I flashed my lantern around the low-ceilinged room, and Denis looked into every damp corner. He even thumped the floor in places, looking for more trapdoors. But the stone floor was solid. Anything dug below this would hit water.
We went back up the ladder and all the way to the top of the windmill in Morgan's wake. We passed the gear room, where the great wheel turned the gears that ran the pumps.
The keeper's bedchamber had three large windows, through which I scanned the surrounding land. The villages were small in the distance, nothing else out here but bending marsh grass and the wide gray sea, which was drawing ever closer.
Nowhere did I see a man, running or otherwise--not Waller, not Cooper.
"Check the house," Denis said to Morgan, pointing out the window at the ruined miller's cottage.
"The tide's almost here," I said. "We'll be cut off if we linger."
"Then we'll be cut off." Denis's voice was hard. "The keeper has plenty of provisions, and he obviously keeps his cow fed. We wait."
We went back to the kitchen while Denis's pugilist left the windmill and made his way to the miller's house. I found a pot of coffee, still warm, and poured liquid into a cracked mug. I took a sip and made a face. Still, I continued to drink, as it was better than no coffee at all.
Denis showed no interest in coffee. He moved to the window and watched Morgan disappear through the yard with the cow and into the miller's house.
I sat down at the table to ease my leg. "I know you long to say I told you so. If the keeper had nothing to hide, he wouldn't have fled when he saw us. I admit I should have been harder on him."
Denis didn't answer and didn't look at me.
The keeper had an old clock on the dresser where I'd found the mug, and the minutes ticked by. I heard the rush of the tide as it crept toward the house. Denis might not mind being cut off from the world, but I did not much fancy being alone out here with James Denis and a man who killed for him.
I put down the coffee and got to my feet. "Stay if you like, but I do not wish to wait the rest of the day for the tide to recede."
Denis looked at me at last, his expression unreadable. "Go, then."
I made myself walk out of the windmill without looking back. I knew in my heart that if I left the windmill keeper there with them, I might well be handing Waller a death sentence. Denis would not stop until he wrung from the man all he knew.
On the other hand, I did not believe Waller was still here. He knew the ways of the marshes better than we did and how to flee without being seen. He more than likely had run when he'd seen us coming.
I walked to the yard and to my horse. The cow moved aside for me, not really caring who came and went as long as her hay bin was full. We hadn't unsaddled the horses, though Denis's man had fitted them with halters so they could feed without restriction.
I pulled the bridle onto my horse and started to lead him from the yard. I knew that if I looked back up at the window of the windmill, I'd see Denis's slender and upright form framed in it. But I did not look back.
I'd have to search for a mounting block, but the ruined bits strewn about the place would let me find a good one. As I looked for the best candidate, I heard a soft noise.
The sound had come from the miller's house--not the cry of the keeper, caught, but a sort of low grunt. The cow continued to eat, but the horses lifted heads and turned ears, alert for danger.
I looped my horse's reins around a post and moved quietly out of the yard. The doorway to the miller's house stood open, an entrance into darkness. I heard nothing more from within, but I hefted my walking stick and quietly went inside.
I stepped immediately to the right of the doorway, to keep from being silhouetted against the bright light. I waited, making myself count to thirty, until my eyes adjusted to the gloom.
The miller's house was a two-story cottage, with two rooms opening off a center hall, one on either side. From what I could see, another room ran across the entire back of the house, its doorway dimly lit by windows beyond. The staircase was still intact, but the railing was broken, and spindles of carved wood littered the floor.
The place had been stripped of furniture, even of its doors. This house was much older than the windmill, probably having stood here for half a century. Why someone had built a cottage on this empty headland, I could not know. Obviously the windmill, when it had come, had brought no revenue as a grain mill, and so the house had been abandoned. The keeper lived cozily enough inside the windmill--likely there was no need to pay for the upkeep of the larger house.
