She had left the tavern by a different door and was now standing just within the shadow of a warehouse, her apron hidden beneath a cloak. Even in the half-light, he could see her face was pale, her eyes dark and intent.
She looked less like a barmaid now and more like herself—except for the tension in her jaw, the strain in her posture, the quickness of her breath. She had been waiting.
Edmund’s mind ran swiftly through his options. He could vanish and allow her to return alone to Belair House. He could speak to her here and risk drawing attention. He could pretend not to know her and go after Holt.
None of those options satisfied the part of him that had listened to Holt’s talk of widows and keys.
Elise decided for him. It appeared she was of a mind to follow Holt instead of returning to the school. What the devil was she about, trying to follow a man who would snap her neck without a second thought?
She slipped after him with the same quiet precision she had shown all evening, keeping to the deeper shadows, moving only when movement would not be remarked upon. Edmund followed both of them, the absurdity of the procession not loston him: hunter, hunted, and witness, each unaware how closely the others pressed.
Holt did not take the direct way to the quay.
Instead, he turned inland, away from the harbour lights, down a lane that wound between net sheds and a long-abandoned cooperage. It was a path Edmund recognized at once, not because he had walked it, but because it was the sort of place such men favoured—narrow and poorly lit, with more than one exit.
The wind carried Holt’s footsteps intermittently, sometimes masking them entirely, sometimes revealing them with alarming clarity. Edmund counted his pace, measuring the man’s stride against his own, noting where he slowed, where he glanced back. Holt was not drunk. He was not careless. He walked with purpose and caution both, as if Plymouth were the slums of St. Giles.
Mrs. Larkin kept left, nearer the wall, her cloak drawn close, her skirts lifted just enough to prevent a stumble. Edmund saw her nearly slip once on a patch of damp stone; she recovered instantly, without sound. Any lingering doubt he had harboured about her competence vanished.
She is practised at this, he thought grimly.
Holt reached the end of the lane and paused. Edmund and Elise froze simultaneously—two shadows among many. Holt leaned against a post, ostensibly lighting a pipe, though Edmund doubted he drew more than a token breath from it. He stood there for nearly a minute, scanning the street behind him.
Edmund did not move. Neither did Elise. The moment stretched as thin as wire.
At last Holt turned sharply and slipped through a narrow gap between buildings—a passage scarcely wider than a man’s shoulders, half-hidden by stacked crates and old sailcloth.Edmund swore silently. He had seen such places before, in Lisbon, in Cádiz—rat runs, made for disappearance.
Elise moved first. Not foolishly, not with haste—but decisively. She crossed the open space while Holt’s back was still turned, reached the crates, and vanished into the passage.
Edmund followed without hesitation.
The passage was darker than the street, the walls damp, the ground uneven. The smell of rot and old rope pressed close. Holt was already several lengths ahead, moving faster now, his caution replaced by urgency. Edmund lengthened his stride but did not run; running drew attention, even here. The passage opened suddenly into a small, enclosed yard behind what had once been a chandlery. A single lantern burned over a door to the left, its light throwing warped shadows across the walls.
Holt did not go to the door. He crossed the yard, vaulted a low stone wall with surprising agility for so heavy a man, and dropped out of sight on the far side.
Edmund reached the wall moments later. Beyond it lay a narrow strip of waste ground sloping toward the cliffs—scrub, broken stone, and a faint footpath winding down toward the sea. Far ahead, Holt was already moving at speed, cloak flapping, boots sure.
Mrs. Larkin appeared beside Edmund, breathless now, though she had made no sound. Their eyes met briefly in the lantern’s dying glow. How did she manage to climb the wall?
No words passed between them. They followed.
The wind grew stronger the farther they descended, pulling at clothes, carrying the sound of surf up the path. Holt slowed only once, near a stand of wind-stunted trees, and Edmund thought—just for an instant—that he meant to double back, to confront whoever pursued him.
Then Holt veered sharply right instead, ducking into a cleft in the rock Edmund would have missed entirely had he not knownto look for such things. The opening was narrow and easily mistaken for a shadow.
By the time Edmund reached it, Holt was gone.
The cleft led to a shallow cave, its floor strewn with driftwood and the remnants of old fires. The sea had gnawed at the rock here for centuries, creating pockets and recesses deep enough to shelter a man—and perhaps a crate or two—from casual view.
But the cave was empty. Only footprints remained, half-erased by wind and damp. Near the back wall, he found the faint imprint of a boot where someone had paused—listening. Holt—or another—had waited here before.
Edmund straightened slowly, his mind racing. This was no random escape. If this place was known to Holt, perhaps it was also known to others. A route; a meeting point; a hiding place… now all were undoubtedly compromised.
He turned to Mrs. Larkin. She was studying the cave with an expression of cold assessment, her earlier disguise forgotten entirely. Here, in the open dark, she looked every inch the woman Charles Larkin had trained—not in codes alone, but in judgement.
Holt had vanished into Plymouth’s bones, and they had learned just enough to know that he was neither alone, nor acting on impulse.
Edmund felt the night settle around them like a held breath. Whatever game had resumed along this coast, it was larger—and closer—than he had feared.
