The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 02]

by By Kim Newman

  Charles sipped strong tea.

  “Tell me about Davey’s birthday.”

  “Last Wednesday. I saw him early in the morning. I was leaving Mrs. Loll. She’s our local hypochondriac. Always dying, secretly fit as a horse. As I stepped out of her cottage, Davey came by, wrapped up warm, whipping a hoop. A new toy, a birthday present. Maeve trailed along behind him. ‘If I don’t watch him, doctor, he’ll get run over by a cart,’ she said. They were walking to school, in Moreton.”

  “Along Dark Lane?”

  Rud was surprised. “You know the area?”

  “I looked at the map.”

  “Ah, maps,” said Rud, touching his nose. “Dark Lane is the road to Moreton on the map. But there’s a cart-track through Hill Wood, runs up to Fair Field. From there, you can hop over a stile and be in Moreton. Not everything is on the map.”

  “That’s an astute observation.”

  “Davey was rolling his hoop. There was fresh-fallen snow, but the ruts in Fair Field Track were already cut. I saw him go into the wood, his sister following, and that was it. I had other calls to make. Not something you think about, is it? Every time someone steps out of your sight, it could be the last you see of them.”

  “Were you the last person to see the children?”

  “No. Riddle, Sairey’s husband, was coming down the track the other way, with the morning’s fresh-bake. He told them he had a present to give Davey later, when it was wrapped—but gave both children buns, warm from the ovens. Then, off they went. Riddle hasn’t sold a bun since. In case they’re cursed, if you can credit it. As we now know, Davey and Maeve didn’t turn up for school.”

  “Why weren’t they missed?”

  “They were. Mrs. Grenton, the teacher, assumed the Harvills were playing truant. Giving themselves a birthday treat. Sledging on Fair Field or building a snowman. She told the class that when the miscreants presented themselves, a strapping would be their reward. Feels dreadful about it, poor woman. Blames herself. The Harvills had perfect attendance records. Weren’t the truant sort. Mrs. Grenton wants me to prescribe something to make her headaches go away. Like a pebble in a pond, isn’t it? The ripples. So many people wet from one splash.”

  Rud gulped port and refilled the measure. His hand didn’t shake, but he gripped the glass-stem as if steadying his fingers.

  He whistled, tunelessly. Davey’s rhyme.

  “Are there gypsies in the wood?” asked Charles.

  “What? Gypsies? Oh, the rhyme. No. We only see Romanies here at Harvest Festival, when there’s a fair on Fair Field. The rhyme is something Maeve sings... used to sing. One of those girls’ things, a skipping song. In point of fact, I remember her mother asking her not to chant it during the fair, so as not to offend actual gypsies. I doubt the girl took any notice. The gypsies, neither, come to that. No idea where the song comes from. I doubt if Violet Harvill ever had to warn her children against playing with strangers. This isn’t that sort of country.”

  “I’ve an idea the gypsies in the rhyme aren’t exactly gypsies. The word’s there in place of something else. Everywhere has its stories. A ghost, a dragon, a witch’s ring....”

  Rud thought a moment.

  “The local bogey tale isdwarves. Kidnapping children to work in mines over the border. Blackfaced dwarves, with teeth filed to sharp points. ‘Say your prayers, boyo, or the Tiny Taffs will away with you, into the deep dark earth to dig for dirty black coal.’ I’ve heard that all my life. As you say, everywhere has its stories. Over Leintwardine way, there’s a Headless Highwayman.”

  “All Eye lives in fear of Welsh dwarves?”

  “No, even children don’t—didn’t—pay any attention. It came up again, of course. When Davey and Maeve went missing. There was a stupid scrap at the Small Man. It’s why the Major closed the pub. English against Welsh. That’s the fault-line that runs through the marches. Good-humoured mostly, but sharp-edged. We’re border country, Mr. Beauregard. No one is wholly one thing or the other. Everyone has a grandparent in the other camp. But it’s fierce. Come Sunday, you might hear ‘love thy neighbour’ from the pulpit, but we’ve three churches within spitting distance, each packed with folk certain the other congregations are marching in step to Hell. The Harvills call themselves English, which is why the children go to school in Moreton. The Ashton school is ‘Welsh,’ somehow. The schoolmaster is Welsh, definitely.”

  Charles nodded.

  “Of course, all Eye agrees on something now. Welsh soldiers with English officers have shut down the pub. I’m afraid the uniting factor is an assessment of the character and ancestry of Major Chilcot.”

  Charles considered this intelligence. He had played the Great Game among the squabbling tribes of India and Afghanistan, representing the Queen in a struggle with her Russian cousin to which neither monarch was entirely privy, exploiting and being exploited by local factions who had their own Byzantine causes and conflicts. It was strange to find a Khyber Pass in Herefordshire, a potential flashpoint for an uprising. In border countries the world over, random mischief could escalate near-forgotten enmities into riot and worse.

