“I’m rather tired of sitting about cooped up in this house without fresh air and sunshine. It is too much like some conferences I have attended. But I can endure it for at least a few more days.”

  “Excuse me, Barker,” the colonel said. “You say you are trying to decide if these killings are politically motivated, but what else could they be? Lord Hargrave was practically a saint. He’d never cheat on his wife, whom he loved. He adored his children. He was generous to a fault. He was a great master to work for and a fine man to work with. His death was either a political assassination or the work of a madman.”

  “He was no madman, sir,” I put in. “I have seen him twice.”

  “Twice!” Gascoigne barked. “Under what circumstances?”

  I told them about both encounters with the man in the woods.

  “He was tanned and healthy looking. He looked rested and well fed. I got the impression he could go on for days.”

  “Was he a young man?” Colonel Fraser asked.

  “Youngish. Early thirties, perhaps. Definitely English.”

  “Was he well set up and muscular?”

  “Yes, I would say so.”

  “He sounds like a soldier of fortune.”

  I considered it, recalling his build, his posture, and his manner.

  “He did have something of the soldier about him, I’ll admit.”

  Gascoigne moved to the edge of his chair in excitement. “Then what else could it be? He is a professional soldier. He’s being paid to come here and shoot, if not at all of us, then at least a list of individuals. It has to be politically motivated.”

  “I feel there is something else we don’t know,” Barker said. “Regardless, I suggest we keep His Excellency barricaded for a few more days until … Well, until something happens to make us change our minds. Agreed?”

  Both older men nodded.

  “You are both wiser and more experienced in political matters than I, sirs. I ask that you continue to turn over in your mind various scenarios that explain the situation we find ourselves in. In the meantime we shall continue to batten the hatches.”

  We all stood and shook hands formally, though the colonel had to shake with his uninjured hand.

  “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Mr. Barker,” said the ambassador. “Thank you for your willingness to help.”

  “Not at all, sir. We both want the same thing, a safe return to the mainland, and there is no reason we cannot work together.”

  Cyrus Barker had accomplished his objective, and it was through diplomacy. He didn’t have to punch anyone or throw them over his shoulder. He merely had to lay aside several insults which Gascoigne had made. Was he reinstated as leader? Perhaps not, but he had the freedom to attempt whatever he thought might work, and could continue investigating, which amounted to the same thing.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had researched Anglo-French relations on the day we were hired?” I asked, when we were on the stair.

  “That is not the question, Mr. Llewelyn.”

  “What is it, then, sir?”

  “You are the researcher. Why did you not think of it yourself?”

  Still smarting from the remark, I dressed for dinner and went downstairs. Dinner was to be roast lamb and a hot curry. Mrs. Albans had even attempted a Cornwallian version of tandoori chicken. Unfortunately, the killer outside had grown restless. Halfway through dinner, he began shooting at the shuttered windows in the hall. We were all safe in the dining room, but it was stressing, especially to the ladies.

  “He wants to remind us he is still outside and he cannot leave any more than we can,” the ambassador said to us all.

  “Does the fellow ever get tired of shooting at us?” I demanded.

  “Be careful what you ask,” the colonel said. “When he is resting he devises new weapons. He is liable to build a siege tower next.”

  Barker came down from dinner and surveyed the wreckage. Glass was being swept up by the footmen.

  “Thomas, so far he has not shot you,” Barker said.

  “He tried on two occasions,” I pointed out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I thought you might take out the horse and cart, and see if you can pry off several planks from the docks. We may need to barricade the lower windows, to keep the killer from coming in. You can employ the barrel beside you, as we did several days ago when we searched for Delacroix.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was my occupation. If an archer needed a target, I would hold an apple on my head. If Barker was teaching a lesson in his antagonistics classes, it was I who absorbed a kick across the room into a chair and over it. If we needed wood to cover the windows, then I was the logical person to go get it. Barker did the thinking and I did the legwork. It was a proper division of labor. I was a full enquiry agent now, however. Just once I’d like to sit about and cogitate brilliant strategies for some other bloke to implement.

  I knew horses. In fact, I had one of my own, a bay mare named Juno who could run like the wind. The Percheron who pulled the cart was a big, gray dappled fellow named Apollo. I suspect that having a horse named after a Greek or Roman god showed that one had received a classical education. Unfortunately, it meant at least six Apollos in any one given square mile of London.

  I tacked Apollo myself and let the stable hand lift the barrel up on the seat. When I was ready he opened the stable doors, and we clopped out into the drive. Immediately there was the sound of a shot, and Apollo reared up and bellowed. As I feared, the killer had shot at our horse. The bullet had passed into the thick flesh of the animal’s neck.

  I tightened the reins and bore down while Apollo protested his treatment. Then I began to click my tongue, encouraging him to go backward. The horse shook his head in pain or annoyance, but slowly began to obey.

  He was being too slow, unfortunately. The barrel beside me bucked once, twice, thrice as bullets passed into it. I could actually hear them ricocheting around the interior. We reached the incline going up into the barn, and it was far easier to get the cart to go down than to go up backward. Meanwhile, the bullets kept coming in my direction, and Apollo continued to screech because of his wound. Finally I began to get some traction and the vehicle eased back into the barn. I thought the horse made too tempting a target and was sure he would be shot again, but I was glad to be wrong.

