He accepted it, his hand as warm to the touch as any skin, the grip neither firm nor limp. ‘Tyke,’ he replied, ‘will do.’ He gestured above his head and added, ‘The others will not show themselves.’
He leaned down, stoked the fire and fed it. In the sharper light, he looked uncommonly beautiful, yet sexless too: an announcing angel. His voice quickened as if in a confessional, as if glad to get the darkness off his back. ‘I’m a pure, you see. I stepped out of my cage untouched.’
She understood. The others were not ‘pures’ but failed experiments; Vibes must have been the least deformed and therefore able to visit the wider world to mix with normal people. Where else could they live but somewhere both inaccessible and within reach of the Rotherweird Valley?
‘Mr Vibes gave me a book,’ she volunteered.
‘Gave you – did he indeed? What colour was the binding?’
‘A deep maroon.’
‘We don’t bind in maroon.’
‘It has a very odd tile: Straighten the Rope.’
‘Ah yes, Vibes looked after that volume for a friend. If he judged this one safer with you, who am I to disagree? But take care, Miss Roc: poor Bevis is dead.’
A friend? That implied someone else knew of the existence of this strange community. Instinct told her not to probe too closely. The boy would tell her whatever he wanted her to know.
‘I saw. You take care too.’ When Tyke raised an eyebrow, she added urgently, ‘Wynter’s servant is alive, and he can change shape. Maybe he wanted the book?’
Tyke appeared to be weighing the implications. ‘How does he change shape? At what cost? Can he be anyone whenever he wants?’
Orelia shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Then she asked, ‘Forgive me for asking, but where did you find the body?’
‘At the foot of the escarpment.’
‘Strangled?’
The boy nodded. ‘He was my one true friend in the world.’
She touched his hand, wordless.
‘Could I pass for a man?’ he asked.
This time she did answer. ‘Yes, but you would be noticed.’
‘You should leave, Miss Roc. The rain has stopped. I’ll return the rope for you.’
Back on the path, the moon ducked in and out of the clouds and the puddles shone like slivers from a broken mirror, a reminder that she had fragments of the truth only, and still so many questions.
Vibes had mixed easily with Rotherweird folk, including Fanguin. Had Fanguin been indiscreet on a grand scale? She doubted that, so Tyke must have other sources – Ferensen, perhaps.
She turned her mind to the bookbinding. Why bind Wynter’s books after Wynter’s death? Wynter was their tormentor, after all. Perhaps what had been done to them in the mixing-point might be undone by the mixing-point? So they lived in hope of an unravelling, restoration to their old selves, so they kept in touch with their origins. After all, she had seen Morval Seer restored by Bole-alias-Ferox to human form. Bole dangled clues wherever he went, a form of cryptic vanity. And Tyke had shown no surprise when she mentioned Wynter’s henchman, enhancing her fears that the master’s return had indeed been prearranged before his arrest and execution.
And what of the boy himself? He exuded a desolate loneliness, and his beauty touched her. No doubt the others had the bond of shared oppression, but how did they regard him – with envy or worship? He struck her as an embodiment of Virtue, semi-divine, almost.
With the wind in her face on the downhill ride, she thought nothing of politics, only of Calx Bole, Wynter and the Eleusians, and their stubborn refusal to stay in the past.
5
Election Fever
‘It had better be important,’ snarled Snorkel, despite knowing that Gorhambury only consulted on matters of moment.
‘I see you’re attending Saturday’s meeting of the Sewage Sub-Committee.’
‘What about it?’
‘Your Worship’s bust must be on display.’
The Mayor’s face betrayed not a flicker of surprise.
‘The bust must be present, and it will be.’
‘But—’
‘Advise me, Gorhambury, on the letter of the law. Does “present” mean “present”?’
‘It means “present and correct”, which—’
‘My bust is correct in every particular: a bust of me, life-sized, in marble, Roman style, sculpted on my accession, and a pleasing likeness. As you’ve evidently tracked down the Regulations, you will know you have to be there too. I want a debate about effluent – and no dirty words.’