  “When were the children missed in Ashton?”

  “About five o ‘clock. When they didn’t come in for their supper. Because it was the lad’s birthday, Riddle had baked a special cake. Davey’s friends came to call. Alfie Zeals, my housekeeper’s son, was there. Even if brother and sister had played truant, they’d have been sure to be home. Presents were involved. The company waited hours. Candles burned down on the cake. Mrs. Harvill, understandably, got into a state. Riddle recounted his story of meeting the children on Fair Field Track. Alfie also goes to Moreton School and admitted Davey and Maeve hadn’t been there all day. Mrs. Harvill rounded on the boy, who’d kept mum to keep his friend out of trouble. There were harsh words, tears. By then, it was dark! A party of men with lanterns formed. They came to me, in case a doctor was needed. You can imagine what everyone thought.”

  Charles could.

  “Hill Wood isn’t trackless wilderness. It’s a patch between fields. You can get through it in five minutes at a stroll. Even if you get off Fair Field Track and have to wade through snow. The children couldn’t be lost there, but mishaps might have befallen. A twisted ankle or a snapped leg, and the other too afraid to leave his or her sibling. The search party went back and forth. As the night wore on, we ventured further, to Fair Field and beyond. We should have waited till morning, when we could see tracks in the snow. By sun-up, the wood was so dotted with boot-prints that any made by the children weren’t noticeable. You have to understand, we thought we’d find them at any moment. A night outside in March can be fatal for a child. Or anyone. We run to bone-freezing cold here. Frost forms on your face. Snow gets hard, like a layer of ice. Violet Harvill had to be seen to. Hysteria in a woman of her age can be serious. Some of our party had come directly from the Small Man and were not in the best state. Hamer Dando fell down and tore a tendon, which should put a crimp in his poaching for months. Came the dawn, we were no better off.”

  “You summoned the police?”

  “We got Throttle out of bed. He’s been Constable in Eye since Crimea. He lent his whistle to the search. The next day, he was too puffed to continue, so I sent for Sergeant High, from Leominster. He bicycled over, but said children run off all the time, dreaming of the South Seas, and traipse back days later, crying for mama and home cooking. I don’t doubt he’s right, usually. But High’s reassurances sat ill with these circumstances. No boy runs away to sea when he has a birthday party to go to. Then, Davey’s new whip was found in the wood, stuck into a snow bank.”

  “A development?”

  “An unhappily suggestive one. The mother began insisting something be done, and I was inclined to support her. But what more could be done? We went over the ground again, stone cold sober and in broad daylight. My hands are still frozen from dismantling snowdrifts. Every hollow, every dead tree, every path. We looked. Riddle urged we call out the army. Stor
ies went round that the children had been abducted by foreign agents. More foreign than just Welsh. I had to prescribe laudanum for Violet.”

  “This was all five days ago?”

  Rud checked his notes. “Yes. The weekend, as you can appreciate, was a terrible time. Riddle got his way. Major Chilcot’s fusiliers came over from Powys. At first, they just searched again, everywhere we’d looked before. Violet was besieged by neighbours offering to help but with no idea what to do. I doubt a single soul within five miles has had a night’s uninterrupted sleep since this began.”

  Rud’s eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Then, yesterday morning,” said the doctor, “Davey—or whoever he might be—came to his mother’s door, and asked for his blessed cake.”

  Rud slapped his folder on his desk. An end to his story.

  “Your patient claims to be Davey Harvill?”

  “Gets upset when anyone says he can’t be.”

  “There is evidence.”

  “Oh yes. Evidence. He’s wearing Davey’s trousers. If the army hadn’t been here, he’d have been hanged for that. No ceremony, just hanged. We’re a long way from the assizes.”

  Charles finished his tea and set down the cup and saucer.

  “There’s more than that,” he said. “Or I wouldn’t be here. Out with it, man. Don’t be afraid of being laughed at.”

  “It’s hard to credit...”

  “I make a speciality of credulousness. Open-minded, we call it.”

  Gingerly, Rud opened the file again.

  “The man downstairs. I would put his age at between thirty-five and forty. Davey is nine years old. Ergo, they are not the same person. But, in addition to his own scars, the patient has Davey’s. A long, jagged mark on his calf. Done hauling over a stile, catching on a rusty nail. I treated the injury last year. The fellow has a perfect match. Davey has a growth under the right eye, like a teardrop. That’s there, too.”

  “These couldn’t be new-made.”

  “The scar, just maybe—though it’d have to be prepared months in advance. The teardrop is a birthmark. Impossible to contrive. It’s not a family trait, so this isn’t some long-lost Harvill popping up at the worst possible moment.”

  Upon this development, Chilcot, like all bewildered field commanders, communicated with his superiors, who cast around for some body with special responsibility for changelings.

  Which would be the Diogenes Club.

  “Where does he claim to have been?”

  “Just ‘in the wood.’“

  “With the gypsies?”

