Rotherweird

by Andrew Caldecott

  The wave of warmth at the moment of Lost Acre’s salvation penetrated even the solid walls of the lair and she hoped it heralded Ferensen’s victory, a hope that strengthened when the spiderwoman did not return and the black tile went dead.

  She explored the lair with care, mapping the many passages as she went. The split nature of the spiderwoman manifested itself in disturbing ways: most of the rooms were dark and reeked of butchery, but in one she found a large store of tallow candles of many shapes and sizes – made from the fat of her victims, presumably. At the furthest point from the kitchen she encountered a single door with a complex set of mechanical locks, all numbered. The code turned on a sequence of primes, which once deciphered, revealed what could only be described as an artist’s studio: an easel, palette knives, brushes, paints of several types and many colours. The implications she found deeply unsettling. When the bestial half slept, the woman must have dragged their shared body here to paint for as long as the spider’s unconsciousness lasted.

  Yet who could be the supplier? Who had devised and installed the locks? Indeed, who had brought the library books that had so offended Gorhambury? All the available evidence pointed away from Ferensen. The painting materials came from Alizarin & Flake, the shop in the Golden Mean, and the stock was fresh. A trapdoor at the edge of the room led down into a dark tunnel, which Valourhand had no intention of entering. Wheels within wheels – the company had only scratched the surface of the connections between Rotherweird and Lost Acre.

  As soon as she opened the sketchbooks, she recognised the hand behind The Dark Devices. The spiderwoman had painted only the local fauna, in orderly sequences. The sketchbooks too were arranged in a particular order. The illustrations brought home to Valourhand the true oddity of Lost Acre: many creatures lived there, bred and evolved without any disruption from the mixing-point – and every now and then something dramatic and new would emerge. Wynter’s interfering activities must have distorted the balance.

  Valourhand could not draw, but she could measure, observe through her microscope, record and examine. Although at times she yearned for Salt’s botanical insights and Fanguin’s grasp of biology, she was determined to see how far she could go with her own native wit.

  She imposed on herself several rules: she kept away from the mixing-point, to avoid temptation. She did not kill or trap; she studied only the dead – the forest floor and the webs near the lair’s front door yielded many carcases that could be matched to one or more of the paintings. Nor did she venture far, keeping within sprinting distance of the front door. She noticed that dawn and dusk were the most dangerous times, and that most creatures afforded her a degree of respect, presumably under the misapprehension that she had ousted the spiderwoman.

  She found mushrooms and fruit, and even braved the more palatable-looking dried meat that the spiderwoman had so assiduously stored.

  The study gradually softened her misanthropy. She began to respect, even revere, her own species. She hung a few of the paintings on the kitchen walls. She slept beside the kitchen fire, scene of her ferocious fight with its previous owner.

  Home, sweet home.

  2

  Answers and Questions

  Old rituals reasserted themselves. The contents of the Manor were meticulously crated up by a brief influx of outsiders, carried over the bridge to a line of waiting lorries and returned to the administrators of Sir Veronal’s estate in London. They faced a formidable task: Sir Veronal had died intestate, without wife or descendants. The ‘Prohibited Quarter’ signs reappeared, and with them the locks. An aberration in Rotherweird’s history was shed like a dead skin.

  The Journeyman’s Gist re-opened with little discernible change. The mysterious death of Rodney Slickstone and the withdrawal of his parents restored tolerance of countrysiders. Collier even sat next to Gwen Ferdy, his mathematics marks improving dramatically in consequence.

  Snorkel assisted this return to the old dispensation. The troubling looseness of recent events had coincided with Gorhambury’s departure. He wrote a generous letter, by his standards:

  I have decided to be magnanimous. You are restored to your duties. Report 7 a.m. sharp on Monday. Lodgings are available in Silent Lane, deductible from salary. Otherwise terms as before . . .

  He received a response he judged ungenerous:

  Rent is not agreed as deductible, being in lieu of long-overdue pay rise. In future, holidays will be taken. I am pleased to report Monday if these terms are acceptable.

  Within hours of Gorhambury’s return, Snorkel realised what he had missed, while catching a new note in the town clerk’s voice. Galvanised by the fruits of his Grand Survey of Rotherweird’s exterior fittings, Gorhambury found a new lease of life. The in-trays of the Sewers and Drainage Committee overflowed with project proposals.

