Past Imperative

by Dave Duncan

  “Your father was Cameron Exeter, son of Horace Exeter and the former Marian Cameron, of Wold Hall, Wearthing, Surrey?”

  Edward was completely at sea now. He had a strange sensation that the bed was rocking. This was worse than a geometry exam. Prove that angle ADC equals angle DCK….

  “I think so. I don’t know where they lived, except it was somewhere in Surrey. I’m not even certain of their names.”

  Leatherdale nodded as if a trap had just clicked. “Their eldest child, Cameron, was born in 1841, Mr. Exeter. That would make him sixty-seven in 1908. How old did you say this man seems to you?”

  Edward desperately wanted a drink of water, but he dared not reach for one in case his hands shook. “Forty?”

  “His mother, your grandmother, died in 1855, almost sixty years ago.”

  “You’ve made a mistake somewhere. Tricky stuff, maths.”

  “Has your uncle seen this picture?”

  “I have no idea. I may have shown it to him when I first came Home. I don’t recall.”

  “Try.”

  “It was a long time ago. I really don’t remember, sir. What are you suggesting?”

  “I am suggesting that the man in the picture is either not your father or else your father was not who he said he was.”

  This conversation made no sense at all! It must be a ruse to rattle him. Bemused, Edward ran a hand through his hair and realized that it was soaked—he was soaked. He turned his head to ease his neck, and watched the sergeant finish writing a sentence, then look up, waiting for more.

  He turned back to Leatherdale, who was impassively twirling his mustache again. That, apparently, was a bad sign. But the man could not possibly be as confident as he was pretending.

  “You’ve been busy, Inspector!” He was ashamed to hear a quaver in his voice. “Unfortunately, you’ve been misinformed. Yesterday was Bank Holiday. I suppose you telegraphed to Somerset House first thing this morning, or the Colonial Office, perhaps? Whitehall must be in turmoil just now with war about to break out. Someone has blundered.”

  “I obtained the information from your uncle.”

  Oh, Lord! Edward reined in his tongue before it ran away with him. “I suggest you obtain confirmation of anything he says. Check with the Colonial Office.”

  “Ah, yes. Can you give me the name of someone to get in touch with there, sir?”

  With a rush of relief, Edward said, “Yes! Mr. Oldcastle. I’m sorry I don’t know his title. I always wrote to him at his home.”

  “His full name?”

  “Jonathan Oldcastle, Esquire.”

  “And do you remember his address?”

  “I should do! I’ve written to him every week or two for the last couple of years. The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent.”

  Leatherdale nodded and eased himself on the chair. “That was the address in the school records, Sergeant?”

  Pages rustled. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “And this Mr. Oldcastle replied to your letters, sir?”

  “Religiously. He was very kind—and generous.”

  Again the thick fingers caressed that gray mustache. “Exeter, there is nowhere in Kent called Druids Close. There is nowhere in Great Britain by that name.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Sergeant, will you confirm what I just told the witness?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment Edward said, “I think I need a glass of water.”

  From then on it got worse, much worse. Having succeeded in rattling him, Leatherdale gave him no chance to recover. Suddenly they were back in Greyfriars Grange—

  “Did you stab Timothy Bodgley?”

  “No!”

  “You’re sure of that? You remember?”

  “No, sir, I don’t remember, but—”

  And back in Africa—

  “Who is ‘Jumbo’?”

  “Who?” Edward said furiously. Bounder! The letter!

  “Is there anyone in England now who knew your father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And back in the Grange—

  “Had you ever been down in the cellar before?”

  “No, sir. Not that I remember.”

  “Would a schoolboy forget visiting a fourteenth century crypt?”

  “Probably not. So I suppose I never—”

  “You heard people banging on the door while the woman was still screaming? How long did she scream at you? How long did you hold her off with the chair?…”

  Eventually, inevitably, Edward blundered.

  “Do you recognize this, Mr. Exeter?”

