‘Think of it as neither yours nor mine. Think of it as a power, handed down to whosoever has the wherewithal to exploit it. I shall shortly be embarking on a dangerous journey.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘To the new dispensation,’ he said, raising his glass.
Strimmer’s glass followed, and not without eagerness. Despite the strange hue of his skin, the old man cut a figure of intellect and vitality.
As if sensing Strimmer’s admiration, Sir Veronal turned. ‘You should know, Mr Strimmer, I do not have an heir. The boy is merely a convenience, and you have not disappointed me.’
*
That night the actress had a nightmare she could not dispel: Sir Veronal picking the clothes from a wooden doll and then plucking off the limbs before tossing it on a fire: a fire grown tall on the ash of his other discarded toys.
3
Fanguin Finds an Interest
Fanguin had taken up the Headmaster’s suggestion of extra-
curricular classes, advertising in the Rotherweird Chronicle and on the School noticeboards, with Rhombus Smith’s support. Children would have come, but their parents would not let them; that awkward maverick Flask had encouraged the biologist to breach their most basic taboo. The desks in Fanguin’s upstairs study, bought for the purpose, remained untenanted. Fanguin declined to recognise the incipient tremor in his right hand and the ever redder rims beneath his eyes or to acknowledge that the niggling tickle in his throat now had a more insistent edge.
In his clearer moments he resented that fact that Oblong had slipped off with Orelia Roc on the night of the fire, and he had seen the unemployed Gorhambury heading in the same direction. Like others, he had made the connection between the lightning strike at the party and Mrs Banter’s death. Unlike others, he had provided Oblong with Flask’s notebook and introduced him to the excitements of the Great Equinox Race – but the new historian had not reciprocated with any intelligence of his own. Indeed, he had not seen him in weeks. He felt betrayed and excluded.
Bomber put her arm round his shoulder as he sat vacantly at a window, waiting only, she knew, for his first drink. ‘You must find an interest.’
‘Must I?’
‘You’re slowly destroying yourself, and it isn’t pretty to watch.’
Fanguin let his head drop. An interest required enthusiasm for life, and his, once abundant, had seeped away.
‘However peculiar,’ she added.
The word ‘peculiar’ did it, conjuring an image of Flask, with his flexible face, the mild limp, one shoulder lower than the other. Flask’s disappearance, and his fatal speech to Form IV, had always struck Fanguin as odd, the former unexplained and the latter out of character. Flask did nothing without calculation, which was in part why he complemented Fanguin’s impetuous personality. An idea germinated and blossomed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re right. I need something – or someone – to research.’
He gave her a hug.
‘As to something, how about the effects of abstention on the once-addicted,’ added Bomber.
His investigation showed early promise. Flask had once confided in him an undeclared gift for compiling crosswords, which the Rotherweird Chronicle published from time to time under the name Shapeshifter.
Fanguin visited the library and wrestled with one or two. They were rich in anagrams and classical references; some even showed wit. For example: Old horses far away, but only half the way from here to Rome (11).
After two black coffees from his thermos Fanguin got there – Equidistant.
With Aggs’ help he tried Flask’s last lodgings, in the highly insalubrious Box Street, but found no clues other than a bicycle rental slip. He had never seen Flask ride a bicycle, nor did Flask’s unimposing physique suggest hire for pleasure. Flask was tight with his money, so he must have used it – but when, and where? The bicycle shop had written it off as unreturned, a dead end.
Fanguin was not blind to his shortcomings. He knew he had hit the buffers, and that his long-suffering wife deserved better. He sat on a kitchen chair and engaged with a bottle stamped VSOP on its side: Very Special Old Pale.
Vitality Spent Obsolete Person.
Vintage Superannuated Off Peak.
Inspiration came courtesy of this rambling sequence of disconnected thoughts as under the brandy’s influence he toyed with ever-more-bizarre four-word phrases or sentences, limited to the first letters VSOP. One creative combination slipped through: Velo Seen On Platform.
That must be where Flask had gone. He could produce no alternative solution – and Hoy Station did have a bicycle compound. He was up and running again.