Dirty words – the Mayor must mean such disturbing nouns as ‘vote’, ‘candidate’ and ‘election’. Gorhambury withdrew backwards in deference to mayoral authority. He ascended to the reception for Archives, a poky room on the landing between the basement and the ground floor, and asked for the outer ring key. A sub-clause in the History Regulations permitted the Town Hall to consult precedent.
A warren of rooms stored every minute of every Committee, immaculately indexed. Recent decades were held in the central chamber. Twentieth-century records, bound by year and committee, resided in generous, well-lit rooms adjacent to the modern. The basement’s outlying provinces provided a stark contrast: dingy rooms off ill-lit corridors where ancient loose-leaf records were, to Gorhambury’s distress, strewn rather than stacked. The ink had faded, the text was obscured by dust. Here indistinct mottos adorned the lintels: Of buildings, Of bridges, Of taxes and duties, Of extreme weather . . .
Gorhambury walked the periphery, opening doors and checking documents, until his hands and shirt-cuffs were stained black as a chimney sweep’s. An unprecedented shine on one brass door handle suggested recent visitors. The motto: Of matters psephological.
Inside, copies of the Popular Choice Regulations in all editions rose high to the ceiling, both bound and in pamphlet form. An elaborate hook beside the doorway held a chain of office with the words In loco parentis entwined through a pattern of oak leaves. The coloured enamel was dulled by dust.
Regulation 14 articulated his worst fears:
14.1 During the election period the Town Clerk shall at all times wear the temporary chain of office ‘In loco parentis’ and will exercise all Mayoral powers insofar, and only insofar, as is necessary to preserve efficient administration. He shall neither exceed these powers nor neglect them.
14.2 All contested matters solely pertaining to candidates’ manifestos and the hustings shall be exercised by the Secretary to the Municipal Liaison Committee.
He sighed. Would the gods ever leave him in peace? Reading on, his apprehension grew.
6
Cracking a Code
Bolitho was not alone in using the Delayed Action Service for posthumous deliveries.
The packaging indicated an enclosure worthy of protection. Strimmer retreated to his study on the highest floor of the North Tower and carefully cut through layers of cardboard, paper and bubblewrap.
Sir Veronal had kept his promise. Despite vanishing without trace, he had returned The Roman Recipe Book, the ancient volume with incomprehensible diagrams Strimmer had found in the hidden observatory above his head and then lent to Sir Veronal.
Sir Veronal’s ornate manuscript delivered a gothic message:
Dear Mr Strimmer,
If this book returns, I am dead or damaged beyond repair. To be worthy, find the means to understand it and revive the Eleusians. Here lies limitless power and immortality.
Yours in spirit,
Sir Veronal Slickstone
Strimmer had never heard of the Eleusians and would have dismissed the high-flown language as delusional, but for Sir Veronal’s pragmatism and disappearance, which corroborated the suggestion of a deadly occurrence in the letter’s opening sentence. As to ‘immortality’, he remembered the one question Sir Veronal had ducked at their first m
eeting in old Ley Lane: his age.
He flicked through the book without improving on his first speculative interpretations – an ancient musical notation, primitive genetic codes? Neither seemed weighty enough to justify Sir Veronal’s paean of praise. Strimmer needed assistance – someone unwary but informed. Most passed the first criterion, but failed the second; Valourhand passed the second, but failed the first. A snapshot scene came to him: Sir Veronal in earnest conversation with two unlikely companions at the opening of The Slickstone Arms. Orelia Roc he judged to be alert, but the other . . .
Barbiturates: such an enchanting family, and his own North Tower variant was an angel, achieving a level the wider world lacked the ingenuity – or ruthlessness – to reach. In theory, relaxing the higher functions of the cerebral cortex induced candour, lying being far more complex a task than truth-telling. But sodium thiopental and amobarbital lacked subtlety; his version stimulated a desire to boast rather than suppressing the wish to lie.
He pressed the needle of the syringe through the cork and watched the seven drops coil through the cordial before disappearing.
He wrapped the single antidote pill in his handkerchief and hurried across the Quad, muttering, ‘In vino veritas.’
