Prerogative – the Master Carver even knows the new vocabulary.
‘Mr Finch is most amenable.’
*
Indeed Mr Finch is. The burdens of the Rotherweird statute are heavy enough, and he judges multiple minds better than one, and less likely to be corruptible. Above all, he must not jeopardise the valley’s precious independence. He accepts the offer of dialogue because the Master Carver seeks no position for himself. The constitution has some peculiar obsessions with time and place, but it does the needful and he concurs.
When the colonel from Hoy clatters in with his troop of cavalry, Finch is prepared. A large table with practical chairs awaits him in the shadow of Doom’s Tocsin, as do Mr Vere and other worthies. The colonel reflects the spring weather: bright and breezy, a true scion of the New Model Army.
‘We respect the law, but also the rights of Man, Mr Finch,’ he opens.
Finch smiles. ‘The two are not incompatible.’
‘You are a king in all but name—’
‘A single hand was necessary, that’s true, but not so now. I abdicate this month, retaining only my necessary duties.’ He pushes the bound Constitution across the table.
As the colonel reads, he furrows his brow only twice. ‘The timing of your elections is quaint, to say the least.’
‘You cannot play with celestial fixtures,’ replies Sacheverell Vere, parroting the Master Carver.
‘Any man of majority and property has the vote?’
This time Mr Finch replies, ‘Anyone educated, and all of age are educated here. Mr Vere will hold office pending the first election.’
The colonel knows of Mr Vere, a virtuous gentleman. He eyes the clean streets, the work in progress and the architectural innovation. ‘Tell me about this statute?’
‘I cannot,’ replies Finch, ‘but believe me, it is necessary.’
The colonel considers the point. There is a local whisper; this valley is best left alone. Queen Bess did not give freedom lightly.
He accepts.
1663. Rotherweird.
Kings are back, but not in Rotherweird. Mr Vere is no longer Mayor, though still a citizen of high standing. The Master Carver, well armoured against Time’s arrow, pays him a visit.
‘I have been foraging for the best wood in wider England,’ he begins. ‘Have you heard of Gresham College and the Royal Society?’
‘Indeed, I have, Mr Roc. They do most serious work.’
‘Should not Rotherweird follow suit? We have no truly scientific Guild.’
Vere senses another invitation building. His post-mayoral life is as dry as dust; it needs the water of new ambition.
‘You mean we collect together men and women of a serious and moral outlook.’ Vere pauses. ‘They might meet here in my Hall.’
‘A characteristically generous notion, if I may be so bold, Mr Vere.’
So Mr Vere founds the Apothecaries’ Guild. The flounce and bustle of Restoration life is not for them; they dress to mirror their moral universe: in black and white. They meet weekly in the front hall, surrounded by carved parables, and talk new science.
NOVEMBER:
FOURTH WEEK
1
A Conclave of Guilds
The twelve Guilds issued invitations – the Carvers, Glassblowers, Bakers, Timekeepers, Tanners, Milliners, Metalworkers, Toymakers, Masons, Mixers, Fireworkers and Apothecaries – to interview their prospective Mayors. No Guild entertained more than one candidate on any given day, but all conclaves had to be completed within the fortnight.
Aether’s Way dominated the addresses, for most Guild Halls comprised no more than the shop or workspace of that year’s particular Master. Only the Apothecaries’ and the Fireworkers’ Guilds had fixed Halls, large, grim buildings hidden away in The Understairs.
Drelia's first conclave, with the Metalworkers, turned out to be typical.
The Master, a rotund man with an open personality, showed her round with professional pride. ‘We supply all the other Guilds, Miss Roc: we are the hub of the town. And yet Mr Strimmer appeared to be bored by our preoccupations. I do so hope you’ll be more attentive.’
She took out a notebook, presciently headed ‘Guild Concerns’, and with a smile said, ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘The planners ignore the clear space required by weathervanes and as a result they swing irrationally,’ the Master started, ‘which misleads the public and gives the Guild a bad name.’
Orelia scribbled a note, before adding a personal touch. ‘At Baubles & Relics I’ve seen more cut-price door-knobs in the last year . . .’
