Rotherweird

by Andrew Caldecott

  ‘Well, go on,’ shrieked Miss Trimble, a closet musophobe, to Oblong. Not especially keen on picking up small rodents, he hung back, making futile grabbing motions. ‘Useless man,’ grumbled Miss Trimble, her mood further darkened by Jones’ disappearance.

  Orelia caught Sir Veronal’s expression of unsurprised amusement. The Slickstone Arms must indeed be surplus to requirements. He must know and have all he needed – the tile’s location, the book, the stones. How were they going to stop him?

  5

  Valourhand Goes Prospecting

  Following the meeting in Escutcheon Place, Valourhand lapsed into an agony of indecision. Jones the jogger spy had reported Strimmer’s visit to the Manor. Strimmer had clearly joined forces with Sir Veronal. She had received no reply from Ferensen to her report about The Roman Recipe Book. Though desperate to examine the mixing-point and to analyse its treatment of matter, she dared not face the spiderwoman again. She had no clear allies and no plan. Only the implication that Fortemain was an ancestor, the one man who had had the wit and fortitude to challenge Slickstone and Wynter, brought a modicum of comfort.

  Every thread seemed to return to Flask. She felt sure he had been on an important trail when he disappeared. He had known about Slickstone’s imminent arrival. He had known about the tower’s attic room. He had communicated with Pendle about the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

  She had one lead, a decision by Flask that nobody had understood at the time and whose potential significance everybody had overlooked. He had left stylish lodgings in the School for Rotherweird’s least salubrious alley. Why?

  Valourhand tried the Porter’s Lodge, but Miss Trimble was

  obdurate. ‘The Box Street annexe is closed, and I’m down to one

  key.’

  Valourhand had an idea: one witness, one chance.

  *

  Tucked between the School and the eastern wall huddled a cluster of sad towers. Each was just one room and a stairwell wide, and each blocked the others’ light. Subsidence, worm and damp had twisted them to all angles. Halfway up one lived Aggs in a single room with her mostly single possessions – one bed, one stove, one table, one cuckoo clock, one chair, one cupboard, one cushion, one bookshelf, one pot plant and one mechanical singing caged bird. Aggs would have liked a live version of the latter, but feared it would languish during her long working hours. Despite the gloom, Aggs’ quarters had a pleasing cosiness.

  Aggs could tell that her visitor hailed from a more affluent neighbourhood from the ascent – two steps at a time. Menial labourers did not rush in their recreation time.

  She opened the door to a slight young woman with an alert expression, whom she knew by reputation.

  ‘Is it Aggs?’

  ‘It is, and you’re Miss Valourhand, what likes dressing up.’

  Valourhand glanced up and down the dilapidated stairs. Aggs, recipient of many a confidence, got the message. This was not a social visit. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘Don’t sound surprised, love, I’m a professional. But my list is full. The dusting arm ain’t what it was. But I does a mean coffee.’

  As Aggs put the kettle on, Valourhand seized her chance. ‘You looked after Robert Flask?’

  Aggs pursed lips and brow. ‘I did and I didn’t. But I don’t shop customers, even if they are dodgy and disappeared.’

  ‘Dodgy?’

  Aggs’ pained expression deepened, and Valourhand understood. Flask had abandoned not only his prestigious rooms in the Main Quad, but also Aggs’ tender care – without due thanks. The rest of her clientele had no doubt been more appreciative. She noted the pot plant – Hayman’s Silver Pothos.

  ‘Not even a note – and then he goes to Box Street – makes this place look like the Town Hall.’

  ‘Those are the rooms I want to see.’

  ‘Room.’

  ‘One room – how do you know that?’

  Caught out, Aggs’ chin jutted and her eyebrows pumped. ‘Cos . . . cos . . .’ Valourhand waited. ‘Cos someone wanted to check. So I snaffled the key from the Lodge, didn’t I. You wouldn’t tell, Miss Valourhand, would you?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  Aggs relaxed. She could tell Valourhand had her complexities, but this at least sounded like a genuine promise.

  Valourhand pressed on, ‘Who wanted to check?’

  ‘His friend.’

  ‘Strimmer?’