*
Oblong had chosen ‘Victorian explorers’ to open his second year. His pupils treated outsider history as fictional, which irked him; the pursuit of the North Pole and the source of the White Nile should make them admit reality. While rehearsing in front of the mirror his dramatisation of Speke’s argument with Burton about the source of the Nile, he heard footsteps outside: too light for Fanguin, too heavy for Orelia or Valourhand and too quick for Aggs. He had an unexpected visitor: Hengest
Strimmer.
‘Mr Oblong!’ Strimmer placed on the table a bottle of pear brandy, Vlad’s price label still attached to the neck; he had been generous. ‘Peace offering,’ continued Strimmer, holding out a hand, ‘on the first anniversary of your arrival.’
Oblong accepted Strimmer’s extended hand. Despite a disquieting lack of engagement in his clasp, Oblong, ever the optimist, took the speech at face value. He produced two glasses.
‘Excuse my early distaste,’ said the unusually talkative Strimmer. ‘Outsiders jeopardise our independence, and I distrusted your predecessor, Flask. But a friend to Roc is good enough for me.’
Oblong could not remember ever seeing Strimmer in conversation with Orelia, but his ebullience appeared genuine.
‘To us!’ cried Strimmer.
It would have been rude not to drink. The cordial had an odd metallic taste beneath the fruit, but keen to please, Oblong drained his glass and allowed Strimmer to refill it. Inconsequential questions followed, and Oblong felt a burgeoning urge to be expansive. He must welcome this rapprochement – indeed, he must validate it.
‘I mean,’ he started, a little incoherently, ‘you’re right to accept . . . me . . . I mean, us . . . for we have done Rotherweird proud.’
‘Oh . . . how is that, exactly?’ asked Strimmer with a sugary grin.
Deep down, a sliver of resistance surfaced. ‘Can’t say, really can’t say . . .’ A desire to boast surged through, overwhelming Oblong’s natural modesty. ‘Posterity will know one day . . . thanks to me . . .’
‘Well, of course – you are a historian.’
‘Not any old one, Mr Strimmer! I have the sweep of Bede, the colour of Gibbon . . .’
Don’t let him find it, counselled Oblong’s befuddled brain, and he backed into his desk, his right hand grasping the central drawer and holding it shut.
‘. . . the majesty of Macaulay. And understand, Mr Strimmer, I don’t only record history, I make it.’
‘Bully for you,’ replied Strimmer admiringly.
Oblong babbled on briefly before toppling into an armchair and an instant, snore-ridden sleep.
The desk drawer was unlocked, and Strimmer quickly located a leather-bound notebook. Having taken the precaution of bringing a miniature camera, he photographed every page of text. Ever thorough, he flipped through the blank pages and discovered at the end a sea of superficially nonsensical letters, numbers and dots. Intrigued, he photographed them too.
He washed the glasses, returned them to the kitchen cupboard, retrieved the bottle and left on tiptoe.
*
Strimmer projected Oblong’s diary entries, page by page, on to the bare white wall of his study. The historian’s fussy, common handwriting was easy to read.
Swirling a glass of brandy, Strimmer sniggered at his unflattering reviews –
Mr Strimmer, the creepy North Tower scientist, cold-shouldered me in The Journeyman’s Gist as in the staffroom. Why is he so churlish?
And at the end of the Great Race:
It was galling to lose to the appalling Strimmer, suitably dressed as a wasp, but I do not feel I let Fanguin down. He did run out of puff rather, and I had never been in a coracle before, let alone up a church
tower.
The next sentence prompted Strimmer to take a lengthy swig, such was its oddity.
But the event did provide an unexpected benefit – I learned something which nobody else knows except perhaps Father.
Strimmer hurried on to find another tantalising entry.
Sir Veronal took me to his library, a veritable museum. He pressed me for information, so I played the ‘modern historian’ card and gave nothing away, especially not the church frescoes.
Thereafter harmless entry followed harmless entry, some hilarious, especially Oblong’s account of his infatuation with Cecily Sheridan (So elegant and well read – I think I am in love) who, as the whole town now knew, had been Vixen Valourhand in disguise.