‘Spot on, Miss Roc,’ the Master interjected approvingly, ‘and fancy hinges of poor quality.’
‘We do have quality regulations,’ she pointed out, ‘and I will make sure they’re enforced.’
Encouraged, the Master entered more delicate territory. ‘Can we not be regulated, as the Carvers are, by Mr Finch? The Mayor expects favours in return.’
He winked; she winked back.
Another grievance surfaced. ‘And why do the Metalworkers come behind the Timekeepers in the Mayday Procession – when we make half their parts? Why are the Apothecaries always first?’
‘Perhaps we should rotate precedence annually?’ she suggested.
Other meetings followed a similar template: a welcome, concerns particular to their trade, Snorkel’s ‘extras’ and, invariably, quibbles about ranking. After the debacle of her opening speech, Orelia felt that now she had at least entered the race.
Membership of the Fireworkers’ Guild was confidential, and the Guild required an advance undertaking that she would divulge nothing of her visit. To her astonishment, Boris Polk held the Mastership; he was a predictably welcoming and convivial guide.
Only the Apothecaries remained. Orelia resented the fact that Strimmer had been invited to their Hall, while she and Snorkel were expected to make do with the Parliament Chamber.
Master Thomes arrived with the now-familiar pair of fresh-faced acolytes. A burly man with an almost-square head, a self-regarding goatee beard and piggy eyes, he did not fit Orelia’s stereotype of an accomplished scientist. The Apothecary’s usual black-and-white was relieved by a scarlet sash attesting to his office. The piggy eyes went up and down in appraisal.
‘I expected more of you,’ said Orelia, sitting on the bench opposite. Clearly diplomacy would cut no ice with Master Thomes.
‘I represent all members,’ he said grandly. ‘You have before you their ears and voice.’ He had a flowery way with words, but coldness too, an unsettling mix of vanity and the austere.
‘The largest Guild musters the smallest turnout? I find that disappointing.’
‘The busiest Guild musters the smallest turnout,’ he countered, ‘which is wholly predictable. The opposite would be disappointing.’
‘You asked Mr Strimmer to your Hall – I hear the whole Court turned out.’
‘Mr Strimmer is an honorary member. He understands our aspirations.’
Orelia had anticipated this response and now took a leaf from Gorhambury’s book. ‘I can read, Mr Thomes. The Regulations stipulate: “Candidates may be invited by any Guild to their Hall to address their Court or general membership, but the favour must be shared between all.” Your Hall has had the pleasure of Mr Strimmer; now it’s my turn. Say no, and I’ll raise the matter in the Parliament Chamber.’
Thomes gathered his stovepipe hat. His tone hardened, steel beneath the velvet. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, as darkness falls.’
*
Orelia had had little cause to visit The Understairs, home to Rotherweird’s working class: cleaners of houses more opulent than their own, sewage workers, bicycle rickshaw repair shops, Mors Valett’s underlings, who toiled in the morgue: in short, workers too menial to have a Guild to represent them.
&nbs
p; To avoid getting lost, she kept to Hamelin Way, where beams, balustrades and doors boasted carvings with more vigour than refinement, the unpaid work of apprentices keen to practise and showcase their burgeoning talents. Shattered slates at pavement level attested to neglected roofs and municipal inattention. Taking in the dingy, twisting side streets, she found a new cause: time to invest in this downtrodden enclave for the hardworking poor.
One skill did flourish in style: high-balcony gardening. Climbers launched from window boxes hung from the wooden walkways, running on high wires round chimneys and up towers to wherever sunlight could be caught.
The forbidding square that housed the Hall of the Apothecaries had no window boxes and minimal exterior decoration, as if to inform the public that their wealth was not to be shared. A lamplighter was working his way around a horseshoe of gas-lamps, linking one wing to the other. The starkness of the scene induced second thoughts. Why fritter her time away on the unpersuadable?
She was ushered into the Great Hall, where the Guild’s Court, four men and three women, sat unsmiling and impassive in a horseshoe mimicking the gas-lamps outside. Their hats rested beside them.