  ‘Oh no, not him.’ Sensing a free spirit, Aggs warmed to Valourhand, having expected not to. ‘Mr Fanguin.’

  Valourhand kept her surprise to herself. ‘I don’t mind Fanguin.’ In Valourhand’s lexicon of compliments, ‘don’t mind’ came near the top.

  ‘Some of ’is personal habits are vix satis,’ commented Aggs, who liked deploying fancy phrases picked up from her teacher clients, ‘like odd socks and all that, but he’s all right at heart.’

  ‘You wouldn’t still have the key?’

  ‘I might . . .’

  ‘I’ll return it to the Lodge – discreetly – no worry.’

  ‘If you promise not to trick young Mr Oblong again – ’e’s a laughing stock, Miss Valourhand. It ain’t good for him.’

  ‘Promise,’ replied Valourhand, amused at the triviality of the condition.

  Aggs handed over the key. ‘Number seven, and you watch them stairs. Fanguin fell down them – and by the way, he found nowt when he got up.’

  From what she knew of Fanguin, he had difficulty finding his own pockets. For no logical reason she found his blank return encouraging.

  Had Box Street been a living thing, it would have been old, blind, stooped and asthmatic. The tall thin houses bowed across the street to each other, their upper floors almost touching, leaving the thin strip of road below in gloom and the air dank.

  The narrow staircase lacked several banisters and suffered from loose boards, explaining Fanguin’s mishap. Rusty nails protruded from the handrail. Dust from untreated beams and damaged plaster polluted every surface with a yellowy greyness.

  Flask’s attic bedsitting room offered no relief. Net curtains flapped over a grimy double window. A sheet of polythene protected a bare mattress. Any surviving possessions had been cleared away. In one corner a single plank, bowed in the middle, leaned against the wall, top almost reaching the ceiling. The small kneehole desk, the mantelpiece and the solitary table yielded nothing of interest.

  She lay down on the mattress, resting her head where Flask would have done. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. Hatred, dark and malignant, not of her, but of someone or something else, lingered in the room. ‘Look, look, look,’ she chided herself as she flung open the window. A few feet away the window in the equivalent room opposite stood slightly ajar. The plank!

  Excited now, she ran the plank through Flask’s window and eased open the window opposite. A veteran of the high wire, she had no difficulty crossing to the storeroom that doubled as Flask’s study.

  If in search of seclusion, he had chosen well. Dilapidated filing cabinets and broken chairs blocked the door. On a table stood an array of pens, fine-haired paintbrushes, small pots of ink and tubes of paint. She explored the rest of the room, finding nothing until she reached the fireplace. Raking through the ash, she found a fragment of charred paper – or was it parchment? On it, in black silhouette, she could just make out two figures – one a jester, the other a soldier. She remembered Strimmer’s description of the book in the North Tower. This was the last page. It could hardly be coincidence.

  ‘Had Box Street been a living thing, it would have been old,

  blind, stooped and asthmatic.’

  She wrestled with the chronology: Flask arrives. Flask directs Strimmer to the North Tower room where the book is found. Flask warns Strimmer about Slickstone. Flask disappears. Strimmer shows Slickstone the book. The book disappears.

  Flask appeared to have copied the book, or parts of it, at or about the time that he had encouraged Strimmer to explore the N
orth Tower roof space. The book had been there when Strimmer discovered the old observatory – so when had Flask first tracked down Wynter’s record of his successful experiments? How and why had it found its way to the observatory? That Flask knew about Lost Acre was clear from the notebook Fanguin had given Oblong.

  She articulated a theory: Flask, a resourceful historian, is fascinated by Rotherweird. Somehow, somewhere, he finds the book and discovers the truth about Wynter’s trial (maybe through records in London?) and the existence of Lost Acre. The book clearly concerns the mixing of species, a disturbing science. He obtains the post of modern historian at Rotherweird School to continue his investigations. Flask somehow discovers Slickstone’s interest in the Manor well before he arrives – a leak from the Town Hall, perhaps. He suspects him of knowing about the book and wishing to use its powers. He sets up Strimmer and herself as opposition to Slickstone, hoping to flush out more of Slickstone’s intentions after his arrival. Flask copies the book in case Slickstone reacquires it. Slickstone gets wind of Flask’s unhealthy interest and disposes of him.