He moved to the two pages of code. Strimmer owned a slim book on the statistics of letters in language. He had no idea what lay beneath the code – more embarrassing sexual adventures, hopefully. He enlarged the heading and set to work.
jV3z.5Un5vp42xy.h4b.4uvNi.e53tz
He reached two quick conclusions: dots divided the words, and each number (only 1 to 5 appeared) represented one of the five vowels. He knew E was king of the vowels. His borrowed book told him that U was the rarest, and A, I and O were all of a par. On a frequency count of Oblong’s text, that left E as 3 and U as 1, with 2, 4 and 5 as the rest.
Every word had either one capital letter or none, never more, so any capital letter must therefore be the first letter of the word. In the absence of a capital letter, a vowel must be the first letter. If that was correct, it followed that Oblong must have jumbled the letters, since numbers and capitals appeared in random positions.
Strimmer paced the room, grinning. He would enjoy dismantling Oblong’s defences, pitting a Rotherweird mind against an outsider’s.
Further study of his book revealed ‘the’ to be the most common word; ‘be’, ‘to’ and ‘of’ as the second, third and fourth; ‘a’ and ‘I’ as sixth and tenth. Six more two-letter words appeared in the top twenty.
And yet Oblong’s two-page text appeared to have few two-letter words and no single-letter words at all.
For some minutes Strimmer wrestled with this conundrum, before letting out a yelp of self-congratulation: on discarding every last letter as a red herring, you not only achieved the right proportion of two-letter words and always kept one capital, but also uncovered two different single-vowel words – ‘a’ and ‘I’, presumably.
Now he had five ground rules: ignore entirely the last letter; a capital letter is the opening letter; a full stop marks the end of a word; the letters are jumbled, or at least not always in the right order; ‘I’ or ‘a’ = 5; e = 3 and U = 1. O was probably 4. Strimmer decided to test ‘the’ as the first word of the title. It worked if you took the letters in the code vowel or not) to represent the letter two spaces before them in the alphabet. However, he soon found this produced nonsensical results unless – cue for a furthe
r swig – the letter in the code represented either a letter two places before it in the alphabet or two places after. You had to experiment.
Within the hour Strimmer had laboriously worked out a surprisingly intriguing title: The Salvation of Lost Acre.
The town had a Lost Acre Lane, but he could think of no meaningful connection. He hurried through the text, accelerating as he became familiar with Oblong’s techniques. The opening sentence had such a pompous air, he read it aloud: ‘As a poet I have been inspired by this peculiar valley to set down a romantic legend that was born and nurtured here . . .’
Thereafter, the text yielded its secrets grudgingly. Awkward combinations of words held him up – ‘mixing-point’, ‘Midsummer flower’, ‘Chronicle’ – and his disappointment grew. He had never read such nauseating whimsy, with its parallel universe, communicating tiles, flowers with magical properties and a restorative force known as the Green Man. Oblong, an outsider whose profession existed to record true facts, had had the effrontery to foist upon his hosts a myth of his own devising. He had even added a feeble close to tantalise the reader:
1Zrq.q2f.r28.Rrf5y.nj2Q3k4?
‘But is it that simple?’ it read.
One detail did trouble him. The Roman Recipe Book was liberally decorated with monsters.
He kept his transcription of Oblong’s inane legend, just in case. He also resolved, when time allowed, to check the church for frescoes. His parents had taken him there long ago and he recalled no wall paintings – another self-indulgent fantasy, most likely.
7
A Reunion
Only the squelch of feet betrayed Ferensen’s presence on a night without moon or stars. His transformation in the mere pool in Lost Acre on Midsummer Day had upset the balance in his divided being and he could no longer resist the lure of the river.
Once out of the water he kept to the hedgerows, head low, offering no profile. He hated his feet, ankles, knees – all those clumsy joints – when in the river he corkscrewed like a dancer. In water he felt warm; in the open air he froze. True, being half-eel, half-man, he had to dive deep and put himself in peril to transform, but it was worth it.
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