Wings over Water (A King's Watch Story Book 2)

by Mark Hayden

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘I thought you knew. She’s Hannah’s twin, and our contact in the police. If I’m in luck, she’s still at work.’

  Inspector Ruth Kaplan of the City of London Police was still at work. Good. I sweet talked her into checking the ownership history of Draxholt, and she said she’d get back to me.

  ‘What did you say at the end?’ said Woody when I’d disconnected.

  ‘Ah gutten Erev Shabbos. It’s Friday night, or it will be. Talking of which, shall we go to the pub and come back later? The sun doesn’t set until 21:35.’

  She shook her head. ‘You go if you want. It’s much better for me to just be here. There’s no law that says Spirits appear after sunset or at midnight, and don’t forget British Summer Time: actual midnight isn’t until 1am. It’s just that the later it is, the more likely they are to appear. Ditto for the time I spend in contemplation.’

  The rain was getting heavier, and I checked the forecast. It wasn’t due to ease up for ages. ‘I could do with extra layers, and I’ll try and bribe the landlord for sandwiches. Do you want anything?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m used to this. In fact, it’s a real luxury to have portable toilets.’

  ‘Right. I’ll try not to think about that. I won’t be long.’

  The Talbot is a lovely hotel. It’s also beyond the normal limit of expenses and half an hour from Draxholt. Too far. We’d checked out this morning and moved to an inn near Sherburn with the unusual name of “The Heavy Gunner.” The signboard showed a substantial artilleryman next to an equally substantial piece of ordnance. England is full of oddly named pubs.

  The landlord agreed to provide sandwiches (at a price), and I nipped upstairs to get some extra layers. Ruth called while I was putting on thicker socks.

  ‘I shall start calling you the Bloodhound,’ she began. ‘You can sniff out trouble from a hundred miles.’

  ‘I’ve had worse nicknames. Tell me.’

  ‘It belonged to the Brompton estate, as in the Earls of Brompton. They owned a big chunk of the Vale of Pickering. When the last earl died in the war, the estate was broken up into farm-sized parcels and sold off. Except for that one field.’

  One sock was on. I dropped the other and grabbed my notebook. ‘Who owns it now and which war are we talking about?’

  ‘World War 2. He had no brothers and two daughters, and mere women can’t inherit, can they?’

  ‘Definitely not. That wouldn’t be good at all.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you meant that. Come to think of it, do you?’

  ‘Ask my sister. Who owns the land now?’

  ‘It went into a trust, and that’s where it becomes opaque. I can’t start looking into it until Monday morning. Will that be too late?’

  ‘I hope so. In a good way. I think I can guess who benefits from the trust. Did the Earls of Brompton have a suitable stately home?’

  ‘They did. It was converted into apartments in the 1970s. None of the current registered owners have the family surname.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘Anything else before I shut down my computer and apologise to Moshe for being late starting the dinner?’ There was a distinct warning in her voice. I’d used up my Brownie points for today.

  ‘No. Tell your husband it’s all my fault. He’ll forgive you and blame Hannah. And tell her I haven’t upset too many people yet.’

  ‘Tell her yourself. Ah gutten Erev Shabbos, Conrad.’

  ‘And you, Ruth.’

  My laptop was charging quietly in the corner. Should I take a risk and look up the Earls of Brompton, or get back to Woody? Much as I fancied sitting in the warm, dry pub, the call of duty was ringing over the fields. I closed my notebook and picked up the other sock.

  The landlord had our evening picnic ready when I got downstairs. ‘Room all right, squadron leader?’ he said.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  He went to the till. ‘Good job you suspended digging at Draxholt, or you’d be sharing with your colleague. She got Dr Rice’s room. Our best.’

  ‘Oh. Has she gone?’

  ‘As you were wanting the room, I let her have a refund. She’s gone home to Clitheroe. There’s your change.’

  ‘Must have been a nice boost to trade,’ I said, stuffing the money away. Anything to give me an excuse not to go back into the rain.

  He grinned. ‘Thirsty work, all that digging. Are you there to look for the bodies?’