  “Oh, you found it!” Oh, you muggins!

  Leatherdale pounced like a cat. “You knew it was lost?”

  “That’s a key. I don’t know what it’s the key to, though…No, I don’t recognize it…. Lots of keys look like that, big and rusty…” Avoid, evade, distract…“I assumed that since you asked earlier about the door…” It was hopeless. In ignominious defeat, the suspect told of the message Ginger had sent him. Traitor! Snitch! Nark!

  Leatherdale followed up his victory, slashing questions like saber blows.

  “Why did you kill him?” “Why did you argue with him?” “Why were you shouting?” “What were you shouting?” “What secret had he discovered about you?” “Describe the kitchen.”

  “Big. High. Very old. Why?”

  “How high? How high is the ceiling?”

  Edward wiped his wet forehead. “How should I know? Fifteen feet?”

  “Twenty-one. Do you remember the shelves on the wall under the bells?”

  “I remember shelves, and dressers, I think bells…” A long row of bells, one for every room in the house.

  Leatherdale smiled grimly. “Yes, this is the key to the kitchen quarters at Greyfriars Grange. We found it, Mr. Exeter, in a pot on the topmost shelf.”

  “Oh.”

  “Twenty feet up in a poor light. There were no marks in the dust on the lower shelves, Mr. Exeter. What do you say about that?”

  “What do you say about it, sir?”

  “I say that the only way it could have been put in that pot was to throw it up there and bounce it off the wall just under the ceiling. Whoever managed to do that first try in a poor light must be a very expert thrower indeed. A bowler, perhaps?”

  When at last the ordeal ended, Edward watched in misery as Ginger’s books were impounded as evidence, along with his cherished photograph, the most precious thing he possessed in the world. The policemen departed.

  He had not confessed. He had not been charged, either, but obviously that was only a matter of time now.

  28

  ELEAL HAD ENDURED A SECOND DAY IN HER LONELY prison, plucking chickens. Her fingers were worn raw. She had done the work conscientiously because anything else would have just brought her more hunger and perhaps a beating. She had been given boiled chicken and chicken soup to eat. She never wanted to see another chicken ever again.

  Tomorrow the festival began and she would not be there. She would never see another festival, never sing for a real audience again, never be an actor. Worst of all was the certainty that she could not stand many more days of this torment without breaking. Soon she would kneel and kiss Ylla’s shoe, just to beg for some company, someone to talk to.

  She hadn’t done so yet, though.

  She had cried herself to sleep.

  She awoke in darkness. It was not like the time the reaper had wakened her. She swam up from sleep slowly, reluctantly, annoyed by an exasperating noise. She tried to pull the skimpy blanket up over her ear and succeeded only in exposing her toes to the cold.

  There it came again! Something tapping.

  Angrily she lifted her head.

  Tapping at the window!…

  She scra
mbled to her knees. She could barely make out the squares of the casement. There was something out there, though! Tap, tap! Not just wind in a tree.

  A momentary fear was followed by a rush of excitement. Still clutching her blanket around her, she stumbled to her feet and stepped over. The end of a rope was swinging against the glass: tap! tap!

  She struggled with the hasp in frantic impatience and hauled the little casement open. She leaned over the sill and peered up, but she could see nothing. Clouds scudded over the sky, their edges tinted with blood by Eltiana’s ominous red. No other moons were in sight, and that was ominous—only the Lady!

  A wicked breeze blew through Eleal’s hair and chilled her skin. The rope slithered up a few feet and then dropped down in her face. She grabbed it and pulled it inside the room with her. Fumbling in the dark, she established that there was a loop tied in the end of it. It was not a noose, but the association of ideas made her uneasy. She pulled in the slack while she tried to work out what she was supposed to do with it. Light faded as Eltiana vanished behind a cloud. Was that an omen?

