A Scholar of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  With a sense of disbelief, Lambert shook hands. It was like shaking hands with King Arthur. “I’m surprised to meet you here.”

  Bridgewater looked puzzled. “But I live here.”

  “You live in the castle.” Lambert gestured toward the church. “I meant, here.”

  “I can’t always be here to take my turn,” Bridgewater said, “but when I am at home and a practice is scheduled, I try to do my part.”

  Lambert blinked. “You’re one of the bell ringers?”

  “Yes. Why, are you surprised? It’s wonderful exercise, for the brain as well as for the body.”

  “Is it? I had a notion the big attraction was the excuse to drink beer afterward.”

  Bridgewater chuckled. “Oh, that too. I think a pint or two is definitely in order.”

  “I won’t keep you, then,” said Lambert.

  Bridgewater’s courtesy was flawless. “Won’t you join me?”

  “Thank you, no.” Lambert didn’t want to high-hat his lordship, but he was reluctant to miss his rendezvous with

  Jane. “I appreciate the invitation, though.”

  “Are you sure you won’t? You’re a friend of Nicholas Fell’s, after all. If I may make a bold statement, any friend of his is a friend of mine.”

  For a moment, Lambert was tempted, very tempted, to tell Bridgewater why he was in Ludlow, and to enlist Bridgewater’s help in the search for Fell. Better to discuss it with Jane first, perhaps. Lambert hesitated and the moment passed.

  “Another time, perhaps,” Bridgewater said. “Enjoy your stay here.”

  “Thank you, I will. It’s good country hereabouts.” Lambert glanced around. “I saw what looks like a fine brook for trout down that way.”

  Bridgewater looked amused. “If anyone asks, you have my permission to fish it, but I advise you to be careful how you refer to it. That’s not a brook. It’s the River Corve.”

  Lambert couldn’t stop himself. “You call that a river?”

  “Indeed we do.” Bridgewater’s amusement grew.

  “The other one rattles along at a tolerable rate,” Lambert conceded. “You might call that one a river.”

  “We do. It is the River Teme,” Bridgewater said.

  “The Teme might qualify,” said Lambert, “although back home it would hardly be rated a creek. But the Corve is not a river.”

  “For your own protection, I advise you to keep that opinion to yourself. Our traditions are nearly as old as our waterways. I fear you may bruise some feelings if you apply your standards to our rivers.”

  “I don’t mean to be discourteous,” said Lambert. “If people in these parts are used to calling a creek a river, I will try to play along.”

  “Oh, it isn’t the people you need to worry about,” said Bridgewater. “It’s the rivers themselves. Very sensitive, some of them. You wouldn’t wish to provoke a flood, would you?”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Lambert took his hat off and bowed slightly. “You win, sir. I’ve told a few stretchers from time to time, but never one as neat as that. My hat is off.”

  “I am entirely serious, I assure you.” Bridgewater fairly exuded sincerity.

  Lambert put his poker face back on. “Yes, sir. I’ll remember. Don’t speak disrespectfully about the rivers here.”

  “Not where they can hear you, at any rate,” said Bridgewater.

  Bridgewater had taken his leave and Lambert had sat down on his bench again. While he had waited for Jane, he had plenty of time to soak up the peace of the place. He put away his booklet and watched the birds. As the evening began to draw in, swifts and swallows came to hunt insects, and their darting flight was all the entertainment Lambert needed to pass the time until evensong began.

  Lambert’s appreciation for the beauty of the place had dwindled as evensong came and went with no sign of Jane. The afternoon hours had passed as effortlessly as the rivers that skirted Ludlow. Now time seemed to drag past.

  Where was Jane? Lambert asked at the fancy inn on the other side of town, the one she’d planned to patronize. He described her. He described the Minotaur. Nothing. Alarmed, Lambert made inquiries with the police. No motor accidents had been reported anywhere between Ludlow and Leominster. Lambert officially notified the police that Miss Jane Brailsford and a motor car licensed to her brother Robert Brailsford were missing. The police were courteous but promised nothing.