I waited for a long time in the dark hall, but the noise did not repeat itself. I wondered whether Denis would rush down here to investigate why I'd gone inside, walking stick ready, but I doubted it. He was very good at letting others take care of problems for him.
I heard another sound, but this was a muted clatter, as though someone had tripped over a loose board. I moved quietly down the hall, the wind coming through the open windows and doors stirring dust.
I stepped into the room at the back of the house, again moving sideways as soon as I'd cleared the entrance.
I surprised the man in the middle of the room. He turned suddenly, holding a cudgel--one of the staircase spindles, thick and heavy. He balanced that menacingly in one hand, while his other arm ended in nothing but a blank stub.
"Cooper," I said in relief. "Damn it, man, we've been searching high and low for you. Are you all right?"
Cooper lowered his cudgel. "Captain. Is James with you? I thought I saw him ride up."
James. I started to answer then decided better of it. Where was Denis's other man, Morgan? And Waller, the keeper?
I heard a step behind me. Something was very wrong here, but I did not have time to stop and decide what.
I swung around, bringing up my walking stick, to find the terrified Waller standing in the doorway, blood all over his face. At the same time, I felt air move behind me.
I stepped sideways as I turned, letting fighting instinct take over. I brought up my walking stick and met the wood of Cooper's cudgel.
Before I could register surprise that Cooper was attacking me, I had to fight for my life. He brought the makeshift cudgel down with precision, gouging my shoulder as I swerved out of the way. The weapon whooshed past my ear, and I came up under Cooper's reach.
Fighting this close made my walking stick useless. I dropped it to drive a fist to Cooper's jaw.
His head snapped back with the blow, and I followed that with a jab to the throat. I'd learned the rules of boxing in Gentleman Jackson's rooms in Bond Street, but I'd learned survival on the battlefield. This fight was for survival.
Cooper had learned his fighting on the streets of London. He kicked at my bad leg, following that with a blow to my head as my knee buckled. I blocked the strike and at the same time I punched him in the gut. Cooper doubled over, but he was up again faster than I'd thought he could recover, and he kicked my leg again.
I grabbed for my walking stick as I went down, rolling on the board floor and trying to ignore the pain. I yanked the sword out of the stick and got onto my back, the point upward.
Cooper was coming at me, still hefting the cudgel. He tried to bash the sword with the wood, but I swung the blade out of its way. That meant that the wood came down on my arm, but I also managed to jab the sword's point into Cooper's thigh.
He grunted and jerked back. Blood oozed onto his dun-colored breeches, but not much of it. I hadn't cut deeply.
We kept fighting in the dim light, him swinging his cudgel and kicking at me, me thrusting the sword up at him and scrambling out of his reach. I got to my knees, but I'd need something to help me to my feet. We were in the middle of the room and the walls were too far away.
"Waller!" I yelled. "Get help!"
I heard no answer and no running feet. Waller could be dead or halfway down the path to the village. I did hear the rush of rising water. The tide.
Cooper kicked at my bad knee again, and this
time I managed to catch his boot and shove him backward. He lost his balance but didn't fall, but the time it took him to recover allowed me the chance to push against the floor and get my feet under me.
My gloves had ripped, and sweat and grime dripped into my eyes. My breath came fast as I went at Cooper again. He and I were about the same age, but he was a few stone heavier, and he was strong, despite his missing hand.
He'd been holed up here, recovering, I realized. When we'd arrived yesterday to search, he'd hidden from Matthias and Bartholomew, somehow eluding them. Cooper would have been wise enough to hide signs of habitation, and I'd made plenty of noise shouting for the keeper from the other side of the river. He'd have been warned and had time.
His missing hand off-balanced him, but Cooper compensated well. Any time I tried to hit the stub of his arm, to give him a taste of what he was giving me, he manage to evade the blow. He was good.
"I didn't come here to kill you," I yelled at him. "If you think Denis did, I won't let him."
Cooper did not reply and kept trying to hit me. I did not know if he meant to kill me or simply beat me to a pulp, but either way I intended not to let him.