  I jumped down and began unharnessing the gelding. I sent the boy with a note to Dr. Anstruther, asking if there were anything he might be able to do. The chances were small he would answer. Medical doctors do not work on animals. He came nonetheless, and after a full bottle of rubbing alcohol, a lot of straining, and a half hour, he was able to get the bullet out again. Apollo would live to pull his cart another day.

  “You did the best you could, lad,” Barker said.

  Yes, that’s it. It was my fault. The plan was sound, but I had somehow performed wrong. I received the official blame for the failure of the plan well enough, but I was not fit company for the rest of the night. I went to bed hearing bullets rattling around inside my skull.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Cyrus Barker is a sound sleeper. Something about a clear conscience, perhaps. As soon as he places his head on the pillow, the man is unconscious until the first birds in London awaken him shortly after five A.M. His senses are alert the rest of the day, but at night he sleeps well unless something occurs. Then he is instantly awake, having rested so well.

  I, on the other hand, suffer from insomnia. I get up and read, I toss and turn, drink hot milk, and wait for dawn to appear. Sometimes I feel the world slowly revolving under me. Most of the time it is a curse, but every now and then something occurs that makes me, if not exactly happy, then at least useful.

  “Sir. Sir!”

  “What is it?” Barker demanded, sitting up immediately. He seized his dark spectacles and put them on.

  “I hear voices shouting.”

  “Damn and blast!” Barker cried, pushing his covers back. “From now until we get off this island, we are sleeping in our street clothes!”

  We pulled on trousers and braces, shoes and hose, and our jackets. The rest of our accoutrements were unnecessary. I was looking over the sill while tying my pumps.

  “I think something is on fire. I see some kind of shimmering light outside.”

  “Back or front?” Barker asked.

  “The back.”

  “That’s good. There’s the kitchen and a stout rain barrel back there. Come!”

  We hurried down the staircase, then the back stair, coming out into a crowd of servants almost blocking it.

  “Make way!” Barker bawled. Everyone quickly moved out of our way.

  We ran into the area between the kitchen and the outbuildings. From what I could see, the bunkhouse was on fire. Partridge was pressing people in line to form a makeshift fire brigade, and we naturally joined in. The fire did not appear to come from within, but probably had been set. It was arson.

  “I smell kerosene,” Barker said in my ear as he handed me the first bucket of water to pass along. “Our assassin probably looted it from the lighthouse stores!”

  I watched as the flames rose from the roof of the structure. The male servants who a week before had been so ill, now had black smudges and grim expressions on their faces.

  It was maddening, waiting for the killer to make his move and then being powerless to stop him when he did. Colonel Fraser had instituted excursions, all the men hunting for him, but each time he had easily slipped through the net. All the advantage was on his side. He was making us look like amateurs.

  “Keep an eye out for the French ambassador, and the Burrell family while you are at it,” Barker ordered.

  “Yes, sir. Cesar!”

  Cesar was in the doorway, passing along a large soup pot full of water. “Si, Thomas?”

  “Make sure none of the family or guests come into the yard. It isn’t safe.”

  “They won’t get by me.”

  The men opened the bunkhouse doors and began to apply water both inside and out to the hungry fire. We were making headway. A few more buckets and it might be out. The young servants attacked the smoldering area with axes and hammers. Boards fell to the ground and there were showers of sparks flying upward in the night.

  Just then I saw Percy Burrell coming between the main building and the bunkhouse. Having been thwarted in an attempt to come out the back door, he must have come around from the front. If what the Guv said was true, his life was in danger. I passed a bucket along, then came out of the fire line.

  “Mr. Burrell, you shouldn’t be here,” I said. “It is too dangerous.”

  The heir began to say something. I had him by the shoulders when there was a sudden movement I couldn’t account for. I looked down at him, puzzled, when I saw something protruding from his breast through the fabric of his jacket. It was an arrowhead. I turned him about and saw the arrow protruding from his back. With a groan, Percy collapsed into my arms. Barker hurried over and took one arm while I took the other and Cesar held the door for us to carry him into the house, to Partridge’s office. Percy was half conscious, while I was merely incoherent.

  “Where did…? How did he…? I mean, a bow and arrow?”

  “It’s a traditional weapon not too difficult to make from materials on the island,” my employer explained.

  “But he’s got a rifle. What does he need a bow and arrow for?”

  “Dr. Anstruther!” Barker called at the doctor, who was just coming down the stairs.

  The doctor came in, assessed the damage as if he saw arrow wounds every day, and went to work.

  “Hold him steady,” Anstruther ordered.

  He pulled a scalpel from his bag, and began cutting the jacket and shirt. The arrow protruded two inches from his chest and at least four from his back. The arrow was not pretty, but was effective.

  Anstruther removed a pair of pliers from his bag, and without preamble, seized the arrow and broke off the shaft at the feathers with the pliers. Percy screamed.