  He didn’t see my hand stop in mid air. I smoothed down my pocket and gave him my best conspiratorial grin. ‘What bodies would those be?’

  He grinned back. ‘The Germans, of course. My dad called them the Krauts, but we’re supposed to be friends now, aren’t we? Brexit notwithstanding.’

  I made myself comfortable. The bar was empty, just that bit too early for the post-work crowd. ‘Scotch, please, and one for yourself.’ I got my wallet back out.

  He put my drink down and stowed the ten pound note in the till. I gave the scotch a sniff and left it. ‘What did your dad tell you?’

  ‘That yarn you span to the diggers,’ he said. ‘The one about Aircraftman Tomkins. Just enough truth in it to give you some cover.’

  ‘I’d hoped they’d keep it secret,’ I muttered.

  ‘No one gossips like professors. My great uncle was the one who saw it, if you can believe a word he said. My granddad was away with the war, and his little brother was too young to be called up in ’42. He had to register though, and he had to do Home Guard duty. Proper Dad’s Army it were, too, until the Jerrys crashed, but you’ll know all about that, won’t you?’

  The look on his face said that he didn’t expect me to know anything. The door slammed and a pair of young women stamped their feet noisily in the foyer, complaining loudly about the rain. One of them came through and headed for the bar.

  The landlord moved away to serve his new customer. ‘Heinkel He 111,’ he said. ‘Crew of five, normally. There’s one in the churchyard, and the POW van took another one away from Staxton Hall. I’m sure you can count. Right, Thea, what can I get you?’

  I left my scotch on the bar, untouched. It was only blended. No great waste.

  The Peculier Necromancer had not been idle while I collected dry clothes. A very neat hole had now appeared in the Draxholt grass, well away from either of the dig areas. A trail of muddy tracks led back to the mini-digger.

  ‘Good job, Woody,’ I said. ‘Did you get bored?’

  ‘A bit. And I thought the digger might get bogged down if it carries on raining. Everything okay? You look a bit … preoccupied?’

  I hadn’t been going to tell her (or you), but we had another four and a half hours until sunset, and I couldn’t share it with anyone else. ‘It’s Mina. I can’t get hold of her to talk to. I think she’s up to something.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Do you mean … ?’

  ‘Do I mean another man? No, I don’t. I trust Mina completely. It’s her family I’m not sure about. And talking of family, I think we may encounter a Brompton before we’re finished.’

  I told her about the late Earl, about the trust and about the old tale told to me by the landlord of the Heavy Gunner. ‘Was it coincidence that the story I dreamed up was similar, do you think?’

  ‘I know you don’t like coincidences, Conrad, but they do happen. You had to come up with a story that wasn’t in the records, and there aren’t many variants with dead bodies in them. I should know, I’ve looked into enough similar cases. The thing that intrigues me is that he said the POW van went to Staxton Hall, not Draxholt Airfield. There might be something in it, or like I said, it might be all an old wives’ tale. I’m more intrigued by the trust that owns the land now.’

  ‘What’s the betting that one of the Earl’s daughters was involved in the world of magick?’

  ‘Or his wife. Shall I look up how he died? What are the odds on him being in the RAF, I wonder? Fancy a bet?’

  ‘Go on. If he wasn’t in th
e RAF, I get your room. It’s much nicer. What do you want if you’re right?’

  She was going to laugh it off, then she paused. ‘Do you see much of Dean Cora Hardisty?’

  ‘Now and then. I have a lot of time for her, especially after what she’s been through.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘If the last Earl of Brompton died in an aircraft, I bags a social meeting with Dean Cora.’

  ‘Deal. I’ll invite you both for dinner.’ I took out my room key and slapped it on the table. ‘Go on then.’

  Woody got her phone out. It didn’t take her long. ‘Damn. He died in a tank during the D-Day campaign.’ She looked up. ‘Why were you so certain?’

  ‘It’s fashionable for royalty to join the RAF these days, but back then, no member of the aristocracy would be seen dead in light blue. We’re too meritocratic. Imagine the scandal if they failed their aircrew tests? I bet he was in one of the old cavalry regiments.’