  But three flaws confronted this working hypothesis: the virulent hatred she sensed in Flask’s room did not readily fit, although Slickstone and Flask might have met before they came to Rotherweird. Nor could she see why Flask would lead Slickstone to the book. Maybe he wanted to use Strimmer to confirm Slickstone’s identity, or maybe Strimmer had indeed discovered it himself. Third, would Flask have acted so far ahead of Slickstone’s physical arrival in town? And how had Slickstone unmasked Flask as an enemy so early in the story?

  She pocketed the fragment of paper and locked up, kicking herself for not having shown a closer interest in Oblong’s predecessor. They had so little time.

  Midsummer’s Eve was only two days away.

  6

  Orelia Goes Prospecting

  Orelia sank her frustrations into the shop. Aided by her revamp and the removal of Mrs Banter’s censorious eye, custom increased and she shifted obstinate stock by lowering the price and attaching more honest labels. The ledger reminded her of Salt’s visit in the fog, as did Hayman’s Croci. Their flowers, though long spent, had been unlike any known example of the species, both in colour and time of arrival. She fumed over Salt’s egotistical performance on the night of the fire and decided to beard the gardener in

  his den.

  It was the day before Midsummer Eve, when Rotherweird garlanded every street – tower to tower, balcony to balcony, window to window. Traditionally roses and white jasmine dominated, with the more exotic blooms strung along the front of the Town Hall. To Snorkel’s irritation Salt had failed this year to produce anything novel. As Orelia hurried along, municipal workers were busy with ladders, ropes and carts of flowers brought in by the countrysiders.

  Conveniently placed in a pleasant square not so far away, Salt’s house, though narrow, had a low extension that snaked behind a neighbour’s garden. Her knock went unanswered, but Salt had left his front window ajar. True to her new spirit of adventure, she clambered in.

  Up a trellis nailed to the end wall of the entrance hall climbed a plant with pale green leaves, thorns and a profusion of small crimson flowers. On the pot hung a copper label – Hayman’s Darkness Rose. Unlike any rose she knew, it had grown away from the light and into shadow. She turned right into Salt’s living room.

  She could barely see the walls, so close-hung were the botanical paintings and prints – some in section, some suspended with their roots bare, others as imagined in nature. A faint fragrance hung in the air, as if exhaled by this sumptuous gallery.

  Orelia was puzzled. The oil paintings, the botanical books with gilt spines and the eighteenth-century prints would surely challenge the salary of a municipal gardener.

  She opened the baize door at the back of the room to find a heavier door behind. She undid the bolts and pushed. Along the side of a passage ran a trestle table with knives and scalpels laid out as on a surgeon’s trolley. The shelf above held plastic bottles in differing shapes and sizes, sealed and labelled with floral names in Latin. Many had the prefix H – H for Hayman’s she assumed. A bin beneath the table contained creamy yellow slices of the discarded remnants of corms and bulbs. On a peg by the table hung a pair of overalls, which extended like a beekeeper’s to cover face and hands.

  Sharp right, another bolted door led to the extension. A row of plugs at wainscot level, each with a red eye, glowed in the gloom. Orelia drew the bolts and stepped in warily, only for the door to slam behind her. The low blue-purple light conjured a moonlit jungle. Six oak beams rose from ground to ceiling, so swathed in foliage that she could only glimpse the ropes and platforms they supported. Variegated ivy covered the ground, and through it wandered daisy-like plants. Higher up, other species clung, climbed and trailed, unfamiliar variations of familiar types, including a white honeysuckle with black leaves and a thorned clematis. Just visible among them hung a clock with transparent sides. Wires protruded from the rear before disappearing into the canopy of vegetation.

  Orelia breathed in the cloying tropical atmosphere for some minutes. The clock made a whirring noise, the light lowered further and unseen sprinklers released a fine spray, dampening her face and hair. Flowers closed, but she sensed an awakening too, and instinctively retreated. At ground level the foliage twitched, tugging at her shoes. Like a dancer on points she leapt towards the door. Unseen tendrils beneath the ground cover tore at her shoes and strove to bind her feet. The protective suit! She cursed her stupidity.

