Being Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  Hands over my face. Protecting it from heat but only delaying the inevitable. Still I move, unable to escape the incandescence that trails me like an aura. It is terrible; it is beautiful.

  Until at last a primal scream erupts from my lips as the flames engulf me. The pain is real, but I run and the heat trails behind. I reach the end of the walkway and jump. The thud as I land is also real, but the foam I land in extinguishes the fire, starving it of oxygen and leeching out the heat.

  I prepare for my exit but this crime scene needs a body. It is impractical to play that role myself; eventually I would need to revive. And so I plant a twin. Or a triplet?

  “Why would she go through this?” Arcadia asks, opening her eyes.

  “To disappear?” The uncertainty in Magnus’s voice is uncharacteristic.

  “But she had disappeared. She vanished for a year.”

  “From you, perhaps,” Magnus says. “But maybe you were not the person she needed to convince.”

  And so the other her lit a fire in order to hide in its ashes.

  “Very well,” Arcadia concedes. “It is possible that she is still alive. So what is it that you believe she stole?”

  Magnus stands and moves towards the window in Mother’s room. “An item of jewellery and some animals,” he says, turning to face her.

  The precise scope of Magnus’s job remains unclear, but chasing down burglars and cattle rustlers would be an odd use of his time—and unlikely to be something to which he would apply the slightest effort. Yet this matter came across his desk. Not just any jewellery, then. Some very special jewellery.

  “There have been no reports of any theft from the Tower,” she says.

  “When it comes to the preservation of the Crown itself, we deem it appropriate for the press to operate on a need-to-know basis. At present they and the general public do not need to know.”

  “Why do you think it was Moira who stole this jewellery? Was she seen, were there witnesses?”

  “No.” Magnus strokes his chin, looking out the window. “As I said, as a matter of craft this was a perfectly executed burglary. The security systems were disabled; the guards incapacitated. Only one very specific jewel was taken—St. Edward’s Sapphire. I had previously been of assistance in locating the sapphire when it was stolen a little more than a year ago while on display at a local museum. On that occasion, a private collector commissioned its theft.”

  “By Moira?”

  “I now believe so.” Magnus nods. “This may have been how she financed her existence, through operating as a kind of consultant on criminal matters. Or maybe she was bored. Or it was practice.”

  “If she is so clever, how is it that she left a trail of evidence leading to her?”

  “She did not leave evidence,” Magnus counters. “She left a note. Or, to be precise, she left you a note. It was inside the bullet-proof glass casing this morning, surrounded by motion sensors. When the system came back online, in place of a priceless, thousand-year-old gemstone was a letter addressed to you. This letter.”

  He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a folded sheet of paper. “There were some suggestions,” he continues, “that you should be brought in for questioning. But I managed to persuade the relevant authorities that it was best if I handled this quietly.”

  “You’re working with the Home Office now?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He hands her the piece of off-white bond paper on which is printed, in a familiar elegant font:

  Why is a raven like a writing desk?

  Not much of a letter. “I assume you’ve tested it for fingerprints and the like,” she says, holding it up to the light to check for invisible ink.

  “Naturally,” Magnus intones. “There are no foreign bodies whatsoever. She appears to have handled the note wearing surgical gloves in a cleanroom. Most impressive.”

  The riddle itself is, of course, familiar. A Mad Hatter’s Tea-Party. Would that make her Alice in Wonderland, with Moira as the Mad Hatter? Aloud, she says: “Why ask a famously unanswerable riddle? There’s no correct response—or there are many. They both have inky quills. One is a pest for wrens; the other is a rest for pens. Lewis Carroll got so sick of people demanding a correct answer that thirty years later he provided one that was as good—or as bad—as any other: they both produce notes.”

  She turns the paper over in her hands. “I do appreciate the irony, though, of leaving it at the Tower of London.”

  “You recall, then, the Legend of the Ravens?”

  Years ago, they visited the Tower as a family. Magnus, a staunch monarchist even as a teenager, had insisted that they budget an entire day for the visit and came with questions that flummoxed even the most patient tour guides. She would have been seven at the time. When they saw the eight ravens then living at the Tower, she recalls feeling troubled by the fact that their wings had been clipped to prevent escape. The legend provides a reason, if not a justification: “‘If the Tower of London ravens are lost or fly away,’” she quotes, “‘the Crown will fall and Britain with it.’”

  “Precisely,” Magnus says. Waiting.

  She knows that he is fishing for something. Pausing for her to catch up with him. As always, it is infuriating and enticing. Something more about ravens. “You said she stole some animals. The ravens?”

  “All the ravens,” Magnus lowers his voice. “As you can imagine, both matters are a cause of some concern. Within the hour we deployed the reserve ravens held in a nearby aviary. These will fool most casual observers. But some members of the public are quite—dedicated, shall we say?—when it comes to our Royal Family. There are those outside the Tower who know the individual birds by sight. And as for those within the Tower, one can only keep a secret for so long. Hence my journey here to solicit your assistance in locating jewel and birds.”

  “What would Moira want with the ravens?”