A conclave of conjurors, thought Orelia, but without the desire to charm and entertain.
Thomes sat on an ornate throne at the centre, his back to a blazing fire. Nobody rose or acknowledged her presence.
The wall panels displayed emblems of knowledge: a microscope, a phial held to a flame, light splintering through a prism. Figures, theorems and atomic numbers jostled round a central panel of the periodic table.
Incongruously, oddly sensual scenes from Christian parables were plentiful elsewhere in the room. Orelia found them disturbing. Carving is in my blood, she thought. My ancestor, Benedict Roc, was the town’s first carver – before his murder by Calx Bole, twenty years after Wynter’s execution. Has he a connection here?
Over the fireplace hung a motto, also carved in wood: The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law. It was familiar in style, if not content, but she could not place it. Foliage surrounded the main door with the words Me, This and Vine intertwined in the leaves. To one side stood an empty easel.
Thomes coughed, a call to order, and she sat on a plain wooden chair set facing the Master: more a witness to be questioned than an electoral candidate. Each Court member had a small white card like a menu in front of them. She must be the hors d’oeuvres.
‘What kind of Rotherweird do you offer, Miss Roc?’ Thomes asked coldly.
This at least she could answer. ‘I offer ancient institutions and modern improvements.’
A stern woman, hair wrenched into a bun and secured by a profusion of pins, spoke with prim exactness. ‘The first is easy, being the very nature of Rotherweird, but the second is not, unless you have the right vision.’
‘I’m here to listen,’ Orelia replied.
A younger woman surprised her with a compliment. ‘You exposed Mr Snorkel’s petty thievery. That is commendable—’
‘We have no interest in Snorkel, Sister,’ interjected Thomes. ‘He is an irrelevance.’
Sister. The mode of address fitted this closed community.
‘He should be,’ the anonymous Sister agreed, ‘but he has patronage. I would not be too dismissive, Brother Thomes.’
Orelia kept to her innocent agenda. ‘Well, let’s be frank, it’s going to be Mr Snorkel or Mr Strimmer, isn’t it? What chance does a female shopkeeper have? But I appreciate your warm welcome.’ She spoke without a hint of sarcasm. ‘I do have one proposal: that we rotate the Guilds’ positions in the Mayday Procession.’
The Apothecaries mustered a ribald guffaw, a rarity within these hallowed walls. Hitherto unused cheek muscles pulled and stretched, then reset to granite.
‘How about agriculture?’ asked the stern face.
‘We leave it to those who know,’ she said.
‘“Leave it to those who know”! I thought you stood for modern improvements, not leaving these primitive countrysiders to plough, sow and reap as they always have.’
Orelia squirmed; she had been exposed by her laziness. She had not prepared. Crude counter-attack and platitudes were all she could muster. Next time—
But of course, there would be no next time.
‘We have other business,’ said Thomes wearily.
While retrieving her coat, she pocketed the card on the table beside it. Nobody stood; nobody thanked her for her time. The great door opened and spat her into the dark.
She read the card by a streetlamp:
COURT MEETING
Order of Business
Mayoral Election, Conclave:Miss Roc
Honorary Admission:Miss Estella Scry
Orelia was baffled. Why award a purveyor of superstition such a privilege?
On her doorstep, she found a note from Boris. ‘Drop in chez moi at ten for news welcome and unwelcome.’
The news drew her less than the promise of sympathetic company.
*
The office of The Polk Land & Water Company, with its orderly ledgers and neatly printed charabanc timetables, reflected Bert, not Boris. Bert allowed but one distraction: a photograph of his six children, with Boris sitting in the centre like an oversized seventh. A patched coracle hung on the wall.
‘Tonight, I had a conclave with the Apothecaries. They’re up to something, if you trust my feminine instinct.’ She showed Boris the card.
‘Estella Scry elected an honorary Apothecary? That is rum.’
‘And what’s your news?’
Boris made an unwelcome announcement. ‘I know it’s late, but I’ve called a meeting. You have to see Oblong.’
‘Boris, please – it’s been a long day and he – well, he irritates the hell out of me.’
