The next moment, she was my Kate again, in her proper shape but still at his throat, doing her best to throttle him with her bare hands. I had all I could do to keep him from striking her, but I held him fast.
Kate, bless her, did not permit her transformation to discompose her in the slightest. She kept her grip on Scarlet’s throat even as she repeated the spell she uses to keep her hair up. If there was a growl in her voice, a snarl in her words when she spoke it, it only strengthened the spell she cast on Scarlet’s cravat, the twist and lift she gave it.
Scarlet’s chin came up as the cravat rose and tightened. The fabric twisted. Scarlet’s face grew purple. His breathing grew ragged. His eyes bulged as his gaze locked with Kate’s. What I read there, even as I used his distraction to overwhelm him, was terror.
All his fear was warranted. No foxhound could defend her young more valiantly than did Kate. Kate may not practice many spells, but the spells she can cast are not to be trifled with, and neither is she.
It was not until Scarlet was fully at Kate’s mercy that I had leisure to notice that the children had joined us. Drina was closest, only a few yards from Scarlet. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her cold stare expressed all possible contempt.
I roared at the children, “I told you to stay in the nursery Go back at once!”
As they thundered back upstairs, I used great care in binding Scarlet magically, hand and foot. Kate was back in her right shape, but the front door was in flinders, the magical wards on Skeynes in tatters. All that had to wait until I secured our intruder.
Scarlet’s breathing slowed to a rattling wheeze. I felt it necessary to remind Kate that if she strangled him, he couldn’t answer any of our questions. I had to say it twice, the second time right in her ear, before she turned her attention from Scarlet to me. Scarlet fell at our feet, wheezing horribly.
Kate’s eyes were wild, but as she regarded me, her expression softened. She came into my arms, Kate again, safe and sound.
I felt the moment Kate released the spell on Scarlet’s cravat. As she slumped against me, Scarlet gasped and coughed, breathing freely again at last. He seemed to swoon. Between relief and exertion, I felt a little light-headed myself.
For now, Scarlet is locked away safely. He will stay that way. Still, my exertions have depleted my resources sufficiently that I think it is wise to wait until morning to question him. I will write again when I have his full confession.
Yours,
Thomas
13 May 1828
Skeynes
(Enchanted by T.S.)
Dear Cecy,
Aunt Charlotte always told us there can never be sufficient excuse for tardy correspondence, but even she could not deny that being transformed into a dog must prevent one from writing letters. If I could have written sooner, I would have, I promise you.
What little I remember of being a dog makes me wish I could have set some of my impressions down on paper. When I try to put them into words now, they fade away into incoherence. There was a sense of order, I do remember that much, something that made it important that Thomas keep me near him. My hearing was extremely acute. In addition, there was a sense of possibility—any detail could have been of vital interest, every object held fascination—a fascination that had everything to do with the way it smelled. I confess, to my own disgust and embarrassment, I miss the smells.
I think it is fortunate I was a dog for only a short period of time. Herr Schellen was a dog for months on end, in circumstances that must approach dog paradise. I do not wonder that he seemed disoriented at first, nor that he seems silent and gloomy now, poor man.
Do not mistake me. I am happy to be myself again. No scent on earth could compensate for such a transformation. Nothing could match my joy when I discovered I had my own shape back again, for when the moment arrived, I was at Mr. Scarlet’s throat. It would have been vexing to be able to do no more than sink in my teeth and worry at it until I ripped his flesh.
No, I promise you, it was with delight that I remembered I had hands. As I clung to him, and as he struggled to throw me off, Mr. Scarlet pulled my hair cruelly. I fancy that was what reminded me of the spell to keep my hair up. My mind was not so clear that I was able to give the matter anything resembling rational thought.
Upon consideration it seems meet and proper that having just enough expertise to qualify as a magician for purposes of suffering canine transformation, I should have enough ability to employ one of the very few spells I know fluently.
