"What are you saying?" Mallory cried. "You're just going to give up? Sit here and do nothing? For an enchanter, that's not very brave."
"But very sensible," said Arbican. "It's apparent to me, as it should be to you, there's no possible way of building a boat, let alone finding a circle of gold. As for the village, I've no desire to go hacking and stumbling through these woods. No, I prefer some last dignity and self-respect."
"Rowan would help us," Mallory urged, "if he knew what Scrupnor did. And there's Emmet, the harness maker, he's always been good to me. Mr. Parsel means well, he did give me his knife; but I daren't go to the cook shop, not with Mrs. Parsel around."
"As I just finished explaining, I prefer-"
"Listen to me," Mallory pressed on. "When we went to the Holdings-couldn't you do the same, and take us to Rowan's house?"
Arbican shook his head. "I doubt it. After that business with the poker, I'm afraid I've come to the end of my strength."
"You can try, can't you?" Mallory urged. "In all the tales, when everything's at worst, that's when the hero tries his best."
"Unadulterated fiction," retorted Arbican. "In my time, it was a mark of common sense to know a hopeless situation when you saw one. It's only in those fabricated accounts you mortals have invented-"
"Invented?" Mallory flung back. "I don't care! If that's how things were in your day, I like my fairy tales better!"
Arbican blinked indignantly, opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut, and fell silent and brooding. After a long moment, he fixed his eyes on Mallory:
"Very well. Give me your hand. You must guide me, as you did before."
Mallory closed her eyes and tried to picture in her mind the house of the notary, only to realize in alarm that of all places in the village this was one she knew least. Her vision of it broke apart and faded. Exhausted, she fought to summon it back again, now hardly able even to recall the narrow winding street near the cookshop. Arbican, meantime, had begun murmuring to himself. In another moment, the ground dropped away beneath her feet. Wrenched and buffeted, she felt her hand slip from the enchanter's grasp.
Light flared in her eyes as a candle was thrust at her face. A white-robed figure loomed before her, and a noise like a knife on a grindstone rasped in her ears. Wrapped in a trailing night robe, hair bristling with curlpapers, it was Mrs. Parsel.
Arbican lay on the kitchen floor. While Mrs. Parsel yelled furiously for her husband, Mallory stumbled to the enchanter's side. Arbican was unconscious, but still alive. Seeing the enchanter, Mrs. Parsel shrieked all the louder, "It's him! The murderer! Come to strangle us all Parsel, defend your wife! Get the meat axe!"
At the same time, Mrs. Parsel set down the candle and snatched a broom from the corner, ready to defend life and limb. In answer to his wife's urgent command, Mr. Parsel slowly and cautiously peered around the kitchen door. Nightcap askew on his bandaged head, his face pale and puffy, he looked scarcely recovered from his ordeal in the road. He gasped in disbelief at Mallory and Arbican; however, instead of seeking the weapon Mrs. Parsel demanded, he sat down heavily on a chair, opened and shut his eyes rapidly, as though trying to rouse himself from a discomforting dream.
"Help him," pleaded Mallory, hurrying to Mr. Parsel. "Scrupnor shot him. He may be dying."
Mr. Parsel clapped his hands to his head. "Oh dear, oh dear, you should never have brought him to the house. You should never have come back. Shot? Dying? Good heavens, he mustn't do it here!"
At last sure that Arbican was not about to leap up and strangle her, Mrs. Parsel triumphantly waved her broom: "I've got him, that foul assassin! Murder will out! Justice will be served! Parsel, our fortune's made!"
"Tell her," Mallory urged. "Arbican's done nothing. You believe that. You must, or you wouldn't have given me your knife."
Hearing this, Mrs. Parsel, with a horrified gasp, turned on her husband. "You did what? You gave what?"
"Please, listen to me," Mallory broke in. "If Mr. Parsel hadn't helped us, we'd both be dead now-"
"Parsel, you fool," cried Mrs. Parsel in a terrible voice, "what have you done?"
"My dear, don't work yourself up," begged Mr. Parsel. "You know your delicate constitution; you can't stand such excitement."
"Parsel, am I to understand you aided and abetted?"
"I wasn't thinking clearly," protested Mr. Parsel. "A rash moment I lost my head, I don't know what came over me."
"Lost your head?" roared Mrs. Parsel. "That's no loss at all! You could have lost your hypothecation!"
