“I love you,” she told him.
She didn’t expect him to reply in kind. He wasn’t in touching distance.
But he spoke very cleverly.
“I’ve never loved anyone as much as you,” he said.
The narrow chisel was still on her desk. He inserted it close to the box hinge, and moved the chisel by fractions from side to side, making a shim of it. The lid shifted into better alignment with the box.
“Let’s see if that did the trick.” He lowered the chisel, and tried the catch. The box opened.
Persephone sat up abruptly. “What’s inside?”
“No doll. There’s an inscription; and some kind of block wrapped in muslin.”
He brought the box to show her. Gold lettering spelt out:
31st October 1920
The Wedding Day of Hester Ashfield to Charles Wharton
“But I met Hester,” Persephone said wonderingly. “I told you – she was a woman Sorcerer. She taught me how to carve dolls once.”
“I thought I was your first teacher,” Larkin teased. He took out the muslin-wrapped cube. The fabric smelt strongly of alcohol. It unfolded to reveal an ancient slice of wedding cake.
Persephone said: “Julian Brown will be disappointed. But at least he won’t be out of pocket.”
“I’ll take the box with me to work,” Larkin said. “I can sneak it back into the stockroom without Dennis noticing. More easily than you can, anyway.”
“I wonder why Hester and Charles kept the cake?”
“That’s a thing people do after weddings,” Larkin said. “Sometimes they keep it for an anniversary, sometimes for a christening. Maybe those dates rolled round and the box had already jammed. Poor old cake never fulfilled its destiny. Shall we eat it?”
She laughed. “No. It must be inedible.”
“Fruitcake lasts forever. It’s full of sugar and preserved fruit and booze and it’s been in a sealed box. I think we can risk it.”
“Larkin!”
“I’ll go first.” He broke off a corner, and removed a shard of royal icing. Experimentally, he tasted it. “It’s rather good.”
He held out a second piece to her.
“All right,” Persephone said, abandoning, for once, her aversion to spirits. She ate from his hand. Rum, and a century-old glace cherry, slipped rich and sweet over her tongue.
42
Six of Persephone’s dolls sold within the first week of her putting them on the shelves. This gave her immense satisfaction. But the secret couldn’t be kept for long. Alastair was contacted directly, by one of their long-term customers, to congratulate him on a stunning new doll with an evocation of Languid Nostalgia. But Alastair knew they didn’t have that hex. On the last day before Kendricks closed for the festive season, he went to the shop floor to investigate.
“Show me the ledger, Persephone,” he said. This wasn’t unusual. The Sorcerer who made the doll was named whenever a sale was entered. In a show of daring, Persephone had written her own name for her six sales.
She passed him the open book with a smirk.
“What in Jesus’ name are you playing at?” he said, when he saw the entry.
“I told you I wanted to make dolls,” she said. “You wouldn’t let me. I took the initiative. I made some, and I laid enchantments upon them, and I sold them, because I am a good doll maker. I am a good Sorcerer, without your help.”
“Where the hell did you get multiple enchantments?” He shook his head. “This doesn’t add up, Persephone. These are one of the other Sorcerers’ dolls, aren’t they? Something they’ve made privately, and you’ve taken? Whose are they? Who are you thieving from?”
She laughed. “Get it into your head. I’m a Sorcerer.”
“You’re not making any sense,” he roared.
A few of the interior designers had gathered in the doorway to find out why he was shouting.
“Go back to work,” he spat at them, but they only retreated a few steps. To Persephone, he said: “Conrad will have you fired for this. Pretending someone else’s work is yours. And he’ll fire whoever helped you, too.”
“What good would that do?” Persephone said. “I’m not a little girl with no hex any more. I have dozens. If he fires me, I’ll sell my own magic dolls in competition.”
“Women can’t lay enchantments,” he insisted. “They’re not built for it.”
Rieko stepped from among the crowd assembled at the door.