Thank goodness Thomas was there to bring me to my senses. I let the spell go before Mr. Scarlet was damaged beyond repair. Thomas took him into custody with his usual enthusiasm. Indeed, the one serious struggle Mr. Scarlet put up after I released him provoked Thomas to such violence that I fear Arthur’s interest in fisticuffs has been renewed.
Since then, I have been restored to my usual state. Despite Georgy’s efforts to play at chatelaine, Belton kept the household running smoothly while I was indisposed, and the nurses had little trouble from the children, as they were feeling guilty about the role they inadvertently played at the Tingle Stone. When I was washed and properly dressed, I returned to the nursery and explained in terms that even you could not have bettered for clarity and firmness that none of this was their fault. Indeed, they have behaved admirably throughout. “The dog is gone?” Diana asked. Arthur and Eleanor confirmed this fact and hardly scoffed at her.
“You were a jolly good dog, Mama,” Edward told me comfortingly.
I thanked him for his thoughtful reassurance.
“Mr. Scarlet is no wizard,” Drina observed. “I have never seen him do magic.”
“Perhaps he isn’t a true wizard,” I countered, “but he has done enough magic to be very dangerous.”
Once Thomas feels his strength entirely restored, we will question Mr. Scarlet. This letter has waited so long to be written that I might as well delay it still further so a full account of the interrogation can be included.
Yet I find that even as I take comfort in the familiar pleasure of writing to you, I take comfort in bringing this to my customary close. I shall write another letter to accompany this one as soon as the inquisition is complete.
For now, I remain your,
Kate
15 May 1828
Leeds
My dear Thomas,
As you perceive from the inscription, I am once again in Leeds. I left a few hours after the Wrextons departed for Skeynes; I trust they will have arrived by the time you receive this. I arrived last night, and spent the morning interviewing Mr. Thornton. You may recall, though I am skeptical of it, that he is the gentleman Mr. Pease of the Stockton and Darlington referred me to for more information regarding Mr. Webb and his improbable railway proposal.
You will be surprised to learn that the trip here has been exceedingly fruitful, though not entirely in the way I had intended. Mr. Thornton was a fount of information and ancient gossip. His family hails from Stockton, and has an interest in the shipping docks, which led inevitably to his involvement with the Stockton and Darlington Railway enterprise.
As a result, he was full of information about Mr. and Miss Webb. I shall not bore you with the endless particulars, but it is evident that they aspire to heights of wealth and society that they have been utterly unable to achieve out of their own birth or merit. They are, he claims, particularly bitter because an ancestor of theirs chose to renounce his title and throw in his lot with Oliver Cromwell instead of romantically siding with the king and getting his own head cut off, or at least sensibly holing up at home to study magic.
Yes, I thought your ears would perk up at that last. Quondam Baronet Webb was not only one of Cromwell’s passionate Parliamentarians, he was one of Cromwell’s wizards. Furthermore, it was he who built Haliwar Tower.
According to Mr. Thornton, the current Mr. Webb had nothing good to say about his ancestor until about ten years ago, when he inherited Haliwar Tower from a great-uncle. Shortly the
reafter, he made that extremely puzzling proposal to Mr. Pease, offering to use some unexplained “influence with Parliament” to assist the passage of the Stockton and Darlington bill of incorporation. It seems possible, perhaps even likely, that Webb, having learned of the ley line network and its ability to affect the government, expected to influence Parliament magically. Naturally, he did not say so straight out.
When Pease refused, Webb’s reaction was not temperate; indeed, if Mr. Thornton is to be believed, there was a good deal of shouting and name-calling involved. This is, of course, why Pease had him investigated. Mr. Thornton is of the opinion that the investigation did not go far enough, though he can offer no evidence for his opinion beyond the assertion that Webb has been acting “too damned smug” since the railway’s troubles began.
All of this information is, you will agree, extremely suggestive, and well worth making yet another trip to Leeds to obtain. Nevertheless, the best is yet to come.