  Much later, Lambert clambered to the foot of the city wall and sat in the long grass, looking south, away from the town. He ignored the fact that he had his back to the most important parts of Ludlow. Behind him to the north lay the city, the castle, the great sweep of the countryside off to Wenlock Edge. Here on the south side, there was only the River Teme and the wooded hills of Whitecliff beyond.

  Lambert didn’t care. He liked it there. It was quiet and it smelled good. That mattered more than usual, after the long day spent rattling along in a motor car and then breathing the institutional vapors of a railway carriage, seasoned only by the odd puff of coal smoke from the locomotive.

  The time he’d spent at the police station had done nothing to ease his mind. The constables had their routine. Lambert was sure they would take Jane’s disappearance seriously, once sufficient time had elapsed. Meanwhile they had assured him they would make their customary inquiries. Lambert took this to mean they would do nothing until compelled. Eventually, Lambert’s anger had burnt itself out and, disgusted, he’d left the police station to send a telegram to Amy. That had been a difficult message to write. He’d tried to make it the most soothing telegram possible, given the disturbing circumstances. She deserved to know the true state of affairs, but he didn’t want her to leave Glasscastle.

  Lambert soaked in the peace of the evening. The loudest sound was the river running over stones, the next loudest, the silvery rattle of crickets, and then came the rustle of the trees. Where was Jane now? What could she hear, what could she see where she was?

  The stones at Lambert’s back held the warmth of the summer day for a long time. Eventually, the cool of the evening penetrated, reminding him of his bruises. Lambert admitted to himself that sitting in the grass thinking wasn’t going to do him any good. Whatever had happened to Jane, Lambert was the only person in the world who had a chance of helping her. No one else even knew she needed help.

  Whoever had taken Jane had to have some connection with whatever had become of Brailsford and Fell. Even Lambert’s imagination staggered at the thought of three separate and unrelated disappearances.

  A prudent man would wait for morning and decide on a plan of action after a good night’s rest. Lambert knew with utter clarity that he wasn’t going to be prudent. Jane had been missing long enough. Time to find her, and Fell, and Brailsford. Lambert pushed himself to his feet and turned back to the town. The best way to work off his fatigue and aggravation was to take it out on someone else. The perfect frame of mind, he thought, to begin his own search for missing persons. He would start at the Feathers.

  It took time and beer, but by last orders, Lambert found a corruptible groom. After Lambert had bought him enough pints and handed over enough shillings to prime the pump, the man said, “The mad lady, right? That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it? She’s gone back to the home.”

  Lambert fought the urge to shake the man. “Gone back home?”

  The groom was scornful. “No, gone back to the home. The rest home. The sanatorium. The loony bin. Whatever you care to call it. She wasn’t twelve to the shilling, was she? Stole the family motor car and went for a drive. She might have killed someone. You could, easily, running them over with a great powerful thing like that. Her family sent four men to fetch her. They carried her out in a chair. It took two men just to drive the motor back. Big tips all round to make sure there were no complaints here, no alarming stories to get back to the other guests. Bad for business, that. Madwomen on the loose.”

  “What did the men look like? Can you describe them?” Lambert demanded. �
�Where did they take her?”

  The groom hesitated, as if taken aback by Lambert’s ferocity. “I only saw the men who came for the motor. They were nothing special. Just what you’d expect. I don’t know what mental asylum she escaped from. Couldn’t have been far, could it? She might have landed in a ditch somewhere, driving that whacking great thing. Why do you want to know?”

  “Are you joking? Do you often have a madwoman on the loose around here? It’s only natural I’d be interested, isn’t it?” Lambert kept his tone level. “Lucky her family found her before someone was hurt. How did they know where to look for her?”

  The answer was prompt and profoundly indifferent. “Don’t know, don’t care.” The hope for more money gleamed clear as the groom asked, “Will there be anything else you would like to know?”

  “No, thanks. That’s all.” Lambert turned to go.

  The groom’s interest was sharp both in eyes and voice. “Why are you asking all these questions? Know her, did your?”

