Hell bay, p.28
Hell Bay, page 28
Before I could do so, however, I had to pass over the spot where Olivia Burrell had died. I shall never forget the look that passed between us. It was as though she were still standing, but the light in her eyes snuffed out. I had promised to protect her and failed. With other occupations, when someone fails, some project is pushed back or something is reorganized. People die in mine, and we don’t forget them, ever.
I reached the front door and stepped between the makeshift boards. Partridge was off seeing to breakfast, presumably. As I stepped out from the porch, I stopped and looked about. Gulls wheeled and argued overhead in a blue sky. It was as if nothing had happened.
I walked slowly across the lawn, aware I was mourning a girl I didn’t really know anything about. Off to my right, the gardener pushed a blade mower across the grass, making geometric patterns in it with practiced ease. Had last night even happened? I wondered. But I knew the truth.
The flag, or to be more precise, Gwendolyn Anstruther’s dress, was still tied to the flagpole. The wind fluttered it unmercifully and there was no way it could ever be worn again, but as a flag it was beautiful. It stood proudly above my head and beckoned to the world: Come save us.
I crossed to the cliff and looked down over the spot where Nigel Pelham had fallen and then clawed his way back again. The rain had washed away all sign of him. He too had been here merely temporarily. To only a few of us survivors would he be remembered at all.
I looked up at the dark blue sea that seemed to stretch in every direction. How small and insignificant this rock was. Who had ever heard of Godolphin Isle? Who would remember it? Barker would move on to another case. Mrs. Ashleigh would do her best to help her friend begin her new life, and these incidents would eventually be forgotten. I alone was the one who would recall all that had happened to her last night, the sole custodian of the memory.
A sail. My God, it was a sail, out in the bay. Two sails! I turned and ran toward the house. As I reached the entrance, Partridge came out the door. It was as if he were a spider on a web and could feel every vibration that occurred.
“There are sails out there,” I told him. “I’ll bet they are rescue ships and the coast guard!”
“Thank you, sir,” the butler said, as if he were humoring me and the information was of only passing interest. “Breakfast is ready.”
I watched him walk toward the harbor. Did he hurry? Not a bit of it. He might have been moving through the house to replace a spoon someone had dropped.
When I entered, Barker and Mrs. Ashleigh were seated. Breakfast was corned beef hash and fried potatoes. We guests had eaten our way through the stores. The cook had made fresh biscuits and set out the last of several jams in small bowls. The tea was hot, but there was no more cream. In the midst of all the turmoil Mrs. Albans had fed us marvelously well meal after meal.
We did not linger. A ferry would be coming soon. I went back to the room and, upon seeing the luggage and Mrs. Ashleigh’s familiar steamer trunk, felt blue. There was no Cesar to chat with while carting the luggage. I was still having a difficult time realizing that he had been Jack Hillary, the architect of this entire scheme. He had fooled me completely.
A boat finally arrived at the docks and was met by Partridge. He asked for everything: the police, the coast guard, a ferry, food supplies, lumber, carpenters, glaziers, and what have you. The island would be set to rights more quickly than I could imagine and the Burrells would stay on. There was a new heir, and there were family members to mourn and inter, including one that would receive no stone. His scheme did not work, but perhaps he would have taken comfort in being gathered quite literally to his forebears.
Soon we were out in front of the hall, and mounting the luggage on the dogcart. Apollo seemed to have recovered from his wound and hauling the cannon to the front door. I walked over and patted his huge gray muzzle. The party was preparing to leave, but they had little to say to one another. It was as if they were making a decision about what they would tell people about the event, and it required a lot of thought.
Philippa Ashleigh came out in an outfit of lace and yellow chiffon. Her hat was as white as a parasol. The night before she had been menaced with a pistol and she was determined to prove she was unbowed. She could have given the sun lessons in how to shine.
