Stargazy Pie

by Victoria Goddard

  “It’s an Ronderell tricorner from Fillering Pool,” I replied, then decided I had best get it over with quickly. “I’ve got a job.”

  “What, for wages?”

  I raised my eyebrows at Mr. Dart to cover my embarrassment. “We don’t all have brothers needing land agents.”

  We hadn’t discussed wages in the interview. My stepfather would have been terribly ashamed of my lack of business sense.

  “Where? O where, o where, o where, billy-my-boy?”

  I glanced around hastily to make sure no one could hear him quoting Fitzroy Angursell, but the square was empty—not another pie in sight, nor even anyone looking for the one they’d misplaced. “Here. Elderflower Books.”

  “What, for the Poker herself!”

  “Shh!” I said. “She’ll hear you.”

  “I’m sure she knows that’s her nickname. I well believe she knows everything. Come, come, are you on your lunch?” He laughed. “How funny to think you have a lunching hour! Jemis, Mr. Greenwing, come with me to dine, I must hear about how you went from a walking tour of Rondé with the Count of Westmoor to working in Elderflower Books!”

  “I neglected to return before the end of the Midsomer Assizes,” I said dryly, and he made a face.

  “Ah. The reading of the will.”

  “I was in Ghilousette, and missed the funeral,” I said. My stepfather had died ignominiously and without warning, stung to death by a hive of wasps just after Midsomer. Having seen the last of my friends home the month before, I’d been dallying more and more in my travels, and writing less and less frequently as I found my life petering into solitude.

  I’d ended up eventually in Ghilousette, drifting to Newbury to see the Hall of Marvels, and stayed there in a mood not much improved by the duchy seat, half-crazed as it was with political ferment and scientific invention and raving enthusiasm for Three Years Gone, the hot new play from Kingsford.

  The letters forwarded from staging inn to post office had eventually found me, three weeks after the death, two weeks after the funeral, a week after the end of the Assizes, and guilty as anything that I hadn’t written a word to anyone since crossing the duchy border.

  “I should have thought someone would have mentioned you were home,” Mr. Dart said, “though—I suppose—my brother’s friends don’t really mingle with—” He stopped as abruptly as had the Honourable Master Ragnor, but then tucked his arm into mine. “Will you come to dine with me?”

  I tried to tug my arm out of his grip. “Will you regret tomorrow asking a shopkeeper’s assistant to dine with you today?”

  “Shopkeeper’s assistant, my foot. Mrs. Etaris is the hinge-pin of Ragnor Bella, and you went to Morrowlea on merits. Come tell me what revolutions the good folk of Erlingale have been fomenting, and I will tell you the gossip of the barony.”

  “Not the hotel,” I said, having visions of being humiliated in an even more public situation by the Baron and his guests.

  “Don’t be a fool! If I am dining with a radical, I must take him to the starchiest place in town.”

  “And that’s not the hotel?” I asked, as he was dragging me the other direction.

  “No; it’s Mrs. Landry’s front parlour. Come, if we’re lucky she’ll be hosting a séance.”

  “I do beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Dart burst out laughing. “It’s all the rage in Chare, you know.”

  “Strangely enough, I didn’t.”

  “She’s set up a café; haven’t you seen it? Or hasn’t the Poker mentioned her sister’s enterprise?”

  “Strangely enough, she hasn’t. But I’ve only been working there since this morning.”

  “A whole morning for honest coin! More than I’ve ever managed.” He grinned at me. “It’s just past Fogerty the Fish. What is it? Have I offended your sensibilities again with my cavalier use of nicknames, Mr. Greenwing? I shouldn’t have expected that from a Morrowlea man.”

  “No, Mr. Dart. I have merely remembered that I was intending to enquire of the fishmonger whether he might inform me—”

  “Yes?” he asked, when I paused in trying to disentangle the rest of my sentence.

  “Whether he might inform me which of his customers had bought Fultoney herring from him.”

  “And why, by the Emperor and all his gods, do you want to know who bought Fultoney herring?”

  “I found a fish pie on the town fountain, and wanted to know about it.”

