Drina plays with Diana as if she were a highly satisfactory doll, which, thank God, the amiable Diana takes in good part. She is interested in both the babies, but the nurses keep her (as, in truth, they do all the rest of us) at a safe distance.
Edward has said very little of his adventure to me, which Kate informs me is my own fault, for roaring at him. Edward says a great deal to Kate. The problem is sorting it. Some of it seems to have come from a story by Mrs. Hannah More, of whom Kate has the lowest opinion imaginable, and some of it derives from the old story of Tom Tit Tot. I leave the matter in Kate’s capable hands.
I have also left the matter of investigations at the house in Stroud in the hands of Piers and his redoubtable wife. My duty is here, protecting Skeynes and its denizens.
The rude wagon left behind on the premises in Stroud bears so little resemblance to the delightful vehicle Kate described, and the evidence of shape-shifting (a skill that requires a considerable degree of strength, as well as good solid training) is so marked, that I fear we are dealing with an accomplished magician at least, if not a full wizard.
I make my preparations accordingly.
Do take care of yourselves.
If Daniel should reappear at Haliwar Tower, strain every sinew to keep him with you. Reflection has done nothing to sweeten his wife’s temper. One could almost pity the man.
Yours,
Thomas
P.S. Roaring. I like that. I make a few restrained observations and Kate calls it roaring. I wish she could, if only once, have heard my father when he was in top form. That was roaring, if you please.
21 April 1828
The Eagle’s Nest, Stockton
Dearest Kate,
As you observe from the inscription, we are no longer stuck fast at Haliwar Tower. As you also observe, I am continuing to enchant my letters to be unreadable save to your eyes, or Thomas’s. It is a nuisance, to be sure, but after recent events, both at Skeynes and here, I feel that it is better to be safe.
Our departure from Haliwar Tower comes, naturally, at the most annoying possible moment—just when it seemed we were about to discover something of interest. For Daniel’s departure caused a good deal of talk among the servants, most especially when his valet left for Waltham Castle on Friday morning. Until then, the Webbs could speak with some plausibility, if not conviction, of their expectation that Daniel would return momentarily.
Walker was, of course, privy to the gossip, which she reported to us on Saturday morning. Most of it, she said, was of mysterious local disappearances of the past, largely sailors who vanished from the decks of their ships, entire ships that vanished, miners who vanished from the coal mines, and so on. Apparently, some of the staff felt that Daniel’s evaporation should be added to the list, though at least one of the maids did not think it sufficiently sinister to warrant inclusion as yet.
“Just a lot of local legends,” James said when Walker finished. “The sort of thing people like to inflict on visitors at the least excuse.”
“But of course, Monsieur,” Walker replied. “I think, me, that they tried to frighten the little French maid. I pulled down my chin, so, and made my eyes very big so that they would continue talking. I thought that perhaps when they finished the stories, they would speak more of milord duke.”
“Did they?” I asked.
“Not much,” Walker admitted. “Only that Monsieur Webb was most put out, because he had finally ‘wangled an invite’ to Waltham Castle when no other guests would be there. That is interesting, no? For Monsieur Webb is of the sort who would very much like to visit a duke, yes, but for people to see and admire, and perhaps to meet other dukes.” She sniffed. Walker disapproves strongly of encroaching behavior; I think it is because her late husband’s parents thought it was what she was doing when she married their son.
“I am sure Waltham will honor his invitation when he reappears,” James said.
“James!” I said. “Don’t you think it odd at all?”
James frowned. “Now that you mention it, it does seem odd that anyone would want to spend a private week with either one of them. Though I can’t say that I blame Waltham for disappearing, in that case. I’d want to vanish, too, if I’d been, er, wangled into inviting Webb for a visit.”
“You are being deliberately provoking,” I said. “Just because these disappearances have nothing to do with your missing surveyor…”
“But, Madame, I think they may,” Walker said, a trifle diffidently. “One of them, at least.”
James sat up suddenly. “What? What’s that you say?”
“Most of the stories were old, old, and the footmen were telling them, but once the fille de chambre began to speak of an odd, foreign man who disappeared last October. Monsieur Webb’s valet told her sharply that the fellow had merely moved on, but she said that her aunt in Goosepool said the foreigner and his things had disappeared in the night from the farmhouse where he was staying. One of the footmen said that was just like a foreigner, to leave without paying his bills.” She sniffed again. “Then the valet told her to be quiet, in such a way, and she did, and me, I pretended to notice nothing.”
“Walker, you are a gem,” James told her, which is what he always says when she makes this sort of discovery. “Did she say where this farmhouse was?”
“Near a place called Goosepool,” Walker replied. “I do not know exactly where, because of the interruptions, but I think I can find out more from the fille de chambre when Monsieur Webb’s man is not nearby.”
James and I looked at each other. “This valet was particularly concerned to keep her from speaking?” I said.
“Of a certainty, Madame,” Walker replied. She sighed. “It is of all things the most unfortunate. He is a dried little stick of a man, not at all sympathique. I do not think I will learn more from him.”
