Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1

by Prestopnik, Thomas J.

  “Can’t it wait, Maynard?”

  “It’s Adelaide. She’s nowhere to be found. Have any of you seen her lately? Nicholas talked to her two nights ago, but neither of us has seen her since.”

  “Maybe she helped set up for the festivities with the other ladies,” Clay suggested.

  “Nicholas said as much. I was supposed to meet her tonight. It’s not like Adelaide to miss an appointment.”

  The constable shrugged, though noting Maynard’s apprehension. “If any of us see Adelaide, we’ll let you know.”

  “All right. Maybe I’m worried about nothing,” he replied before indicating for the constable to proceed with his search.

  Clay pushed the shed door open and stepped inside, holding the torch aloft. The pungent smell of dried straw soaked the air. He gasped as Ned and Maynard followed him in. A few of the other men craned their necks to get a peek through the doorway. Piled on the dirt floor among a few sheaves of straw, empty bushels and several farming implements were the twenty sacks of flour stolen from Ned’s storehouse.

  “I can’t believe my eyes!” Ned whispered. “Nicholas Raven, of all people.”

  Clay walked among the stolen goods, touching a few of the sacks to make sure they weren’t merely an illusion. He looked at Maynard and shook his head. “I’m sorry about this, but I do have to find that boy right away.”

  Maynard stared dumbfounded at the stolen items. “Bring Nicholas back here first, Clay. Give him a chance to explain.”

  “You have my word.”

  Ned gently grabbed Clay’s arm holding the torch and directed the light toward one of the straw sheaves. A bit of leather cord stuck out. Ned tugged at it and removed a small cloth pouch hidden inside. He emptied the contents into his hand.

  “The silver half-pieces stolen from my office.” After counting them, Ned carefully replaced the coins in the pouch and closed it. “All accounted for. That’s one bit of good news anyway.” He set the pouch on the bundle of straw.

  The constable motioned for everyone to leave the shed and closed the door as he stepped outside. The group stood impatiently in the chilly night air waiting for Constable Brindle to speak. He stood in silent thought for a moment, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “All right. Here’s what we’ll do.” He pointed to three of the men that had followed him from the tavern. “You three stand guard until Ned and I come back with Nicholas. Nobody goes inside, you hear?” Constable Brindle scanned the faces in the crowd until he saw Arthur Weeks hiding in the background. “I want you to accompany us, Arthur.”

  “Me? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! You’re my prime witness so far. We’ll talk to Nicholas and get his side of the story and then return here to show him the evidence. Maynard, you’re welcome to tag along. The rest of you boys ought to go back to where you came from. This is a legal matter, not a parade.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Maynard said.

  “We’re going with you,” Bob Hawkins added. “I don’t want to miss this.”

  Constable Brindle raised a finger, nearly poking Bob in the chin. “I don’t want you interfering with my investigation! Mark my words, I’ll toss you in the lockup if you do. So just keep your distance.” With that warning, Clay Brindle and Ned Adams left for the Water Barrel Inn. Arthur Weeks followed with his head held low, talking softly to himself.

  The Water Barrel Inn was larger and brighter than the Iron Kettle, and just as crowded on the first night of the Harvest Festival. The bottom half of the building was constructed of chiseled stone blocks, with knotty pine planks running vertically above. The walls were strewn with animal pelts, wood carvings and fresh pine clippings. A man with a beard tended to a fireplace, adding pieces of wood to the wildly snapping flames.

  Nicholas sat at a table with several friends, drinking ale, devouring roasted chicken and laughing at the stories told by one another. He wasn’t aware that Constable Brindle had entered the inn until he felt a heavy hand press down on his shoulder. Nicholas turned around and instantly noted the distress in Clay’s dark eyes. When he saw Ned Adams and Arthur Weeks standing behind the constable, both as somber as mourners, he set down his drink and stood.

  “What brings you here, Clay?”

  “You do, Nicholas.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I need to have a word with you. It’s rather important. I...” Constable Brindle then noticed the front of Nicholas’ jacket and his heart immediately sank. He looked the young man straight in the eyes as if searching for any other explanation than the one he now believed was only too true.

