Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  They turned onto the main business street in the village, now jammed with revelers and entertainers. Lively strains from a fiddle and the soft beats of a hand drum filled the night air. Several villagers weaved through the street carrying torches that blazed in various colors, the result of a whimsical magician’s trick. Flames of plum, silver, emerald green and scarlet cast gentle hues on the delighted expressions of passersby. Clay Brindle and Ned Adams maneuvered though the boisterous crowds until they began to thin out where the road to the gristmill curved northeast. From there it led directly to the mill situated on the banks of the Pine River, its waterwheel hidden in the darkness.

  “What happened after Dooley spotted the open door, Ned?”

  “He checked inside. Dooley said he lit one of the oil lamps and looked around the place. That’s when he discovered–”

  “–the missing flour sacks?”

  “Yes!” Ned replied bitterly. He kicked a small stone up the dark dirt road illuminated by the torch held aloft by Constable Brindle. Lethargic chirps of crickets in an adjacent farm field replaced the jovial voices back in the center of the village. “Dooley was inspecting the orders that were ready for shipping when he saw some spilled flour on the floor. When he looked closer, he discovered some of the original sacks had been replaced with ones filled with leaves and pinecones to make it look like a full order. Can you believe it? The thief must have accidentally ripped a sack when removing it.”

  “That’s positively rotten,” the constable muttered.

  “Dooley found parts of other shipments missing, too.”

  Constable Brindle picked up his pace, his arms pumping back and forth in sync with his legs. The torch waved wildly in the air. “Is Dooley at the mill now?”

  “Yes. He’s examining the books, trying to determine precisely what’s missing.” Ned scratched his brow and frowned. “These are the last shipments before winter. Who would do such a thing?”

  When they entered the main storage building at the gristmill, Dooley Kramer was busily poring over the account books. Light from an oil lamp bathed his hunched figure and frazzled hair in an eerie yellow glow. He sat at Nicholas’ desk and glanced up when Ned and Constable Brindle walked into the room.

  “Thanks again for all your help, Dooley. Find anything?” Ned asked.

  Dooley tilted his head slightly, raising a single eye in Ned’s direction. “After counting what’s left in the orders that were disturbed, and comparing that to the numbers marked in the books here, I’ve figured there are twenty sacks of flour missing.”

  “Twenty!”

  “Yes. And I’m sad to say that I packed those very shipments just two days ago with Arthur Weeks.”

  Constable Brindle waved the torch. “Show us.”

  Dooley led them to a corner of the storage area. Flour sacks were piled chest high in several rows. He set his oil lamp down on one of them. “I saw flour spilled on the floorboards,” he said, pointing. “The thief must’ve torn one of the sacks. And notice the replacement sack filled with pinecones in this one order.”

  The constable raised his torch, nosing his way between Ned and Dooley for a closer look. “This is the work of a clever one, that’s for certain. Deviously clever.”

  “I want that scoundrel thrown in your lockup and left to rot!” Ned spastically waved a finger in front of Clay’s nose. “That’s just for starters!”

  “Take a breath, Ned, and quit trying to poke my eye out!” The constable brushed past him. “Let me examine the area in peace.”

  “You might want to look in your office,” Dooley suggested to Ned. “I noticed some items in there scattered all over the floor.”

  Ned rushed to the office as Constable Brindle continued snooping around. “More light, Dooley.”

  “Right away!” Dooley lit another oil lamp and hurried over to the constable.

  “Thanks,” Clay said, hanging it from a nail in the wall, creating more flittering shadows in that area. He knelt down on a knee and swept his fingers through the pile of spilled flour, cold to the touch. He next examined the sack of pinecones and scowled when something caught his eye. The constable directed his gaze to a patch of floor just beyond the spill. He reached down and grabbed a tiny object laying there, rolled it through his fingers and then slipped it inside his vest pocket just as Ned stormed out of his office.

  “That miscreant looted my private office, too! I had a leather pouch filled with silver half-pieces locked inside my strongbox. They’re gone! Someone pried the box open and stole the pouch.” Ned’s oil lamp shook like a storm-tossed ship at sea as he flailed his arms. “You find this hooligan at once, Clay! Deputize the entire village if you have to. I’ll be first in line to volunteer.”

  Constable Brindle hung Ned’s oil lamp on another nail and motioned for him to sit down before addressing Dooley. “You said Arthur Weeks helped you fill these orders?”

