Jake held up a finger and Horatio bit it thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m his.”
She started up the car. “You’ll fit in at the Abbey. They say it’s a place for eccentrics.”
Wharton had time to say “Really?” before he was flung back in his seat. She drove awkwardly, scraping the car around in a three-point turn before jerking out of the parking lot. They were through the village before Jake got much of a look at it—old thatched houses, a post office, the pub, then narrow lanes, high-banked with thorny hedges.
“I’m Jake Wilde,” he said.
“Rebecca Donahue.” Her eyes met Wharton’s in the mirror.
He said, “George Wharton. One of Jake’s—”
“Uncles,” Jake said firmly.
“…uncles. Right.”
Rebecca’s eyes flicked between the mirror and the road. Jake knew she was puzzled at the obvious lie. He said, “You live here?”
“I’m at uni. In Exeter. I’m home for Christmas.” She took a corner at a crunching angle that made Wharton breathe a brief swear word.
“Do you know Venn?”
“Oberon Venn?” She looked surprised. “No. Of course not. No one knows him. Well, maybe some of the older villagers used to, but not these days. No one goes to the Abbey anymore. I’m desperate to know why you are.”
If they told her, it would be all over the village—that was how these places worked. Jake said, “Venn’s my godfather. I’m staying for a while.”
The car squealed around a bend. “Is he really? That must be so exciting.”
“Must it?”
“Well…yes. Wow, he was so amazing in that series he did. Volcanoes and stuff. And he’s so hot!”
She raised her eyebrows. Jake looked out of the window, disgusted.
They had entered a steep valley; the lane down it was narrow, branches scraping both sides of the car. As they descended, Jake heard the crunch of frosted gravel under the tires; starlings flew in the twilight, squawking from the trees above. At the bottom, surrounded by what seemed like a thick wood, were two locked iron gates in a pillared wall. Rebecca slammed the brakes on just before the car hit them.
“Sorry. I’ve never been down this way before.”
“As a matter of interest,” Wharton said mildly, “have you actually passed any sort of driving test?”
She glared at him. “Last week.”
“I’m amazed.”
“Well, so am I actually. It was my third go.” She hit the horn; a long noisy hoot. “Is he expecting you?”
Before Jake could answer, the gates shuddered jerkily open, as far as the massed overgrown holly on one side would allow. Tense with nerves, he said, “We can walk from here, thanks.”
“No way.” Rebecca changed gear with a crunching effort. “I want to see the famous Venn. Anyway, the drive is probably miles long.”
He looked back at Wharton, who said, “In that case, please carry on.”
The girl smiled. Jake had the feeling she was laughing at him; he felt annoyed at her stupid adoration of Venn. Moodily he stared out at the overgrown driveway. Every moment brought him closer to the house. It made him shiver; he fingered the wallet in his pocket, picturing his father’s cheery smile in the black-and-white photograph. Whatever secrets lurked here, he wouldn’t rest till he’d clawed them out into daylight.
For a mile the car jolted along, Rebecca taking it carefully now, because the Wood this deep was a black-and-white kingdom of frost, the track pitted with deep potholes. They came to the splintered trunk of a great dead tree lying right across the way.
“Good heavens.” Wharton opened the window and leaned out. “Is that deliberate?”
“They say he doesn’t like visitors. But someone must come, because there’s a sort of way around the side…” Rebecca maneuvered the car clumsily around the obstacle, jolting Wharton and the suitcases violently in the process. The monkey gave a shriek of protest.
“Oh shut up. I’m doing my best.”
Suddenly space opened up; in the white landscape of winter frost they saw the Abbey, pale in the moonlight, its lawns rectangles of silver. It seemed to Wharton that it crouched down in the Wood, that the trees surrounded it like a threat, as if one day they would devour it, grow over it completely.
Rebecca stopped the car on the weedy gravel and turned the engine off. “Wow,” she said, into the silence.
