The Thief on the Winged Horse

by Kate Mascarenhas

  “If you take a room at the Tavern, you’ll be walking distance from your father’s, and from the workshop. But you won’t have to share a roof with an alcoholic. It will give you breathing space.”

  “That does sound…” Persephone trailed off. “Maybe I could stay here, for the time being.”

  They walked round to the side door, so Persephone would not be gawked at in the bar. He led her upstairs, into the kitchen, and sat her down with a mug of tea.

  “Mrs Mayhew must have a first aid kit somewhere. I’ll pop down and ask her.”

  “Don’t,” Persephone said. “She gossips.”

  Larkin didn’t bother to deny this. Mrs Mayhew was indeed a gossip. Pragmatically, he said: “She’ll know something’s wrong anyway, if you can’t stay with Briar.”

  “Just don’t tell her he hit me.” She wiped some of the blood from her cheek. “How long were you watching, Larkin? Did you hear what I said to him?”

  “Nobody else needs to know what I did or didn’t hear.”

  She exhaled. “You promise?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. People can’t know my suspicions. They can’t. They all suspect him enough already.”

  “I don’t.”

  She gave a half laugh, half sob of disbelief.

  He left her drinking tea, then spoke to Mrs Mayhew downstairs in the bar. He said Persephone had stumbled while trying to lift Briar from his seat, and needed to clean up a graze.

  “The first aid kit’s in the wall cabinet by the fridge,” she said.

  Larkin lowered his voice. “She might need a room here for a while.”

  “I see.” Mrs Mayhew raised an eyebrow. “It’s like that with Briar, is it? She’s tolerated him longer than her mother, at least.”

  Larkin ignored the invitation to tittle-tattle. “I thought it might be OK for her to stay, what with you being off season, and having the rooms vacant.”

  “The other rooms are bigger than yours,” Mrs Mayhew said. “She’d have to pay four hundred a week. That’s cheap, in Oxford, you know.”

  He took a roll of notes from his pocket. “I doubt she can cover four hundred on shop assistant wages. Charge her one hundred, and I’ll cover the rest. Just between you and me?”

  “How thoughtful.” Mrs Mayhew gave him an indulgent look, but he detected an acid undertone to her words. “Watch you don’t get taken for a ride, though, eh?”

  A customer caught her attention. Larkin rejoined Persephone in the kitchen. He took the first aid kit from the wall cabinet.

  “Everything’s sorted.” He filled a small bowl with water and disinfectant. “Mrs Mayhew has confirmed she has a room for you. I’ve given her some money upfront – just pay me back when you have it.”

  “What’s it cost?” Persephone asked.

  “Hundred a week. You will stay however long you need, won’t you?”

  And Persephone nodded. He sat beside her, to wash the cut. It reminded him rather of glazing the porcelain dolls. She had such a pert face, even in repose.

  “Thank you, Larkin,” she said suddenly. “You’re a good friend.”

  “For doing something ordinarily decent? You need better friends, Persephone.”

  “You can call me Seph, if you like. Everyone does.”

  He checked the cut was clear of grit, before making eye contact. “Is that what you prefer?”

  “No.” She grinned.

  “Good. I like Persephone more. And who wants to do what everyone else does, anyway?”

  Mrs Mayhew entered the kitchen, and made a fuss about sticking plasters that ruined the moment. But even that was fine, Larkin decided, because Persephone shot him a glance that made it clear they shared their irritation. He had been right. She thought they were allies, too.

  19

  Hedwig heard about her mother’s new lodger the next morning. Mama had come to the house to pick up the money Hedwig promised, but instead of leaving straight away, she followed her daughter into the dining room where she had been polishing silverware with Brasso. Hedwig resumed her work, Mama unwound her scarf, and launched into second-hand detail. She hadn’t seen what occurred herself – she had been working behind the bar – but Briar and Persephone must have fallen out. Briar had been terribly drunk, and Persephone had a cut and a bruise to the head, so it didn’t take a genius to work out. He’d telephoned the Eyot Tavern that morning and Persephone refused to speak to him.

  “Every cloud, Mama,” said Hedwig. “If Persephone’s staying with you, there’s no need for me to keep loaning you money.”