  “I’m keen on motor cars, that’s all,” said Lambert. “Saw her at the wheel earlier in the day. Quite a sight she made.”

  The groom nodded sagely. “We’d best accustom ourselves. Madwomen everywhere these days.”

  “Madmen too,” Lambert agreed.

  Reluctantly the groom smiled agreement. “More all the time.”

  The next morning, Lambert’s day began badly. Tired after his night spent asking questions at the Feathers, he reported the answers he’d found to the police, who were hard put to conceal their lack of interest, though they promised him all possible cooperation.

  Lambert kept his patience on a tight rein so as not to lose it. When he had done all he could with the police, he yielded to the temptation he’d had the day before and went to ask the Earl of Bridgewater for help.

  It took more than a clean collar to gain admittance to Ludlow Castle. Fortifications that had held the high ground for seven hundred years were manned by well-trained staff. No one disturbed the Earl of Bridgewater unless he wanted to be disturbed. Lambert wrote a note to send in with his card.

  Forty minutes later, word came back. His lordship would receive his visitor in the library.

  As he followed the footman up staircases and down hallways, Lambert compared the massive walls of Ludlow to the architecture at Glasscastle. It felt less like walking into a labyrinth of stonework and greenery and more like walking into a root cellar. The heat of the day yielded to the thick walls at once. By the time Lambert was shown into the library, the cool of the place bordered on chill.

  “Wait here,” said the servant.

  Lambert waited. The library had been furnished by someone who liked books and didn’t mind climbing ladders to get to the highest shelves. There were deep armchairs with good lamps nearby. There were two vast library tables with enough curios, photographs, and keepsakes to make the place seem inviting, yet still provide room to work. There was a monumental fireplace and some windows, small and high. Otherwise the walls were an expanse of bookshelves.

  As Lambert tried to work out the system used to order the books, the door on the far wall opened. The Earl of Bridgewater entered and greeted Lambert warmly. Judging by the way he was dressed, he’d either just been riding or he meant to go riding very soon.

  “Haven’t they brought up a tea tray yet?” Bridgewater asked. “Please forgive me. The staff are not quite at their best these days. There was a burglary here a few weeks ago and we seem to be devoting more attention to preventing another than to basic courtesy.” Bridgewater saw Lambert was seated comfortably, rang for the tea tray, and settled himself in a chair opposite.

  “A burglary?” Lambert asked. “A man would have to be near as foolish as he was dishonest to try breaking in here.”

  “I would have said so myself.” Bridgewater’s long face was a picture of chagrin. “Whoever it was, he combined foolhardiness and courage sufficient to make away with a few small things, easily replaced, but full of sentimental value.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lambert.

  “I blame myself. One cannot ignore the changes in the world just because one wished the old ways still held. Now, what is this urgent business that brings you to me this morning?”

  Lambert stuck to the essentials. “Nicholas Fell is missing. So is Robert. Brailsford. Miss Brailsford—that’s Robert’s younger sister—came to Ludlow with me to find them. Now Miss Brailsford is missing too.”

  Bridgewater regarded Lambert with astonishment. “My good man! You have notified the authorities?”

  “I’ve notified authorities until I’m blue in the face. At Glasscastle, I told Stowe of St. Joseph’s when Fell disappeared. Here in Ludlow, with three people gone, I can’t seem to get the police to take me seriously at all. They listen, they nod, they’re polite enough, but they don’t do anything.”

  “Good heavens.” Bridgewater turned as the door Lambert had come through opened and a servant arrived with a tea tray. “Foster, as soon as you’ve seen to that, send along to the police station and let them know I wish to speak with the man in charge.”

  Without a flicker of curiosity, the servant acknowledged his new orders and withdrew.

  “Permit me to talk to the police. We’ll see whose face goes blue.” Bridgewater poured out tea for Lambert. “But for now, please continue.”