  But she was quick and light enough on her feet to make the door. Slamming it behind her, she sank to her knees. Shoes and trousers were badly torn and crimson weals pockmarked her ankles and lower legs.

  Back in the sitting room she went through the desk to find invoices for substantial sums to various Rotherweird worthies, so explaining the quality of his pictures and books. She also found letters of complaint at the failure of his plants to propagate or to last into a second year. No wonder the Hayman varieties in Rotherweird’s public beds were replaced every season.

  Salt stood in the hallway and watched Orelia flicking through the book. Lost Acre had taught him the art of stealth. ‘Miss Roc?’

  ‘How could you? Digging them up! Selling them!’ She flourished the ledger.

  ‘Guilty,’ admitted Salt, ‘although you too dig up old things and sell them.’

  Orelia flung herself into a chair and swung her legs over the arm. ‘All right. Explain yourself.’

  Salt made a decision. He needed an ally. He had two tasks ahead and could only do one of them. Of all the company he trusted Orelia most. ‘On recent visits everything – flowers, trees, grasses –

  has been throwing seed.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘They’re under threat. Believe me, they know.’

  ‘So you bring them back to sell.’

  Salt told the truth. ‘I’m afraid this is not so recent. I needed money for my nursery.’

  ‘But they don’t breed.’

  ‘Worse, they don’t last either. Which means . . . it’s Lost Acre itself we have to save.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s happened before – Oblong told us, didn’t he: 1017. “All are saved by the Green Man and the Hammer.” Surely “all” means Lost Acre. The millennial recurrence can’t be coincidence. I’m convinced its fragile existence tires. Suns consume energy, become gross and expire.’

  Salt sounded too certain for the little she knew. She peered deep into his face and saw evasion. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’

  ‘Less of one than the others.’

  Orelia all but lost her temper. ‘You were holding back the other night, and you are now. You want help, you share.’

  Salt relented, marginally. ‘On my last visit to Lost Acre, I met a weaselman. Seriously . . .’ Salt paused.

  ‘I believe you.’ Talk about getting blood from a stone.

  ‘He said someone must come at the “right” or “ripe”
time, if Lost Acre is to be saved.’

  ‘You, presumably.’

  Salt did not catch the mild sarcasm in her voice. ‘There remains Sir Veronal.’

  ‘Right, I get it: you play the Messiah while I take on the harmless Slickstone.’

  ‘He murdered your aunt. I rather assumed . . .’

  Orelia changed tack. ‘Have you any idea what to do when you get there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Or how to get there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Impasse.

  They sat in sombre silence until Orelia glimpsed a familiar figure loping towards Salt’s front door.

  ‘Oh God, he does have this gift for cropping up!’

  ‘Who bloody does?’ Salt stumped to the door and flung it open with a graceless greeting. ‘What do you want?’

  Orelia offered a reassuring wave. ‘He’s a historian – he ransacks the past for clues. We best hear him out.’

  Oblong sat, or rather sprawled, in Salt’s last unoccupied chair. Salt smiled, unexpectedly charmed by Oblong’s clumsiness. A ludicrous image came to him: Oblong rooted in Grove Gardens, a human climbing frame festooned with clematis. The Green Man?

  Orelia summarised their discussion to date.

  ‘It’s a race to get in,’ said Oblong. ‘Sir Veronal knows the

  white tile is closed. He’ll go after the black tile now. He must know roughly where it is. The spiderwoman was surely put there to guard it.’

  ‘How would Sir Veronal get past her?’ asked Orelia.

  ‘He made her – he promises release. He threatens her with lightning hands. He’ll find a way.’

  Orelia stated the obvious. ‘We have no such advantages.’

  Salt raised his left sleeve, revealing an ugly scar, but Oblong continued, ‘I think there’s another way in – an aerial gate.’

  Salt looked urgently at Orelia as Oblong explained Bolitho’s lecture, how the central stones pointed on the same axis to a hole in space, how the circles were aligned to Midsummer Day.