  “I’ll be happy to talk,” Nicholas said. “But why the grim face?”

  Bob Hawkins yelled from the back of the crowd. “He’s here to arrest you, thief!”

  Constable Brindle stormed through the crowd and grabbed Bob by the collar. “Now just shut your mouth or I’ll arrest you for interfering in my investigation! What did I tell you earlier?”

  “All right! All right! I won’t say another word.” Bob Hawkins shook his head nervously, as if waiting for the constable’s fist to strike. Constable Brindle released him and marched back over to Nicholas. The inn was deathly silent.

  Nicholas slowly shook his head, wild disbelief in his eyes. “What’s he talking about, Clay?”

  “We don’t have to discuss this in here, Nicholas. Let’s go outside.”

  “No. I have nothing to hide.” He pointed to Bob Hawkins. “And what did he mean about you arresting me?”

  “There’s been an incident at the gristmill, Nicholas. Goods were stolen. Some of Ned’s money, too.”

  Nicholas shot a glance at his boss. “Is that true, Ned?”

  “Yes, Nicholas. Someone robbed the place last night.” Murmurs of excitement and contempt swept through the crowd. “And, uh... Well, I better let Clay do the explaining.”

  “I wish somebody would!”

  “Calm down, Nicholas.” Constable Brindle pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it across his forehead. “I need to talk to you because we found the stolen goods. They were piled inside the shed behind your cottage. The money, too.”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  “He’s telling the truth.” Ned walked up to Nicholas. “I just can’t believe in my heart that you’d do such a thing, Nicholas, but we found twenty flour sacks inside your shed. And a small pouch of coins I kept locked in my office.”

  “I never took those items. Is this some sick joke?”

  The constable shook his head. “We were up to the gristmill earlier. Dooley Kramer discovered the missing goods. Then after we questioned Arthur Weeks, well, things started to fall in place.”

  Nicholas felt his heart racing as the room grew unbearably hot. He shot a glance at Arthur Weeks who tried to hide behind a few of the men in the crowd. His thin facial features were framed between long straight locks of black hair. Nicholas addressed the constable again. “What did Arthur say? I don’t understand his connection to this?”

  Constable Brindle patiently explained how Arthur had testified about Nicholas returning to the gristmill late last night. “According to him, you were the last person there last night and on several other nights as well. He claimed you had to catch up on your bookkeeping.”

  “That’s ridiculous! The books were up-to-date. I wasn’t at the gristmill last night. I had no reason to be.”

  Clay turned to Arthur Weeks who meekly squeezed through the crowd to face Nicholas. “What’d you tell me earlier, Arthur, when Ned and I questioned you outside the Iron Kettle?”

  “Well,” he whispered after swallowing hard. “I said I stayed late at the gristmill to clean up last night, just like Mr. Adams asked me to. We’ve been so busy lately.” Arthur stared in Nicholas’ direction but couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Before I left, well, Nicholas showed up. He told me to leave early so he could do his bookkeeping.”

  “That’s a lie! I never talked to you last night, Arthur.”

  “
Yes, you did.”

  “I wasn’t at the gristmill last night!”

  “That’s about how I remember it,” Arthur mumbled, slipping back into the crowd.

  Nicholas held out his hands in stunned disbelief. “Clay, he’s lying!”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Constable Brindle promised. “But you still have to explain about the items found in your shed.”

  “I want to see them,” Nicholas demanded.

  “I’ll take you there shortly. I have a few men guarding it now. But there’s still one other piece of evidence I need to show you. I’ve kept it secret until now.”

  Ned Adams threw an inquisitive glance at the constable. “What are you talking about, Clay? What evidence?”

  “Something I found on the floor at the gristmill. You were inside your office at the time, Ned.” Constable Brindle reached inside his vest pocket and removed a small object. “I discovered this near some spilled flour close to one of the orders that had been broken into. It’s a button. My guess is that the thief accidentally popped it off his jacket. Probably caught it on the stack of flour sacks in his hurry to leave.” The constable held up the plain brown button for all to see. The crowd looked at it with greedy eyes.