  Willingly, Lambert went over his interrogation of the staff at the Feathers. Bridgewater was an excellent listener. With searching questions, he brought out every detail of Lambert’s story.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to trace a Minotaur, given enough time and men,” said Bridgewater. “And I think we might have luck with the lunatic asylum. I can dispatch a servant to ask the local physicians where they send their patients. If that doesn’t turn up anything useful, we’ll send to London for more.” He poured out tea. “This will take time, you understand.”

  “I know. But I’m not sure how long I can make myself sit still.” Lambert accepted the cup he was handed but refused the little pastries that accompanied the tea. “Maybe I could ask around myself. Might get answers faster that way.”

  “That’s true. But there is something to be said for being known locally. You’ve asked me to help. Please permit me to do so.” Bridgewater settled back to enjoy his own tea and pastry. “I am proud to be able to help Nicholas Fell and his friends. Thank you for enlisting me in your cause.”

  “Thank you for listening to me,” Lambert countered.

  Bridgewater looked pensive. “Can you think of any reason these three people in particular should disappear? I understand that Miss Brailsford was searching for her brother. But what connects the Brailsfords with Nicholas Fell?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The Agincourt device,” said Lambert.

  Bridgewater quirked an eyebrow. “Perhaps I flatter myself, but I fancy that if anyone could interest Nicholas Fell in the Agincourt device, I could. I tried and failed. I confess it is his disappearance that troubles me most.”

  Lambert put his teacup down untouched. “To be honest, Miss Brailsford’s disappearance worries me considerably more”

  Bridgewater winced. “I’m sorry. Of course. I misspoke. The abduction of the young lady must be our first concern. Fell can take care of himself. As can Robert Brailsford. It is the girl we must seek most urgently. If the police won’t detail enough men, I have servants to help. We’ll start with Ludlow itself, then fan out to cover every inch of the surrounding countryside. It will take time, but it is vital to be thorough.”

  Bridgewater’s sternness surprised Lambert. “You make it sound like you’re organizing a search party.”

  “Precisely so. I only hope we are not already too late.”

  Lambert thought for a moment. “You’ve never met Miss Brailsford, have you?”

  “I have not had that good fortune,” said Bridgewater, “although I know her brother rather well.”

  “Trust me, Miss Brailsford can take care of herself better than Fell and Robert put together.
When I said her disappearance worries me, I meant it worries me that she was on her guard, ready for trouble, and still she disappeared. Do you have any idea how difficult that must have been to arrange?”

  “To be honest, I fail to see any difficulty. Of the three, I think it would be easiest by far to subdue a young lady.”

  Lambert chose his words with care. “Miss Brailsford was trained at Greenlaw. Now she teaches there.”

  Bridgewater’s eyebrows climbed. “Miss Brailsford is a witch of Greenlaw?”

  “Yup.” Lambert gave him a moment to let the idea soak in.

  “Ah. I see.” Bridgewater chose a framed photograph from those on the table beside him and held it out to Lambert. “My grandmother.”

  Taken aback by the non sequitur, Lambert found himself examining the likeness of a middle-aged lady dressed in a fashion sixty years out of date. Despite the frills and full skirts, there was something austere in her expression, something like sadness in her eyes. The way she carried her head, the arch of her brows, and the proud set of her jaw were very like Bridgewater himself. “I see the resemblance,” he said politely.

  “She was a witch of Greenlaw,” Bridgewater explained.

  “Oh.” Lambert took another look at the lady before he handed her back. What a pity photography hadn’t been invented in time to capture her likeness when she had been Jane’s age. He tried to imagine the years away but he couldn’t do it. There was no girl left in her, just the habit of command. “Then you understand.”

  “I do. Although my grandmother did not believe in Greenlaw’s use of a strict curriculum in magical education. She felt the rigidity of her training cost her a good deal of her power.” Bridgewater smiled faintly as he replaced the photograph. “Even so, she was a force to be reckoned with.”

  Lambert could just imagine. “What about you?” Bridgewater aided the scholars of Glasscastle even though he’d never studied there. Did he regret his decision now? It was none of his business, but Lambert could not help asking. “What do you think of magical education?”