He nodded. Even close family members usually had no idea their loved ones had turned to the heinous trade. “John Miller will be shattered.”
Soberly, Madeline nodded.
They circled the defeated, miserable men to come up beside Dalziel. He stood with his back to the cliff path, sword still in hand; no one had got past him. A sense of explosive, barely restrained frustration emanated from him as he studied the slumped, exhausted men.
His expression was set, beyond grim. He looked up, met Gervase’s eyes, with his head indicated the clifftop behind him. “He’s not up top. The roads are blocked. Christian’s up there-he found a horse waiting and secured it. No curricle-he must have exchanged it for the horse during the afternoon.”
Dalziel looked down at the men gathered on the sand before him, their vanquishers standing over them, awaiting orders.
Eyes bleak, he crouched before the ogre Edmond had stabbed. The man looked into Dalziel’s face, and shrank back, small eyes flaring.
“Your master-where is he?”
A dark murmur rose from the group as others, along with the ogre, glanced around, and realized they’d been deserted.
The ogre hesitated, then spat, “Don’t know-but he was here. He was pacing around, watching us dig, telling us to be careful-”
“You’d a known him if ’n you’d seen him,” the scrawny guard piped up. “He looked just like you, a black-haired, smooth-talking devil.”
“I saw one who looked like a gentleman,” one of their young fighters volunteered. “Glimpsed him when our boat crested a wave, before we came in, but I didn’t see him later.”
“I saw him, too,” Madeline said. “Earlier on, before we got to the beach. He was wearing a greatcoat, but I didn’t see him later.”
Dalziel rose. “So where is he now?”
Everyone, including the defeated men, looked around. Beyond the area lit by the flares, the night was a black velvet shroud.
Dalziel looked toward the northern end of the beach. “He didn’t go up the path. He didn’t reach the clifftop. What about that headland? Could he have walked, or swum, around it?”
“No,” Gervase replied. “And he couldn’t have slipped away to the south, either.”
“He’d be dead if he tried,” Abel opined.
“There’s the caves.” Edmond stared up at Dalziel; he hadn’t met him before. “He might have hidden in them.”
Swinging around, Dalziel stared at the deeply shadowed cliffs. “Can he get up to the clifftop through any of the caves?”
Edmond, Gervase and Abel all answered no.
Expression set, Dalziel nodded. “In that case, we search. Carefully.”
He gave clear, concise orders, setting two of their band to hold the cliff path, and two more to watch over the villain’s defeated crew; they roughly tied those of the vanquished men who might make trouble, before, in a group, the rest of them moved off.
Gervase led them to the entrance of the northernmost cave.
“We stay together, and search one cave at a time-no need to give him a chance to take any more hostages,” Dalziel said. “We’ll work our way down the beach, leaving two men outside to make sure he doesn’t try to slip past us, back to a cave we’ve already searched.”
It took more than an hour to search every cave.
Impossible though it seemed, their villainous traitor had somehow escaped the beach.
Leaving the last cave, trudging back up the beach, Gervase and Charles exchanged glances. They knew how frustrated Dalziel had to be feeling.
Reaching the bottom of the path up the cliff, Gervase stopped and straightened, stretching his spine. “What now?”
For a long moment, Dalziel made no answer, staring out at the waves rolling in, then he drew a tight breath. “I’ll go up and join Allardyce. We’ll search the coast and cliffs going north as far as Helston.” He glanced at Gervase.
Gervase nodded, equally grim. “We’ll head out on foot, doing the same in the other direction as far as the castle. He must have risked going around the rocks, either to the north or the south. If he’s made it to the cliffs, one side or the other, we should find him.”
That was the simple truth, yet he had a feeling in his gut that none of them-not him, Charles or Dalziel-held out much hope. Unbelievable though it seemed, their quarry had eluded them. Yet again.
Abel came up, saying he’d have his “boys” take their boats back up the coast to Helston, as well as returning the castle’s two boats. “The lads will scan the coves as they row past.”
He also offered to oversee marching their vanquished foes up to the cliffs, and then to the constable in Helston. He grinned. “That’ll put me in good odor with the authorities-might as well get something from the night.”
“You enjoyed the action, you old reprobate,” Gervase said.
“True.” Abel’s grin grew wider. “But when you reach my age, you learn to make the most of what the good Lord sends you.” With a chuckle, he stumped off to order his “boys” to their various tasks.
Taking Madeline’s hand, collecting Edmond with a glance, Gervase started up the path. Charles joined them, along with those of their band who hailed from the castle, or had homes in that direction.
They reached the clifftop to discover Dalziel and Christian had already set out. Turning, they headed along the coast, following it toward the castle.
Drenched and shivering, the man they all sought clung to his refuge, wedged into a crevice in a clump of rocks out in the cove. He’d noticed the jumbled cluster some thirty yards from shore when he’d viewed the cove from the clifftop that afternoon. He hadn’t given it a thought-not until, down on the beach overseeing the search, alerted by some sixth sense, he’d glanced across the ring of flickering light, and in the shadows at the base of the cliffs had seen the one man of all men he never wanted to meet while in his traitor’s guise.
Shocked, mentally reeling, he’d known one instant of pure terror.
Then a second when he’d realized the three crouching figures were waiting for something-something that would come from the sea.
He’d turned, looked-caught one fleeting glimpse of a white face over the waves.
Desperate, mindless self-preservatory instinct had taken over. His only possible escape had lain in instant action. Attracting no attention from the laboring men, he’d walked unhurriedly the few paces to the sea, and kept walking, pulling off his muffler and hat, ducking beneath the waves as soon as he could, slipping out of his greatcoat, then swimming-battling, struggling, desperately fighting-against the swell and the treacherous currents to reach the rocks he’d known were there, but in the dead of night couldn’t see.
If he couldn’t see them, others couldn’t either.
He’d thought he’d never reach them; he’d been flagging, wondering if, after all, his life would end like this- thinking that even if it did it was still a form of triumph, for Dalziel would never know, would be left forever wondering-when his hand struck rock.
He’d gripped, latched on; gasping, shaking-praying-he’d hauled himself into the lee of the rocks, then found the crevice into which he’d wedged himself. Submerged from the neck down, partially protected from the constant sucking surge of the waves, he’d clung, panting. Slowly panic had receded, and he’d regained his ability to think.
The battle on the beach ended. To his disgust but not his surprise, Dalziel’s forces won.
For the immediate moment he was safe, but he had to get away-out of the area-cleanly. Leaving no trace. None at all.
This time, Dalziel had got far too close.
He didn’t waste much time cursing, wondering how his nemesis had so unexpectedly and frighteningly appeared, all but nipping at his heels; the answer was played out on the beach before him. He hadn’t recognized Crowhurst as one of Dalziel’s men, but St. Austell he knew by sight. The way the three consulted made it clear