“Persephone,” she called. “Come with me.”
Alastair looked at his wife in confusion. “I’m dealing with this.”
“No,” she replied. “You have dealt with things too long your own way. Either you believe women are inferior, or you know they are not, but it suits you to pretend otherwise.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“I wouldn’t have believed it when we met. But once we had children, I saw. The blithe way you made my work seem nothing.”
“This isn’t the place for this discussion,” he shouted. “This is about Persephone’s deception!”
Rieko beckoned to Persephone again. Persephone slid from the stool, and followed Rieko into the paternoster. They stepped out on the top floor.
“Take a seat,” Rieko said. Persephone sat at Alastair’s bench.
Dennis looked up in puzzlement. “Did Alastair send you?”
Both women ignored him. The paternoster whirred, and the other women began to disembark, in pairs, to gather round the desk.
Rieko looked at Persephone. “You need to teach us the hexes,” she said. “All of us on the first floor.”
“You want to be a Sorcerer?”
“I want to tell a story; and I can do so better if I conceive of the doll myself.”
Persephone nodded. “Conrad will be furious.”
“There are many of us. He can’t fire us all, still less with what you know.”
They would make Kendricks theirs. The women gathered in a circle before her, and Persephone began.
43
Kendricks Workshop shut its doors for the final time that year; but there was no rest for Hedwig, as she was tasked with co-ordinating Conrad’s festivities. A waterfall of greetings cards – from residents, collectors, and trade contacts – was cascading through the letterbox each morning. Among them came a different letter, apparently addressed using a typewriter as the words were indented and uneven. As soon as Hedwig saw the envelope she recalled her ransom letter and shivered; as though the Thief on the Winged Horse had discovered her deception, and was writing to let her know.
The contents were brusque.
To Hedwig Mayhew
Regarding your recent fraudulent replacement of the Paid Mourner, we demand payment to the value of one million pounds as a price for our silence.
You must obtain the funds by the end of the week and await further instruction.
That was all. The paper creased where Hedwig clenched it. Only a few people could have written such a letter. Briar was one, but as she had told Larkin, she doubted he would be believed if he told the truth now – and that made him less likely to make such a threat. That left Larkin himself; Scarlotta Dahl; and the butcher. Perhaps all three of them, in cahoots.
*
She went to London, to confront the butcher directly. This time, she disregarded the people waiting in the shop to be served, and made straight for the countertop.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Now.”
He replied, wryly, “There is a queue, madam.”
“I’ve received a bill that’s far in excess of what I purchased,” she said. “How do you account for it?”
“Wait there, madam.”
She endured the slow progression of the queue, and when it had cleared, followed the butcher into the back room, where fridges hummed and the tiles created an echo.
“Well?” she said.
“I’m not aware of any bill. As far as I was aware your balance was settled.”
She studied h
im, for any trace of guile. “Are you the only person here who bills the customers?”
“Yes.” The shop bell rang, signalling the entrance of another customer. “Leave by the side exit. I don’t want any further theatrics in the shop.”
She walked to the side door. At the threshold to the alley, she said over her shoulder: “I won’t be paying any more money. Just as long as you understand that.”
“You may need to impart the same message to our mutual friend.” The butcher checked the point of his knife with his thumb. “Tell him Scarlotta wouldn’t be pleased to hear tongues wagging and threats of police action. And if she’s unhappy, he’ll get his pretty face cut.”
Larkin. It was Larkin who sent the letter, the bastard.
44
Persephone had gone to visit Briar in prison – a so far delayed but necessary excursion – and she had declined Larkin’s company for the trip. He was thus drinking alone in the Eyot Tavern when Hedwig crashed into the public bar, doors swinging behind her, and demanded to speak to Larkin upstairs. They proceeded to the lounge, where she accused him of blackmailing her by that morning’s post.
“It can only be you or Scarlotta,” she said. “And the butcher says it’s you.”
