Read Chapter 28: The Country Estate

The moon had the decency to hide behind a bank of cloud as Graves led the twelve men off the causeway and onto the black, sucking ground of the fen. Each step was a gamble. The reeds stood taller than a man in places, whispering secrets in a language of wind and water, and beneath them the marsh lay in wait for the careless or the unlucky.

Ashworth’s men moved well. They were former soldiers, mostly, hard-eyed veterans who knew how to keep their mouths shut and their boots light. Graves had given them their orders at the hunting box three miles back: flank wide, stay low, and do not fire until he did. The plan was simple enough. Finch’s estate, Helmsley Grange, sat on a rare spit of raised ground in the heart of the marsh, approachable only by the causeway or across the fen itself. They would come the way no sane man would come.

The Grange rose out of the mist like a black tooth. Three storeys of dark stone, narrow windows glowing faint amber, a roof line jagged with chimneys and gargoyles that seemed to leer down at the approaching shadows. A low wall circled the property, and beyond it, outbuildings huddled against the main house like frightened animals.

Graves dropped to one knee at the edge of the reed line, signalling the others to do the same. Fifty yards of open ground lay between them and the wall. He raised his field glasses and scanned the property.

Two men on the wall walk, patrolling opposite directions. A third by the main gate, leaning against a post, a rifle cradled loosely in his arms. A dog somewhere—he could hear it, a low, restless whine carried on the wind. The windows on the ground floor were dark, but the first floor blazed with light in three rooms.

"He's awake," murmured a voice at Graves's shoulder. Carstairs, a bull-necked sergeant who had served under Ashworth in the Punjab. "Working late."

Or waiting, Graves thought. He lowered the glasses. Either way, they had come too far to turn back now.

"Carstairs, take four men and circle to the east. Jenkins, you take four to the west. Wait for my shot, then hit the wall fast. I'll take two men through the front gate to draw their attention."

Carstairs grunted. "You're making yourself a target, sir."

"I'm making myself useful." Graves checked his revolver, a worn Webley he had carried for twenty years. The weight of it was familiar, comforting. "The moment they see me, they'll call for the rest. That's when you move."

They split without another word, shadows bleeding into shadows. Graves waited, counting heartbeats, until the last of them had vanished into the night. Then he turned to the two men beside him—a wiry Scotsman named Reid and a silent ex-sailor called Dobbs.

"Ready?"

They nodded. Graves stood, walked out of the reeds, and made no effort to hide his footsteps as he crossed the open ground toward the main gate.

The guard saw him at forty yards. The rifle came up, the man shouted something Graves didn't catch. Then the dog began to bark, a deep, frantic sound that cut through the night like a blade.

"Mr. Finch sent me," Graves called out, keeping his voice calm. "Message from London. Urgent."

The guard hesitated, rifle still pointed at Graves's chest. A second man appeared at the top of the wall, lantern raised to see who approached.

"Who are you?" the second man shouted.

"Name's Marsh. Superintendent Marsh. Ask your master—he knows the name."

That got a reaction. The two guards exchanged glances, and the one on the wall turned to shout something back toward the house. Graves kept walking, hands visible at his sides, heart rate steady. Ten yards now. Five.

The gate guard stepped forward, rifle aimed at his gut. "Stop right there."

Graves stopped. Smiled. He heard the soft whisper of movement in the dark behind the guard—Reid, coming up along the wall. And from the east, the first crack of a rifle shot split the night.

The guard's eyes flicked, just for a second. Graves closed the distance. He drove his shoulder into the man's chest, sending him sprawling, and brought the butt of his revolver down once, hard. The man went still.

The rifle shot from the east was answered by a scatter of gunfire from the house. The dog was still barking somewhere, frantic. From the other side of the wall, Graves heard the hammering of boots on the walkway as men scrambled to respond.

"Now!" he shouted.

Reid and Dobbs burst through the gate ahead of him, and together the three of them crossed the courtyard at a sprint. A window on the ground floor shattered, and a muzzle flash bloomed in the dark. Reid cried out and stumbled, clutching his arm.

Graves grabbed him by the collar and hauled him behind the shelter of a stone well. Return fire from the east had the shooter's attention now. Jenkins's men were over the wall and moving across the grounds, trading shots with Finch's hirelings.

"Stay with him," Graves ordered Dobbs. "Keep his arm above his heart."

He didn't wait for an answer. He ran, low and fast, hugging the wall of the main house as gunfire crackled around him. A bullet whined past his ear, so close he felt the wind of it. He threw himself around the corner of the building and found himself in a narrow service yard, stacked with crates and barrels.

Voices. Two men, coming up fast on his left. Graves flattened himself against the wall, waited until the first man appeared around the corner, and caught him across the bridge of the nose with the heel of his hand. The man dropped like a sack of grain. His companion raised a pistol, but Graves was already moving, closing the distance, and he didn't slow until his shoulder slammed into the other man's chest, driving him onto his back.

A door was set into the wall to his right. Service entrance. Graves tried the handle—locked. He put his shoulder to it, once, twice; on the third attempt the old timber splintered and gave way, and he tumbled through into a pitch-black interior.

The sound of the gunfight faded to a muffled percussion through stone. Graves let the door swing shut behind him and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. The air was close and cold, and it smelled of damp earth and coal dust. Cellar stairs, he realized. His boot found the first step.

He descended slowly, one hand trailing along the damp stone wall, listening. The gunfire above had become a distant thunder. They would be fine without him. Carstairs was a professional, and Jenkins had the instincts of a wolfhound. The mission was to find Finch, to find the ledger, to end this.

Below, the stairs ended in a narrow corridor that ran in both directions. A lantern hung at the far end, sputtering low. Graves moved toward the light. The corridor gave way to what looked like a wine cellar—racks and racks of dusty bottles, cobwebs thick enough to hang from the ceiling. But past the racks, a door stood ajar, and beyond it, Graves caught something he hadn't expected: a faint, metallic gleam, like the rail of a narrow track.

He pushed through the door and stopped.

The tunnel stretched away into darkness, a smooth bore cut through the earth, big enough for a man to walk upright. Iron rails ran along its floor, and at intervals the walls bore small, rusted brackets that had once held lanterns. A private railway, he realized. Finch had built himself an escape route—a direct line out of the estate and away from whatever trouble came to his door.

That was when he heard the footsteps behind him. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of someone who was in no hurry to be caught.

Graves turned, the Webley rising.

Clara stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed, her face a mask of controlled fury. And at her side, with a cold smile spreading across his weathered features, stood Superintendent Marsh.