Named of the Dragon

by Susanna Kearsley

  "So," I asked Gareth, "is this recreation or research?"

  "Might be research," he told me. "Henry VII was landed just over the way there, at Dale, when he came back from exile in France. And his followers might well have sat in this very spot, waiting for the sight of Breton sails on the horizon. Only you can't see the horizon this morning, or Dale. Too damned foggy. And that's not why I came up here." He turned. "If you must know the truth, I was waiting for you."

  "For me? Why?"

  "You stole my dog."

  "I never did!"

  "Well, he saw you come out earlier and take off up the coast path, and traitor that he is, he took off after you."

  I glanced up at the terrier's black eyes and panting grin. "He did?"

  "Like a rocket. So I thought, the hell with chasing after him, I'll just come here and intercept you both."

  "There really was no need, you know." I stretched one hand to scratch the satin underside of Chance's jaw. "I'm sure he would have found his own way home."

  "He might have done. But anything can happen on the coast path." And his tone plainly told me that it hadn't been the dog at all that worried him. He had waited here to see that I came through the path all right.

  Such acts of chivalry were usually wasted on me—implying, as they did, a certain lack of ability and reason on my part, as though I were incapable of taking care of myself. Ordinarily, I would have felt resentful. But I didn't. Instead, I felt an oddly small and spreading warmth, a pleasant sort of feeling.

  Encouraged by my silence, he went on, "In fact, there's no place where a woman can walk safe alone, these days. You only have to read the papers."

  I challenged him, on that one. "That's a rather chauvinistic thing to say."

  "No, it's not. I'll admit that in a perfect world you women should be able to go anywhere you like, but this is not a perfect world," he said. "There are too many nutcases roaming around."

  "Even in Angle?"

  "Everywhere," he said, with firmness. "And you'll find them in all shapes and sizes."

  "Like dragons," I mused. Glancing up in the silence that followed, I found myself facing his curious stare. "Sorry, I know that sounds foolish. It's only that I dreamed of dragons, last night." And that made me think of Elen, so I asked him how she was.

  He shrugged, and slid his gaze away again. "She's been rather more level about this whole thing than I thought she'd be, really. She thought the social workers were very kind to want to visit Stevie. Kind," he spat the word out, in contempt. Taking the empty flask lid from my hand he pitched the dregs over the edge and refilled it for himself. "Bloody interfering bastards. Can't leave well enough alone."

  "They probably had good intentions ..."

  "Oh, they're always well-intentioned, social workers. But it wasn't them I meant. I meant whoever called and set them on to Elen."

  I hadn't thought of that, myself. But of course someone must have reported Elen to the social services—they didn't go round making random home visits, as far as I knew. I frowned. "Who would do such a thing?"

  "I don't know." He brought his head round again, met my eyes darkly. "But I'll lay odds it's one of your lot."

  My frown deepened and I looked down, poking fiercely at a clump of roughened grass.

  "You're not surprised," he said.

  "Not really, no."

  He watched me a long moment, thinking, then finished his coffee and rose to his feet. "Time to see to the horse," he said, screwing the lid tightly down on the flask. ' 'If you don't mind the smell of the stables you're welcome to come."

  Damned infuriating man, I thought. Always shutting his feelings down, changing the subject. But I took his hand anyway, letting him pull me back up to the path.

  It was the first time we had touched. I felt the strength and power of the man, immovable as stone, and something else ... a tiny jolt of pure sensation that coursed through me like a shock and made me draw my hand away, confused. And then I met his eyes and found my voice.

  "I don't mind the smell of a stable," I said.

  XXVI

  Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again

  As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing

  I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "Morte d'Arthur"

  The shed at the top of the paddock looked larger, close up, than it had from the road. Inside there was room for a box stall at one end, with metal-barred window and sturdy Dutch doors. Behind their wire cages in the ceiling strong electric bulbs gave light to banish the gloom of the grey winter morning. I sat in the opposite corner on one of the straw bales stacked up to the wall and inhaled the warm scents of sweet hay and leather and steaming damp horse. Sovereign turned in her stall, dark eyes fixing on Gareth.