  “The Emperor! That must be the most exciting thing to have happened in Ragnor Bella since your father came back after the Fall. By all means, let us find out who is abandoning their dinner in the square. There can’t be many people who want herring.” He waggled his eyebrows his eyebrows at me. “There might well be secret meanings behind it.”

  “Bearding people used to involve a tug, did you know that? If the beards have returned to favour …”

  “I’m taking you to lunch, you ingrate.”

  Fogerty the Fish had a couple of customers, middle-aged women dressed in housekeepers’ aprons whom I didn’t recognize by sight. I bowed slightly to them upon opening the door for their exit. Mr. Dart shook his head and murmured, “You shall have to tell me all about Morrowlea’s experimental politics, Mr. Greenwing. We heard such things in Stoneybridge … and the rumours here in town … Is it true you served each other at mealtimes?”

  “Well, yes,” I began, and faltered at his genuine shock.

  “Now, what can I get you two young gentlemen?” asked the fishmonger, wiping a sprig of parsley across the counter. “You’d surely be catching your own trout, Mr. Dart, and—well, well, well, if it isn’t young Mr. Greenwing. Back in town at last, are you? That explains why Mrs. Buchance was buying a jiggot of lamb when Mrs. Fogerty saw her in the butcher’s this morning.”

  “A jiggot of lamb!” said Mr. Dart, with a great sigh; when I looked at him he grinned. “Mrs. Buchance is said to be a very fine cook, Mr. Greenwing. The reputation of her table has increased rapidly since you went away.”

  I bowed again in acknowledgement of the compliment to my stepfather’s second wife, who was only about five years older than us but had dropped into housewifery like a duck into water. If she had been twenty years older I might possibly have been able to refer to her as my stepmother; as it was, she remained Mrs. Buchance. We hadn’t even had a conversation about first names.

  I realized I hadn’t prepared any sort of a story for the fishmonger, and felt unable to prevaricate on the spot. My father would have been ashamed at that inability. I coughed awkwardly. “I was wondering, Mr. Fogerty, whether you had any herring in.”

  Mr. Fogerty pointed at a row of glass jars sitting beside the mustard and horseradish pickles. “I’ve some Kingsford roll-tops, but that’s all today. I sold out of my fresh catch, oh, the day before last.”

  “Who buys fresh herring this far from the sea?” asked Mr. Dart.

  The fishmonger smiled. “My fish is kept perfectly cool,” he said, “I’ve an ice house and all.” He waved vaguely towards the back door of the shop. I wandered over to look at the glass-fronted casement of the fresh fish, and had to back away again at the strong odour of parsley and hay that wafted up from it. It didn’t smell fishy, for which I was grateful as I sneezed into my handkerchief.

  “I meant no imputation, Mr. Fogerty,” Mr. Dart protested happily. “I am merely curious. Herring is not a fish one expects to find in Ragnor Bella. Up on the coast, down in Ghilousette, over in Kingsford in Ronderell, all those places indeed. But Ragnor Bella down by the Farry Marches? I am astonished.”

  “We’ve been getting a handful of Ghilousetten exiles, ones who don’t agree with their duke’s ban on magic. Let’s see … Mr. Shipston the physicker was homesick—” Mr. Fogerty chuckled a little at the pun— “and asked me if I mightn’t be able to bring in some herring. D’ye know him, Mr. Dart? He came about five months ago, took up the old Millhouse along the Raggle. When he asked, I got them jars in, then had the opportunity to order a fresh catch wh
en I was down at Ragmouth Tuesday last. He took a dozen. Then Mrs. Landry’s cook was in same time as Mr. Shipston’s man was a-picking his up, and said the mistress was from Fiella-by-the-Sea and might like a taste of home, so we had a parcel made up for her. And then Dominus Gleason took some because we’d sold clean out of trout.”

  Dominus Gleason, I thought, and shivered again at the thought of him running his fingernails up and down my hand. Gifted, indeed. Smart enough to get into Morrowlea on merits; and foolish enough to fail out of it on heartache and injured pride.

  Mr. Dart was nodding judiciously. “Just those three, then? Not a huge order of herring.”

  “I only had the one small barrel down from Ragmouth. I wanted to see whether there was a market—something you’re learning the use of, I hear.”

  “Duck confit is very popular in Chare, Mr. Fogerty.”

