephone, as he knew, was by E’s bed.
“Chief. Dries Verhoeven was hiding in a remote cabin on the Sulcliffe estate. He’s dead.”
“Ah.” A long pause. “Kim?”
“We’ve got her. Powell Coslett killed himself. He was the second murderer. And the dowager helped to plan it.”
“By God,” E murmured. “How do you know?”
“Powell confessed everything to Kim.”
“I see.”
“The Welsh police are on the scene.”
A long silence. “Julian, you know how this must be handled. If we have no proof, the Crown may not be willing to prosecute Lady Ellesmere. Do what you must to settle the local police, but this will not be public.”
It would be the devil to keep it quiet. “The baron’s suicide . . .”
“That can be released,” E said. “The murderer captured and killed, the murder spree over.”
“We can say he was a foreign national, we’re looking into it further.”
“Yes, along those lines. You must do your best to assure that no one talks about the details until we determine how to manage it.”
“I’m afraid I have to bring the Chief Constable here into it.”
“Impress on him how it will be handled.”
“Right, then,” Julian said.
“How did the bastard die?”
“It’s complicated. I’d like to give you the report in person. But shot on the beach while attempting to escape.” That was the short version.
“Well done, Julian. I’d promote you, but I’m afraid the next step is a desk job.”
Julian hoped E would be in as good a mood when he heard how Verhoeven had been shot. Not quite the heroic apprehension of a criminal that would burnish the service’s reputation. Tonight he’d have to come up with a better version.