"Grounds?" I repeated blankly. "What grounds?"
"These grounds." Eleanor took pity on me. "Skeynes."
"Not the whole estate," Arthur assured me. "Ripley says we'd be riding for miles and miles, hundreds and hundreds of acres. We don't have paper enough for that. But we shall map all the gardens, and the whole park, and the home wood, all the way to the common."
I told the twins I thought making a detailed and accurate map of the grounds was an excellent idea and promised to provide whatever they needed in the way of supplies. For a moment, I feared my approval might put them off the whole idea, but instead they clamored to visit the mock-ruined hermitage, the better to map that end of the gardens.
I have warned the servants not to permit the children to stray too far afield in pursuit of their enterprise. I confess I find making maps a pastime far preferable to the perils of hide-and-seek by scrying.
Diana and Alexander are in bounding good health, as are Edward and Laurence. Nurse Carstairs and Nurse Langley continue to deal extremely, praise be to a merciful providence.
Thomas has been in town for the past few days, but I expect him to return by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest. His letters assure me that he devotes himself only to the most pressing of his business affairs, and that nothing on earth would induce him to remain away from home a moment longer than necessary. (Nothing on earth, I surmise, but good company, a well-stocked wine cellar, or a library he hasn't had a chance to examine in detail.)
When you and James have unraveled your mystery, when Georgy has come to her senses, and when we are all back in town for the Season, you and I must indulge ourselves with similar irresponsibilities. I long for a leisurely chat with you over a nice cup of tea. A new bonnet would not come amiss, either.
Love to you and James,
Kate
30 March 1828
White's
Dear James,
I hold you responsible. Were it not for you and your infernal Herr Magus Schellen, I would be comfortably at home at this very moment. At home, and in perfect health. Come to think of it, I would most probably be in church, virtuously reading the lesson to a lot of sheep-faced hypocrites. Believe me when I tell you I would prefer that fate to the head I have on me this morning, a head that is all your fault.
"Common gossip is all I want," you said. You know as well as I do, for gossip, there's nowhere better than the club. So to the club I duly took myself, despite the trouble, the inconvenience, and, worst of all, the silent look of reproach Kate administered as I announced my plans. Thus, common gossip have I pursued for much of the past week. I cannot vouch for its accuracy, but I have collected some choice on-dits. I will spare you those titbits unsuitable for a respectably married man and concentrate on the questions you set me.
Still, you asked for gossip. Not my gossip in particular, but you didn't exclude the possibility, so there it is.
Item One: Shares in the Stockton to Darlington railway enterprise have fallen alarmingly of late. Accidents have dogged the line from the start. The casual investors are cutting their losses before things grow worse.
There is at least one other proposed railway route in the vicinity, this one on the southern bank of the River Tees. The investment fever inspired by Liverpool-Manchester, and indeed the Stockton-Darlington in happier days, has spread rapidly. I expect there are a number of similar schemes by now.
Item Two: Who hired your Herr Magus Schellen? What was he hired to do? This is the cause of my hangover, and you owe me, James. I spent hours with Fremantle last
night—no, curse it!—this morning. Hours! I don't know why the man was so closemouthed, but I assume it is all part of his general policy. He knows everything and must be seen by the world as discretion itself. Fortunately, discretion itself has a taste for cognac.
According to Fremantle, Mr. Pease, of the Stockton-Darlington line, hired Schellen to do the official survey of the railway line. Pease wanted him because he'd be uninterested in the petty rivalries involved. You can't get anyone more neutral than Herr Magus Schellen, and neutrality was the whole point.
So that's what Fremantle says, and if it turns out to be a waste of good cognac, you can make it up to me the next time we have a drink together. In about fifty years, the way I feel at the moment.
I leave for Skeynes in the morning. If I'm not home for Easter, Kate will worry. Bad enough as it is. If I had been home to read the lesson, I think this morning's verses would have been the plague of frogs, and I was rather looking forward to the impression that would make on your hellions. And mine, of course.
Sincerely,
Thomas
APRIL
2 April 1828
Leeds
My dear Thomas,
Thank heavens you wrote to the inn at Leeds. Cecelia and I have removed to Haliwar Tower, and the post there is being opened. The Webbs, who got up this miserable house party, stick to us like cockleburs—Ramsey Webb to me, and his sister to Cecelia. He accompanied me even on this purported business visit to Leeds; I barely managed to give him the slip long enough to retrieve your note. You had best direct further correspondence to Haliwar, but take precautions. Warn Kate, as well. There have been several disturbing developments; I shall send you a full account at the earliest opportunity, using the cipher you worked out when we were on the Peninsula.
Yours,
James
2 April 1828
Haliwar Tower
Dearest Kate,
We arrived at Haliwar Tower last Thursday, and Mr. Webb was not prevaricating when he described his improvements to the place. It is quite as comfortable as a London town house, which seems a little odd as it is so very far from town Society. The Webbs have kindly insisted that we remain with them for as long as we stay near Stockton, so we are well settled for some time. James returned to Leeds today on some business or other, but I expect him back tomorrow morning. It is very tiresome to have him forever talking of this property and that. I will be glad when he makes his decision.