  “You need to introduce a new food gently, Mr. Dart. People don’t like change to come too quickly. Especially not in Fiellan. Too much changed in the Fall, people are careful about liking delicacies that might disappear again.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Dart, with a shrug and a slightly shamefaced smile at me. “I’ll bear your advice in mind next year.”

  “Get Mr. Greenwing here to suggest the food, he’s got the Morrowlea fashions well in style.”

  “What, already? He’s new come home—of course! He’s still in the intriguing stage. You’ll see, Morrowlea’s behind Stoneybridge—unless it’s ahead? You’d probably say ahead—but where are the beards? Where are the moustaches? Where, I ask you, are the Beaufort curls?”

  “In Tara,” I said, “judging by the Honourable Master Ragnor’s sartorial choices. How many herring fit in a barrel, Mr. Fogerty? Three dozen?”

  “Depends on the size of the fish,” the fishmonger said with a wink. Both Mr. Dart and I groaned at my walking straight into the old joke. “About two peck … uh, five dozen of the Fultoney herring, six or seven of the north coastals.”

  “I thought you said you’d sold out?”

  “Out of the shop. The barrow-boy took the rest around the country houses when he was delivering the week’s orders, in case anyone had a sudden hankering for them. I didn’t want to keep them too long here—scarcity, my lads, make people think they’re special. Kim’ll be back this afternoon if you want to know where you can invite yourself over for to try them.”

  “We may be back, if we decide we’re willing to be second-run adopters … except perhaps Mrs. Landry will have them on her table this noontide. Come along, Mr. Greenwing, let us see whether she does. Thank you kindly, Mr. Fogerty. Are you sure I can’t interest you in duck confit?”

  “No, nor your miniature purple cabbages either, Mr. Dart. I’ll stick with my fish and potatoes, thank’ye kindly.”

  Mr. Dart led me at a plunging speed out of the store and along the lane. “This investigating gig is a lark! What fun it is to have a reason to gossip. Makes me see why people go into sociology. Mr. Greenwing, you dog, when did you see the Honourable Rag?”

  “He came into the store this morning.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  Mr. Dart stopped before a puddle caused by a blockage in the sewer. “Would you look at this gutter? Shameful.”

  He pulled out a stick from the mass and poked at the leaves.

  “I see you had the same thought I did. Poor fellow—he’d have been far better for going off to be a radical with you at Morrowlea. Tara seems to have made him over into the mould of a grand young nobleman. He’ll be a member of parliament before the decade’s out, I reckon, if he doesn’t break his neck hunting or his fortune gambling before then. I suppose that’s why you thought I was going to disown our friendship when I found you working in Elderflower Books? Pisspoor friend I’d be in that case. Oh, my apologies, misses, I didn’t see you there.”

  A couple of fine young women accompanied by a stately matron had heard his last few words and paused with identical expressions of disapproval. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they were years younger than we were, still in school, and the matron’s garb had a north Fiellanese cut. She was probably someone’s aunt or spinster cousin given a position as companion or chaperone out of charity, or a new teacher at the kingschool on the west road.

  Mr. Dart dropped his stick into the now-gurgling gutter and bowed with southern flourishes. Chare seemed to run to curlicue gestures—unless he was just making them up, too. I bowed to hide my grin at the thought, clicking my heels with as much aplomb as I could muster. “Please, do accept our earnest apologies.”

  The matron sniffed, but the young women giggled as they were led past us. I looked after them, thinking they were far too young for me—and nothing like the firebrands of Morrowlea—and saw a figure in a grey cloak scuttle out across the road behind them. I grabbed Mr. Dart’s arm. “There! Did you see? It’s the same person I saw over the pie.”

  But he had turned to open the door of Mrs. Landry’s café, and by the time he looked over his shoulder the figure had disappeared, and I had missed which of the side streets it had taken. I thought this time it was almost certainly a woman.

  “It’s not that big of a mystery,” Mr. Dart said practically.

  I shrugged, pretending to a mild interest. “Aren’t you curious?”

  He laughed. “What, are you?”

  “It’s better than nothing to do over the weekend.” Though actually I was probably supposed to be working.