He drank a tumbler of water and climbed gingerly to bed.
To Bomber’s astonishment, Fanguin leapt up the following morning like a man possessed, cooked breakfast for them both, gave her a kiss and left on his bicycle, unused since his dismissal – much to the relief of pedestrians. The weather had turned cloudy, but it remained warm.
He reached Hoy at lunchtime, and found Flask’s bike in the compound, splattered in mud, the hire number barely legible.
‘Been in a sauna?’ asked the stationmaster, before answering Fanguin’s question. ‘Only the stoppers take bikes.’
‘Ever know a Robert Flask?’
‘This is a railway station, not a hotel bar.’
‘Short, peculiar face, slightly lopsided – he would have had a bicycle—’ Fanguin produced a grimy photograph from his pocket, hoping that Flask’s distinctive appearance might register longer than most.
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
Ten pounds revealed that he did. The man always went one stop to Hirstoak, and always carried a backpack.
At Hirstoak the stationmaster was no sunnier, but at least charged rural prices: five pounds revealed that Flask left on the lane back towards Hoy. A shrug of the shoulders implied a route leading nowhere.
Fanguin quickly agreed: up, down, twist, turn, potholes and then a sign declaring a dead end in two miles. Half a mile further on, an enclosure ran alongside the road, shielded by a high, dense hedge of holly, yew and leylandii – a barrier fortified by razor-wire. A sign marked Contaminated Ground only stimulated Fanguin’s curiosity.
Fanguin left his bicycle and followed the hedge round, to find on the opposite side a modest entrance cut through wire and hedge. At the expense of a tear to the seat of his trousers, he crawled through.
‘Contaminated’ implied bare earth, not a one-time Eden abandoned by its gardeners. Amid a riot of brambles, convolvulus and dog-rose, Fanguin found more rarefied plants, terraces with their walls breached and a finely carved water trough drowned in ivy. Little survived of the house – ceilings and stairs had all fallen in –
but remnants of the panelling showed fine carving, and on the ground floor he found the collapsed shelves of a one-time library. An outbuilding provided another find: broad oak beams set in the floor with huge bolt-holes. He rejected the idea of a fruit press, there being no sign of the other essentials, including an orchard.
Outside, a huge tree dominated the garden, different branches displaying different shaped leaves, some almost round, others spear-shaped. He could see no trace of a graft. Contaminated ground?
Intent on the tree, he almost missed the tent. The poles sagged, the brown tarpaulin merging with the undergrowth. He peered through the flaps: a hurricane lamp, a rolled-up sleeping bag and a piece of paper, squared off in black and white. He squeezed his way in for a closer look. Though stained by damp, the pencil faded, he could just make out a single clue – 1 down: Troupes with bad posture (7). Fanguin smiled. ‘Troupes’ was an anagram of ‘posture’ and vice versa – a nonsensical clue, but he had stumbled on a crossword in the making, and that meant Flask.
Fanguin took stock. Flask had discovered a significant connection between this house and Rotherweird’s forbidden past – but why would he make a base here?
On impulse he lifted the groundsheet, and uncovered a large animal skull that flummoxed Fanguin, the expert bio
logist. Skulls protect the brain and sensory organs. Complex, three-dimensional objects, they are as distinctive between species as an individual signature. Fanguin would expect to be able to identify class, then order, then family, then species – but this skull defeated him. A mix between weasel and human, he fancifully decided in the end.
First the tree and now the skull. Fanguin was feeling unsettled. He had an impulse to escape. Outside the tent the late afternoon light had turned milky. ‘Contaminated,’ whispered the garden. He imagined weasels the height of a human, rising from the ground, baring their teeth. This creature lived here once; perhaps its relatives still did. Clasping the skull, he broke into a run and then a breathless sprint. He rushed back to his bicycle and pedalled furiously.
On his return, he declared his fears for Flask’s safety to Bomber –
he had discovered more than was safe.
Bomber struck a less pessimistic note. ‘Who knows? He went cycling, he found what you found – then he got the sack and abandoned the project. I always thought him indestructible – but at least he’s given you a task worth doing.’
Fanguin looked blank.