I hope the children are behaving well. More than ever, I wish I could have brought them. There is a large pond just east of the tower, where Mr. Webb and James fish in the mornings. Arthur would adore it, though upon reflection, perhaps it is just as well he is not here. I shudder to think of the effect his muddy boots would have on Miss Webb's carpets.
I enclose a shawl I have been knitting for Diana. I was trying to duplicate the pattern that Lady Sylvia showed us when we were on our wedding journey, but I fear there are mistakes. I trust you remember what she showed us better than I, and can correct my errors. I should like to knit a set for all the girls, but I will not attempt it until you confirm that I have the stitches right.
Yours,
Cecy
(Translation of coded shawl sent from Haliwar Tower, 2 April 1828)
Dearest Kate,
I trust you understood my hint, and still remember the knitting code Lady Sylvia taught us so many years ago. At first, I wasn't certain I would remember the meanings of all the stitches myself. Your letter arrived yesterday; James brought it up to our rooms and handed it to me with a frown. "Someone is tampering with the post," he said, and showed me where the seal had been lifted and then carefully replaced.
I was outraged, the more so when James pointed out that we must assume that any letters we send you are being treated in similar fashion. I was ready to give the Webbs a dressing-down in Aunt Elizabeth's best manner, but James pointed out that we cannot lay this at their door with any certainty. The post sits in the main hall after its arrival, where anyone might get hold of it—Daniel, the other guests, one of the servants. And since two of the guests are elected members of Parliament, and one sits on the Opposition bench, James thinks it likely that the snooping is politically motivated. It is no secret that he is a great friend of Lord Wellington's. Confronting the Webbs would merely put everyone on notice that we know what is going on. It will be much better to try to catch them in the act, or perhaps to mislea
d them by writing letters full of false information. (Hence the mention of James's tiresome interest in property in the accompanying note. It would not do for someone to discover that he is here at the Duke of Wellington's request.)
I hope you can make sense of this, as it is the quickest safe method of informing you of the situation. I mean to invent some magical alternative soon, as knitting is cumbersome and it will undoubtedly raise suspicions if I send too many parcels. For now, though, it will have to do.
I have still not been able to corner Daniel alone. The closest I came was a brief encounter with Daniel in the hall last night after dinner. He started, glanced around quickly, and realized we were alone. "Mrs. Tarleton!" he said in a loud whisper. "I must speak to your husband!"
"Tell me whatever you want to say, quickly, and I will tell him," I replied.
It ought to have been obvious even to Daniel that it would be near-impossible for James to escape from Mr. Webb, and that this was his best chance to say anything, but he hesitated. Naturally, Adella Webb came out of the room at just that moment, and the chance was lost. I shall do my best to find another as soon as I possibly can.
I had best close now, as otherwise this shawl will be three sizes too large for any child and someone will surely become suspicious.
Yours,
Cecy
3 April 1828
Haliwar Tower
(in cipher)
My dear Thomas,
Herewith the account I promised you. A week ago last Monday, Cecelia and I attended one of those semi-obligatory social events you weasel out of with such regularity—a dinner, given by the Duke of Waltham, in course of which we were inveigled into attending a house party. We arrived here on the twenty-eighth, and it was immediately clear that our hosts, Mr. and Miss Webb, had something more in mind than the usual house party.
There are three other couples in attendance. Two of the gentlemen are local MPs, one from our side and one from the Opposition. I fully expect the political arguments over the after-dinner port to end in a brawl some evening, despite my best efforts. A formerly-impecunious baron completes the party. Not content with his wife's fortune, he seems to be looking to increase his holdings in any way possible. Not the most congenial of company.
At least Ramsey Webb's reason for putting together this peculiar group have become plain. He is railway mad. He's up to his neck in a scheme to found a new railway corporation. To do so, he will have to get a bill of incorporation passed in Parliament, hence the local MPs. The baron and Waltham are here both for their possible votes in the Lords and as prospective investors.
And what are Cecelia and I doing in this carefully chosen company? It is all Waltham's fault. He told Webb that if anyone could persuade you to vote in favor of his incorporation bill, I could. Yes, you may laugh. His sister has already tried twice to sound Cecelia out on the matter. Cecelia routed her with blather about the children and basilisks and who knows what other nonsense. I have no such plausible recourse. If you learn that I have murdered His Grace, you will understand why.
To top things off, our mail is being opened; the seal on Kate's latest letter had been lifted and reapplied, with more than amateur skill. I suspect the Opposition MP; Cecelia began by suspecting the Webbs, but now seems more inclined to think Waltham must be the culprit.
Nonetheless, we remain at Haliwar Tower. Why, you ask? In part it is because this railway matter begins to look more serious than I had thought. Two weeks ago, on 19 March, one of the steam locomotives exploded in Stockton, killing an engineer and injuring several other people. One would expect such an event to have been a nine days' wonder in the area. Even if it had not been the talk of the town, one would have assumed that Cecelia and I would have heard some mention of it when we took our railway ride the following day. Yet we did not; I heard of it only by accident, yesterday in Leeds (one of the ostlers at the King's Head is cousin to one of the injured men and happened to be discussing it with a companion when I stopped there to retrieve your letter).