  She looked at her phone again. ‘The 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars. Damn. I should have thought of that. Dad will laugh his socks off when I tell him.’ She took out her room key and swapped them over. I took it for now (a bet’s a bet, after all). Whether I gave it back later would depend on how the evening went. I looked out at the rain. It was going to be a long and miserable one, with a chance of violent death later.

  I shoved the key in my pocket. ‘Are you close, you and your dad?’

  ‘Yeah. Despite him not being entangled.’ She meant that he wasn’t involved in the world of magick.

  ‘How did he take it when you came out? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  She gave the square shrug again. I thought it was her uniform that made her do that, but there’s some tension in those shoulders. ‘He was great. In his head, it’s all tied up with the visions. I started my magickal education at the same time as I came out, so when I stopped acting like a nutcase, he put it down to having repressed my true nature for years. He blames himself for that, of course, no matter how much I tell him otherwise. He’s great about it, though he is checking his watch and wondering when the grandkids are coming along.’

  The curtain of rain dripping off the four sides of the gazebo was like the walls of a confessional. We’d both said things we wouldn’t outside it, and it was Woody who’d brought the subject up. ‘What about you?’ I said gently. ‘Is your biological clock ticking?’

  She made a face. ‘I asked for that, didn’t I? We’re ready for kids, but there’s a problem with the sperm donor.’

  I had no idea what to say to that. Woody didn’t notice my lack of response. She was looking out at the rain, thinking of Cambridge.

  ‘I’d like a Mage, or the chance of one,’ she said. ‘Frances is adamant that is has to be a gay donor. What about you, Conrad?’

  ‘Mina and I are both old fashioned. We want to get married first.’

  ‘So? I’ll help you down on one knee, if you’re leg’s hurting.’

  ‘I shall bear that offer in mind. My leg isn’t the problem, it’s the Nāgin, the snake-woman.’

  She sat up straight. ‘You’re having me on!’

  ‘I wish I was. I’ll tell you about it.’

  That’s how we passed the next three hours. It’s amazing how much you feel you can get to know someone when you’re shut away like that.

  And then, we weren’t alone any more. We looked up and seven men were standing round the gazebo looking very unhappy.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Woody. That was my thought exactly.

  5 — Defence of the Realm

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ said Woody. I was more than happy with that, and nodded mutely in agreement.

  It was nowhere near night-time yet, but the gloom of the cloud and rain made the light murky, and shadows from another world flickered over the men’s faces. The aircrew’s faces.

  All seven wore overalls under heavy sheepskin flying jackets. Leather helmets distorted the shape of some of their heads, as if they weren’t creepy enough already. The rain wasn’t getting them wet, nor was it passing through them like a hologram. It just seemed to stop when it got to their space. Their faces were swarthy, sunburned and battle hardened.

  They were beyond the gazebo, standing in a group between us and the second dig site. Four of them were in a rough line, with two slightly behind and one slightly in front. Woody had already sprung out of her seat and taken a step towards them. I don’t spring out of chairs any more. I got up as steadily as I could and moved to stand behind her and to the right.

  Woody cleared her throat. ‘Please forgive us for trespassing in your domain. We are honoured to meet you.’

  She followed her words with a bow. I came to attention and saluted. It seemed like the right thing to do. The airman at the front wasn’t wearing a helmet. A flat cap, just like mine, adorned his head. An officer. The Pilot in Command. He returned my salute and turned his focus back to Woody. I may outrank her on the parade ground, but these veterans knew that she was the one in charge of this operation. He straightened his cap and blinked. In the gloom, his eyes shone a vibrant blue, completely at odds with the heavy stubble and a skin tone that matched the others behind him.

  ‘You’ve come again,’ he said, with an accent I’d never heard before. The words come again sounded like hom agayin. Not Polish, not French. The RAF did cast its net wide during WW2.

  ‘We’re here to help you,’ said Woody. ‘I can be your bridge to the world. I can answer your questions.’ She paused, lifting and opening her arms. ‘I can help you fly your final mission. Into the next life.’

  She wasn’t winging it – this was something she’d said before. It came across as confident, reassuring and exactly what a lost soul would want to hear. The crew were not interested.