Jake gazed up at the ancient windows, the gargoyled gables. The place chilled him. He got out and stood facing it, like an enemy. Wharton hauled the suitcases after him. “Thank you so much, Ms. Donahue. It would have been tiring to have walked all this way.”
She wasn’t listening; her eyes were on the house. He turned, and saw that a man had come out, a tall, fair-haired man who stood on the frosty steps with an upright, arrogant assurance.
“It’s him,” Rebecca muttered. “Oh, double wow.”
Venn said, “I don’t know how you got in here, but you can leave now.”
Jake turned and faced his father’s killer. He felt only a coldness. As deep and numbing as if he could never be warm again.
Wharton stepped between them hastily. “Mr. Venn. Perhaps I should—”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Wharton. George Wharton. Head of Humanities, Compton’s School.”
Venn’s stare was blank. “Compton’s…?”
“In Geneva. Switzerland.”
It was enough. The anger in Venn’s blue eyes transformed to a swift wariness. He looked at Jake, who hadn’t moved. Nervous now, Wharton said, “This is Jake Wilde. Your godson.”
Venn was staring at Jake. “You’re David’s boy?”
“Yes. He is.” Jake’s silence made Wharton stammer anything to fill it. “You remember, I’m sure…the e-mail.”
Venn said, “I don’t send e-mails.”
“You did, I assure you. We, the school, that is, explained that Jake had…exceeded a few limits. Your reply was for us to send him home.”
Venn seemed to drag his gaze from Jake to Wharton. Then he turned and snarled “Piers!” in a voice of utter fury.
A tiny man in a white lab coat came leaping down the steps and ran hurriedly toward them.
Wharton caught the glint of a gold earring in his ear. Venn rounded on him. “Tell me you didn’t do this.”
Piers’s voice was shaky. “I did. I replied to their message. I told them to send the boy.”
Venn was breathless with disbelief. “Are you mad? Am I living in a house of maniacs? What possible—”
“I felt it was the best thing to do.” Piers shot a curious glance at Jake.
“You felt!” Venn exploded. “What gives you the right to feel anything! Don’t you think I might feel something too? About him? About David?”
Piers held his ground, folding his arms. “Yes, of course, but Excellency, you were off in the Summerland. I had to make a decision.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I was…er…I felt it was best to let them arrive. After all, it was too late to stop them.”
Wharton glanced at Jake. The boy’s silence, the intensity of his stare, was terrifying. “Look…I’m sure we…” he started, but Jake’s voice startled them all.
“Don’t think you can send me away.” The words were low, hoarse, almost unrecognizable. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Venn was still. Then he stepped closer, and they stood face-to-face. “Your father was my greatest friend.”
“Was he? So where is he now?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t care?”
“Of course I care.”
“Then where is he? What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.” Jake stood cold and tall. His hands were shaking. He felt as if something was burning and heavy in his chest. “You do know. You’re responsible. He never left this house. He never got on any train.”
Venn was white-faced. Even Wharton noticed his flicker of sur
prise.
Jake stepped close. “He was all I had. You took him away.”
“Jake…”
He pulled fiercely from Wharton’s grip. “Did you think you could buy me off with some fancy school? You must have known I’d turn up here one day, looking for you. You must have known I’d never let you get away with it.”
Venn stood rigid. Softly he said, “What exactly do you think I did?”
“He knew too much about your secrets. You made sure he’d never talk.”
“Secrets? What secrets?”
“The Chronoptika.”
For a moment Venn’s eyes were shards of ice. “What do you know about that?” he breathed.
Jake grinned, sour. “I’m sure you’d like to find that out. That’s what you killed him for.”
Wharton, appalled, held his breath. The force of the boy’s accusation was raw, like the aftermath of lightning in charged air. The evening hushed to listen, the crows cawed over the wood, a faint warm smell of oil drifted from the engine of the car.
Venn’s response surprised them. He seemed almost relieved; he shook his head and thrust his hands into the pockets of his dark jacket and stood there, gazing at Jake. When he spoke, his voice was almost weary. “You’re so much like him.”