While Mr. Parsel stammered apologies for his good deed, and while Mrs. Parsel kept on with her tongue lashing, Mallory tried to tend Arbican's wound. The bleeding had stopped and she saw that Scrupnor's bullet had caused less damage than she had supposed. More serious, she feared, was the enchanter's exhaustion. However, as she was about to search the cookshop for medicine, spirits, or whatever might serve to revive Arbican, Mrs. Parsel barred her way with the broomstick.
"And you, ungrateful wretch! After all my care and kindness! Do you know how much that old rogue's worth? Were you trying to get all the reward for yourself?"
"There's no reward," Mallory flung back. "Scrupnor's lied to you. He killed Bolt. And he killed Squire Sorrel, too."
"Bite your tongue!" Mrs. Parsel cried. "How dare you say that? There's no more generous, thoughtful-"
"Except for my hypothecation," put in Mr. Parsel, who had been sitting hunched into himself, ready at any moment to shield his head against his wife's broom. "That's sharp practice, no other word for it."
"And you, hold your tongue!" ordered Mrs. Parsel. "That's your own fault for being such a fool."
"Don't you understand what I'm telling you?" Mallory cried. "Bolt's dead! Scrupnor split his head with a poker. I was there. I saw it. Arbican isn't to blame for anything. He's an enchanter. I found him in a tree."
"It's happened at last," declared Mrs. Parsel to her husband. "I told you it would and now it has. The girl's gone mad. The fairy tales have burst her brain."
Mallory held back no longer. In a last attempt to convince Mrs. Parsel, she poured out the whole account of Arbican's mishaps. When she finished, Mrs. Parsel said nothing, and only shook her head.
Mr. Parsel, to Mallory's relief, seemed greatly cheered and reassured. "There, you see, my dear, I did the right thing after all. A wizard, indeed! Whoever would have thought it! I daresay he'll have some tales to tell us. Does he read tea leaves? Perhaps he'll give me some advice about my hypothecation? Now, let's see what we can do for him."
"We shall do what our duty requires," said Mrs. Parsel. "But look at the state of this poor girl! Calm yourself, child. After what you've gone through, no wonder you're feverish. I'll give you a bowl of hot milk."
"Arbican needs care more than I do," Mallory said.
"He shall have it," replied Mrs. Parsel, ordering her husband to fetch whatever was needed while she herself went to rummage in the pantry. By the time the promised milk was ready, Arbican had regained his senses and was able to sit up. Mallory helped him swallow a few mouthfuls from the steaming basin, and gratefully drank some herself.
For the first time she was able to breathe easily: After the chill of the woods, she now felt pleasantly warm, as if she were sitting by a comfortable fire. Arbican was dozing peacefully and soon Mallory began to yawn, and her eyelids drooped.
"We'd better get word to Rowan," Mallory murmured. "Arbican will need a safe place to sleep, in the meantime. No telling what Scrupnor may try to do."
"We'll make up a lovely feather bed for your friend, my dear," said Mrs. Parsel. "Don't worry about a thing. He'll have a nice nap. And so will you. After that sleeping draught, you'll be in dreamland for some while."
Mallory's lips had turned numb and her cry of horror came as little more than a slurred whisper. Mrs. Parsel had drawn closer, watching Mallory intently. The curlpapers seemed to turn her head into a huge dandelion puff that floated before Mallory's eyes, hung a few moments i
n the air, then drifted away altogether.
CHAPTER 14
Mallory struggled to open her eyes. At first, she remembered there had been muffled sounds in darkness, the distant voice of Mrs. Parsel, the neighing of a horse. Now rough hands were setting her on her feet. Helpless, she went stumbling, half-carried down a hallway, and through a door. She vaguely recognized Scrupnor's counting room. Arbican, still fast asleep, stretched beside her in a corner near the shelves of papers and account books. "Mrs. Parsel," Mallory heard Scrupnor say, "you're a woman of resolution and determination, to bring me these malefactors single handed."
"Squire, I had no choice," replied Mrs. Parsel. "There was no use to be had from Parsel. He's been ailing and addled ever since that blow to his head. But you, Squire, if you allow me a personable observation, you yourself appear to have suffered a mischance."
"That, Mrs. Parsel is to say the very least of it," returned Scrupnor, passing a hand over his bruised face. "You see before you the unsuspecting victim of assault and battery." He paused a moment, then added in a grave tone: "With intent to kill."