  "Keep your shirt on, you bloody big cow," he told her, but he said it with affection. He was quite a different person, with the mare. Even his appearance changed. His eyes had grown kinder, and his face had lost its bitterness. And the lines beside his mouth that looked forbidding when he spoke to me, now seemed to have been carved by constant smiling. I watched as he bent his head, mixing the feed. His black hair flopped forwards and into his eyes, and he shook it back firmly. He looked like a boy when he did that, I thought.

  "What?" he asked, without looking up.

  "Sorry?"

  "You look like you're wanting to say something."

  "Oh. I was thinking, that's all."

  He seemed to accept that. Straightening, he set the mare's feed bucket in place and swung the bottom section of the Dutch door shut, pulling the latch across. "So, which one of them did it?"

  My train of thought had gone off track. "What?"

  "Which one of your friends rang the social services?"

  "I don't know. It couldn't be Bridget."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why not? She doesn't think too much of Elen."

  I could have told him Bridget didn't think too much of anyone, besides herself. But loyalty to my client bound my tongue. Instead I said, "It's not her style. You'll have to take my word on that. Besides, there's not just the phone call to worry about—I still think that someone did go in the nursery that night. Not to hurt Stevie, or anything, but maybe to play a joke on Elen, to make her think there really was a dragon. There are people whose senses of humour are that warped," I said. "They might think it's funny to see Elen panicking, maybe that's why they reported her to the social services. And if it is one person doing this, then Bridget's in the clear, because she was with me when Elen heard the noise in Stevie's nursery."

  Gareth thought that through a minute, following my logic. "All right," he said. "Assuming that I take your word, we're left with Christopher and James."

  "And Owen."

  "What?"

  "Well, he has as much freedom as anyone, inside the house. And I thought I saw him in the garden that night. He could have—"

  "It's not Owen." He shook his head, definite. "You'll have to take my word, for that one. Owen's far too fond of Elen."

  "All right, then," I conceded. "Christopher or James." I linked my fingers round my knees and settled back against the straw bales, thinking hard. "I suppose either one of them could be the culprit, really. I mean, when Elen heard the noise in Stevie's nursery James was supposedly in his writing-room, but I expect he could have gone upstairs and through that door and no one would have seen him. Christopher was sleeping," I explained. "Or it could have been Christopher using the door while James was downstairs working. Either way..."

  "Christopher was sleeping? At five o'clock in the evening?' '

  "Half past five, actually. Bridget had worn him out, shopping."

  Gareth sympathized. "She'd wear anyone out. I've known toddlers with longer attention spans."

  His tone of voice surprised me. "Well, then why did you ... ?" I stopped myself, realizing how the question would sound, and not wanting to admit, even to myself, that I might be a little bit jealous.

  "Why did I wh
at?"

  "Oh, nothing. Just forget it."

  "Why'd I ask her in to tea?" He finished the question, not missing a beat. "I thought you might hear about that."

  "It's none of my business."

  "You're right. Found me boring then, did she?"

  He clearly expected an answer, so I gave him a truthful one. "Yes, she did rather."

  "Thank God for that." Leaning an elbow on top of the stall door he sent me a very superior look. ' 'I reckoned that might be the way to get her off my back."

  "What, you did it on purpose?"

  "Of course. I have to bloody concentrate to bore a woman."

  I couldn't help but smile at his conceit. "I don't know that anyone's tried to bore Bridget, before."

  "She was after me, wasn't she? Being a nuisance. But that sort of woman just thrills to the chase. You stop running away, let her catch you, the thrill disappears."

  He'd pegged her exactly. "That's very astute."

  "There were plenty of Bridgets in London," he said with a shrug, reaching over to stroke the mare's neck. At his touch she turned lazily, nibbled his sleeve, and he warned her with a word. "She's a mouthy one, Sovereign is. People keep feeding her treats. Makes her nippy."