Jake didn’t move.
“Listen to me, boy, I loved your father. He was my only friend. You don’t seem to believe that, but it’s true. I would give anything to find out where he is.”
“You admit you’re responsible.”
“No…not in the way you mean.” Venn took a sudden step forward, his voice urgent. “David’s not dead. He’s alive, somewhere. And I’ll find him.”
Jake snorted, but he seemed shaken. “I’m not going from here until I know what happened.”
“I see.” Venn flicked a glance at Piers. “You! I suppose you’ve already got rooms ready.”
“South wing.” Piers scratched his thin scrap of beard. “But I didn’t expect an entourage.”
They all looked at Rebecca, who was standing by the car, staring at Jake. She seemed fascinated. Startled, she lifted her hands. “Oh, I’m just the lift.”
“Good.” Venn turned away. Then he swung back. “But you, Jack…”
“Jake. My name’s Jake.”
“I don’t care what your name is. Keep out of my way. Keep out of my business. Don’t go prying into things you don’t understand. You’re only staying because it’s what David would have wanted.”
There was a sting of scorn there, a whiplash of pain. With a glare at Piers, Venn turned and stalked away from the house, ducking down a path into the darkening Wood.
Piers blew out his cheeks in relief, and began gathering up luggage. “Well, I think that went quite reasonably under the circumstances. Welcome to Wintercombe Abbey, gentlemen.”
“No, wait!” Wharton turned quickly. “I’m not staying. At least…”
“Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry about messing up the play.” Jake held out his hand. “Have a great time in Shepton Mallet.”
Wharton stared at the outstretched hand and then beyond it, at the shadowy gloom of the house.
“Will you be all right?”
“Fine. Maybe Rebecca will give you a lift back.”
“Oh…right,” she said. “Why not use up all my petrol.”
Wharton hesitated. Then, over Jake’s shoulder, high in a tiny attic window, he saw a face, watching him. A small, white face, young, like a girl’s. It ducked away, and he saw that the window was barred.
He stared up. Had he imagined that? What sort of place was this dark house buried in wildwood? After all, the father had vanished here. What if the son did too? Around him the twilight had become night; there were stars in the frosty sky, and the acrid smell of wood smoke. He cleared his throat.
“Well, now…it’s rather late. Perhaps I should stay…just till Christmas. See you settled in.”
Jake dropped his hand. He managed a wry smile. “Loco parentis.”
“Sort of.”
How could he leave the boy in this godforsaken place with a man as hostile as Venn? Besides, the Head would be avid to know all about it.
Piers was already crunching over the gravel with their cases under his arms and clutched in long, spidery fingers. Jake let the monkey out of the bag; it leaped wildly onto the car, shrieking with delight.
“Hey! Watch my windshield wipers.” Rebecca put her hands in her pockets. “Did you mean all that…about murder? That is so…weird.”
“My father went missing here. That’s all I know.”
She gazed at him a moment. Then she leaned into the car and came out with a torn envelope; she scrawled on it hastily. “Look. Here’s my phone number and e-mail. I live nearby. If you ever want a drink or a chat or anything.” She held it out. “I mean, this place is pretty isolated. Give me a call.”
He took it, feeling awkward. She meant well, and so did Wharton, but he just wanted them to leave him alone. Though as he watched her drive off he felt a strange ebb of confidence, especially when the purr of the engine had faded and he and Wharton stood alone in the silent evening.
They looked at each other. The marmoset jumped down and ran to the lighted porch. “He knows where supper is,” Wharton said, too heartily cheerful.
Piers was waiting for them on the porch. Next to him, seven black cats, all identical, sat in a silent row. Their green eyes watched Jake gravely. Climbing the steps, Wharton said, “Does anyone else live here, Mr. Piers, apart from you and Mr. Venn?”
The small man gave him a mischievous, sidelong look. “My niece helps out. Otherwise, quite the bachelor establishment.”
