by Jane Adams
Slowly, Treven followed her and seated himself on a large root, sweeping away the gathered snow. “You must be a spirit,” he informed the stranger. “The snow falls all about you and yet . . .”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe I’m just dreaming,” she said.
“You dream?” Treven shook his head. “I am not sleeping. This is not my dream.”
“No, I’m the one dreaming.” She frowned, puzzled. “Who knows? I’m not sure it really matters anyway.” She extended a hand towards Treven. “I’m Rozlyn, by the way. Rozlyn Priest.”
“A priest?” Treven stared at the hand, unsure of what to do. If he reached to clasp it, would it be there or would he, like the snow, be cast aside?
“No, I’m not a priest, it’s my surname.”
“Your father was a priest?” Treven had to know. He reached out and touched the other’s hand. “You’re warm!”
“Um, yes. So are you.”
“You are a woman, then. Or a spirit taken woman’s form.”
“Or a dream. Who knows? Look, like I said, I’m not sure it matters anyway. What’s your name?”
Treven frowned. To tell a name was to give another power over it. True, this woman had told her name, but Treven had no means of knowing if it was real. He took a deep breath. “I am Treven,” he said. “King’s Thegn.”
“Oh. Pleased to meet you, Treven. Which king?”
“I serve Aelfred.” A new suspicion arose in Treven’s mind. “You are Guthrum’s man?”
“Who? I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why are you here? What brought you?”
The stranger shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I fell asleep. I woke up here. I think, before that, I was looking for someone, but . . .” she turned deep dark eyes on Treven, so deep and dark that Treven felt like drowning when he gazed into their depths. He tore his gaze away.
“When I got here,” Rozlyn Priest said. “You looked upset, kind of lost. I must be here for a reason, so I may as well be useful. Is there anything I can do?”
Treven had come here to ask for help but that the help should be offered in such a strange and mysterious way was beyond his expectation. “What can you know of justice,” he asked. “I came here looking for answers. I asked the gods to help me; the old gods and the Christ and any powers that rule the Wyrd.” He laughed shortly. “I did not look for such as you to come to my aid.”
“And I didn’t ask to come here, but as my grandfather used to say, if you’re truly lost, maybe it doesn’t matter who you follow. Everyone’s going somewhere.” She laughed at Treven’s expression. “No, it probably never made a lot of sense, but I guess what I mean is, it’s often easier to tell your problems to a stranger and, like I said, I must be here for a reason?”
When Treven still did not reply she added, “and as for what I know about justice, well, I guess I spend my life dealing with what I hope is justice.”
“You are a law giver?”
“Um, no. I don’t make laws. I just try to see that people keep them.”
Treven nodded. So there was, after all, a kindred spirit here. “I too seek to keep the king’s law,” he said. He sighed heavily. “I’ve come to realise that I am ill equipped for the task he gave me.”
“We all feel like that sometimes. Look, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I have this feeling that it’s time limited some way or another, so tell me and we’ll see if two heads are better than one.”
Treven nodded. Suddenly, it seemed correct and right that he should do so. “I came here as King’s Thegn,” he said
“Thegn? No, never mind, I can ask Ethan. Go on.”
“Ethan?”
“A friend.”
“Oh.” Treven frowned, puzzled. “I came here and brought with me a man called Hugh de Vries who the king had promised would be Shire Reeve in this place. I . . . blame myself. I knew what Hugh was, that he liked women and had little concern for discretion, and I should have spoken when he first took Cate Scrivener to his bed. But I did not and when she was found dead and Hugh was blamed . . .”
“Why would Hugh want to kill his lover?”
“She told him she would see him no more. He was angry, he confessed to having laid hands on her, to strangling her until she feared for her life. Then, he says he realised what he did and let her go. She ran from him and, so he claims, another came and felled her with a blow and then a second.”
“He witnessed this?”
Treven nodded. “It was dark, he says he thought her dead, but she did not die then. She lived until the coming day and when they found her, she spoke his name.”