The clear conclusion is that someone has suppressed, to an extreme extent, general knowledge and talk of the accident. You know what gossip is like in small towns; it would take great authority, strong magic, or both together, to keep so sensational an incident from discussion.
A similar silence surrounds my missing surveyor. Once out of Leeds, away from the inn where he stayed, no one seems to have seen or heard of him. Yet it is clear, from the innkeeper's remarks, that Herr Magus Schellen behaved much as Cecelia and I have done—on his arrival, he made some investigation of the Darlington end of the railway, then paid his shilling to ride to Stockton and return. Someone ought to remember him, but no one does.
The question is, why? The whole affair smells of old cheese. I am sorry to have brought Cecelia along, but unless you could persuade Kate to concoct some serious illness on the part of one of the children, there would be no getting her to leave now. (As such a deception would be quickly uncovered, with results I do not like to consider, I will not ask it of you.) Remaining at Haliwar Tower seems the lesser of two evils. It also seems the most likely means of discovering what they are about, not to mention finding out who is opening our mail, and why.
One matter, at least, shows progress. You recall the letter that was waiting at the inn for my missing German? Wellington's people have at last provided a translation. It arrived in Leeds just after we removed to Haliwar, and was waiting for me along with your note when I returned. It seems to have been written by a fellow magician and close friend of Herr Schellen's, one Heinrich Kruger. Much of the letter was of a personal nature, but there were several relevant paragraphs, which I copy for you below:
I have searched the archives as you requested. The maps of England are woefully out of date, as you might expect, and several of the translations are very bad. Nonetheless, I can find neither mark nor mention of a ley line running along the Tees river, though at least one crosses it near Stockton-on-Tees. Not even the English could miss a segment of such density as you describe; it must have been left off the maps deliberately. Your theory that it is a new line is absurd; I pray you will not mention it to anyone else, as the damage it would do your professional reputation would be considerable. The fundamental stability of ley lines is one of their most predominant characteristics; they do not appear and disappear like images in a mirror.
The area between Liverpool and Manchester has been more thoroughly surveyed. There are several ley lines in that region, but none that run along, or parallel to, any of the routes you asked about. I cannot, of course, vouch for any lines which may have been deliberately left off the maps. If you have English sources, I would suggest you check them, as only the most overzealous of British authorities would remove information from their own maps.
I can find no observations on the effect of running a steam locomotive in the vicinity of a ley line. The stationary steam engines used in mines have, to date, not been located near enough to ley points for any difficulties to become apparent, if difficulties there are. I found, however, any number of papers regarding the tapping of ley energies. Most of them warn of inadvisable methods of attempting it, or deal with the catastrophic results of applying such techniques. The few successful methodologies are complex, and require diagrams of immense proportions, anchored by elemental energies. I will copy out the procedures, if you request it, but I am reluctant to spend so much time on the mere chance that they might be of interest.
I am still uncertain as to what brought Herr Schellen to Stockton, when he was hired to survey the Liverpool-Manchester line, but I begin to have a glimmer of a notion— his curiosity regarding ley lines and steam locomotion is suggestive, you will agree, especially when taken in conjunction with the explosion of the railway engine two weeks ago.
I intend to devote my immediate investigations—if I can ever escape from Webb to make any—to discovering whether there were other, earlier accidents on the Stockton-Darlington railway that might have drawn the Herr Magus's attention
in this direction. Meanwhile, I shall ask my dear Cecelia to see what can be ascertained about the ley line the letter implies is nearby. If she complains of the headache, even Miss Webb cannot deny her a quiet afternoon alone, and I doubt it will take her an entire afternoon to work the basic series of detection spells.
Yours,
James
9 April 1828
Haliwar Tower
Dearest Kate,
I am so happy that I cannot resist writing at once. (And besides, I think it possible that you are having difficulty reading the shawl I sent, or more likely with composing one in response. I intend to try a new enchantment on this letter, which will make it appear yet another compilation of complaints and queries about the children to any eyes but yours. Ignore the symbols along the edges; they are part of the enchantment.)
I am happy because my dear Walker has finally returned from her French holiday. No other maid has her hand with a curling iron, nor her thoroughness in pressing a seam. (She frowned darkly and said something in French when she saw the state my gowns are in after three weeks of travel, but I expect she will have things well in hand shortly.) She reports that things are quiet at Tangleford Hall.
She has also proven to be a useful ear in the servants' quarters—not that I ever doubted her ability (which she has proved repeatedly, as you well know), but I had expected that the circumstance of her being French, combined with the Yorkshire accent (which all of the servants possess to some extent, and which is, in a few, entirely impenetrable even to James), would make it difficult for her to play her usual role.
Happily, I was quite out in this regard. According to Walker, the combination of her English surname and obvious French origins elicits all sorts of questions, which serve to open a conversation. Several of the maids find her story excessively romantic—the French girl who married a young English officer, only to be cast out, penniless, when he died. In return, they regale her with similar romantic titbits from the Webbs' family history.
03 The Mislaid Magician Page 5