  Mama sidestepped the hint. “That reminds me – here’s a funny thing. When Larkin told me Persephone needed a room, he said to only charge her a hundred a week. He said he’d pay the other three because she’d never afford the lot on her sales salary. And he said I wasn’t to let Persephone know the real cost of the room. I mean, it’s all the same to me, but I did wonder what was going on there. He must be soft on her.”

  Probably. He’d had that drink with Persephone, hadn’t he? Hedwig’s own curiosity about Larkin had taken a backseat since the Paid Mourner went missing. For the foreseeable future, Stanley had to believe there was a chance of getting back together – no matter how deluded that was – which meant there could be no suspicion of her chasing Larkin. She rubbed the blade of a knife with a cloth, removing traces of tarnish.

  “You are incorrigible, Mama. No secrets around you, are there! Now make yourself useful, goose.” Hedwig passed her mother a cloth and a handful of cutlery. She wiped the last of the Brasso from her own knife. Briar would have woken to an empty house that morning. He’d need a friend, with Persephone gone.

  *

  That afternoon, Hedwig walked into central Oxford. She calculated that Briar would still be sober, it not being so very long after pub opening. It was Castle Street she tried first – the whole eyot knew that was his favoured haunt – and she saw him sitting alone, morose, in a corner booth. His eyes meandered over the silent football match on the television screen.

  She ordered herself a lemonade and approached the other seat. He startled.

  “Hedwig?”

  “It’s not taken, is it?”

  “No – but – Margot didn’t send you, did she? Nothing’s happened to Persephone?”

  “She’s fine as far as I know,” Hedwig said. “It’s so good to get this opportunity to talk, just you and me. We have such a lot to discuss.”

  Briar scratched his chin. “Do we indeed?”

  “About the Paid Mourner.”

  His lip curled. “I’ve got nothing to say about that.”

  “I’ve got a friend in the police, Briar. You’re his number one suspect. He thinks you stole the Paid Mourner and destroyed her.”

  Briar downed the dregs of his beer. “They searched my house. They didn’t find anything. That’s all there is to say.”

  He put an arm into his jacket.

  “Don’t be hasty.” Hedwig’s voice was low. “My contact says that Persephone alibied you. But you’ve fallen out, now, haven’t you? Do you think she’ll change her story?”

  He stood. “Leave her out of it.”

  “Don’t you see? She’s stood by you so far, but if she tells the police you did it, that’ll be just the reason they want to look at you again.”

  “She won’t do that,” he said, but he sounded unsure.

  “We can help each other,” she said. “I don’t want the police to confirm the doll’s damaged. Conrad would be devastated – bereft beyond repair – can you imagine what that will be like for the rest of us to endure?”

  Briar sat down again, with obvious reluctance. “I never took that doll. I don’t remember anything from that night.”

  “Oh, Briar. Hardly a cast iron defence,” demurred Hedwig.

  “Persephone doesn’t really think I took it, not deep down. She just has a temper, like me. Makes her say things.”

  “If she says them in front of the wrong person, we’re all in the shit,” s
aid Hedwig sorrowfully. “We need to persuade her, and the police, that the doll is still intact.”

  “How?”

  Hedwig took a deep breath. “We arrange a forgery. There’s photos enough of the Paid Mourner to commission a likeness. Then we stage an offering to the Thief on the Winged Horse. It has to exceed the value of Conrad’s earlier offering. I’m thinking her worth in gold would be appropriate. All we have to do next is leave the forgery in Conrad’s house, as if she’s been returned.”

  “You’re mad. Conrad will know the difference.”

  “Not if the forgery’s good enough. And he’ll want to believe, Briar. You know how serious he is about appeasing the fae folk. Plus here’s the thing, the real clincher. The forgery will have the right enchantment. You’re going to lay it on the new doll. Nobody knows the enchantment except him, and you. Is that right?”

  Briar left her question hanging. His eyes drifted back to the television screen, but he wasn’t seeing the game. Finally he said: “Let’s say your forgery is convincing. Everyone accepts the doll’s been found. But if I’m not the thief, the real culprit and the real doll are still out there. They could show up at any time. What then?”