“You think she accused him? Or that she knew he’d left her to die?”
“Either, perhaps both.”
“And did he see who hit her?”
“He claims so, though he stood some distance away.”
“So, and I’m assuming from what you’ve said that this is night, but that if there was enough light for him to see who did it, there was also enough for him to see that she was still alive.”
Treven had not put this so clearly to himself. He nodded. “He knew she lived, but likely knew also she could not long survive.”
“Even so, she might have stood some chance if he’d raised the alarm. Why didn’t he?”
“He claimed fear that he would be accused anyway and that the marks on her neck were clear. He would have . . . he thought to blame those also on her killer.”
Rozlyn nodded. “So, what happened?”
Treven told her in few words about the trial. That the law of God had found Hugh innocent of murder because he had not struck that final blow.
“Wow,” Rozlyn breathed. “You know, I’ve heard about that sort of stuff, but I never really thought about it happening for real. You know, I never reckoned on God being someone who would split hairs like that.” She laughed, but there was no humour in it. “This Hugh’d make a good defence lawyer or make a fortune in litigation.”
“A what?”
Rozlyn frowned. “I don’t know that I could explain,” she said. “So, what are you going to do about it? In my book, he killed her or least he denied her the chance she might have had if she’d seen a doctor. That’s manslaughter at the very least.”
“Manslaughter,” Treven considered. His mind felt clearer now. “You are right, Rozlyn Who is Not a Priest. Manslaughter.” He stood. “I know what I must do.” It occurred to him that he had always known; his mind had just refused to see.
Rozlyn also got to her feet.
Treven’s cloak was weighed with a heavy stratum of crisp white snow. He shook it off and stamped his feet to free them of the ice caked on the soles. Rozlyn, by contrast, remained untouched. She tilted her head as though listening to something and, somewhere in the distance, Treven heard the sound of bells.
“What is that sound?”
“Oh,” Rozlyn told him. “I think that’s the sign for me to go.” She smiled. “Good luck, Treven, you’ll do OK, I’m sure of it.”
Treven watched in wonder as the stranger began to fade. Rozlyn too stared at her own hands and laughed. “Oh, will you look at that. I can see right through me.”
Her laughter, dying softly on the windless air, was the last thing that remained.
Treven shook himself. He should, he thought, have been afraid, but he was not. Instead, he felt calm and filled with purpose. Murmuring a prayer of thanks to whatever form of god or Wyrd had given him aid, he left the grove and, pausing only to cut from the coppiced ash a staff as high as his head and thick around as he could grip, he headed back towards his home.
CHAPTER 34
Rozlyn stumbled down the stairs reaching the phone just as Jenny finished her message.
“Hello. I’m here.”
“You sure? You sound like death.”
She managed a laugh but Jenny’s words brought the dream back so vividly that Rozlyn had to ask her to repeat her next comments.
“I sai
d, they’ve found Mouse Man. He’s OK.”
“Oh, thank Christ for that. Who found him? Where is he?”
“Your friend — and I use the word advisedly — has him holed up at the Queen’s. He’s been fed and watered and they’re giving him a bed for the night. The hospital wants to check him over in the morning but they’re being sniffy about taking him back as an inpatient after he discharged himself so dramatically. I thought we could sort that out tomorrow.”
“He’s seen a doctor?”
“Apparently,” Jenny said, cautiously.
“Don’t tell me. We’ll be getting a bill from Big Frank.”
Jenny laughed. “I’ll leave you to tell Brook all about it in the morning. I know nothing!”
Rozlyn groaned. “I’ll get over there and see he’s OK. Where the hell did he get to?”
“He’s not saying. Won’t tell anyone but you. Look, I’m knackered. I’ll be off home and see you tomorrow.”
Rozlyn went back upstairs and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. The reflected face was creased and grubby. She’d fallen asleep fully clothed, not even having managed to shed her coat. Turning from the reflection, she shrugged out of the leather and hung it in the bedroom, shaking and patting it critically, worrying at the creased skin. Then she peeled off the sweat-soaked shirt and washed herself, splashing her puffy face with cold water in an effort both to wake up and to ease the wrinkles from her eyes.
