The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Yet, because railway tracks are made of many bits of metal placed end to end, considered as a staging point for a spell, it would be like running the Derby in installments. The enterprise might eventually work, but one would need a dashed good reason to take the trouble.

  I plan to be in town before you, to have a look through the library at the Society and to gather any other references that might be of use to us. It won’t hurt young Marrable to run up and down those ladders a few dozen times on our behalf. Trust my discretion. I won’t tell him what I want to know or why I want to know it. No, honestly. After all, I don’t know myself.

  The Bull and Mouth is far from elegant, but I suspect your children will love the bustle of the place. For once they will behold chaos they did not create themselves. I’ll meet you there.

  Sincerely,

  Thomas

  12 March 1828

  The Bull and Mouth, London

  Dearest Kate,

  We have arrived in London and are ensconced at Thomas’s inn. I am not sure what he was thinking to have chosen it. It may do very well for a lone gentleman of a certain style, but it is really not the place for a family with young children. Particularly not when the children in question are my older three (Baby Alexander is thankfully not yet mobile enough to go out in search of adventures).

  There were no additional anomalies about the grounds at Tangleford once James arrived home (much to my relief and Arthur’s frustration). James and I rode the boundaries together the day before our departure, he looking for suspicious physical evidence, I searching for more arcane manifestations. We found nothing, so I hope that our nocturnal visitor either was driven off by all the activity attendant on our preparations for departure or simply departed on his own.

  London is, as usual, a hotbed of gossip. Lord Kernsbury has gambled away the last of his fortune and has been forced to fly the country to escape his debtors. Lady Prothmire’s daughter has broken her engagement to old Lord Heppelwith, and her mother has hauled her back to the country in disgrace. And the Duchess of Kent snubbed the Duke of Cumberland most pointedly in the park last week. Rumor has it that they are on the outs over her daughter Alexandrina, who some (including, of course, the duchess) think should stand next in line for the throne after her uncle William. The duke naturally thinks that as one of the old king’s sons, he should be king after his two elder brothers, while the duchess contends that since her late husband was older than the Duke of Cumberland, her daughter is the rightful heir.

  The royal dispute is supposed to be private, but everyone knows of it. Even Aunt Charlotte has heard, though she has not visited London in weeks. I had a letter from her deploring the duchess’s actions and accusing her of pushing her daughter’s interests more than is seemly (which makes me think the Duchess of Kent must be quite an agreeable person after all). That is all the news I have been able to garner, but of course the Season has not yet properly begun.

  James has gone to call on the Duke of Wellington, to see if he has anything more to add before we depart for the north, and Thomas is off at the Royal College. I am taking the opportunity to write you while I can, and to thank you and Thomas from the bottom of my heart for taking in my family. I would express a pious wish that they will be well-behaved for you, but I know it for a forlorn hope, at best.

  I fully enter into your sentiments regarding Thomas’s probable response to two days’ travel with the four topmost shoots on the Tarleton family tree. Indeed, I could hardly help but do so, having just spent a day and a half getting them to London. (Diana was severely carriage-sick, which necessitated an unscheduled stop on the way; normally it is only a one-day ride, even with the children in tow.)

  Arthur has conceived a passion for things mechanical, which I hope will be short-lived. He spent much of the carriage ride plotting with his twin to induce his godfather to take him to see some steam-works or other when we arrive in London. (He already tried to persuade James, without success; I believe that if the Duke of Wellington also fails him, he intends to try Thomas. I am torn; on the one hand, I would be quite pleased for the duke to get a taste of the difficulties he has made for us, but on the other, it would be just as satisfying, and somewhat more likely, for Thomas to have the honor. And if it is Thomas, then I shall no doubt have an account of the affair from you, while if the duke takes Arthur, I shall have to use my imagination.)

  Later:

  I was interrupted at that point in my letter by a summons from the innkeeper. With some trepidation, I followed him to the common room, to find a large ostler in a homespun cap and rather muddy boots glaring at Arthur and another boy. I noted with resignation that Arthur’s jacket was torn, his breeches muddied, and his left eye already beginning to swell. (I expect it will have come out in rainbow colors by the time he arrives at Skeynes.)

  It was instantly clear that Arthur and the other boy had got into a row. The ostler’s part was soon explained—the row had been in the handling yard (how Arthur came there and what he thought he was doing have yet to be determined)—and they had disturbed some of the carriage horses, very nearly to the point of causing a runaway. Or so the ostler said. I thanked him very kindly for saving my son from the dangerous uproar, which threw him quite off his prepared speech, and saw him and the other boy off without further ado. I suspected he had intended to ask for compensation of some kind, and I was not prepared to commit to any such thing without first determining the facts of the case.

  As soon as I had Arthur to myself, I took him to the private parlor that James had bespoke, then asked for his version of events. (It is best, with Arthur, to do this as soon as possible, without an audience, and most especially before he has had a chance to consult with Eleanor. Arthur has an unfortunate habit of adapting his story to the expressions of whatever adults happen to be within hearing, and he is very good at reading faces.)