  Hedwig smiled. “You’re right. The plan assumes you’re guilty. So the important question is – how sure are you of your innocence? Yes, yes, I know you don’t remember, but you have the motive, Briar; and you knew how to open the cage. When you say you didn’t do it, not even your own daughter believes you.”

  He had slumped, unresponsive as she hit home. Hedwig relented for a moment.

  “Can I get you another beer?”

  Briar nodded.

  She stood up to go to the bar, and he caught her arm.

  “I can lay the right enchantment,” he whispered. “But that forgery better be perfect. Do you understand? If I don’t think it’ll convince Conrad then I’ll have nothing to do with it. Get the doll made well and I’ll lay the enchantment on it.”

  “Brilliant, Briar. Do you have the hex written down?”

  “There was never any disc. The hex was visible on the doll’s head, beneath her hair, if you knew to look there – Lucy’s tongue softened the wax so it left a mark. I remember it clear as my own name.”

  “You’re sure your memory’s accurate?”

  “Let me worry about that. You just go about arranging a forger.”

  She nodded. “I already have someone in mind.”

  20

  While Hedwig plotted with Briar, Persephone was at the Tavern, on the telephone to her mother. Persephone gave her new contact details, in case her mother tried to contact her at the cottage.

  “You’ve moved into the pub?”

  “For now.”

  “What’s he done?”

  Persephone did not want to say her father had struck her. As soon as she said that, her mother would insist on collecting her from the eyot.

  “I just got tired of his drinking,” she said.

  “Something must have changed.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Persephone said wearily. “That’s the problem.”

  “But the Eyot Tavern, Sephy – you’re still on his doorstep. I should never have let you stay there. I should have fought it in court.”

  “I need to be nearby. If I cut contact, he won’t give me my—”

  Her mother made a sound somewhere between contempt and frustration. “That blasted hex. Even if he ever gives it to you – and he won’t – women don’t become Sorcerers. Accept that, Seph.”

  “I’m staying, Mother,” she said. “And I won’t discuss it any further.”

  *

  That evening, she slipped from the Tavern back to the cottage. It was in darkness – and thus, she assumed, safe to go in.

  She went straight to her own room, eager to pack her things – the clothes and other necessities she had left behind – before Briar returned. The suitcase was nearly full when she surveyed the doll limbs strewn across her bedroom table. With a sigh, she gathered them together in a cloth bag, and placed her finished dolls and whittling tools with them. Whenever she had shown her dolls to Alastair he had dismissed them as juvenile work. But she had practised and practised; she was sure her craft must have improved since her last plea for consideration.

  She returned to the landing, and peered down the stairs anxiously. No sign of Briar’s return yet. Her mind was on the hex Briar owed her. She had searched the house, numerous times, for his hiding place, and never yet found it. This might be her final opportunity to look again, for the foreseeable future.

  To her right, Briar’s bedroom door was ajar. It would make sense to check inside, just in case she found something she’d overlooked.

  She saw a plain room, which was tidy enough, though it smelt unaired and faintly musky. The bedclothes probably needed changing. Her attention turned to the storage. She opened the wardrobe and ran her hands over the back and the base. She opened each of the drawers in the chest, and found birth certificates and a passport, with caches of childish crayon drawings in the left hand side – he must have kept them from when Persephone was a girl – but nothing else besides clothes. She glanced under the bed, too. Nothing.

  From the floor below, she heard the tell-tale scrape of a key on brass: Briar aiming for the front door lock, and narrowly missing. There would be no way to get past him, and she had no wish to justify her departure when he might rapidly turn aggressive again. She slid up the sash window and dropped her bags onto the flat kitchen roof below. She could escape through the back garden. Just as she heard the key turn, she hoisted herself through the window and landed painfully on the coarse bitumen. Without time to check her scratches, she made the second leap onto the muddy path, her bags over her shoulder, and ran with her gaze straight ahead, no longer caring if Briar saw her getting away. For now, she was out of his reach.