A second check in the mirror revealed partial success and a rummage in the bathroom cabinet found a new supply of painkillers. She dragged a plain T-shirt from her drawer and completed the look with a weekend shirt of dog-toothed check. It was eleven-fifteen on Friday night.
Putting the much-abused leather coat back on she prepared to leave, then did an about-turn and unlocked the wardrobe, removed the spearhead, wrapped it in an old scarf and slipped it into her pocket.
She wondered at this, telling herself it was so she didn’t forget to return it to the evidence locker in the morning, but it was really the effects of the dream, still so powerfully there in her mind that she could taste the chill, snowy air even in the warmth of her centrally heated room.
* * *
Mouse Man sat in Big Frank’s corner ploughing his way through a plate of sandwiches. A second, scattered with crumbs, betrayed the fact that this was a repeat performance. In his left hand was a large blue mug, gripped tight as though he worried someone might take it away and alongside that a tray with a family-sized tea pot and a milk jug and sugar bowl.
The pub was closed and the main lights off. One of Frank’s boys sat in an opposite corner chatting to the barman and playing what looked like Texas hold ’em. Rozlyn felt a pang. It was years since she had played. She pointedly ignored the stack of coins lined up beside each player.
Mouse beamed at her from across the room and beckoned with his sandwich. The borrowed raincoat hung over the back of a chair and his pyjamas were spattered with mud, the hems caked in it. Soaked slippers steamed on the radiator and his feet were clad in a pair of thick fisherman’s socks. Borrowed from the barman, Rozlyn guessed. Frank’s boys subscribed to the sort of sartorial elegance that didn’t call for heavyweight socks.
“Mouse, just what do you think you were doing? You should be in the hospital, not traipsing the streets in your PJs. What the hell were you playing at?”
Mouse’s sandwich waved the objections aside. “I found him, Inspector Priest. I seen Donovan.”
“You what! Mouse, what were you thinking? What do you mean you’ve seen him?”
“I seen him,” Mouse repeated. “At his office place.”
“His office . . . Mouse, start at the beginning and tell me what the hell you’re on about.”
Mouse looked somewhat offended by her tone. He took another large bite of sandwich and swig of tea before he continued. “I remembered what Charlie told me,” he said. “Charlie said Mr Donovan collected his messages on a Friday because he was in town doing something else. I don’t know what the something else was, but he told me Mr Donovan came and got his messages and his letters and any letters or anything Charlie found when he cleaned he had to leave at Donovan’s office on Fridays so he could fetch them.”
“Donovan. You’re saying Donovan was connected to Thomas Thompson and the houses Charlie cleaned?”
Mouse nodded. “I told you that,” he asserted proudly.
“No, Mouse, you didn’t tell me.”
“Yes I did, I told you just now.”
Rozlyn sighed. “OK, Mouse, you get on with the story and I’ll ask questions at the end.”
“His office place is behind a shop. I went there with Charlie one day. I wasn’t supposed to but it was early and Charlie knew he wouldn’t be there that early so he said it was all right but today I sat on the fire escape back of the other shop and I watched for him and he came. I wanted to know, see, if it was him that came to my house and killed my little pets and hurt me before I told you about him. I didn’t want to go accusing the wrong man, did I? That wouldn’t be right, Inspector Priest, not right at all. And it was him,” he added triumphantly. “It was that Mr Donovan.”
“Mouse,” Rozlyn forgot she’d promised not to interrupt. “What the hell were you thinking? He’d half killed you already. You want him to finish the job?”
“I was all right,” Mouse told her earnestly. “That big man was hanging about. Donovan didn’t see me but if he had the big man would have sorted him.”
“Big man? What big man?”
“The big man I saw waiting outside of the Queen’s one night. I told you about him. I was scared of him then, but this time I knew he was all right.”
“How did you know? Mouse. What does he look like? Who is he?”