  “It was the burglar, Mama!” he burst out. “I saw him out the door when I came down to see if—when I came down. And I ran after him, and he ran between the horses, and I ran into Bill, and he said who did I think I was shoving, and I said don’t let him get away, and he said that’s it, then, and he knocked me down, so I got up and knocked him down, and the horse reared and the ostler shouted at both of us and called us bad names. And he got away.”

  I gave him a stern look. “Setting aside, for the moment, whatever reason you saw fit to wander about the inn alone when I distinctly recall telling you to remain in the rooms until your father returns, I should like to know what possessed you to go running out into a strange place, after a person who may well be dangerous, without informing anyone of your whereabouts.”

  “I could have caught him, Mama!” Arthur said.

  “And what would you have done with him then? ” I said. “Even if it is the same man, he is much larger than you are. It seems clear that you require some practice with fisticuffs before you can successfully deal with an opponent of your own size and weight. It therefore seems highly unlikely that you would have succeeded in apprehending the villain.”

  Arthur looked chagrined at this reminder of his poor showing against the stableboy, and I continued, “More likely, if it was the same person, he would have captured you, which would have greatly distressed your sisters and your father.”

  “Not you?” Arthur asked.

  “I should have thought that being kidnapped and fed only bread and butter in an underground dungeon was just what you deserved for so serious a lapse in judgment,” I said mendaciously. “As it is, you are fortunate to have come away with only a colored eye.”

  Arthur grinned. Then he looked thoughtful. “I see. Next time, I will be more careful.”

  I was not sure what to make of this ambiguous promise, but fortunately James and Thomas arrived at that moment, having met up at the Royal College of Wizards. At first they were inclined to be amused by what they took to be a schoolboy prank (Thomas even offered to teach Arthur to box properly). When they heard that Arthur thought he had recognized our pro
wler, however, they began querying him intently as to exactly how he had known the man and what the fellow might have been doing.

  I slipped away to make arrangements with the innkeeper to pay the disgruntled ostler. If the prowler has indeed followed us to London, I am more than ever glad that the children are to come to you, though I think it most likely that Arthur is a victim of his own overeager imagination, and perhaps some similarity of headgear. Even quite a long look at someone is not enough to identify him positively when the look has been had in the dark at a distance of thirty yards or more.

  We depart London tomorrow, in our several directions. James intends to put up at the King’s Head when we arrive in Leeds. I shall try to write you something more coherent as soon as things are more settled.

  Yours,

  Cecy

  14 March 1828

  Skeynes

  Dear Cecy,

  May this letter find you and James safely at the King’s Head in Leeds. Thomas returned with your children a few hours ago. Everyone seems much as usual. No, let me amend that. Upon reflection, I believe that Georgy has been smiling ever since the children came. Distracting they may be, but it is the very best sort of distraction.

  I am sure your Nurse Langley will write to you of Thomas’s methods where Diana and her carriage sickness are concerned. She objects to them.

  Let me put your mind at rest. Diana has suffered no ill effects, and indeed asks at regular intervals when she might go driving with Thomas again. Driving is putting it a bit high, I think. Thomas told me that Diana, wedged securely on the seat between him and Ripley, fell asleep in her cocoon of blankets after the first ten miles. No further need for a basin, I am happy to report.

  I am just as sure that when they write to you, Arthur and Eleanor will protest their treatment on the journey. Eleanor blames Thomas’s refusal to spring the horses entirely on Diana. “My sister is a very poor traveler,” she told me, with such an air of utter world-weariness that anyone would think they had just arrived here from Samarkand.

  Arthur pronounced the whole journey sadly flat. “Nothing to what Papa would have done.” They are united in allotting Thomas the blame for the brutal way he condemned them to sit inside with Nurse Langley, when either of them would have been much better help driving than Diana was.

  As far as your journey to Leeds is concerned, I hope that you and James made swift work of it indeed. That was why Thomas chose the Bull and Mouth, of course, to permit you to arrange with Mr. Sherman’s firm to use his post-horses for the changes on the road north, and to put you on that road in the shortest possible time. If comfort were of the essence, rather than time, naturally he would have stayed at the house in Mayfair instead.

  This reminds me of another of Thomas’s crimes. He has refused Arthur his steam-works. You will hear about this at length, I am sure. Heartless as ever, dear Thomas is. In his defense, Thomas says, given Arthur’s burglar, he could not in good conscience risk the safety of the children in London a moment longer than necessary.

  I thought that might make you smile. As if Thomas has ever possessed anything remotely resembling a conscience, good, bad, or indifferent. You and I know the sorry truth of it, of course. Thomas does not wish to play bear leader to Arthur unless it is for something Thomas himself has a keen interest in. If Arthur had conceived a passion for magnetism, Thomas would have taken him straight to Mr. Faraday’s laboratory and let any question of conscience go hang.

  Upon reflection, I must admit things could be worse. Thomas and Arthur could share a keen interest in pugilism.

  Come to think of it, I will refrain from jests on the topic, for Arthur has not yet forgotten the rash promise Thomas made to teach him how to box. I can only imagine Edward’s wrath if he is left out of the proceedings. A keen interest in pugilism is all too likely to sweep the nursery. I will keep silent, lest I provoke it.