  “Motive is a useful analytical lens, but I am primarily concerned not with why she did it than with how to recover that which has been taken. Similarly, I hope you will agree to assist in this matter out of civic virtue. But if you need more encouragement, then I suggest you look more closely at the note that Moira left for you.”

  She examines the letter once more. Laser printed characters in a familiar font. No invisible ink, not even fingerprints on the off-white bond paper. What led Magnus to say that it was addressed to her?

  And then she sees it. The same paper with two lines of dancing men. Another sheet bearing a code within a code. And an envelope of the same paper with an “A” written in Mother’s flourished handwriting, steak knife fixing it to the corkboard.

  “This is the same paper that Mother used for our codes at home,” she whispers. On Saturdays, for as long as she could remember, Mother would set her a puzzle to solve. That stopped with the attack, at which time she discovered that it was not Mother setting the codes but the former Headmaster, Milton.

  Moira has written to her before, with the same script but on ordinary paper. Now the other her has contrived to use the same paper that Milton used. But what message is being communicated? And how does Magnus think she can help find the missing jewel?

  Unless he doesn’t. And unless there is no message.

  “You don’t want me to find the sapphire,” she says at last. “You just think that I can lead you to Moira. You didn’t come here to ask for my help—you want to use me as bait.”

  Magnus has suddenly become concerned about Mother’s comfort and is reshaping the pillow under her head. Confirmation that her suspicions are correct.

  “But if Moira stole the jewel last night and faked her own death today, what makes you think that she will turn up here?”

  “Moira does seem to have something of a fascination with you,” Magnus observes, smoothing the sheets to remove some of the creases.

  “And something of a knack for manipulating you,” she counters. Light a fire and then hide in the ashes. “Has it occurred to you that this note might not b
e intended for me but for you? It’s a perfect storm to ensure that it captured your attention: mystery, family, and royalty. You may be brilliant, Magnus, but you are also predictable.”

  Her brother’s face is never easy to read and the clenching of a jaw muscle is the only indication of tension, but his voice remains even. “Of course I considered that possibility, but—”

  He pauses as his phone rings, a choral rendition of “Rule, Britannia”. A glance at the caller and he puts the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

  As he listens, the flexing of the muscle in his jaw causes the skin at his temple to ripple. He takes a few steps as if to leave, but decides that his sister and unconscious mother pose less of a risk than unknown parties outside. He closes the door.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” he protests, temple almost vibrating as he listens to the other end of the line. “I’m on my way back now. In the meantime please execute a shutdown of my system until I come in for biometric verification.” Another pause. “What do you mean you have biometric verification? An iris scan? Obviously I am not onsite or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I knew it was a mistake going out into the field.”

  He picks up his coat and prepares to leave, but continues to listen. “‘Thank you’? Thank you for what?” he says, switching hands to put his coat on. His face is beginning to redden—capillaries dilating with embarrassment, stress, or just the exertion of moving faster than usual. Then for the first time he raises his voice: “Oh for the love of—What possesses you to think that I would order pizza for everyone in the building?” His eyes go to the ceiling as the caller replies. “Hmm,” he grunts, calming somewhat. “Pepperoni, you say? Oh very well. Tell them I shall post them a cheque. But I want a twelve-inch put aside for me.”

  He hangs up and drops the phone in his pocket. Turning back to face her he opens his mouth and then closes it again.

  “You have to go?” she offers.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you at least tell me what you think Moira might have been looking for in your system?”

  He hesitates—protecting his pride, national security, or the air of mystery he now cultivates? “I have been entrusted with certain contracts for our Ministry of Defence. If these fell into the wrong hands it would be…” A frown crosses his brow and then subsides as he settles on the appropriate word: “Delicate.”

  “And you now suspect that Moira would be after this for what, money?”

  “Money and power motivate people to do all manner of strange things. Not all of us are driven by the satisfaction of our appetites; some want even more than that.” He notices for the first time the jam stain on his shirt, picking some of the raspberry off and raising it thoughtfully to his lips. “Anyway, I had best be off.”

  He kisses Mother on the forehead and extends his left hand to Arcadia. It is a touching gesture and she allows him to hold her own, at which point he produces a ballpoint pen and prepares to write. “May I?”

  The similarity to cattle-branding is galling, but a physical distinction between herself and Moira could be useful. She rolls up her sleeve so that he can mark her arm with his looping signature.

  “A temporary measure at best,” he concedes, “but I would prefer to avoid being fooled by Moira again.”

  “Tell me, Magnus,” she asks, pulling her sleeve back down as he reopens the door, “which part of the government do you work for?”

  “All of it, my dear Arcadia. All of it.” And with his best Cheshire Cat grin he turns on his heel and is gone.

  3

  FOUND

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Ormiston says, raising his hands for quiet. From the lectern he surveys students and staff as whispered conversations die down to silence. A nod to the organist and they stand:

  God save our gracious Queen!