On my way back to the King’s Head, I was accosted in the street by a fellow who began by demanding to know whether I was “the cove what took off the dog up by the Williams’ farm.” When I acknowledged that I was, he offered to buy the animal from me for the princely sum of five pounds.
“That will not be possible,” said I. “I am afraid the dog has run off.”
Much disgruntled, the fellow went on his way. I went on up the street, then nipped around behind a drayman’s cart and doubled back. Fortunately, he had not gone far, and I followed him for another ten or fifteen minutes before he disappeared into a business establishment. No, I am quite sure he did not see me. Though you still may doubt it, I have learned a thing or two in these past ten years from my dear Cecelia regarding “sneaking about.”
Once the fellow went inside, I was at a stand. To linger would be conspicuous, and I had no idea how soon he might reappear. I chose not to risk tipping my hand, and strolled on. I was, however, able to make a note of the establishment, and the innkeeper at the King’s Head identified it for me later. It is a branch office of Maxwell and Medway—the same firm that handles Ramsey Webb’s business.
There can be no reason for anyone at Maxwell and Medway to have need of a sheepdog. Indeed, it seems extremely unlikely that anyone at all would pay five pounds for an ordinary sheepdog. It borders on the incredible that someone would follow me from Darlington to Leeds simply to purchase a dog. It is clear, therefore, that it is not just a dog that they want, but Herr Magus Schellen in the shape of a dog. Presumably, the intention was to prevent me from discovering who and what the dog was, or, failing that, to discover what I have learned. Maxwell and Medway have no reason I know of to be interested in either sheepdogs or surveyors, so it seems most probably that Webb was behind the attempt to get hold of the dog.
If that is true, then another visit to Haliwar Tower is clearly in order. I expect to spend the night here in Leeds, then return to Wardhill Cottage tomorrow with my news and the few letters that had not been forwarded. Once I have consulted with Cecelia and Herr Schellen about the proper magical precautions, we shall decide on the best approach. If we can clearly establish that the Webbs are behind this extremely murky business, I shall consider my job complete and hand the whole sorry mess over to Wellington’s wizards.
Yours,
James
15 May 1828
Wardhill Cottage
Dearest Kate,
What adventures you have had! I confess I do not envy you your transformation, despite your interesting description, but the capture of Mr. Scarlet sounds most dramatic. I am agog to hear what you have learned from him—for I am sure that however firm his resolve to remain silent, it is nothing compared to Thomas’s resolve to force him to speak. And yours.
Things have been quite dull since the Wrextons left. There is little I can do to assist James in his investigation, as all of the magical matters seem to be tied to the ley lines in some fashion and James will not hear of my experimenting with them so long as that transformation spell is active. Herr Schellen agrees, though in his case I fear it is not concern for me that motivates him, but rather a wish to be spared the company of Mr. Skelly, who is far more personable as a terrier than he was before his transformation.
In consequence, I remain here while James is off to Leeds to talk to yet another railway gentleman. I expect him back tomorrow. In the meantime, I have been busying myself in reviewing for Herr Schellen what we think we have discovered.
Apart from Herr Schellen himself, it is a very mixed assortment of things, beginning with Herr Schellen’s disappearance. At least we have located him (and while your mishap at the stone circle was certainly most dreadful, it did have the happy result of disenchanting him, so that we have been able to send notice to Herr Schellen’s Prussian friends, who can now persuade their people to stop pestering Lord Wellington).
The question remains as to whether the transformation spell was meant especially for Herr Schellen, or whether he fell afoul, as you did, of a spell meant for some other wizard. On the one hand, the spell is plainly new, or wizards would have been popping in and out of canine form all over England for years and the Royal College would surely have heard of the matter before now. Also, it seems most suspicious to me that Herr Schellen’s bags vanished from the farmhouse the night after he was transformed. That was not the work of the transformation spell. Someone was watching Herr Schellen and absconded with his luggage in order to give the impression that he had slipped away without paying his bill.