I went down again, facedown this time, while Cooper agilely came after me. My hand landed on a loose floorboard, and I dug my fingers under it, planning to yank it up and beat him with it.
I remained on my stomach, stunned, because what I saw under the floorboard was canvas. Painter's canvas, old and soft, with gloriously bright colors from two hundred years ago peeking around one edge.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty
The roll of canvas was thick, paintings around paintings. Under the roll lay small, perfectly painted pictures, gleaming with gold leaf, from even longer ago.
As I stared at them in shock, Cooper grabbed me around the neck with his large hand. I didn't have time to shout accusations at him before he had me up and thrown against the wall.
As the breath went out of me, I saw now what the shadows had not allowed me to see, Denis's bodyguard, Morgan, facedown in a corner, blood all over his head. Dead or alive, I could not tell.
Cooper's fist caught me full in the face. My head rocked back against the stone wall. Cooper put his boot heel into my bad knee, and I fell again. I put my hands over my head, but Cooper beat me thoroughly with the stout wood.
He'd have beaten me to death if the roar of a pistol hadn't filled the air. Cooper jerked to the side at the last instant and the bullet clinked to the wall. But the shot caught him on the fleshy part of his bad arm, and Cooper yelled as his blood rained over me in a warm shower.
Cooper turned in fury to face James Denis, who held a black pistol in his hand. The acrid bite of smoke filled the air.
Waves crashed on the breakwater around the house and windmill. If we weren't cut off by now, we soon would be.
I tried to get to my feet and gave up. Instead, I crawled to the paintings.
Cooper stepped on my knee. He brought up his cudgel, still ready to fight. "You should have stayed in the windmill," he said to Denis.
"You've been with me for twenty years," Denis said, voice calm, as though we stood in his pristine study in his Curzon Street house. "You have seen what I do to those who betray me."
"Twenty fucking years." Spittle flew with Cooper's words. "Twenty years watching you take the best bits for yourself and giving me the leavings. Even when you were a lad. You had to have everything."
It might have been the light, or lack thereof, but I swore I saw pain flicker through Denis's eyes. Denis trusted so very few, and now the man he'd admitted to caring for was throwing that caring back in his face.
"If you go now," Denis said to Cooper. "I will let you live."
"Your pistol is spent, and your men are down. I might let you live. I haven't decided."
"You are badly injured."
"I can still best you, you little runt. I always could."
I sat with my back to the wall, my bad leg out in front of me. I longed to be able to leap to my feet and bash Cooper over the head, but I could barely move. "Why kill Ferguson?" I asked him.
Cooper did not take his eyes from Denis. "Ferguson is dead? He were alive and well when I left him."
"You did fight him, though. With a cudgel, your favorite method."
"Aye. But I left him still breathing. He's a strong fighter, is Ferguson."
"Was," I corrected. "He is certainly dead, sent back home to his mother for burial. I believe I know why you fought him. He found the paintings, did he not? Brigadier Easton hid them in the windmill. Ferguson found them, you found Ferguson, you beat him, took the paintings, and lit out. Did he cut off your hand?"
"He's wicked with a knife, is Ferguson. Thought I could save it, but when I knew it was done for, I built a fire and sawed it the rest of the way."
I imagined him, knife in hand, sweat pouring down his face, knowing what he must do. I could not stop myself thinking of him making the final blow with the knife, the agony of thrusting the end of his arm into the flames. He'd stumble away in horrific pain, too distracted to care about leaving behind the horse and his own hand.
He must have found the isolated windmill and threatened Waller to keep his presence secret. He'd not been too distracted, however, to leave behind the paintings.
"You're a smart man, Captain," Cooper said. "But you don't know any of this for certain."
"I am certain," I said. "But it doesn't matter, because Ferguson will never tell his tale."
Denis and Cooper were watching each other. Two animals, ready to battle. I started to climb to my feet, not because I thought I could help, but because I wanted to divert Cooper's attention.