  “That is very true. Which reminds me, now that you’re home I needn’t go alone.”

  I hesitated before giving in. “To do what?”

  He waggled his eyebrows again. “Will you come mushroom gathering with me this evening?”

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Landry’s front parlour contained five small tables, a large quantity of natty linen doilies, and no other men. A young woman stood near the door. She was dressed in a pale pink gown with white lace ruching and a finely embroidered apron over it, and was very pretty: brown hair, brown eyes, rosy cheeks, a bright smile. I thought I half-recognized her but didn’t recall her name, and then realized I didn’t know her when Mr. Dart greeted her. “Miss Featherhaugh, I believe Cartwright reserved a table for me?”

  “Mr. Dart,” said Miss Featherhaugh, with a smile for him and a doubtful but pleasant glance at me. “I thought you were dining alone?”

  “I hadn’t realized my friend was back in town,” he said, “and entreated him to join me. Please will you rustle up another setting for him?”

  “I expect I could do that,” she said, smiling, and guided us to the only unoccupied table, which was snugged into the window bay.

  “Mr. Dart,” I said in a low voice once we’d seated ourselves, with him on the side facing the room and me facing the window, “this seems a rather feminine sort of lunching-spot.”

  “Precisely,” he said placidly, picking up the vase on the table to sniff the red carnation in it. It didn’t smell very strongly, I thought, nothing the ones Mrs. Etaris had had in the front room before I had sneezed so hard on encountering them she’d had to remove them from her premises. “Did you find a sweetheart in Morrowlea?”

  My thoughts flashed to the glorious winter—and the disastrous spring. “No.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “Nor I in Stoneybridge. All the smart women are going for parliament instead of husbands. Oh—unless you’ve come to realize you prefer—” I shook my head at the suggestion and he shrugged. “Nor I. My brother is well enough in that line.”

  Master Torquin Dart, Squire of Dartington, was well known for his long-standing relationship with my father’s cousin Sir Hamish. Though not scandalous in the least, this relationship was much to the distress of the wider Greenwing family’s dynastic ambitions—and also figured largely in the calculations of every mother in the barony for the young brother and heir Mr. Perry Dart’s high eligibility and apparently obstinate bachelorhood. Four months out of university and still disengaged was considered most obstinate, a
s I’d already learned from Mrs. Buchance.

  Mr. Dart smiled at Miss Featherhaugh as she brought over a linen napkin and silverware for me. It didn’t strike me as anything more than mild admiration, but then, it had been two years since I’d spent a month at Stoneybridge with him, and he was surely feeling the pressure at dinner parties and assembly balls.

  Not that Miss Featherhaugh would be considered eligible.

  Mr. Dart said, “Miss Featherhaugh, what is on the bill of fare this wet autumnal day?”

  “Tenderloin of pork with apple, a cheese soufflé, a mixed salad, and a pear tart.”

  “No fish today? I’d heard Mrs. Landry was experimenting with herring—I even heard rumours of a Ghilousetten pie?”

  Miss Featherhaugh giggled and clapped her hand to her face to hide her amusement. “Mr. Dart, you are a card! The herring went the way of your duck confit: the only one who et it was Mr. Landry, and he complained it was too foreign by half.”

  “There was nothing wrong with my duck confit,” Mr. Dart said loftily, “you shall see, Miss Featherhaugh, I shall succeed in guiding the taste of the good folk of Ragnor Bella into the heights of gastronomic sophistication one of these days.”

  “You’d do better to sell good honest goose grease for fried potatoes, and leave the sophistication to the men-about-town.” She smiled interestedly at me. Mr. Dart made an exclamation and stood up; I followed hastily at his gesture. “My apologies, Miss Featherhaugh. May I present Mr. Greenwing? Mr. Greenwing, Miss Featherhaugh is Mr. Landry’s second cousin once—or is it twice?—removed. Mr. Greenwing has just returned from Morrowlea, Miss Featherhaugh.”

  There was a distinct pause in the conversation behind Miss Featherhaugh when Mr. Dart said my name. More than one person glanced over at us. I kept my attention firmly on Miss Featherhaugh as I bowed politely. Miss Featherhaugh did not appear to know quite what to say, except to smile awkwardly and bob in return.