But if the spell was meant for Herr Schellen, it seems unutterably foolish to tie it to ley lines and stone circles all over England. Indeed, if it affects any wizard who enters any stone circle, the transformation spell cannot possibly have been intended for a particular person, for who could say that a wizard in Cornwall would not walk into a circle there, seconds after the intended victim had been enchanted (thus returning the first victim to his original form)? As a trap for one particular wizard, it is a singularly chuckleheaded arrangement. But what else could its purpose have been?
More important, who arranged the spell … and when? If, as Mr. Wrexton thinks, the ley lines and stone circles are part of a magical net created 170 years ago by Oliver Cromwell’s wizards, was the transformation spell part of some defensive ward intended to keep the king’s wizards from disrupting his plans? Could it, perhaps, have been set off by the regular interference between the railway engine and the ley lines, or was it Herr Schellen’s probing that activated the ancient protections? (Herr Schellen denies it, but I do not see how he can be certain. So despite my murmurs of agreement, I intend to keep an open mind on the subject.)
Herr Schellen is a most provoking man. Now that he has had time to recover from the enchantment, I had hoped he would have some useful detail to impart regarding his activities, or at least that he might have remembered something more useful than measurements related to the construction of railways. But it is no such thing. Our conversation ran something like this:
“Herr Schellen, I trust you are fully recovered?”
“Recovered, Madam Tarleton?”
“From that dreadful enchantment.”
“Oh. Yes, Madam.”
“Then it would not be an imposition to ask you to speak of it? It could be so very useful.”
“Useful, Madam?
“To the investigations James is making.”
Herr Schellen nodded stiffly, the way people do when they have not understood, but do not wish to admit it.
“Did James not tell you that he is looking into these problems with the railway?” I asked.
“Yes, Madam Tarleton,” Herr Schellen said cautiously.
“Well, if that enchantment is connected to the difficulties in any way, you must see how helpful it would be for us to know all the details.”
“No, Madam.”
I looked at him, and after a moment he was moved to expand on his statement.
“Turning into a hound has nothing to do with railways,” he said.
“Not in the general course of things,” I said. “But in this case, you were investigating the problems with the railway. If someone wanted to stop you, he might use the transformation to do so.”
“Mr. Tarleton has also been investigationing of the railway, and he is not turned into a hound,” Herr Schellen pointed out.
“No, but he is not a wizard,” I said. I did not even attempt to explain that a sheepdog is not a hound of any kind; I was having enough trouble persuading Herr Schellen to stick to the point, without adding more complications. “If someone wishes to set a trap for James, it will need to be of some other kind.”
“Ah!” Herr Schellen’s face took on an annoying expression of tolerant benevolence. “You are the wife, and so you worry.” Clearly, he thought this a charming female foible.
I decided that if he was willing to answer my questions, he might think what he pleased. “Yes, very much,” I replied. “So if you would not mind describing your experience—”
“Naturally, Madam.”
I waited, but he said nothing more until I prodded him, and then his answers were all just as unsatisfactory. What exactly had happened to him? He walked into the stone circle and turned into a hound. Had he seen anyone just before? No, Madam. Had he noticed anyone following him? No, Madam. Had anyone taken an interest in his work? The gentleman who hired him, Madam. Had anyone other than Mr. Pease seemed interested? No, Madam. Had anyone seemed disturbed or agitated, then? The farm wife at Goosepool was always agitated about something, Madam. Had anyone seemed disturbed or agitated about the work he was doing? No, Madam. What about the time when he was enchanted—did he remember anything interesting from that? Sheep, Madam. Sheep? Sheep are very interesting to a hound, Madam.
And so it went. To hear Herr Schellen tell it, he might just as well have stayed in Prussia. All he has discovered are boring reassurances regarding the changes that Stephenson made to the originally planned route of the Stockton and Darlington Railway line. (The new route is, he says, equal or superior to the original in terms of grade and distance and a number of technical things, which he described at great length, and which both Thomas and Arthur would no doubt have considerable interest in. I doubt, however, that you are any more interested than I, and so I shall spare you the details.)
The Mislaid Magician Page 20