Cyrus Barker was equally resplendent. Beneath his black coat he wore a brown leather vest with a matching bowler. He held a wavering arm out to her and she took it, holding her skirt in her other hand. Some have called them mismatched, this aristocratic beauty and her rough-and-tumble swain, but just then, chatting as they walked toward the harbor, I thought them perfectly matched.
As soon as it arrived, we loaded the luggage aboard the ferry and without preamble it departed. The sea seemed frothy and insubstantial after nearly a fortnight on that rock. The boat rocked and kicked its heels like a lamb frolicking in a meadow. Or perhaps it was just me. But no. I saw it in everyone’s eyes. Relief. We had lived, and life was so very, very precious.
I thought there might be recriminations. Barker had not contracted to protect Lord Hargrave but some might suppose he had failed in his duties. This case might tarnish his name a little. However, he had successfully outwitted two very canny and dangerous men. Three, if we counted Kerry. I doubted the case would haunt him professionally. I worried just the same, but that is just my temperament.
We arrived at the harbor in Land’s End in time to catch the coach to Penzance and then the train to London. It was a hasty departure, and the luggage might have had reason to complain of its treatment, but we were all soon aboard. Later, I caught up with Barker in the smoking car, where he was filling a new pipe that he had purchased in the station. It was a simple briar but would serve until he bought another meerschaum.
“When did you first suspect Cesar?” I asked.
“That isn’t how I work. I suspected everyone at first, then tried to remove them from my list one by one. Cesar refused to be removed. For example, when Paul Burrell was killed there was a fresh drink on the table. That meant one of the servants was the last to see him alive.”
“But that could have been any servant,” I said. “He might have brought the drink, killed him, and then locked the door. Then he’d get another drink and come across as innocent.”
“That is what Cesar, or rather Jack Hillary, wanted you to think. Since there was no current suspect, it made the footman look suspicious. Remember, he had a lot of time to plan. Fifteen years or more.”
“Did you believe his story about the war?”
“Some of it was true. Most likely, he met Kerry, then discovered later, in a conversation, his former connection to Godolphin House. If he were rehabilitated and invited back he would be Jack’s entry into the house without arousing suspicion.”
“And Pelham?”
“I believe he read Pelham’s character correctly and offered him a unique opportunity: to visit an island and live on it, with no supplies, surviving while slaughtering the inhabitants. I don’t believe one man in a thousand would consider such an offer, but Pelham did. It would be his biggest challenge.”
“But what about the French ambassador?”
“I’ll admit I was surprised when I saw Pelham run up the stair after the ambassador. I assumed he was a spy. More likely he was an opportunist. Having murdered the French ambassador, he could write to the German or Russian embassies in order to offer his services. Pelham was thinking of the future.”
“He was a tough bird, I’ll give him that.”
“But the colonel had the skill to finish him off.”
“Just coincidental that he happened to be in the room at the time.”
“Well,” Barker said, puffing on his pipe. “I may have suggested that Gascoigne was growing tired of being cooped in his room, and the details of the treaty had not yet been fully fleshed out.”
“Yes, but most treaties don’t involve having one party fully armed.”
Barker shrugged his broad shoulders.
“That’s the best answer I’m going to get?”
“Never reveal your full hand until the game is over, lad.”
“Not even to me?”
“Especially not to you. If I spoon-feed you the answers, however shall you learn?”
“I had worked out that there was a bastard son, and that he was killing off the family line in order to inherit, but I assumed it was Pelham. If there was anyone with him, I thought it was likely he was working for him, not running the entire scheme.”
Again, Barker shrugged as if to say “I’m not responsible for what you thought.”
“If successful, would he really have killed us all?”
“By then we had become witnesses. The only way to inherit would be to have Pelham kill us all, and then get back to Brazil quickly, leaving the impression he had never left. Hunting trip, perhaps? Exploring the jungles for more rubber?”
“Why kill Kerry, then? I mean, he did get him in the door.”
“He had become a liability. He was hopped up on cocaine and garrulous. These men were ruthless, even with each other.”