“Well, don’t flirt with him on our account,” James advised. “We don’t want you disappearing.” He spoke in an offhand tone, but he was frowning heavily enough that it was clear he meant what he said.
“No, indeed, Monsieur,” Walker said.
Unfortunately, Walker did not have occasion to speak with the housemaid (nor with Mr. Webb’s valet), for that very afternoon, Mr. Webb received a fat sheaf of papers from Stockton. He immediately summoned his valet, and the two were closeted for an hour in Mr. Webb’s rooms.
Over dinner, we discovered what it was all about, at least in part. Mr. Webb announced that he had been called away most urgently and would leave in the morning for a day or two. We were all, however, most welcome to stay on, as he expected his business to be concluded quickly.
Adella Webb immediately endorsed her brother’s position, saying that she did not know how she would go on without our company. I think that they must have settled it between themselves before dinner, for she was a little too prompt with her remarks. You can easily guess the conversation that followed. James and I demurred, Miss Webb pressed us to stay, the other guests allowed themselves to be persuaded, and we would once again have been all but forced to accept their continued hospitality had I not had the presence of mind to say that we would consider their very kind invitation and speak more of it in the morning.
James was somewhat put out, for he much prefers to make such decisions as they come to hand, if it is at all possible and wise to do so. I could see all evening how he felt, though I doubt the Webbs noticed anything amiss, and so I was quite prepared for a thundering scold when we retired to our rooms at last.
“Cecy,” he said as soon as we were private, “what maggot have you got in mind now?”
I blinked, for this was not the opening I had expected. “None that I know of, James. To what are you referring?”
“To your behavior at dinner. We could be packing our bags now, if you had had enough resolution to inform the Webbs that we would be leaving in the morning.”
“Why, James!” I said. “I believe that is the first time you have ever taxed me with a want of resolution.”
/> “Yes, it seemed odd to—” He broke off, frowning at me. “Surely you can’t wish to remain at Haliwar!”
“I thought the notion merited a private discussion,” I said calmly. “Which, you must own, we could not have managed at dinner.”
“No, but—Cecy, why? And don’t tell me it’s because you’re concerned about Daniel and Georgy, for I won’t believe it.”
“But I am concerned about them,” I said. “Especially since it seems very likely that whatever Daniel is mixed up in has also something to do with your missing engineer.”
“Whom, you may recall, we were sent here to find. And how I am to do that with Webb forever at my heels—”
“That is exactly why I think we ought to consider staying,” I said. “Not the way Mr. Webb follows you about, I mean, but to take advantage of the opportunity to discover more about what he knows and what is really going on.”
“Cecelia—”
“You cannot deny, James, that the most promising information we have yet found is that story Walker brought us this morning about the foreigner who disappeared near Goosepool,” I said.
James made the snorting noise that means he would very much like to deny whatever I have just said, but cannot in all honesty do so.
“Which we would very likely not have discovered had we not been staying here,” I went on. “For I do not believe that it would ever have occurred to either of us to make inquiries about a village with such a name as Goosepool.”
“Not, at any rate, until one of us heard the story of this disappearance,” James said.
“Well, I cannot imagine how we would have heard the story if Walker had not discovered it,” I pointed out. “No one has displayed the least inclination to talk to either of us, except for the Webbs, and they will certainly not tell us anything to the purpose if they can help it. And it was Mr. Webb’s man who tried to turn the conversation. He can have had no reason to do so unless Mr. Webb told him to. Which must mean that Mr. Webb has some interest in the matter.”
Before James could answer, there was a low rumbling noise from below us. “What on earth is—,” James began, and then—
I do not properly know how to describe what happened next. I imagine that being hit by lightning must feel a bit the same way, if lightning came up from the ground beneath one’s feet instead of down from the sky. Or perhaps it was more like being caught in the eruption of a geyser, such as they have in Iceland, except that this was not an eruption of hot water but of uncontrolled magical power. The room shook, knocking over a chair, the washbasin, and both of the night candles.
The shaking and the magical eruption continued for what seemed hours, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. When it stopped, the curtains were burning merrily, thanks to one of the overturned candles. James immediately grabbed a section of the curtains that was not in flames and pulled them down. “Out!” he snapped over his shoulder as he began stamping out the fire.
I did not immediately obey, as I was feeling quite dizzy. Having a great quantity of magical power pour through one unexpectedly is not an experience that results in a clear head and a calm ability to behave well in an emergency. James finished with the curtains and grabbed my arm. “Out,” he repeated. “If any other candles tipped—”
I managed to nod and stumble forward. Seeing the state I was in, James did not release my arm but merely shouted for Walker and his man. The four of us made our way down the stairs and out the main door, where we were soon joined by the other residents of the tower. Several of the maids were in strong hysterics, and so was Adella Webb. The fresh air cleared my head, and I was therefore able to assist in removing the stunned and overset persons to a safe distance, while James took charge of making certain everyone had come out of the house and then got up an expedition to see when it might be safe to return.