  I opted not to tell him about Bridget and her carrots. "You didn't like London."

  "That's very astute."

  Not put off by the sarcasm, I asked him why.

  "Because it's a ravenous beast that'll eat you alive if you let it. It drugs you first, with lights and praise and all the little luxuries, so you won't know what's happening. But in the end, you feel the teeth. You know." The bitter lines were back, but only briefly. As he went on stroking Sovereign's neck, they faded until only his eyes showed the depth of his disillusionment.

  I watched him for a moment. Then I said, "The West End isn't all there is to London."

  "It's enough." His tone was definite. "I won't be going back."

  "Ever? That's rather limiting for a playwright, don't you think?"

  "Why? They don't need me to be there when they're putting on a play. That's bloody rubbish. It's the play that brings the people in, the play and the actors. No one gives a damn who wrote the thing."

  "Oh, I don't know," I said. "It seemed to me a lot of people cared who wrote Red Dragon Rising."

  "No, they didn't." His sideways glance knew better. "It's all just a matter of fashion—who's seen with whom at the right cocktail parties. And it's been my experience that the ones who give the loudest praise and pat you on the back and say you're absolutely brilliant, haven't seen the play at all, and never will. It's only fashion."

  I couldn't really argue that. It was the same with publishing. Martin had thrived on the glittering social scene, moving from party to party with the ease of someone born to live a life of leisure, working over and over the same bits of rarefied prose to ensure that he didn't lose his privileged status. I had to admit I'd enjoyed the glamour in small doses—still did, when the job demanded it—but the artificial luvviness could wear a little thin, sometimes, and reveal the emptiness beneath, like a cheap tin brooch with its gilt rubbing off. I'd never been deceived enough to think that world was real.

  But there were people in that world, I knew, who were sincere, who meant the words they said, who made it possible for me to keep my faith. I tried to explain this to Gareth. "It isn't all fashion," I told him. "Not everyone's like that. I could introduce you to a dozen people who not only went to see your play but who truly were touched by it, thought that it mattered."

  "Could you, now?"

  "Of course. You'd have to come to London, though."

  "No chance of that. I've told you, I'm not going back." With a shrug that dismissed the whole city and everyone in it, he said, "I'm much happier here."

  "Happy" wasn't exactly a word I would have chosen to attach to Gareth, but watching him with Sovereign I admitted that he did look quite content. I was working up the courage to ask him why he'd chosen Angle, out of all the places he could have gone to, when he said, "But that's enough of that. We've gone a mile off topic."

  "Yes, well, that wasn't my fault," I said. "You started on Bridget, and—"

  "So what we want to do, it seems to me, is keep an eye on Christopher and James, to see they stop their pranks before they do real damage, right?"

  "All right. I'll do my best."

  "And if you learn which one of them it is, you come and tell me, and I'll have a little chat with him."

  I felt better, somehow, having Gareth involved. The problem already seemed smaller.

  Chance, who'd been off chasing things in the field, bounded in through the doorway and came to me, grinning a terrier's grin. I reached down to pet him, the small movement bringing my watch into view. "Lord, is that the time? I should get back before Bridget starts calling out search parties." I very nearly made it to the doorway.

  "Miss Ravenshaw."

  I turned, expecting more instructions. "Yes?"

  "Yesterday, when you said I had a right to know... what did you mean by that?"

  "Oh, well, you know," I said, casting round for words, not wanting him to learn that I'd been listening to gossip. "You were friends with Elen's husband, and you seem to take an interest, so..." My voice trailed off, unable to compete with the intensity of Gareth's watching eyes.

  TTie silence stretched, while he considered something.

  "Stevie's not my son," he told me finally, "if that matters."

  It shouldn't have mattered at all to me, really. But it did. And I discovered, as I walked across the wet grass of the paddock, that it mattered very much.

  Owen saw me coming up the lane and waved a greeting. He was halfway up a ladder outside Bridget's bedroom window with a hammer in his hand. "Morning," he called down.

  I stopped at the base of the ladder. "Doing a spot of burglary? Or is it still the gutters?"