He never looked at me. A glance out the window confirmed what I'd thought--the water had risen, filling the low ground around the windmill and house. We were now on an island.
Cooper went for Denis. Then the two men fought in silence--close, ugly, hard fighting. Thinner and younger, Denis was wiry and fast to Cooper's strength and bulk.
Cooper had taught Denis to fight. Now Denis was trying to kill him, fighting as dirty as Cooper ever had.
I got my hand around my walking stick. The sheath had rolled away somewhere, but the blade was still whole. I would have to kill Cooper, but so be it.
As I raised the sword to deliver the death blow through his back, Cooper managed to break Denis's hold and shove him away. Before Denis could duck out of the way, Cooper slammed his cudgel across Denis's head. Denis tried to roll from the blow, but blood streamed down his face and his eyes lost focus.
Cooper raised his stick, ready to end Denis's life, but I lunged my sword at Cooper. In my hurry, I missed his back but caught him on the healing stump of his wrist. He howled.
He swung around to me, cudgel swinging. I fought him back with my sword, but his cudgel landed on my wrist and the sword fell from my nerveless fingers. He crowded me into a corner, and then he beat me, swiftly and thoroughly, until I slid to the floor.
Denis had not moved, and I could not see whether he still breathed. I could barely move myself. Cooper ripped up more of the floorboards, never turning his back to me while I lay in a crumpled heap, pathetic and in pain. He pulled up a ring of a trapdoor, similar to the one in the windmill. There wouldn't be much room down there but enough in which a man could hide. Cooper must have gone to ground there when Matthias and Bartholomew came searching.
Copper dragged Denis by the feet to the hole and dropped him in. Then Cooper came for me. I was still awake, still ready to fight, but Cooper stepped his entire weight on my bad knee. Horrific pain spread through my body.
"Get down there, Captain," he said. "Keep him company."
He assisted me with his boot. I slithered face-first through the hole, and landed seven feet down, on the inert body of James Denis. The trapdoor slammed shut above me, and all was darkness.
*** *** ***
I did not have the good fortune to lose consciousness. I rolled off Denis's body, lay on my side, and h
urt.
I could not see in the dark, but when I touched Denis again, he remained unnaturally still. My heart beat swiftly in worry as I turned him over.
He was alive. His skin was warm, and I felt his breath on my fingers.
I exhaled in relief. Ironic for me to be thankful that the man I'd so often wanted to kill had survived.
I had the opportunity to kill him now. He was unconscious, vulnerable, helpless. I could close my hands around his throat and squeeze until he died.
But, no. I had a modicum of honor left, and killing him in such a manner would be less than satisfying, in any case.
I retrieved a flask from my pocket, slid my arm under Denis's head, parted his lips with the head of the flask, and poured a bit of brandy into his mouth.
The brandy spilled, but Denis coughed and then swallowed. I fed him more. He swallowed that and pushed the flask away with a shaking hand.
"Is that you, Lacey?" His voice was little more than a croak. "Where are we?"
"In a cellar underneath the miller's house. You'll ask me next where Cooper is, but I do not know. He's hurt, but he survived."
"If Morgan is dead, Cooper will pay." His tone held finality. Cooper would not escape.
"Only if we can get out of this cellar," I said.
"It will not matter. He will pay. Even if I do not survive, Morgan's brother is not the forgiving sort." Denis groped for the flask in my hand, took it from me, and had another sip. "What interests me more is why Cooper did not kill us."
"Maybe he has. If Morgan and the windmill keeper are both dead, we might be stuck here. The tide has cut us off. It might be a week or more before anyone realizes that Waller has not come to the village for his provisions."
"I do not intend to wait a week. Tell me about this cellar."
In the pitch dark, I could do no more than recall what I'd seen before the trapdoor slammed shut. "About ten feet by ten feet, seven feet to the ceiling. Nothing down here but earth."