  Between the Inner Circle and the Rother, Salt discovered tiny seeds in the process of germination. He lifted some and protected others. For the first time in living memory the Rotherweird eglantine had fruited. He gathered the few surviving berries and froze them as an insurance against the future.

  Only Strimmer felt dejected and defeated. He had lost his precious book, not to mention the promise of real power.

  News of Ferensen’s return broke via Panjan. Some days later Orelia received from Ferensen through Boris Polk a grocery list, and a confidential order for Proliferate, the copiers in Old Ley Lane. She sent back via Ferdy’s beer-cart jars of black olives, anchovies, snails and marrow-bones, as well as several long tubes from the copiers.

  Shortly thereafter, invitations in Ferensen’s fine hand arrived for the company to dine at his tower, 7 for 7.30 p.m. The list featured two additions to those present at the Escutcheon Place meeting: Aggs and Fanguin, and Ferensen stipulated that Oblong should ask Fanguin, and Fanguin should ask Aggs.

  Happily, Bomber was out when Oblong called. Fanguin appeared to suspect confidential business, ushering Oblong into his upstairs study. He offered Oblong elderflower cordial. Oblong placed the card in front of Fanguin.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘An invitation to a rural celebration dinner.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘A friend of Bill Ferdy’s.’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘I understand Flask’s notebook helped.’ In truth Oblong did not know the reason.

  ‘You mean it did help.’

  Oblong nodded. He felt uncomfortable, for reasons he could not articulate.

  Enlightenment came from Fanguin seconds later. ‘Why not tell me earlier? Who’s the skipper, Oblong? Who brought you fame in a coracle? Who came to your tower when you knew nobody? Who had you to dinner? Who gave you the notebook?’

  Oblong had the unsettling sensation that Ferensen was teaching him a lesson about friendship. At The Journeyman’s Gist Underground he had not defended Fanguin when Salt had attacked him.

  He had no good answer. ‘Well, we’re making up for it now.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘You’ll find out when we get there. But it’s a big vote of confidence, believe me.’

  ‘Rule One: the crew never patronise the skipper.’

  ‘Sorry. But you will have to be discreet, Fanguin.’

  The biologist shed his gruffness and smiled. ‘I can imagine.’

  Oblong belatedly grasped the oddity of the conversation. Fanguin had played with him, rather than ask the obvious questions.

  ‘Guess what Aggs and I wore at the Midsummer Fair?’ he continued. Oblong had a snapshot recall of the two of them, swaying together high in the auditorium. Fanguin opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out triple handcuffs. ‘Boris provided them. Can you imagine the torment? I’d never smelled such a brew. But I’d also never seen such a feat of Nature. To lose the memory of the Green Man—! Bomber got smashed and can’t remember a thing, but yours truly . . . Of course I shall come. I look forward to the education. Who knows – poor, sodden Fanguin might even contribute to unravelling this mystery?’


  What mystery? thought Oblong as he walked slowly home, a mildly chastened man.

  Gorhambury accepted his invitation, but a formal postscript stressed his duties to the Town Hall. ‘The leopard reacquiring his spots,’ was how Bill Ferdy described it.

  Aggs accepted too.

  Bert Polk declined, for family reasons.

  Only Valourhand did not reply, so confirming what Ferensen had already suspected. Oblong reported that for the last two weeks of term her classes were being taken by a stand-in, at her request. Rhombus Smith had received a note in his pigeonhole on Midsummer Day, which made it clear that she would be back the following term.

  On the day of the party the weather broke, showers sweeping in from the west, much to the relief of farmers and window-boxes. In consequence, the tarpaulin covering Ferensen’s guests in the rear of Ferdy’s beer-cart did not appear incongruous, although those beneath it certainly did.

  Fanguin wore white trousers, a blue waistcoat and a straw boater, more gondolier than terrestrial diner, while Aggs, describing her party best as ‘bequests and hand-me-downs’, had the air of a fortune-teller. Gorhambury dressed for a municipal function. Oblong wore

  a herringbone tweed suit, which Orelia thought surprisingly

  dashing and well-suited to his gangly frame. She wore a flared black skirt, inlaid with circles of glass, and a white shirt, with what Oblong took to be curtain rings hanging from her ears, her raven hair held back by a single ribbon. She and Aggs might have been in competition for any clairvoyant business. Salt wore a green tweed jacket, as befitted the Green Man, and (for him) an unusually clean pair of trousers. Jones achieved a bizarre mix of tracksuit bottoms, running shirt and a Rotherweird School athletics blazer. Boris was always Boris, and above, Bill Ferdy was his usual self, so as not to attract attention.