  "Gutters. Your friends are all up," he informed me, "I made sure of that." He held up the hammer and winked. "You've been off with Mr. Morgan, have you?"

  I realized Owen's perch atop the ladder would have given him a clear view of the paddock and the road beyond. "I met him on my walk," I said, "and stopped to see his horse."

  Owen nodded, and whistled a snatch of a tune. "He's a popular man, these days."

  From which I gathered he hadn't missed Bridget's visit to the cottage, either, yesterday afternoon. I tilted my head back and showed him an innocent smile. "Must be his warm and winning personality."

  Owen laughed.

  "Are you ready for tea?" I asked.

  "Well now, there's a thought. I tell you what, if you'll go put the kettle on, I'll finish up this bit and take a break."

  Bridget had beaten me to it. I found her in the kitchen, standing guard over the kettle as it wheezed towards the boil. She'd apparently just woken up—she hadn't combed her hair yet and her eyes weren't fully open and her dressing gown was trailing on the floor.

  I did my Dr. Frankenstein. "It lives!"

  "But only barely," she said, yawning, then mid-yawn her eyes came open and she stopped to sniff the air. ' 'What is that smell?"

  "What smell?"

  "Ugh, it's you," she accused, with a wrinkling nose. "You're all horsey."

  "Oh, well, I've been playing with Sovereign."

  "Who?"

  "Gareth's mare."

  "I can't eat with you smelling like that," she complained. "It'll spoil the taste of my food."

  I wasn't worried. I'd never yet seen anything put Bridget off her feed. "What's for breakfast?" I asked as I kicked off my boots, shrugging out of my jacket.

  "That depends. Are you changing your clothes?"

  "Maybe."

  "Waffles."

  "All right, then, I'll change," I caved in to the bribe. Bridget's waffles were worth it. She'd had the recipe from one of her previous men, an American actor who, to me, had been unremarkable in everything except his cooking,

  and that had been stupendous. He'd made waffles to die for,
pale golden and crisp, heaped with cinnamoned apples, transparently tender, and dollops of whipped double cream. If he'd only been slightly more clever, he would never have let Bridget copy the recipe. She might have married him, then.

  On my way upstairs to wash and change, I met James on the landing. Like Bridget, he'd only just got out of bed and although he was dressed he looked anything but awake, his jaw still darkened by the night's growth of beard. "There's a queue for the bathroom, I'm afraid," he said. "My brother sneaked in first." He yawned, and looked me up and down, taking in the state of my clothing. "Another walk? You're putting us to shame."

  I wasn't sure how to react to him this morning, knowing he might be the one who'd played those tricks on Elen. The hero-worshipping agent part of me, in love with his books and his talent, didn't want to believe he could do such a thing, but the rest of me, more analytical, wondered and doubted. His moods could shift so easily, I thought, charming one minute and distant the next, and for all I admired the work of the writer, I couldn't claim to truly know the man.

  "Where did you go this morning?" he asked.

  "Just round the coast path to that big beach, you know..."

  "West Angle Bay."

  "Right. Then home through the village."

  "Meet anyone interesting?"

  It might have been a harmless question ... then again, I fancied that I read some deeper interest in his eyes. "Not really, no."

  "Well, I'd expect that everyone's indoors. The weather isn't—" Breaking off, he sniffed experimentally and frowned. "Do you smell something?"

  "Oh. That's me, I think."

  But James's face was clearing. "Waffles!" He exclaimed with pleasure. "Bridget's making waffles." And he absently excused himself and hurried down the stairs.

  Which left me first in line for the bathroom. Since there seemed no point in changing clothes until I'd had a wash, I leaned my back against the wall and waited, trying to gauge Christopher's progress from the splashing sounds within. There, I thought, he was out of the bath now. A yank of the plug and die bathwater gurgled away down the drain, while footsteps slopped across the floor. More water, and humming that grew strangely hollow as he brushed his teeth, then the tap of the toothbrush against the sink's rim, and...