  Then the rope reversed direction as the unknown prankster on the roof hauled it in. She hung on, thinking, Wait! Wait! I need some time! She was dragged to the window. She hung tight, refusing to let this opportunity escape her. The rope slackened.

  Obviously someone was signaling intentions. She pulled the noose over her shoulders and scrambled up on the sill. The gap was small, even for her, but she was agile. She twisted around and wriggled, until she was sitting on the hard ledge, with most of her outside and only her legs inside. She clung very tightly to the sides of the opening. The wind tugged at her robe, which was no warmer than a nightgown would have been and definitely not a garment she would have chosen for midnight acrobatics two stories above a very hard-looking courtyard. Better not to think about that! Her face was against the stone above the lintel. She waited for the pull, feeling all knotted up inside as she did on a mammoth, crossing Rilepass.

  The noose tightened on her, and then stopped before it had taken her weight. Teeth chattering, she peered anxiously up at the dark clouds. The cornice was barely visible, but then a faint glimmer showed over it—a face? Checking that she was doing what he wanted? She dared not shout, and neither did he. She hoped he had big, strong hands and arms. She thought he waved. She assumed it was a man. No woman would be mad enough to try this. She waved back. He disappeared.

  She was going to freeze to death if he didn’t do something soon. The cold and the discomfort of her perch were making her eyes water. The rope tightened under her arms, cutting into her back. She pulled herself up on the line and pushed herself out with one foot, prepared to walk up to the roof. She did not look down. For a moment a pinkish glow heralded Eltiana’s reappearance, but then it faded behind the clouds again. Hurry! she thought. Before the goddess sees!

  The rope slackened. Taken by surprise, she tipped backward with a squeal of alarm. She swung free and banged her knees into the wall below the window. Now she realized she was expected to walk down the wall, not up. It was cold and rough against her bare toes. She tried to forget that awful drop below her.

  Her rescuer must be immensely powerful, for he was letting the rope out very evenly and smoothly. She saw the next window coming and avoided it—lucky the openings were so small. Then there would be another window on the ground floor. There was, and it was larger, but at last she felt cold, cold cobbles under her feet. With a gasp of relief, she leaned against the wall and muttered a prayer of thanks to every deity she could think of. Except the Lady Eltiana in all her aspects, of course.

  Several rooms away to the right, a single window at ground level showed light. The rest of the temple slept. If the goddess knew of this violation of her sacred precincts, she had not yet roused her guardians.

  Eleal slipped free of the rope, which continued to descend and collect at her feet. Shivering violently, she began to gather it up in coils. Good rope was expensive. She should have thought to bring her sandals. A scratching noise made her look up—and jump back in disbelief as small fragments of stone rattled down on her. A huge shape showed against the sky, dark against dark, and two eyes glowed faintly. The dragon began to descend the sheer face of the wall. The noises became dangerously loud as its claws struggled for purchase. She moved farther out of the way, having no desire to be struck by a falling dragon and no chance of being able to catch one effectively. She had always known that dragons were skilled climbers, but she had not known they could scale a sheer masonry wall.

  A dark forked tail came into view, swinging vigorously from side to side. It felt the ground and then swung up out of harm’s way as the hindquarters followed. A very dark tail! Of course this could only be Starlight, and her rescuer must be T’lin himself—what other dragon owners did she know? She resisted a desire to call out to him. Clawed feet reached the cobbles. Starlight balanced on them for a moment, his frills extended and flapping for balance like small wings. He tipped around and down and settled on all fours, puffing. His eyes glowed faintly green, and blinked.

  Eleal ran to him and looked up. “T’lin Dragontrader!”

  “No,” said a whisper. “But his dragon. It won’t hurt you.” The rider had twisted around to untie the rope attached to the baggage plate at his back. It had been Starlight who had lowered her down the wall.

  “Of course he won’t. He’s Starlight.”

  “Oh. Well, up with you!” He reached down.