  “Who does it belong to?” someone asked.

  “Shortly after I walked in here, I noticed Nicholas’ jacket when he stood up. The color of the material matches the color of the button. It’s hard to see if you’re not specifically looking for it.”

  Nicholas glanced down at the several buttons along the right side of his jacket. One was missing near the center. Nicholas snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto Clay Brindle’s skeptical gaze. “I never noticed that one was missing.”

  The constable held the button he had found next to one on Nicholas’ jacket. “An exact match.”

  “He is the thief!” a patron in back whispered.

  “Constable Brindle did some fine work,” a second voice added.

  Ned Adams looked unkindly at Nicholas, stunned by the turn of events. He looked him dead in the eyes, prepared to unload the mixed emotions churning like a storm inside him, but then simply turned and walked away.

  As the crowd grew more vocal, Constable Brindle decided it best to get Nicholas out of the inn and over to the shed right away. The cool evening air calmed the crowd as they departed, though the constable was annoyed that the group of men now following him had grown larger. A line of oil lamp and torch light again snaked along River Road, accompanied by the shuffling of feet and bitter whispers of condemnation.

  When they reached the shed, Maynard ran up to Nicholas, a mix of horror and sympathy etched upon his face. “Clay said you’re responsible for–”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Nicholas assured him, placing his hands on Maynard’s shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got to believe me.”

  “I believe you, Nicholas. You know I do.”

  Clay Brindle ordered the shed door opened and several oil lamps placed within. Nicholas was invited to look inside and see the evidence for himself. His heart raced when he saw the piled sacks of flour. Ned’s pouch of silver half-pieces sat on top of a straw bundle. Nicholas backed out of the shed, shaking his head.

  “We found this just before we tracked you down at the Water Barrel,” Constable Brindle said. “Can you explain how those goods found their way here, Nicholas?”

  “No, I can’t,” he softly said.

  “And can you tell me why the button from your jacket was sitting on the floor near the orders that had been ransacked?”

  “I can’t explain that either, Clay.” His words sounded heavy and lifeless. “I only can say that I didn’t commit this crime.”

  Clay Brindle sighed, throwing a glance at Maynard and Ned. Neither uttered a word. Arthur Weeks stood back in the shadows. The chirping crickets in the rustling grass and the sputtering torch flames were the only sounds audible for the next few moments. The constable rubbed his neck and then looked at Nicholas.

  “There’s a lot to sort through, Nicholas. We’ll have to go over it detail by detail to get to the truth. You say you’re innocent, and you’re allowed that privilege, but...” Clay kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Since there’s conflicting testimony and all the evidence points to you, I’ll have to take you to the lockup.”

  Before Nicholas could speak, Maynard protested. “Clay, you can’t do this!”

  “I’m sorry, Maynard, but legally I have no choice.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Nicholas held up a hand, appreciating Maynard’s concern but not wanting to upset him. “It’s all right, Maynard. The constable is just doing what he has to.” He turned to Ned Adams with a pained expression. “I wish I could prove I’m innocent, Ned.”

  “I wish you could, too.”

  The constable tapped Ned on the arm. “I’ll need a list of everything that was stolen before you can take the goods back to the gristmill. Just in case there’s a trial.”

  “I understand.”

  “You can do that now while I take Nicholas to the lockup or wait until morning.”

  “I’ll start now, if it’s okay with you, Maynard.”

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  “I’ll send someone to fetch Dooley Kramer so he can bring back a horse and cart.”

  The constable nodded. “All right.” He turned to Nicholas, clearing his throat. “I’ll need to keep your jacket, too, Nicholas, after we get to the village hall. Also for evidence.” He tried to sound as gentle as he could with his next few words. “I guess we better get moving now. It’s time.”