Wharton nodded, stepping into the cedar-paneled hall.
Jake paused on the step. The faintest breeze touched him. He turned and looked out at the Wood. For a moment he had felt as if someone out there in the tangled greenery had called him, had silently spoken his name. But there was no one, and he was cold, so he went in and closed the door.
Standing high in the oak branches, leaning back against the trunk, Gideon watched the human enter the Dwelling. Green as moss, his eyes narrowed, and he practiced a laugh, as he often did, just to hear the sound, to be sure he could still do it. Because one day he might forget how, and the Shee would truly own him. That fear tormented him.
First the girl, now these two.
Things were getting crowded in the winter world.
He swung himself down and landed light among the leaf-litter. His clothes were a patchwork of velvets and denim tagged with scraps of lace; his face and long hair streaked with wood dyes. The starlings saw him but didn’t rise in alarm, their beady eyes watching carefully.
Summer would need to know about this.
He turned. The birds blinked and squawked as he vanished into the Wood.
A forged process of my death.
6
Christmas at Wintercombe—how wonderful! The great Christmas tree in the hall, the masses of presents, the vast arrangements of holly and ivy and mistletoe all down the stairs and decking every windowsill. The whole house warm with the smells of baking and sweetmeats. I am living in a dream, my dear!
Letter of Lady Mary Venn to her sister, 1834
SARAH WAS EATING toast in the kitchen the next morning when Piers came in. He had some cartons of milk and a newspaper, so he must have been to the village. How had he gotten there and back so quickly? She glanced anxiously at the paper. Then she said, “So who are they?”
“Who are who, exactly?”
“The man and the boy. They arrived last night. They’re still here. And Venn—he didn’t come back. He’s been gone all night.”
Piers arranged some breakfast things fussily on a tray. “You’re an observer, Sarah. That’s very good. His Excellency will need that. But don’t get ahead of yourself. He does what he wants, and I assure you, no one is safer in the Wood than Venn.”
She frowned. He was avoiding answers. “What about the others? If they find out about me…”
He was already working at the ancient range, pouring milk onto porridge. “They won’t. The boy is the son of an old friend of Venn’s who’s turned up out of the blue.” He looked over, a quizzical glance. “They’re not local. They don’t know anything about you. You’re quite safe.”
Unsatisfied, she sat at the empty table. It looked as if it had been made for a staff of forty. She pictured the room crowded with servants, bustling around the vast chimney, so big, you could sit on a bench inside it. Down from its blackened stones hung a collection of spits and pans and copper pots, all too heavy to lift and coated with a frosty soot. Spiders had constructed elaborate cities of web among them. Three identical black cats snoozed on a chair in a heap.
She pushed the toast crust around the plate. “Can I explore?”
“Please do. It’s an ancient, rambling house. But don’t go—”
“To the Monk’s Walk. I know.” She looked up. “Is that where it is?”
He smiled. “It?”
“This Chronoptika.”
Piers did not pause in his rapid stirring, but maybe the spoon circled a little faster. “You’ll find out about that soon enough. Patience, Sarah.”
She got up and clattered her dish into the scullery sink. “So what about you? Are you the last of the staff or something? There were dozens here once—butlers, footmen. Maids.”
“You sound as if you’d seen them.”
She shrugged. “Even crazy girls read books.”
The small man gave a odd chortle of laughter and picked a scrap of soot out of the porridge. “Do they really? Well, as for me, I’m His Excellency’s slave. He rubs a lamp and I come out of it. He whistles and I appear. He bought me in a market in the wastes of the Kalahari for thirty camels and a bottle of whisky. He freed me from the eternal spells of an island sorceress.”
Was it a joke? If so, it was a bitter one. She said, “You work for him?”
“He owns me.” Piers voice was acid.
She didn’t know what to make of that. “You’ve been exploring with him?”
“Many times. In the Andes. In Antarctica. He always loved to travel. You might say we put a girdle around the earth together.”
The Obsidian Mirror Page 5