  “This will not be pleasant,” the doctor continued, and began to work the arrow out from the front. The movement was too much for our acting friend, who promptly fainted.

  The wound began to bleed. Barker pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to the wound.

  “Get Bella,” the doctor told me. “She is a competent nurse. Tell her I need her here at once.”

  I turned, glancing in Barker’s direction to see if he would contradict the order for any reason. He did not. I went upstairs in search of the dark-haired daughter, and found her on the landing with all the women, now fully dressed though it was three o’clock in the morning, and grouped around Lady Hargrave, who was crying. News ran quickly through this house.

  Bella came forward quickly when she saw me.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to say. He has fainted from the pain. Your father has requested you.”

  She nodded as if such information were expected and hurried downstairs. I looked about. Philippa Ashleigh was comforting her old friend. Lady Alicia was standing by the window, looking alone and bereft. Her intended had died only a few days before, but already others had died since then.

  Gwendolyn looked like someone who had been invited to a party but wasn’t having a good time. My first impression of her had changed. She was a bauble and little else. Her less beautiful sister was worth twice what she was.

  Then I saw Olivia in the far back of the room. Her arms were crossed and she was staring intently at me. Her eyes were on fire. She was no longer angry that I had turned her down. No, she was telling me that she was right. Someone was going after the family itself. She was quickly becoming the sole remaining heir of the Burrell family.

  My quest was accomplished; I had alerted Bella. I nodded to Olivia and turned. Then I hurried downstairs to get word about Percy’s condition.

  The colonel was pacing below stairs, puffing an old briar between his false teeth like a firebox emitting steam. The kitchen was full of soot-covered menservants drinking tea. The fire was out. It had been a ruse to get at Burrell, I assumed. A bow and arrow. Somehow, I couldn’t get my head around that. I couldn’t make a bow and arrow from written plans and the finest wood. The killer had made his in the woods with almost no plans or tools at all. What sort of person can do that? But then what sort of person could shoot an arrow into another living human being and rejoice when it reaches its target?

  A half hour later, the door opened, and Bella came out, the cuffs of her gown stained with blood. She tried to put a brave face on it, perhaps to please her father, but in the passage she broke into tears and then ran up the stairs to her room.

  “Is he going to live?” Cesar asked, beside me.

  Barker came out with a face like thunder, and shook his head. I didn’t know if he even heard the question. The colonel smothered a curse.

  I sagged against the wall. Some bodyguards we were, I thought. We might as well just line the family up to be executed. I don’t generally doubt the Guv’s abilities, but even I wondered what he was up to. There had to be some way to protect the guests and family from utter destruction. If and when news like this got out in London, provided we lived to return, could we ever hold up our heads again?

  “There’s nothing to see here,” Barker said solemnly, and in unison we all turned and walked away. I was tired and needed to go to bed but I was certain sleep would elude me.

  Cesar came forward, his eyes cast down to the ground. “Senhor, is there anything I can do? Do you need help moving him to the crypt?”

  “No, Mr. Rojas. I believe we’ve got it this time. You can go to bed. But thank you.”

  He patted Cesar on the shoulder and the latter turned and went off to his room.

  “We’ll move the body in the morning,” Barker said. “Let’s return to our rooms.”

  We went upstairs again. The women had all gone to their rooms as well. A pall hung over the building. It was like the House of Usher. Godolphin House was doomed. We were blind if we thought we could change fate.

  Barker was not inclined to talk and for once in my life neither was I. We went to bed in our clothing, wondering if another crisis could possibly occur in the middle of the night. This killer was indefatigable. I tossed and turned the rest of the night.

  Half asleep, I convinced myself that somehow we were responsible, that we had somehow imported this killer with us and wrought destruction on this unsuspecting family. But how? I wondered. What could we do that was different, without prior knowledge of what would happen? I cudgeled my brain to find a way to assess blame to myself or the agency, and fell into a fitful slumber.

  I woke to the sound of a fulmar’s cry and the sunlight shining into the room. It splashed scarlet rays of light against the wallpaper.

  I got up and did my best to look presentable, while Barker slept. I tied my shoes and tie, and ran a comb through my unruly hair. Outside in the hall, I heard a sound. I crossed to the door and opened it. Philippa Ashleigh was just unlocking her door. She looked all in.

  “Lady Celia was up all night,” she said. “I finally convinced her to take some laudanum. This is a terrible thing, Thomas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Cyrus will have to do something. We’re running out of people on the island.”

  “He’ll think of something,” I said.

  “Sometimes I envy you your disposition, Thomas.”

  “You should have heard it last night,” I said. “You’d have had a hard time finding anything to envy then.”

  “How is Cyrus?”

  “Asleep. Do you suppose he feels guilty about this?”

  “I fear he does. He rarely blames anyone but himself. This must be killing him.”

  “He was wont to turn this case down, you know. Lord Hargrave insisted.”

  “Now you’re making me feel bad. It was just that Celia wanted to meet him, to see how we were together. She had tried to play cupid for her sons and daughter. She wanted to do the same for us.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “The two of you are already a couple.”

  “Yes, but she thought she could convince him to … No, it was just a mistake.”

 

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