At this, Mallory tried to protest; but the sleeping potion still gripped her and she could barely raise her head. Mrs. Parsel, however, gasped as though the squire's life were still in danger. Scrupnor raised a reassuring hand:
"Be calm, Mrs. P. My wounds are superfluous. They are nothing compared with the two I carry here." Scrupnor pointed to the upper portion of his waistcoat.
"What, Squire," cried Mrs. Parsel, "were you stabbed, as well?"
"Deeply, Mrs. Parsel deeply. In the figurative sense, but no less painful for all that. I refer not only to the demise of my benefactor but, only a few short hours ago, to the brutal slaying of one who was more than a faithful servant. Mr. Bolt is no longer with us. He succumbed to a poker. A humble domestic utensil turned into a weapon of murder." At this, Scrupnor pointed a finger at Arbican. "Wielded ruthlessly, relentlessly, by the selfsame criminal who snatched away the life and breath of Squire Sorrel.
"I defended the unfortunate Mr. Bolt as best I could," Scrupnor went on. "Don't let his gray hairs deceive you, that bearded villain has the strength of a dozen devils. You see his handiwork engraved on my brow. Alas, I could not save Mr. Bolt's life. Indeed, I might have lost my own if I had not succeeded in putting that hardened criminal to flight."
"The truth at last!" exclaimed Mrs. Parsel. "Oh, Squire, what a relief and pleasure to hear the facts, grievous as they are. And this-this depraved, vicious, treacherous creature I raised by hand, with every comfort and cosset, dared to say that you were the one who struck down poor Mr. Bolt."
Scrupnor's jaw dropped. For a speechless moment he stared at Mallory, then shook his head. "Did she say that, Mrs. Parsel Poor deranged child. What a curious fancy. A remarkable imagination-but, alas, an unwholesome one."
"It's the fairy tales," Mrs. Parsel said. "They've chewed away at her mind until there's hardly a rind left. Squire, if you had heard what else she babbled about: wizards coming out of trees, turning into pigs." Scrupnor clicked his tongue. "What a burden you've borne, Mrs. P. But you shall bear it no longer. The matter is now in my hands. Leave her with me. She shall be looked after. Be proud you have done your duty; that knowledge will ease the pain of your loss."
Scrupnor bowed and gestured toward the counting room door. Mrs. Parsel, however, made no move to rise from her chair.
"But, Squire," she said, "you'll surely want to wait for Mr. Rowan. I sent Parsel to fetch him. Drat the man, he's so slow and bumbling, and all the worse since his accident. But they'll be along directly."
Scrupnor's smile wavered an instant. "Fetch Mr. Rowan? Why should you have done a thing like that?"
"For your convenience," replied Mrs. Parsel, "thinking you'd want to settle the reward here and now, and get all such details out of the way. It's never wise to delay matters of business, as you yourself know."
"I'm sorry you did that, Mrs. Parsel," said Scrupnor his smile crumbling entirely. "It was labor lost. For I shall now be obliged to tell them you aren't here."
Mrs. Parsel frowned a little. "Why, Squire, why ever should you say a thing like that?"
"In fact," Scrupnor went on thoughtfully, as much to himself as to Mrs. Parsel, "it would be simpler to tell them you never arrived here in the first place."
Mallory's arms and legs still weighed more than she could lift. Her tongue felt thick and she could scarcely form her words as she murmured:
"I told you. What he did to Bolt. Now, you too."
"She's raving again," said Mrs. Parsel, although with a certain uneasiness. She stood up hastily. "You don't think for a moment I believe a word of what she said. Indeed, I hardly listened. Who would pay attention to such delirious accusations? Not I, Squire, that I swear to you."
When Scrupnor did not answer, Mrs. Parsel hurried on:
"Ah, yes, it would be better to save our business for a happier moment. These distressful events have put a strain on all of us. I can see you're not quite yourself. A good night's sleep will work wonders. Tomorrow, I'll bring you a pot of my calves foot jelly, that has always been very curative."
Mrs. Parsel would have made her way to the door, but Scrupnor stepped in front of her. "That's thoughtful of you, Mrs. Parsel but unnecessary. Calves foot jelly? Ah, if only our cares and concerns could be lightened with a little calves foot jelly, the world would be a happier place."