  Long live our noble Queen…

  The final days of Michaelmas Term see the student body thin, some parents choosing family holidays over the busywork of post-exam school. She plans to stay on until the end, before heading to Aunt Jean and Uncle Arthur’s farm for Christmas. Magnus will likely join them—though given the temper in which he departed the hospital yesterday, it is not clear he will be in a mood to celebrate.

  Long to reign over us:

  God save the Queen!

  The shuffling of several hundred students preparing to sit is interrupted by the peals of the organ introducing the second verse of the national anthem, normally reserved for special occasions like graduation. They straighten and sing:

  Thy choicest gifts in store

  On her be pleased to pour,

  Long may she reign.

  Calls for preservation of the monarch and a long reign reflect a desire for political stability, but is it really necessary to ask the deity to shower yet more material wealth upon the woman? Or perhaps it is an injunction against commoners presuming to desire that wealth for themselves. Or steal it from the Tower.

  May she defend our laws,

  And ever give us cause,

  To sing with heart and voice,

  God save the Queen!

  A moment of uncertainty follows the organ’s last chord, until Mr. Ormiston impatiently gestures for the students to be seated. “We are entering the final days of term,” he says, “and of a calendar year that has been a happily uneventful one.”

  There is some hesitant laughter. The previous year saw the deaths of a headmaster and two teachers—the former by defenestration, the latter by suicide and when a car was blown up with military-grade explosives on the school grounds. Mr. Ormiston took on the role as acting Headmaster in these uncertain circumstances, before being appointed formally in September at the start of the current academic year.

  “Now that your exams are finished,” Mr. Ormiston continues, “and those of you going for Oxbridge interviews have completed them, I thought we might do something a little different at the Priory School before term ends next week.” One of the teachers coughs, causing Mr. Ormiston to turn as if inviting a comment. There is none. “We have long functioned under the Code of Conduct, with a clear hierarchy from teachers to Headmaster to implement it. Students who perform well are praised and rewarded; students who misbehave may be sanctioned—put off grub, given a detention, or in extreme cases rusticated.”

  Being put “off grub” is a quaint term for being denied desserts and other treats. Detention usually means spending time at or near Headmaster’s office. Rustication is the euphemism for being sent home, though literally it means being sent to the countryside—more suggestive of China’s Cultural Revolution than public school discipline.

  “We do not, of course, condone corporal punishment at the Priory School.” Mr. Ormiston coughs, catching her eye briefly. As they both know, the late Mr. Pratt was one of those who practised—relished, even—physically disciplining the youth in his care. “Nevertheless, many assume that your good behaviour is driven by fear of punishment rather than the inherent virtue of our young men and women.

  “As yearlings”—he refers to first-year students at the Priory School—“you each read William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Many assume that, left to their own devices, children will swiftly descend into savagery.” He pauses to cast his eyes across the seated students. “I, for one, have a more optimistic view of human nature. With that in mind, we are suspending the Code for the remainder of term and your teachers will be refraining from interfering in any matter that does not threaten lasting injury or property damage. Classes will continue, but your reports have already been written and there will be no school punishment for failing to attend.”

  A free market approach to discipline? Or free range? The prospect of no punishments causes a flutter of conversation, which Mr. Ormiston does not raise a hand to silence. After waiting for it to fade, he explains that there are responsibilities as well as rights in this new system: “I am also giving a holiday to our service staff. Many of you take these men and women for granted; for the coming week you will be
doing their jobs. It is up to you how that is organised. The cooks will remain on duty for today’s lunch, but after that you are to prepare meals yourselves. Serving and cleaning up after meals will also be up to you, as will be keeping the grounds and buildings clean.”

  He finishes speaking and steps back from the lectern. Among the teaching staff, seated in chairs on one side of the raised platform, some eyebrows are raised. Among the students, the murmur is now punctuated by a couple of cheers. As Mr. Ormiston, Headmaster now in name only, does not return to the lectern, it gradually dawns on the students that they are free to leave. They do so uncertainly, some wondering whether it is appropriate to exit before being dismissed, others suspecting that the lifting of punishments is a trick.

  She remains in her seat, watching the teaching staff. From their body language this is not a surprise—but not all are convinced that it is a good idea.

  A mop of blond hair flops down next to her. “So,” Henry says, “how do you think the inmates will do running the asylum?”

  “Hmm,” she replies absently. Mr. Ormiston is a dedicated teacher, passionate about the school and its students. Is he really testing his faith in their virtue?

  “Have you heard anything more from the Oxford police?” Henry asks. “Do they have any more information about where Moira came from, or what the crazy bird was up to?”

  “No,” she says. “I’m still trying to work out how she did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “The body they carried out. The fire I can see: once her clothes were extinguished she escaped out of the back of the tent. But whose body did they carry out? Even though it was burned to a crisp, Moira must know that they are going to try to identify it. So who was it?”

  “You think she’s alive?” Henry’s voice rises. At the front of Hall the music teacher, Mrs. Norman-Neruda, raises her head to tell him to be quiet before stopping herself. He lowers his tone nonetheless: “Why come back after a year only to light yourself up like a candle? It doesn’t make any sense. Not that your twin has really established herself as a person who cares about making sense.”