  “He sings that rhyme when the mood takes him, usually to end a conversation he’s discomfited by. As you said, I don’t think gypsies really come into it.”

  “You’ve examined him. How’s his general health?”

  Rud picked up a note written in shiny new ink. “What you’d expect from a tramp. Old wounds, untended but healed. Various infestations— nits, lice, the like. And malnutrition.”

  “No frostbite?”

  Rud shook his head.

  “So he’s not been sleeping out of doors this past week? In the cold, cold snow?”

  Rud was puzzled again. “Maybe he found a barn.”

  “Maybe.”

  “There’s another... ah, anomaly,” ventured the doctor. “I’ve not told anyone, because it makes no sense. The fellow has good teeth. But he has two missing at the front, and new enamel growing through the gums. Normal for a nine-year-old, losing milk teeth and budding adult choppers. But there is no third dentition. That’s beyond freakish.”

  Rud slipped the paper back into the folder.

  “That’s Davey Harvill’s file, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course... oh, I see. The patient should have a fresh folder. He is not Davey Harvill.”

  Rud pulled open desk drawers, searching for a folder.

  “Follow your first instincts, Dr. Rud. You added notes on this patient to Davey’s folder. It seemed so natural that you didn’t even consider any other course. Logic dictated you proceed on an assumption you know to be impossible. So, we have reached the limits of logic.”

  * * * *

  iv: “Silas Gobbo”

  In the snug of the Small Man, after breakfast, Charles read the riot act to the army. Though the reason for closing the pub was plain, it did not help Major Chilcot’s case that he had billeted himself on the premises and was prone to “requisitioning” from the cellar.

  “Purely medicinal,” Chilcot claimed. “After a spell wandering around with icicles for fingers, a tot is a damn necessity.”

  Charles saw his point, but suspected it had been sharpened after a hasty gulp.

  “That’s reasonable, Major. But it would be politic to pay your way.”

  “We’re here to help these ungrateful bounders....”

  The landlord glared from behind the bar.

  “Just so,” said Charles.

  The Major muttered but backed down.

  The landlord, visibly perked, came over.

  “Will the gentleman be requiring more tea?”

  “No, thank you,” said Charles. “Prepare a bill for myself and the Major. Keep a running tally. You have my word you will not be out of pocket. Tonight, you may reopen.”

  The landlord beamed.

  “Between sunset and ten o’clock,” insisted Chilcot.

  A line appeared in the landlord’s forehead.

  “That’s fair,” said Charles.

  The landlord accepted the ruling. For the moment.

  The Major was another local bigwig, late in an undistinguished career. This would be the making or breaking of a younger, more ambitious officer.

  While he stayed cosy in the Small Man, his men bivouacked on Fair Field under retreat-from-Moscow conditions. They were diamond-quality. Sergeant Beale, an old India hand, had rattled off a precise report of all measures taken. It wasn’t through blundering on the part of the fusiliers that Maeve Harvill still hadn’t turned up.

  Charles left the pub and walked through Ashton Eye. Snow lay thick on roofs and in front gardens. Roads and paths were cleared, chunky drifts stirred with orange mud piled at the sides. By day, the occupation was more evident. Soldiers, stamping against the cold, manned a trestle at the bottom of Fair Field Track. Chilcot, probably at Beale’s prompt, had established a perimeter around Hill Wood.

  At the Criftins, Charles was admitted—by a manservant, this time. He joined a small company in the hallway. A fresh fusilier stood guard at the parlour. Dr. Rud introduced Charles, vaguely as “from London,” to a young couple, the woman noticeably with child, and a lady of middle years, obviously in distress.

  “Philip and Sairey Riddle, and Mrs. Harvill... Violet.”

  He said his good mornings and shook hands.

  “We’ve asked you to here to put the man purporting to be Davey to the test,” Charles explained. “Some things are shared only among family members. Not great confidences, but trivial matters. Intelligence no one outside a home could be expected to have. Remarks made by someone to someone else when they were alone together. An impostor won’t know that, no matter how carefully he prepared the fraud.”

  Mrs. Harvill sniffled into a kerchief. Her daughter held her shoulders.

  “He is still in the parlour?” Charles asked Rud.

  “Spent the night there. I’ve got him into a dressing gown. He’s had breakfast. I had my man shave him, and make a start on his hair.”

  The doctor put his hand to the door.

  “It is best if we hold back,” said Charles. “Allow the family to meet without outsiders present.”

  Rud frowned.

  “We’ll be here, a moment away, if needs arise.”

  The doctor acquiesced and held the door open.

  “Mam,” piped a voice from inside. Charles saw Davey, in his chair, forearms and shins protruding from a dressing gown a size too small for him. Without the beard, he looked younger.

  Mrs. Harvill froze and pulled back, shifting out of Da
vey’s eyeline.

  “Mam?” Almost a whine, close to tears.