  Close to the Ferdy farm, the weather eased into sunshine and the tarpaulins were flung back. The company, hitherto subdued by darkness, revived.

  Aggs commenced the thaw. ‘Give us the flowers, Mr Salt,’ she said, ‘I do so love them names.’

  Salt did so, leaning precariously out of the beer-cart and pointing, ‘Lousewort, cranesbill, greater celandine, burdock, self-heal, sneezewort, purple loosestrife . . .’ No Latin.

  Bill Ferdy led them down past his house to Ferensen’s tower. Ferensen appeared in the doorway, arms open in greeting. He wore Elizabethan costume from ruff to velvet buckled shoes – they would have laughed, but somehow his dress fitted the occasion. Orelia knew instantly that they were his, made to fit, and of the period.

  They handed over modest presents, except Fanguin, who held back his box, declining all enquiries. Nobody asked about the healing scars on Ferensen’s face and hands.

  After a round of handshakes and lengthier introductions to Fanguin and Aggs, Ferensen walked his guests to his woodland maze. Bridges swivelled as they passed. Fountains appeared in one place, only to reappear somewhere else. Gates locked and unlocked in complex sequences.

  Like Ferensen’s mind, thought Orelia, industrious but tricksy, with a sense of the beautiful too. She decided that he must have a problem to solve. He was warming them up. As they walked, she outlined to Fanguin what they had learned at Escutcheon Place.

  His reaction was unusually thoughtful. ‘There had to be something,’ he responded. ‘There had to be something remarkable.’

  Orelia was the first to the narrow arched entrance at the maze’s heart. Beyond, seated on a wooden chair, she found the guest they had overlooked: Marmion Finch, who had combined his costume from the Midsummer Fair play with his attire on the night of the fire. He looked like a bandit leader close to retirement.

  ‘Winner’s crown,’ said the Herald, placing on Orelia’s head a garland of laurel, before asking how Sir Veronal had died. She told him; Finch had a seductive manner, when it suited him.

  ‘All connects,’ he said.

  Reading his face, she did not think he knew how.

  Ferensen had harvested freshwater crayfish from the Rother, which he served with anchovies, olives and snails, garnished with garlic, in halved marrow-bones. Other Elizabethan recipes adorned the table, wine too. The plates were wooden or pewter, the pepper mills as old: period flavours for a period table.

  Ferensen’s tables had interlocked into one, the wheeled bookshelves pushed to the perimeter. Around them trailed a sequence of large blown-up prints of the tapestry’s various scenes, taken from Orelia’s photographs. It had the uncomfortable look of a record of real events as proscribed by the History Regulations. Gorhambury muttered, but no more.

  After dinner Ferensen asked everyone to charge their glasses. ‘To the redemption of Lost Acre, and to justice done – I give you Hayman Salt and Orelia Roc.’

  The botanist modestly waved away the applause.

  ‘I did nothing. I just lay on the ground and watched,’ added Orelia.

  ‘The truth needs witnesses,’ said Ferensen gently, before raising his voice for an announcement. ‘And now for our party game!’

  Buoyed by the toasts, Boris, Fanguin (who considered the event a justified exception to his elderflower regime) and Gregorius Jones became boisterous.

  ‘Blind man’s buff.’

  ‘Pass the port.’

  ‘Can Boris walk a straight line?’

  Ferensen paused for effect. ‘It’s called: Who is Robert Flask? Team game – we pool our knowledge to find the answer.’

  ‘How do we know if we’ve won?’ asked Gregorius Jones.

  ‘It’s like my maze: you’ll know if you get there.’

  ‘Do you know – as in your maze?’ asked Fanguin, already intrigued by this mysterious countrysider, whose possessions suggested a polymath with a close interest in all aspects of the natural world.

  ‘No,’ replied Ferensen, ‘Mr Finch will direct the traffic. Unlike some, I’m sharper when I’m not talking.’