  ‘It is not for you to help,’ said the pilot. ‘Make your offering if you wish, and go in peace.’

  That was a stumper, and no mistake. Their script didn’t sound like any ghost I’ve ever heard of. Woody’s head tilted back a fraction as she absorbed the message.

  ‘Your vigil must be a lonely one,’ she said, ‘with nothing but the stars for company.’ She paused again. ‘We share your motto. Per ardua ad astra. Through struggle we reach the stars. I can help you reach the stars and rejoin those you’ve left behind.’

  One of the two guys at the back looked up at the rain and muttered to his comrade. I had no idea what he said, but my money’s on no fucking stars out tonight. When he spoke, a breeze drifted under the awning, carrying that scent of wildflowers again, and the ozone tang of the sea, just like it did when I’d been dowsing with Maddy. I grasped at the memory. Nearly there.

  The second airman looked up, too, a wry smile on his face. It froze there. He pointed at the sky and shouted something in an alien tongue. What the…?

  The pilot pivoted and pushed his comrades aside to look up. Woody stepped forward and turned to scan the scene. I grabbed her arm. ‘Woody. The gate. Someone’s here.’

  There was a shadow at the entrance, the bulky shadow of a squat 4x4. A woman was getting out of the front. ‘You see to her,’ said Woody. She strode out of the gazebo to join the aircrew, all of whom were now staring and pointing at the sky.

  I paused to grab the Anvil, my Gnomish sword, and slung it over my shoulder. The woman pulled the hood of her Barbour over her head and climbed the gate. I was half way to meet her when she jumped into the field and picked up a sword of her own. She must have chucked it over while I was talking to Woody, and lingering hope that this wasn’t a Mage disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  She lifted her gaze and the hood slid back a fraction, enough for me to see pale skin, fair hair and a triumphant smile. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and risked a glance up and back. I stopped still and slowly turned to get a proper look.

  There was a light in the clouds. A point of light like a giant LED torch being held by the god of thunder. It got brighter, closer to the edge of the clouds, and then it emerged. A black figure came first, a little mannequin born out of th
e mist. It was followed by the light, and the light became the glowing canopy of a parachute. A paratrooper from Heaven? I knew it was nonsense (Heaven is not up in the sky, apparently), but the thought thrust itself into my head anyway. The clouds were so low that it wouldn’t take the newcomer long to land, and he or she was heading for the roped off area of the second dig. The aircrew shouted and charged towards the drop zone.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ said a cultured voice next to me. I hadn’t heard her come up, and flinched away. Her hood was lowered, and an aristocratic woman about Woody’s age smiled at me. ‘My grandmother, Patience,’ she said, pointing to the parachutist. ‘Or her Spectre to be precise, Mr Clarke. I’m Eleanor Brampton, as you’ve probably guessed. Come on, or they’ll start without us.’

  I could have stopped her. Probably. At least slowed her down. I chose not to. For one thing, she hadn’t broken any laws. This was her land, and that was her grandmother. She jogged towards the brewing confrontation; I gritted my teeth and jogged after her.

  The parachutist executed a perfect landing and roll in the dead centre of the dig site and bounced back to her feet. I was getting closer, and it was definitely a woman. Behind her, the canopy, still glowing, subsided to the ground and put her face in shadow. The aircrew had given her a wide berth on the way down, but now they hopped over the ropes and surrounded her. The pilot stopped about twenty feet in front of her, with Woody catching up.

  The pilot barked something in that strange language, full of Xs and Chs and K sounds. The Spectre of Patience Brompton just smiled at them and hit the quick-release on her harness. She shrugged it off and it sank into the earth; behind her the silk canopy did the same, leaving a glow to spread across the grass and light up everyone’s faces. Patience pulled off her leather helmet and shook out her hair into a long bob. Now that I could see her properly, the resemblance to Eleanor was clear.

  Her granddaughter vaulted the sagging rope and dashed between two airmen. She stopped at a respectful distance and bent the knee, bowing her head and lifting her long coat in a curtsy to Patience. I caught up with the group, and Woody turned to look at me. Her face was a picture of appalled confusion and a fair bit of terror. That made two of us.