‘I mean the skull. First you draw it – which takes a steady hand.’
Her code for not drinking, thought Fanguin. ‘No, no – first, you name it,’ he countered.
‘Like what?’
‘Mustella ampullae.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Flask’s weasel.’
Fanguin sat down with pad and pencil, the skull and a glass of tapwater. He added ice, pretending the frozen cubes were as wicked as alcohol. As he applied pencil to paper, he saw that his hand held still. Thanks to Robert Flask or his ghost, recovery beckoned.
4
An Opening and a Closing
The opening of The Slickstone Arms lacked the preliminaries of the Manor-warming party – no formal invitations, no issues on costume or when to arrive, just a bare summons on cheap paper fliers: Slickstone Arms opens: June 18th: 7 p.m. to midnight: food and beverage free. The allure lay in the last syllable. Add natural curiosity, and few doubted attendance would be high.
Fanguin reluctantly kept away. Bomber not only forcibly pointed out that it would be the end of his new diet of elderflower cordial and sparkling water, but also that he must choose between the demon drink and her.
Oddly, he was feeling more isolated since his discovery of the weaselman’s skull. He wanted to share it, but he felt that the others – whoever they were – should come to him. But no one did – Oblong, Orelia Roc, Salt, all kept their distance. Perhaps they viewed his former closeness to Flask as a handicap? The dryness in his throat tortured him. Ice could masquerade as alcohol only for so long. His wife did not begin to understand the challenge of abstinence.
Orelia determined not to go out of loyalty to Bill Ferdy, only to change her mind for the sake of the company. Free drink would loosen the tongues of the Polks and Gregorius Jones, so they needed watching. She resented this role, policing middle-aged unreliables, but who else was there? Orelia had thought hard about her hour of teenage playfulness with Oblong. She had laughed for the first time in weeks, but the emotion felt like fondness only. She wanted passion, the kind that cannot be taught, and she somehow knew Oblong was not that type.
Oblong went for a variety of reasons. He had to face his friends after the Cecily Sheridan affair and this seemed as good a place as any. He judged (rightly) that Valourhand would not show. There was also the question of Orelia. He admired her and he found her attractive. But his progress with the fair sex had moved up the gears dramatically in the last two days, and a mild conceit set in. He felt uncomfortable with the notion of being ‘the silliest man Orelia had ever met’, preferring Miss Trimble’s more admiring approach. He felt like indulging in the luxury of choice. A waiting game felt like the right strategy, and easier to play if their next encounter were in the public domain.
The Slickstone Arms emerged as a spring-cleaned Journeyman’s Gist, tables and chairs repaired or replaced and lavatories upgraded, but no more; the new owner gave every appearance of having lost interest in the enterprise. The lager could not compete with Ferdy beer in taste, colour or texture.
Sir Veronal, however, did turn up. In a light tweed suit, a touch loud in its spit-new condition, he sat in the garden, the very picture of relaxation – gone the cold autocrat of the Manor party; he welcomed all within range.
Orelia positioned herself near the main entrance. Gregorius Jones arrived wearing a tracksuit and an idiotic grin. ‘I can’t wait to see Obbers.’
Despite her reservations, she had no difficulty defending him. ‘You be kind.’
‘If he took more exercise, he wouldn’t make such a crass mistake.’ Jones suddenly turned serious, ushering Orelia to one side and recounting how he had followed Sir Veronal to the bowl of beeches beyond the Island Field. ‘Lady Slickstone is in danger. Believe me.’
‘What was Slickstone doing there?’
‘I— I don’t know, but he was furious – with her, with the place, with me. He was pushing her.’
Then Orelia remembered her aunt’s entry about Hayman Salt’s lamp disappearing over the island stream footbridge and into the woodland beyond. The white tile must be nearby. A horrifying thought came to her: Sir Veronal wanted rid of Lady Slickstone –
perhaps she had been closing in on the truth? And what better place to send her than Lost Acre? Orelia found one crumb of comfort: Sir Veronal had expected the white tile to work, suggesting ignorance of the black tile’s location.
‘I believe you, but what can we do?’