  You may wonder about the keen interest in the study of magic Thomas shares with Arthur and Eleanor. That would be the reason Thomas kept the twins amused at the inn by teaching them to scry in a dish of India ink. The nurse may well include the resulting stains in her list of objections against Thomas. I am very sorry for any inconvenience the ink may have caused, but I feel I must take at least part of the blame. His time with me has given Thomas a fine indifference to stains of all kinds. It is not a disregard shared by Nurse Langley.

  I think the day and a half it took you to make the short journey to London put the fear of the Lord into Thomas. That’s why he was so brutal with the children.

  Why he was brutal with the nurse as well is quite beyond me. Anyone would think he was a perfect Turk from the way Nurse Langley carries on. Happily, she has formed a pact of mutual support with Nurse Carstairs, who has the highest opinion of Thomas, so I hope she will be won over eventually.

  Meanwhile it is quite diverting to watch the two women vie to show the babies to best advantage. It is clear that each privately feels her own charge to be the most beautiful and gifted. The older children are slightly less enchanting to them and thus are sometimes privileged to go for hours at a time without comparative assessment.

  Still, it is fortunate that both Alexander and Laurence are too young to understand the boasts put forth on their behalf, or they would be insufferably pleased with themselves. (As it is, Laurence stands to inherit that quality from his father. Certainly Edward has done so. No matter what, Edward’s good opinion of himself is quite invincible.)

  I am quite sure everyone will be in much better spirits in the morning. The rigors of travel take a toll on the sturdiest of us. I suspect Thomas is dealing with his fatigue most efficiently. He has locked himself in his study. Now that relative peace has descended, the children having ascended to the nursery at last, I will go and seek him in his lair. I look forward to the full version of his side of the story. She who laughs last may not invariably laugh best, but she does laugh. The nice thing about Thomas is that he will probably laugh quite a lot, too.

  Good night and best wishes to you and James on your enterprise.

  Love,

  Kate

  18 March 1828

  The King’s Head, Leeds

  Dearest Kate,

  If I had any fear that you would be taken in by my brood’s outrageous claims, I should be very worried. As it is, I trust you to provide all proper sympathy, without in fact allowing Eleanor to spring Thomas’s horses or encouraging Arthur to sulk over a dearth of steam-works.

  I am somewhat more concerned over Thomas’s impromptu magic lesson with the twins. Not that I have any doubts of his skills as a tutor, you understand (and certainly not a concern over ink stains); it is more that I am not sure he took sufficient account of the twins’ natural creativity and curiosity. To be quite plain, if Thomas has taught the twins to scry, you had best put wards against scrying about your bedrooms … and anything else you hope to keep private. And it would not be at all amiss to lock up the ink, as well, if only to slow them down a little.

  As for us, we have, as you see, arrived in Leeds. The trip was uneventful, though hurried. James spent his evenings poring over several tomes on railways that Thomas supplied him with in London, though he would not say what he was looking for. (I expect that Arthur will find them fascinating once we return, particularly if I tell him they are too difficult for him. In fact, had I thought of it, I should have done so while we were still in London. If anyone could ferret out useful information from such dull books, it would be Arthur.)

  James’s sudden interest in railways stems from the reason behind our sudden venture into the north. We are in search of a Prussian railway surveyor-magician who has been missing since last autumn. I think it safe to assume that such details as I know are not a matter for secrecy, or James would have mentioned it. The situation is as follows:

  Herr Magus Franz Wilhelm Schellen arrived in London last September as scheduled and made his way north along the same route James and I took. (James made inquiries at the posting houses, and several r
emembered the gentleman—“Very polite, he was, and freehanded for a foreigner” was the general consensus. It is fortunate that he was so generous; had he been stingy, I doubt his memory would have remained green long enough for us to discover his traces.) He was to review the railway that runs between Stockton and Darlington, and then proceed to Manchester, to assist with the surveying of the proposed new steam railway between that city and Liverpool. He never arrived; indeed, there has been no word of him since he set out for the north. So we are to look for him.

  You will perceive at once that there are a number of questions raised by this sketchy history. It is no surprise that the railway construction companies were unable to find a British surveyor-magician to aid them and had to send to the Germanies for one. The professional combination of surveyor and magician is hardly a common one. It is, however, altogether unclear why they required a surveyor-magician in the first place. Furthermore, if his intention was to survey a route between Liverpool and Manchester in the west, why would he need to look at the Stockton line in the northeast? No explanation has been given.

  We are thus reduced to the crudest of methods, simply asking around in hopes of discovering the gentleman’s whereabouts. Having established that he did not take rooms at the King’s Head, James has gone to investigate the other local inns, leaving me time to write and—

  Later:

  I had got so far, when James returned with two extraordinary pieces of news. First his search for Herr Schellen has borne a peculiar sort of fruit. Though the gentleman himself remains missing, James has turned up a letter intended for the surveyor-magician. It was waiting at a small inn near the edge of town. Herr Schellen evidently stayed there for a week when he arrived and, when he left, asked that they hold any letters against his eventual return, warning that he might be delayed. The innkeeper faithfully did as he had been asked, only providing the letter after some persuasion.