"Mr. Scrupnor," declared Mrs. Parsel, trying to hide her growing alarm with indignation, "allow me to depart for my residence."
"If only that were possible," Scrupnor answered regretfully, barring the door with an upraised arm. "But you must appreciate the difficulties of my position. Loose talk, gossip, idle chatter-these have a way of leading to embarrassing questions. Far better to eliminate the source altogether, to nip them in the bud-"
"I won't breathe a word!" cried Mrs. Parsel. "My lips are sealed!"
"I'm sure they will be," replied Scrupnor. "In this world so full of uncertainty, at least that is absolutely beyond a doubt."
"What of Parsel?" exclaimed Mrs. Parsel. "He's heard the girl's story as much as I have I mean, he paid no more attention than I did. What of Rowan?"
"Our honest notary, as I have reason to know, puts great store in evidence. Since there is none-or will be none I don't see much he can do about it. As for Mr. Parsel, I doubt he would be so foolish, as you and the late Mr. Bolt have been, to concern himself with money I have no intention of paying. Indeed, I may very well have to assure myself of Mr. Parsel's silence, too. We shall see. But first, we must deal with problems immediately to hand; of which, at the moment, there happen to be three in my counting room.
"It would be best, I think," Scrupnor continued, "if all of you unfortunately had met with a fatal accident on your way to the Holdings. As I see it, the old man woke up and attacked you both-a concealed weapon might be in order, possibly a butcher knife. Then, with appalling lack of caution, got himself run over by the wagon. Certain small refinements may occur to me in progress, but the outcome will be the same. Meantime, I shall go and be surprised by the arrival of your husband and the notary. Forgive me, Mrs. Parsel but the circumstances are as painful to me as they are to you. However, in this difficult world, we must all bow to necessity."
With a shriek, Mrs. Parsel threw herself upon the squire. Despite her bulk, she was no match for him and he heaved her back into the counting room. Mallory, with great effort, had climbed unsteadily to her feet, too late to help Mrs. Parsel or to keep Scrupnor from stepping hastily out of the door and locking it behind him.
Arbican, too, had awakened and was struggling to rise. Seeing the enchanter stumbling toward her, and convinced he meant to take some ghastly revenge for what she had done, Mrs. Parsel rolled up her eyes and fainted dead away.
Mallory turned from her useless battering of the door and looked around for anything to serve as tool or weapon; but there was not even a stand of fire irons by the empty hearth.
"Arbican, have yo
u power for one more spell? Anything, no matter, just to get us out of here."
Arbican grimaced. "At this point, I haven't magic enough to boil a pot of water. It's gone for sure; our last venture was the end of it."
"Did you hear Scrupnor? He's going to make it look as if you killed us. He must have done as much with Squire Sorrel. He always claimed he went to Castleton, but I'm sure he didn't. He must have come back during the night and broken into the Holdings himself-"
"A fascinating speculation," Arbican replied. "True, no doubt, but no help to us now. I see only one thing: We shall have to take him by surprise when he comes back."
"He's stronger than both of us together. Oh, blast Mrs. Parsel and her sleeping draught. My head's still going round. Fight him? He'll have his pistol."
"That damnable thing? Yes, I suppose he will," said the enchanter. "Very well, we shall have to hit him with something. The chair? Break it up and use the legs for clubs? Crude, but not ineffective."
"That might do," Mallory agreed. "Or-something heavier? One of the stones from the fireplace. They seem loose enough to pull out. Wait-could we climb up the chimney?"
"Too risky," Arbican warned. "If we got stuck in it, he'd have us neatly trapped. Furthermore, I'm hardly in condition to go squirming through layers of soot."
Mallory, nevertheless, had gone to peer into the fireplace. Soot would be the least of their worries. The hearth, she saw, was swept clean and the fireplace seemed quite unused. "The chimney's wide enough," she called. "For us, at least. But no way in the world for Mrs. Parsel. Besides, there's a stone blocking the flue. I'll try to pull it out."
The task demanded less effort than she had imagined, for the stone came free almost immediately. Thrusting her head and shoulders into the opening, Mallory cried out in surprise. On a narrow ledge lay a tin cashbox.
"Arbican look, Scrupnor's hidden something in the chimney."
"I'm not interested in what he's squirreled away. Let it be. Come, help me move this table. We shall first barricade the door."
The Wizard in the Tree Page 9