“So I assume Pelham killed Jack for the same reason, that he could implicate Pelham in the scheme. Do you suppose Jack offered him a lot of money to do this?”
“Oh, Pelham didn’t care about the money. He wanted to test his mettle against an island full of people. A siege.”
“He hadn’t realized Cyrus Barker would be there.” I had said too much. My employer changed the subject.
“Sir! The pistol! Where did Pelham get hold of a pistol.”
“Ah. It was Kerry’s. I saw it in his luggage when I examined it. Hillary must have smuggled it to him. The irony is that by doing so, he sealed his own destruction.”
“How is your arm?”
“It hurts. I’ll have it looked at in London. Anstruther offered me laudanum again, but I prefer to avoid it. How is your chest?”
“It will heal well enough in time.”
“No doubt.”
“You must see to your Webley when we get back to London. That sight must be readjusted.”
“To be truthful, I’ve never used the sight. I just point and squeeze and hope for the best.”
Barker sat quietly for a moment, then a chuckle rumbled from inside his depth. It became a full laugh. I turned red, which only made him laugh harder. He groaned from the pain of laughing. After he finished, he mopped his eyes under his spectacles with his pocket handkerchief.
“I must get back to Philippa,” he said, and left me alone.
“‘I must get back to Philippa,’” I repeated to myself. Then I fell into a brown study that lasted a good hour at least. Some things fell into place and not merely about the case. Something had to be done.
We arrived late in London and saw Mrs. Ashleigh to her elegant town house in Kensington. Then we took a hansom to our house in Newington. Mac and Harm seemed glad to see us, well, Barker, anyway.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of sparrows twittering in the trees outside my window. I much preferred them to seagulls. It was eight thirty, and Barker had gone into the office and left me to rest and recover. I had to see to my arm, but first I had another appointment to make. I picked up the receiver on the telephone set.
“Operator, Aldgate two-one-four-seven, please.”
I was connected through.
“Cowan residence,” a male servant answered.
“I wish to speak with Mrs. Cowan. My name is Llewelyn. I shall wait.”
“Very good, sir,” he murmured. “Hold the line.”
Anticipation thrummed in my veins. I danced a jig on the linoleum, under the disapproving stare of Jacob Maccabee, who was adjusting the standing clock in our hall, the better to hear me with.
“Good morning, Thomas!” a voice from heaven said in my ear. A perfect voice. A musical one.
“Rebecca! Good morning.”
“Safely back in London, then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“I was wondering what you have on for today.”
“Just a few social calls. Why?”
“Would you like to have lunch with me?”
“Oh, Thomas, it’s a trifle early to be seen together in public.”
“A park, then. Battersea or Hyde Park, it doesn’t matter. Your choice.”
She laughed. It was the most beautiful sound in the world. “Impatient man! Whatever is this about?”
“Oh, not much,” I said. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”
Then time stopped. I heard nothing but the beating of my heart. Nearby, Jacob craned his neck and glared at me over his cheater spectacles. Not much gets by him. His eyes were like saucers.
Also by Will Thomas
Some Danger Involved
To Kingdom Come
The Limehouse Text
The Hellfire Conspiracy
The Black Hand
Fatal Enquiry
Anatomy of Evil
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILL THOMAS is the author of the Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn series, including Anatomy of Evil and Fatal Enquiry, as well as the Shamus and Barry Award–nominated Some Danger Involved. He works as a librarian in Oklahoma, where he lives with his family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Also by Will Thomas
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HELL BAY. Copyright © 2016 by Will Thomas. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein and Sara Wood
Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Thomas, Will, 1958– author.
Title: Hell Bay: a Barker & Llewelyn novel / Will Thomas.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016021608 | ISBN 978-1-250-07795-0 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-4668-9028-2 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Barker, Cyrus (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Private investigators—England—London—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Traditional British. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.H644 H44 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016021608
e-ISBN 9781250890282
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First Edition: October 2016
Will Thomas, Hell Bay