  21

  Mrs Mayhew passed on a telephone message to Larkin; Hedwig wished to see him at Conrad’s house. It was the first time he’d visited since the night of the party. He hoped – though didn’t have high expectations – that Hedwig wished to lift his exclusion from the Sorcerers’ magic. When he arrived, she led him to the drawing room as she had before; only this time, Hedwig took Conrad’s seat. She didn’t invite Larkin to sit down.

  “It gives me no pleasure to do this,” she said. “I’m afraid we need to discuss your position here. When you arrived, Conrad suggested you were a spy. You insisted you had no affiliation.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Larkin, Larkin, Larkin. I hired a private investigator. He says you were resident in San Niccolò in 2018, with the family of Cristofano Minucci. Signore Minucci owns a long-standing doll-making firm in Florence.”

  Her findings were potentially disastrous for Larkin’s ambitions. His thoughts turned, immediately, to reducing that risk. “If you’re insinuating I’m Cristofano’s spy, you couldn’t be more wrong. Your investigator can confirm I was never in Cristofano’s employ; I paid him for board and he forcibly evicted me—” Larkin hesitated. If he gave a reason for his eviction, Hedwig might be persuaded of his antipathy to Cristofano. But the full truth would do Larkin no favours. He opted for a partial version. “Cristofano’s daughter was stealing from me and he took her side. We did not part on good terms. I returned to England a year ago. Since then I’ve had no contact with Cristofano at all.”

  “Larkin, you know how fond we are of you. But can you see how bad this looks? At the time of Conrad’s job offer you never mentioned living with one of our competitors. What will Conrad say, when I tell him you have history with another doll-making dynasty?”

  Will say, not said. Whatever investigation Hedwig had conducted into Larkin’s background, she hadn’t shared her findings with Conrad. It bemused Larkin that she should threaten his position at Kendricks before taking Conrad’s orders. Unless, of course, Hedwig was open to negotiation.

  Larkin said: “Conrad is far away; he must trust you to make decisions in his absence. Could we reach
an understanding without disturbing him?”

  “Yes. It would make me so sad to break this news to him. Your duplicity doesn’t bother me personally, Mr Larkin. Ideals are no match for pragmatism.”

  Good. Still, she wouldn’t trick him into an admission of guilt. “I’m glad we can resolve this between ourselves. The very idea Cristofano would give me a job is absurd. He despises me. My proper place is at Kendricks, as a member of the company family. I beg you not to undermine Conrad’s faith in that.”

  Dropping her voice conspiratorially, Hedwig replied: “I’ll keep this conversation confidential if you will.”

  “OK.” Larkin took the opposing seat. “What remains to be said?”

  “It’s been brought to my attention that the Paid Mourner has, almost definitely, been destroyed.”

  “Really?” Larkin was stunned. “Whoever told you such a thing?”

  “A friend, with intimate knowledge of the case. Conrad isn’t fully aware of all the details yet, and for his sake, I would prefer he never learnt them. To avoid Conrad’s heartbreak,” Hedwig went on, “I’m seeking to commission a replica of the Paid Mourner. I’ll persuade Conrad of a ransom demand from the fae folk. The imitation doll will be supplied to him in exchange for her value in gold. She will be like the Paid Mourner in every respect. It’s my intention that Conrad will never know the difference.”

  And she’d be pocketing the gold. Larkin recalled their first meeting, when she’d said the Paid Mourner was worth two million pounds. It wasn’t the kind of sum you forgot.

  “What part do I play in this?” Larkin asked.

  “I need someone to make the doll. From the Sorcerers’ reports, your work is exquisite, and more indicative of an experienced craftsman than an apprentice. You will craft a replica, and I’ll make separate arrangements for the correct enchantment to be laid upon it.”

  An admirable attention to detail. Other than Conrad, only Briar knew the correct enchantment. Briar must, then, already be conspiring with Hedwig to work his magic. Maybe she’d extorted his help just as she was trying to extort Larkin’s now. The need for Larkin’s input was obvious; Briar didn’t have the dexterity for basic doll-making, much less for a nuanced forgery. Yet Larkin felt sullied by the offer. He was an artist. Art should transform what had come before; it wasn’t mere replication. What was worse, nobody would know the work was his. Where was the appeal of that?