Larkin laughed. “He would, surely, whatever the truth of the matter.”
“No, he’s probably right. Why would he blackmail me when I could so easily tell the police he acted as intermediary? He would have something to lose.”
Spreading his hands, Larkin said: “I can only give you my word. I didn’t write you any letter. It might have escaped your notice, but money was never my motivation for being here.”
Hesitation flickered over her face. But she wasn’t won over. “You and money. It’s never made sense. You dress like a scarecrow and you slept in the orchard but you dropped thousands of pounds on dolls. I know what you’re earning as an apprentice, it doesn’t begin to cover that kind of habit. So where does your money come from, Larkin? Do you survive on extortion – turning the thumb screws on people like me?”
“I have what you might call an allowance,” he said. “From – a wealthier family member.”
“So you deny any need to blackmail me. As does the butcher. They never learnt my name, Larkin, unless you told them.”
“I did not.”
“Which means you are the only one who could write me a letter. You’re either lying about giving them my name, or lying about keeping this confidential, or lying about sending the letter.”
“There is an alternative explanation. Didn’t you fear Briar would spill the beans?”
“Yes – but – he’s taken the full blame – he has never implicated me.”
“He’s a paragon, I’m sure. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t said something to a cell mate with few scruples. Maybe while on prison hooch.”
She put her face in her hands.
“You could just give them what they ask for,” Larkin said quietly. “Conrad has paid his ransom, hasn’t he? I assume it’s just sitting somewhere, seeing as it didn’t actually go to the thief. Surely you could siphon off whatever this blackmailer has asked for? You won’t be out of pocket, and Conrad will be none the wiser.”
Hedwig looked at him sideways, her eyes glistening with tears. Then she set her mouth, and Larkin knew he had failed to assure her of his innocence, despite widening the scope of possible culprits.
“You’ve over-reached,” she said calmly. “I want you off the eyot now. Do you understand me? I’m taking pity on you. Because you should know, Larkin – the butcher threatened to cut you. If I tell him you sent that letter, he’s prepared to get your silence. And I will tell him, if you’re still here when I return this evening.”
She left the room.
It was disquieting to hear of the butcher’s reaction. If he tried cutting Larkin, then Larkin would cut back. A quick jab in the femoral artery would do the trick. Still Larkin had little to gain from Hedwig telling tales. Better leave, and avoid the aggravation. This was not how Larkin had intended to exit: under threat, and lacking an expected source of income. He soothed himself that he had the enchantments.
There was the small matter of what to do about Persephone. Unaccountably, he found himself reluctant to go without bidding her farewell, and even felt some trepidation about their imminent separation. He attributed these feelings to withdrawal from her enchantment. He was perplexed, and annoyed, that laying the same enchantment on a doll was a weak substitute that utterly failed to sate him. For now, he would check into one of the city’s hotels; it would be convenient for Persephone to visit before his departure.
He helped himself to a cigarette from Mrs Mayhew’s stash in the kitchen, and then went to his room. What to take with him, when he preferred to travel light? The hexes were in his phone and backed up. He need only take a few clothes, for clothes were easily replaceable. Of his dolls he prioritised the zoetrope, which was too large to take intact, but had been designed for easy dismantling. The parts, and the twelve replica Mourners, fit snugly into his doctor’s bag. The clasp strained but remained closed.
There was only one other doll he was certain he must take with him now. On the night of the masquerade, before the police arrived, he’d concealed her in the hollow of a quince tree. It hadn’t been safe to bring her back to the Tavern until Briar was in prison. Since then she’d been hidden in the lining of Larkin’s coat. He’d pushed her through a hole in the pocket. She still harboured a woodlouse or two.
Larkin put his coat on. He checked the time in the twilight: four o’clock.
Better to avoid the bar, he decided; Mrs Mayhew would have questions. He took the stairs silently, luggage in hand, exited by the back door, and kept going.