  Finch did not stand up. ‘Fellow rummagers in history,’ he said, ‘take a leaf from the schoolmaster’s book. Raise a hand to speak, unless I choose you. We do not want a murmuration of starlings. Facts, first; questions, second; informed guesswork, hypotheses and theories, third. No larking about.’ He gave Polk, Fanguin and Jones the Finch death-stare. ‘This may be serious business.’

  Finch paused. He had achieved the silence of an obedient class. He pointed at Boris. ‘Tell us about Flask’s arrival in Rotherweird.’

  ‘I picked him up at the Twelve-Mile Post with one big suitcase. I saw nothing odd apart from his appearance. He was not inquisitive . . . then.’

  ‘Tell us about Flask settling in?’ He pointed at Aggs.

  ‘Ever so tidy – not like ’im or ’im.’ She wagged a finger at Fanguin and Oblong. ‘He always kept his suitcase locked, did Mr Flask.’

  Oblong remembered her unconvincing lie at their first meeting. ‘Hold it, Aggs, you told me you knew nothing about him.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Aggs went red and then white, eyes flashing, ‘’e bunked off without so much as a “by your leave”. I looked after him proper, I did, and ’e goes to Box Street. That’s a rat-run, that is. He disowned Aggs; I disown ’im.’

  Finch pointed at Fanguin. ‘What about Flask in the pub, tongue loosened by Sturdy? Facts, please, facts.’

  ‘Yes, well, we all like a pint now and again,’ replied Fanguin defensively. ‘Flask did for sure. He became increasingly curious, for ever asking about the prohibited quarter and the Manor.’

  ‘And you, of course, with several pints of Sturdy in the locker, said nothing,’ intervened Boris with a smile.

  ‘Silence!’ boomed Finch. ‘I saw no hand, Mr Polk.’

  Boris blushed like a naughty schoolboy.

  Finch turned to Orelia. ‘Did Flask visit Baubles & Relics?’

  ‘He dropped in occasionally, but never bought. He hunted books. Anything old, anything under the counter – he said to tell him.’

  Ferensen intervened. ‘We know from Miss Valourhand that he made a point of befriending the North Tower, especial
ly Strimmer.’

  Oblong could not resist asking after his chief tormentor. ‘Why isn’t she here?’

  ‘I’ve reason to believe she’s engaged in scientific fieldwork,’ replied Ferensen, ‘but she has given me an item of puzzling information, to which we will come to in due course.’

  ‘To resume,’ chivvied Finch, and Ferensen did so. ‘Flask told Strimmer and Valourhand that a rich outsider called Slickstone would come to the Manor – and that this was an insult to its last owner, a great scientist and the father of Rotherweird.’

  ‘Did he name this “great scientist”?’

  ‘I think Valourhand would have told us if he had. What Flask did do was encourage her to protest at the party.’

  Finch turned back to Aggs. ‘What of Mr Flask’s notebook?’

  ‘’e ripped most of it out before ’e went to Box Street.’ Aggs controlled herself. ‘’e left his drawers, spotless save for that book. Wanted me to find it, didn’t ’e. So I kept it. Then when he does ’is vanishing act, I gives it to Mr Fanguin.’

  ‘Question to the floor of the house,’ said Finch grandly. ‘We know the book contained an anagram for Lost Acre and the year of the Chronicle entry about the midsummer flower. Anyone here tell him about Lost Acre?’

  ‘Who knew to tell him?’ pointed out Boris, again forgetting to put his hand up.

  This time Finch let the indiscretion pass. The three who knew –

  Finch, Salt and Ferensen – all shook their heads.

  Oblong raised his hand. ‘I contacted Dr Pendle at the British Museum about the Chronicle. Pendle said a colleague of mine had already been in touch – surely Flask.’

  ‘But that doesn’t answer the question,’ Fanguin pointed out. ‘How did he know to ask Pendle?’

  Oblong suggested an answer. ‘He stumbled on the frescoes in the Church Tower. They bear the year 1017 in Roman numerals. They have a Saxon scene and some fairly strange images, which make more sense now than they did.’ Then he remembered. ‘No, sorry, I’m wrong, Flask didn’t go there. I was the first. The dust was ankle-deep.’