  With those words, Nicholas realized the magnitude of the trouble he was about to face. With those simple words, all his new-found dreams of travel and adventure disintegrated before his eyes like piles of sand upon a wave-tossed shoreline. The unfairness of it all tied his stomach in knots. The lies of Arthur Weeks enraged him until his head hurt. The slow walk to the lockup with Constable Brindle would end everything he had longed for. What would his friends think of him now? What would Katherine think? His world was falling apart.

  “Can I grab another jacket, Clay, since you plan to take the one I’m wearing?”

  “Sure, Nicholas,” he said, cracking a kindly smile. “I’ll let you do that.”

  Nicholas nodded in gratitude and walked away from the shed, making his way around the side of the cottage as the other men followed. He rounded the corner to the front, recalling sitting on Maynard’s porch steps only five days ago and discussing his future plans. That rush of excitement had now turned into a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. Events of someone else’s design had changed everything and he was helpless to fight back. Or was he? Nicholas decided then and there that he couldn’t let them win. He wouldn’t let them win, whoever they were.

  As Nicholas approached the front door of the cottage, he slowly reached for the handle while taking a deep breath. Suddenly, he dashed over the grass alongside Maynard’s farmhouse to the opposite end, running furiously into the field just beyond. He ran as fast as he could in the thick shadows, scrambling in one direction and then another, hoping to make his way north into the wooded area along the Pine River.

  “Nicholas! You come back here!” the constable bellowed as he made a futile effort to chase after the young man. He flailed his arms, ordering the others to pursue at once. They shot past Constable Brindle like a pack of hungry wolves in search of fleeing prey, fanning out into the dark field with oil lamps and torches blazing among the dry crackling grass. Their earsplitting shouts shattered the peaceful night.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Awakening

  A heavy fist hammered the tabletop, rattling three glass tumblers and an empty gin bottle. A trio of men, seated in a dark corner of the Iron Kettle Tavern that same evening, gawked at each other in stunned silence. A blaze crackled in the fireplace in an adjacent corner. The din of competing conversations from other pa
trons filled the smoky air.

  “Something’s seriously wrong here,” one of the men whispered. “Dead wrong.” He gravely observed his two companions, shifting his eyes left, then right, in a rigid line. “We’re out of gin!” he finally burst out laughing, his mouth crammed full of widely spaced teeth, one of which was missing on the bottom.

  “That’s a good one, Gill! We can’t celebrate the Harvest Festival properly with an empty bottle in front of us. I’ll get another one.” George Bane tried to stand up, his puffy cheeks as red as apples and his eyes most surely to match in the morning. He plopped back down in his chair. “Give me a moment first.”

  “You’re soused,” Gill Meddy said. “Nearly pickled, I’d say. Good thing you don’t have a wife ‘cause she’d lock you out of the house tonight for sure.”

  “Yours will!” George said, dropping his head to the table in a fit of laughter.

  “Stick your face in a feedbag and shut up about it!”

  George Bane looked up, rubbing his unshaven face. “Then you get up off those spindly legs, Gill, and buy the next bottle if you’re so sober.”

  “Didn’t I buy the last one?”

  “I thought I did. Did I?”

  The third member of the group calmly stood and indicated to George and Gill not to bother themselves. He grabbed the empty gin bottle and offered a thin smile. “It’ll be my pleasure to buy the next one,” he said, even though he had purchased the first one as well. “Sit back and relax until I return.”

  “Much obliged,” Gill said, while George nodded with a glazed look in his eyes.

  The third man walked to the tavern counter and paid for another bottle of gin. Mune stood chest-high to most of the men in the room. He had a slightly stocky build, topped with a head of short, thinning black hair and a well-trimmed goatee. His smiled displayed an abundant set of white teeth under piercing sea gray eyes.

  When Mune returned to the table, he uncorked the gin bottle and refilled the three tumblers. George Bane and Gill Meddy, a couple of local farmhands, greedily drank from their glasses, pleased they had met this stranger passing through Kanesbury. It wasn’t unusual for outsiders to visit the village during the Harvest Festival, and the two men were more than happy to be the recipients of this particular outsider’s generosity.