45
The prison visitors’ room was dispiriting in a bland, grimy way: the chairs were fixed to the green vinyl floors, and a grid of heating pipes crossed the ceiling. The room was too warm for comfort. Persephone could feel the perspiration collecting on her skin as she awaited Briar’s arrival.
She saw him enter before he saw her. His gauntness had worsened; his neck looked brittle as a twig, barely able to support his head.
His eyes widened with pleasure when he found her, and he straightened his back – she sensed with the intention to hug her – but he settled again when she, unthinkingly, shrank.
“Are you eating?” she asked.
“Not had much appetite.”
They listened to one of the other men improbably discussing entomology with his grandson. Latin names peppered his speech: Blattodea and Demaptera and Orthoptera.
“I received an anonymous greetings card with various news and best wishes. It was from Hedwig, I’ll bet. She’s the main witness for the prosecution so she wouldn’t want to sign it.” He paused. “She’s a good girl. Will you tell her something for me? Tell her she’s got nothing to fear from me.”
What reason was there for paternal feeling towards Hedwig? The day he mended the Eyot Tavern window, when Persephone was eight, had taken on additional possibilities over the years. Persephone had speculated whether the nature of Briar’s relationship with Hedwig was all it appeared. But Briar had shown no particular affection towards Hedwig – until now. Maybe prison was forcing an adjustment of his priorities.
“All right,” Persephone said. “I’ll pass the message on.”
“Her card said you’re selling dolls.”
“I am, no thanks to Alastair. He tried to put a stop to it.”
“Pompous prick. Sell them somewhere else.” His eyes fixed on the bug experts. “Where did you get the hexes?”
“A lucky find.” Or Larkin’s lucky find. But she didn’t want to discuss anything emotional with her father, and Larkin was an emotional subject.
“Ah, that’s good,” he said absently. “There’s something I should tell you, Persephone. About your hex.”
Persephone’s heart shivered, because she intuited this was going to be an emotional conversation after all.
“I did try ou
t your hex,” he said. “I was eager. Eager and worried.”
“Worried?”
“Let me finish. I made a wax doll, a quick one. I wanted to try out the enchantment. The wax hardened and the sorcery was laid on. It was then I realised your hex was Adrenaline-fuelled Fear.”
“Daddy, what have you done?” Persephone said, though she anticipated what he was going to say next.
“I threw the doll back in the melting pan, and I burnt the disc to ash.”
“But why?”
“Because I knew how it would feel. I grew up with my disc reading Shame. It weighs on you, knowing that your greatest power is evoking shame in people. Fear is no better. Who wants to make people frightened? I don’t regret burning it. But I regret not telling you why. I thought it was for the best. Much better that you never knew what it was at all. That was what I believed. It didn’t occur to me that lacking an enchantment would make you sad in a different way. I’m sorry.”
“Dad…” She shook her head. “We’re a pair of fucking idiots. I found a line of wax, on the cooker, enchanted with Fear. I guessed you’d melted a doll. But I assumed it was the Paid Mourner. That explanation made sense at the time.”
At this he began to sob. She couldn’t acknowledge his tears, because to do so involved closeness, and she didn’t want to be close to him. But she saw the damage that had been done to him by the eyot. For Shame was as valid a hex as any other, put to its proper use; it allowed atonement, when it was shared by a community, rather than shouldered by one, broken man. If everyone on the eyot had been permitted to share their hexes, then no one’s life would be dominated by a single, engulfing feeling.
His tears made her prattle. “If I ever cleaned the sides of the cooker this might have come up years ago. But wax needs scraping. Water and soap runs off it. No one scrapes the side of an oven.”
“I need to put something right. Do you have a pen? A scrap of paper?”
Relieved to hear a clear instruction, Persephone checked her bag. There was a biro, and a receipt for a book she’d bought at the station. Briar took them both, and drew a hex upon the blank side.
The Thief on the Winged Horse Page 23