The shaking had started several small fires, and none of us got any sleep that night. The gentlemen had some trouble in extinguishing the various blazes, though there was never any danger that the building would go up. The real damage was done by the shaking itself. James reported that one of the upper stairs had come loose from its supports; quite a lot of the windows were broken; and in the dawn light, we could see that much of the brick facing on the old portion of the tower had peeled away, fallen, and shattered, revealing the underlying stonework.
Mr. Webb seemed quite stunned by the turn of events. I think he must not be much accustomed to dealing with unusual occurrences, for once the fires were out, he actually began to urge us once more to extend our stay—as if having houseguests after such an upset would be quite unexceptionable! James informed him in no uncertain terms that we would be removing to Stockton at once, then advised him to have a builder look at the “settling” before he brought anyone else to stay in his ancestral pile.
So we are now in Stockton, occupying three rooms and a private parlor at a pleasant little inn near the center of town. I am still not at all sure what caused the upheaval at Haliwar, but I am (for once) altogether in agreement with James as to not remaining there a moment longer, information or no information. I do, however, hope to ride over in a day or two, to see what, if any, effect the eruption had on the ley line. (I shall, of course, pretend it is to reassure myself as to how the Webbs are going on after the unfortunate incident.) I can at least be sure that it was nothing to do with the railway, for the trains do not run after dark, and besides, the railway has been using horses to pull the coal wagons for the last three days, due to some mishap with the steam engine.
James is occupied in inquiring discreetly about Goosepool and the farm where the foreign gentleman disappeared. I fully expect to have more to tell you on that score in the near future. As soon as we have settled the matter of the surveyor, I shall try to persuade James to investigate Daniel’s cronies. For after reading your letter (which arrived at Haliwar on Saturday, just before all of the excitement), I am more than ever convinced that it was one of them, and not Daniel himself, who was threatening Georgy. Indeed, only Georgy could have been so goose-witted as to leap from reading that note to the conclusion that her husband wished to have her murdered in order to retrieve the settlements he had made on her! I am quite cross with her for not having told us about it from the beginning. If she had, I would not have gone storming off to confront him, and he would very likely not have vanished, or at least, not until after I was able to pry loose whatever information he has. And even if that were only an account of how he came to be threatened and what they wish him to do, it would have provided us with some notion of what we ought to do next.
Yours,
Cecy
22 April 1828
The Eagle’s Nest, Stockton
(in cipher)
My dear Thomas,
Cecelia and I retrieved your letter of the eighteenth from Haliwar this morning. I expect that you’ve had the dramatic rendition of our escape from that interminable house party in Cecelia’s version—there was a bit of shaking and some small fires, which we used as an excuse to depart. I should have been perfectly happy never to see the place again, but Cecelia was sure that the shaking was magical in origin, and wanted to examine the house in daylight and with a bit of magical preparation.
So we rode out this morning, pausing half a mile short of the house for Cecelia to work her spells. Then we went on, paid our respects to Miss Webb (her brother having taken himself off on some “urgent business” or other), collected the post, admired the progress that had been made on cleaning up the place, and left.
Two circumstances alone cause me to provide so much detail regarding this boring little excursion. The first is that Cecelia reports several changes in the flow of magic around the house. Previously, the ley line ran strongly north toward the river but disappeared when it reached the gates of Haliwar Tower; the house and grounds had little or no magic associated with them—“stagnant” was the term Cecelia used to describe the feeling. Now, she says, the ley line has dimmed noticeably, and the hous
e and grounds have a decided, though disorganized, sense of magic about them.
The second matter of note was the curious nature of the damage to the house itself. Haliwar Tower is an odd building to begin with; the tower is a great squat, round, thick-walled thing in the Norman style, though it was built by one of Cromwell’s followers in the 1600s. Two modern wings run off on either side, of somewhat later construction, and the tower had been faced in brick, presumably to make the contrast in style less obvious. In a reversal of the usual system, the family and guests are housed in the central tower, while the new wings are devoted to servants’ quarters, kitchens, and so on.
Judging from the commotion on the night of the fires, and from the widespread locations we found smoldering at the time, the disturbance affected the entire building. But in the sober light of day, it was plain that only the central tower had suffered any real damage, apart from that caused by the fires. All of the tower windows were broken; along the wings, the glass was intact. More significantly, the brick facing had crumbled away from the tower, showing some deuced peculiar stonework behind it.
The tower is only three stories high. The upper floors are built of mortared stone, uncut and irregular but nothing at all out of the way. The ground floor, however, showed three enormous, irregular lumps of granite—single stones at least four feet wide and between eight and twelve feet high—set at even intervals, with the spaces between filled in with stones of a more usual size. I rode around the house, under pretext of inspecting the damage for Miss Webb, and found the rear of the tower to be in much the same condition—broken windows, and enough of the brick peeled off to show four more of these granite rocks embedded in the stonework there.
I was not able to get a look at the interior of the tower, but I would be surprised indeed if there are not several more of those large stones in the section of the walls hidden by the new wings. Their significance eludes me, but I have sent off an express note to Michael Wrexton in hopes of enlightenment. While I cannot say that either architecture or Cromwellian history is within his usual area of expertise, I have no doubt that the library at the Royal College of Wizards can supply any of his deficiencies.
The Mislaid Magician Page 10