  She hesitated only a fraction of a second. Whoever he was, she had already trusted her life to him. She accepted the hand and waited for the heave. It came in the form of an ineffective tug. She realized that the hand she was holding was far too small and smooth to be T’lin’s.

  “Mmph!” said the whisperer angrily. “You’re too heavy. Choopoo!” The dragon twisted its neck around and blinked at him. “Choopoo!” he repeated. “Oh, Wosok! I mean.”

  Starlight sighed and obediently folded his legs, sinking into a crouch.

  “Now!” said the rider. “Step on my foot. Squeeze in here, in front.”

  He was hardly more than a boy, not nearly large enough to be T’lin Dragontrader, but Eleal was not about to look gift dragons in the mouth now. She scrambled into the saddle in front of him. It was a very uncomfortable position, for her robe pulled up to expose her legs and she was squeezed between the rider and the bony pommel plate. Two leather-clothed arms closed around her.

  A light came on in the nearest window.

  “Oops!” said that young voice in her ear. “Hang on for all you’re worth! Wondo! Zomph!”

  Telling Starlight to zomph turned out to be a miscalculation. Varch would have been more prudent. He was up and off across the courtyard like an arrow in flight. He sprang to the top of the wall and over, and an instant later was racing through shrubbery and trees. Branches cracked and whipped. Eleal choked down a scream and doubled over, clinging for her life to the pommel plate. Fortunately Starlight had folded his frills back tightly out of harm’s way, and she managed to tuck her head underneath one. Leaning on her back, her companion cursed shrilly.

  A tooth-jarring leap almost unseated her as the dragon bounded to the top of another wall. Coping stones fell loose and they all descended into the road beyond with a crash in the night. Having been given no further instructions, the dragon might well have crossed the road and proceeded to scramble up the house opposite, but fortunately he wheeled to the right and began to gather speed.

  “Five gods!” yelled the youth. “What’s the word for slow down?”

  “Varch!” Eleal shouted, straightening up.

  Starlight reluctantly slowed to a breathtaking run. The night streamed past in a rush of cold air and a clattering of claws. Luckily the street was deserted.

  “Phew! Thanks. I’m Gim Sculptor.”

  “Eleal Singer.”

  “Glad to hear it. Would be bad manners to rescue the wrong
damsel. Which is left and which is right? I’ve forgotten already.”

  “Whilth and chaiz. You mean you don’t know how to do this?”

  “Chaiz!” Gim ordered. “No. I’ve never been on a dragon in my life before. The god will preserve us! He sent me.”

  29

  ESWARD SPENT THE HOURS AFTER INSPECTOR LEATHERdale’s departure stewing in misery, going over and over the ghastly interrogation and wishing he could call back a lot of his answers. His bragging about the accuracy of his bowling had been the worst sort of side—it might not justify a hanging, but it seemed likely to provoke one now. From what he recalled of the Grange kitchen, the feat the bobbies were suggesting was absolutely impossible. Far more likely, that key was an unneeded duplicate that had been lying in the pot for years, but if there was no other explanation for the locked room, then a jury would accept the police version. The only alternative was magic, and English juries were notoriously disinclined to believe in magic.

  So was he.

  The mystery of his father’s age was maddening, although it seemed completely irrelevant to the murder. His knowledge of his family was the knowledge of a twelve-year-old, for he had never discussed such things with Holy Roly. He knew that the brothers had not met since Cameron had emigrated to New Zealand; he thought he could recall the guv’nor saying once that Roland had been in divinity college then. The old bigot had probably been ordained sometime in the late sixties, judging by his present age. Edward’s parents had been married in New Zealand and had then returned to England, briefly, before going out to Africa. There had been no family reunion, because by then the Prescotts had been in India and Roland still in Fiji or Tonga or somewhere. That was as much as Edward knew.

  On the face of it, though, Leatherdale had a case. If Cameron Exeter had been a clerk in government service in New Zealand in the sixties, how could he have been forty years old in Kenya, forty years later?