Mouse shrugged and reached for the tea pot. “I just knew,” he said. “He’s a big man with long red hair.”
“Red hair?” Rozlyn shook her head, the image of Treven in that circle of snowy trees suddenly impinging. She thrust it aside and focused back on Mouse. “This office, we’re talking about the building back side of the shops on Thurlmere Road, right?”
Mouse nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Right. Charlie had the number in one of his books. We’re supposed to be keeping obs.”
“He wasn’t supposed to write the number down,” Mouse said solemnly. “He told me so, but he said it was untidy just to keep things in your brain and not write them down proper like.”
Rozlyn smiled. That was so Charlie. But that tidy streak might also have contributed to his death. And where the hell were the officers on watch if both Mouse and Donovan Baker could sneak past them? “Mouse, what did this Donovan do at the office?”
Mouse looked relieved now that Rozlyn was asking for actual information. “He put things in bags,” he said. “I could see some of it through the window, but not everything. He put the telephone in a bag and then he went away. He dumped the bag in a skip just up the street. I seen him.”
“You followed him!”
“No, I ain’t quite that stupid. I waited ‘til he’d gone out of the place at the back of the shops and then I went to the place where the alley opens onto the road and I looked. He dumped the bag in a skip, so . . .” He paused and smiled broadly.
Rozlyn could guess what was coming. “You went and got it.”
Mouse beamed. He got up and shuffled round to where the borrowed coat was hanging. On the chair was a black dustbin bag. Puzzled, Rozlyn opened the neck and peered in.
“Careful!” Mouse warned. “Don’t you touch the bag inside, there might be fingerprints.” He nodded to emphasis the point.
“Fingerprints?”
“He carried the bag and he didn’t wear no gloves. I asked at the greengrocer’s shop for a dustbin bag. They looked at me like I was a down and out, but they gave me a bag and asked me if I wanted holes cut for my head and arms. I told them no, then I put the bag over the other one and took it away.”
Rozlyn was impressed. “You did well, Mouse, but I�
��d still rather you hadn’t been there at all. I’m scared to think what he’d have done to you.”
Mouse shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but it was clear Rozlyn’s praise and concern had gone right to his heart. “I’m safe now,” he said. “Big Frank tells me I can stay here until my house is all right and they make good tea. He says it’s the best place for me.”
He was probably right, Rozlyn thought. She couldn’t offhand think of a more secure place to stash Mouse than the Queen’s.
She was about to ask another question but Mouse Man seemed distracted. He was peering beneath the table and then glancing anxiously across at the barman.
“Mouse?”
“Shh, you’ll frighten her.”
Mouse dropped to his knees and scrabbled about beneath the table. Looking down, Rozlyn saw a mouse hiding in a crack in the skirting. “Jesus, Mouse, what the hell?”
Mouse Man was on his knees. Softly, almost under his breath, he made a series of soft clicking, crooning noises, interspersed with almost inaudible squeaks. Rozlyn watched in fascination as the tiny creature poked first its twitching, bewhiskered nose out of the crack and then the rest of its head. Mouse Man lowered his hand slowly to the floor. In his palm were a few crumbs from his sandwich. He made that squeaking, crooning noise again. The mouse detached itself from its place of safety and scrabbled over to the waiting hand.
“Mouse! You can’t!” Rozlyn glanced across to where the men sat still playing cards. They seemed oblivious to the rodent charming taking place across the room. Mouse hauled himself back onto his seat and tucked his new friend into the pocket of his pyjama jacket.
“She’ll be all right now,” he said.
“How do you know it’s a she?”
Mouse awarded her a withering look.
“OK, OK, I’ll take your word for it. Mouse, did Charlie ever mention cleaning or working for anyone else? Or did he say he’d ever met the Mr Thompson that owned the houses?”
Mouse thought about it for a while then nodded slowly. “He must have seen him or met him,” he said, “because he knows what he looks like. He saw his picture in the newspaper and he cut it out and put it in his drawer. He said he had a different name in the picture and a big house.”