‘He has a confession to make and a discovery to share, and both should come from him.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘And you have a book to collect from the shop.’
‘What book?’
‘Your copy of Straighten the Rope – you should have told us.’
Orelia, weary and not in the mood for rebuke, reacted fiercely. ‘Who told you that – bloody Fanguin in his bloody cups? Anyway, why should I? Bole could be anyone.’
‘So who’s acting out of character?’
‘Fanguin certainly isn’t,’ she fumed, knowing she had no choice. Her hand had been forced.
*
Irritation over the sharing of her secret pushed Everthorne from her thoughts – until they reached the hallway of 3 Artery Lane, where the dull white plaster overflowed with murals. Mischief prevailed: a satyr’s head peered through a curtain of ivy; sea-snakes pursued a shoal of brightly coloured fish; two lovers, festooned in honeysuckle like a human gazebo, embraced. A ladder lay on its side, the rungs spattered with paint. He must have been working day and night.
Boris pointed out a flying charabanc with him and Jones in the front. In the back stood Fanguin, raising a glass, and Gorhambury, with a book, was seated beside Orelia. At the roadside Oblong raised a pedagogic hand, while Valourhand looked spiky. Orelia pointed at the opposite wall where two Furies, feather and leather, eyed the charabanc with malevolence.
Everthorne had absorbed character as well as appearance.
Boris and Orelia ascended slowly, dazed. Music and carving had always flourished in Rotherweird, but never painting. Behind Oblong’s door, voices brayed in merriment.
‘He can’t!’
‘He’s going to!’
‘Watch my carpet!’
Orelia flung open the door to see Everthorne kneeling, head tilted back, a double spoon balanced across the bridge of his nose with an egg in each bowl. In his right hand, a glass of apple brandy rose towards the artist’s gaping mouth. A Rotherweird guinea by his knees testified to a bet in progress.
Fanguin and Oblong sprawled beside him, equally
well refreshed. Fanguin gave a cheery wave. ‘It’s the tenth, the last, the grand finalé!’ he boomed.
The schoolboy frivolity grated with Orelia, bringing weeks of simmering pressure to the boil. She grabbed the eggs and tossed them at Oblong, who caught one and dropped the other.
‘Steady on,’ moaned Fanguin. ‘Friday night is party night—’
‘I came here for a serious meeting’ – she pointed at Oblong – ‘having been told he’s made a fool of himself, again, and you’ – now pointing at Fanguin – ‘don’t know the bloody meaning of the word “in confidence”.’ Orelia rarely swore, but ordinary language was not having the desired effect. ‘I mean, fuck it,’ she added.
Fanguin looked at her. ‘I understand why you’re cross—’
‘I’m not cross, I’m livid.’
The three miscreants rose unsteadily to their feet. Everthorne looked quizzical, Fanguin half-defiant, half-shifty, and Oblong pink with embarrassment.
Storm Orelia moderated, only for Hurricane Valourhand to sweep in. She pushed Boris aside and levelled an accusing finger at Everthorne. ‘What the fuck are you doing, painting us for the world to see? And the Furies as they are?’ Her face as white as flour, she quivered with rage.
‘Haunting images,’ replied Everthorne enigmatically, ‘have to be painted. It’s an exorcism.’
Orelia thought she understood: he could not tolerate the Furies flitting about in his head, polluting all they touched, so he painted them out. But Valourhand was right . . . ‘Edit them,’ Orelia suggested, and he shuffled out.
‘Bloody fool!’ Valourhand shouted after him.
Orelia felt foolish. She had lost her vigilance.
Valourhand gathered five chairs round Oblong’s table.
‘Five coffees,’ Orelia murmured to Oblong, who obediently slunk into the kitchen. Twice in a matter of days, a party atmosphere in his rooms had been punctured, and worse was surely to come.
Fanguin advanced his defence first. ‘I’m not apologising, Orelia. Secrets mean stumbling about in the dark. You don’t understand the book, but Valourhand might. The risk of trust outweighs the risk of its absence: that’s the case for the Defence.’
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