‘Warn Gorhambury,’ replied Jones. ‘He’s next in the line of
fire.’
‘I meant Lady Slickstone. Surely he can’t risk another death here –
and he can’t send her back to the outside world. If he finds the black tile, she’s doomed.’
The penny belatedly dropped. ‘Oh, you mean he’ll use the black tile – but he doesn’t know where it is.’
‘Strimmer visited Gorhambury in Gems & Geology the morning after the fire. I fear if Strimmer knows, Sir Veronal knows.’
Gregorius Jones pulled a most peculiar face, shoulders back, all humour gone, and ran off.
The mood lightened with Oblong’s arrival. When Orelia kissed him on the cheek, he blushed, but he rode the Cecily Sheridan banter. Nothing was said of Escutcheon Place. Oblong’s own goal had proved a useful diversion.
‘Pint of weasel-piss,’ said Bert Polk peering into the pallid beer.
‘Where’s Boris?’ asked Orelia.
‘Bubbles,’ replied Bert.
Sir Veronal nonchalantly looked on as a bartender served him white wine from his private bottle nestling in a silver wine cooler. VIP remained the message. Snorkel’s lieutenants paid court, unaware of the shift in the Town Hall’s allegiance.
As Oblong and Orelia passed, he beckoned them over with a languid wave of the left hand. ‘Miss Roc . . . Mr Oblong . . .’
Sir Veronal had changed, nervous anxiety replaced by confident energy. He gestured. They pulled up a small bench.
‘Best not mix your – whatever it is – with this.’ He raised his glass. ‘How does my son?’
‘He has a starring role at the Midsummer Fair,’ replied Oblong.
Sir Veronal changed tack. ‘So – what do they say behind my back?’
‘You’re a catalyst for change in a place that never changes,’ chirped Oblong.
God, Oblong has changed too, thought Orelia.
‘Change for the good I mean,’ Oblong added hastily.
‘I wonder. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate gift – to move among your self-styled friends and discover if they really are? Pascal was right – if everyone knew what others say behind their backs, there wouldn’t be four friends in the world.’
Orelia shivered. Sir Veronal would relish exposing false friends and punishing them. Wealth had made him suspicious of deference; he craved admiration but would eradicate dissent. She
thought of her aunt, punished for another’s offence centuries earlier. Calm, she cautioned herself.
Oblong sailed on, ‘You asked me once why I came to Rotherweird –
might I return the question?’
‘A town built on a secret – what could be more tantalising? But where does one look, with all these rules and regulations?’ Sir Veronal took a sip. ‘Escutcheon Place, perhaps?’
The remark betrayed a weakness. Sir Veronal liked to toy with his prey. Oblong surprised her. ‘Strange you should mention Escutcheon Place. After the fire, old Winch—’
‘—Finch,’ interrupted Orelia.
‘He asked us back there.’
What was Oblong doing?
‘Escutcheon Palace is forbidden territory,’ observed Sir Veronal, ‘why let you in?’
‘We had an argument about some carving or other. He wanted to prove his case.’
Sir Veronal smiled and stood up. ‘I always try, Mr Oblong, to be a catalyst for change. I hope Rotherweird will be no exception. Do enjoy your evening. I must circulate, or they’ll think me an absentee landlord.’
So at ease, Orelia thought. This man knows who he is and where he is going. Distracted by Sir Veronal, Orelia had missed the most striking absentee: Snorkel, whose presence could normally be guaranteed wherever a scintilla of glory might be had. He had been all over Sir Veronal at the Manor, yet tonight there was no sign of him.
Around the piano, a trio of the better voices were well into a local ballad – ‘The Man Who Tried to Drink Moonlight’ – accompanied by the School’s Head of Music.
‘Do look,’ said the pianist, ‘a wee mouse.’ A white member of the species posed on the piano top, red-eyed, apparently enjoying the music. Several screamed and glasses smashed as horror and hilarity shared the stage and mice romped everywhere.
Orelia instantly suspected the absent Snorkel, remembering the Mayor’s pained expression at the Mayday Fair – but what a powder-
puff blow! He had no idea what he was up against, and like them, he had reacted far too late.
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