  “Yes, sir. We both put in extra hours this week. Arthur worked more than me, cleaning up the place at the end of the day. He likes earning the extra pay before things slow up for winter. He locked up a couple of times, being the last one here. Mr. Adams will attest to that.”

  Ned nodded, rubbing his chin. “They both did some fine work this week. Our busy season, you know. Arthur worked well into dark on a couple of nights recently.”

  “Did he say anything that might indicate he’d pull a stunt like this?” the constable asked Dooley.

  “No, sir! Not in the least.” Dooley grinned. “You know Arthur. He minds his business pretty much. Does what he’s told. Doing extra clean-up work for pay is one thing, but a scheme like this, well... That would just be too much work to interest him.”

  “Still, I’d like to have a word with him,” Constable Brindle said. “Know where I might find him?”

  “Probably plopped down on a chair at the Iron Kettle right now, celebrating. That’s his usual haunt.”

  Ned agreed that they should seek him out at once. “Yet I find it hard to imagine Arthur having anything to do with these matters,” he added. “Truth is, I find it difficult to believe that any of my workers would stoop to such treachery. Something’s rotten here, I tell you. Like a basket of forgotten fish, something’s very rotten!”

  The Iron Kettle Tavern sat slumped on the south side of River Road like a tired, wet dog. Several layers of dried mossy growth blanketed its sagging roof. Firelight from within peeked through an assortment of cracked and dirty windows. Inside, pipe smoke drifted to the ceiling like gray and white snakes hovering over the chatter of drinkers, gamblers and braggarts. Oil lamps hung from low rafters over crowded pine tables as a roaring blaze in the corner fireplace viciously sputtered and snapped.

  Constable Brindle and Ned Adams stepped inside and drifted through the packed room, soon spotting Arthur Weeks turning away from the bar with a freshly filled mug of ale. He wore a brown water-stained coat and quickly gulped from his drink when he saw the two men approach.

  “Arthur, we need to talk to you,” the constable said, wiping his brow. “But it’s awfully warm in here. Step outside for a minute?”

  “Sure,” Arthur said, suspiciously eyeing Ned Adams.

  When they stood outside the front door, Arthur questioned them with a twitch of his pointed nose. “What’s going on? I come here to get away from the serious faces you two are wearing.” He attempted a laugh.

  “Clay needs to ask you a few questions, Arthur, about some goings-on at the gristmill.”

  “All right.” Arthur Weeks downed another mouthful of ale.

  Constable Brindle explained about the robbery at the mill, noting the surprise etched on Arthur’s narrow face. “Since Dooley mentioned that you helped pack those orders, and that you also stayed late on a few nights recently to clean up, well, is there anything you might be able to tell us about the missing items?”

  “Yesterday was the final workday of the week,” Ned added, “so the robbery probably happened last night after you locked up.”

  “When
ever it happened, just know that I had nothing to do with it,” Arthur said. “I put flour sacks on those piles, not pinecones. Just because I was the last one to leave the mill on some nights doesn’t mean I was up to anything crooked.”

  “No one’s accusing you, Arthur. We’re just trying to piece together events. Any information you can supply would be helpful,” the constable said reassuringly. “On those nights you worked late, did you see anything unusual or notice anyone hanging around the area? Perhaps someone walked by who you normally didn’t see near the mill.”

  Arthur Weeks stared at the constable’s torch that had been set against a nearby rock. The flames sputtered in the cold night air. He shook his head before looking up to speak. “It’s usually pretty quiet up there after work hours. I didn’t see anyone in the area that– Well, I didn’t see any strangers hanging about. That’s the honest truth.”

  “Whoever robbed me probably broke in during the dead of night,” Ned mumbled dejectedly. “I just can’t believe this could happen.” He stepped away from the others and looked up at the starry sky.

  Clay Brindle patted Arthur on the shoulder and smiled a quick thank you. “Okay then. We’ll figure it out somehow,” he said, picking up the torch. “Let’s head back to the mill, Ned, and look around some more.”

  “All right.”

  Arthur Weeks quickly drained the last of his mug as Constable Brindle and Ned started to walk away. He watched them uneasily for a moment, took a deep breath and then called to them. “Wait! There is one thing I just remembered.” The two men turned around and hurried back. “Something that might be a bit unusual.”

  “What, Arthur? What’d you see?” Ned asked.

  “Well, I’m kind of reluctant to say as I don’t want to get in any trouble. After all, Mr. Adams, you gave me instructions that I was to lock up the mill doors after cleaning the store room on those evenings I stayed late.”

  “I understand, Arthur. Just tell me and the constable what’s on your mind. I promise you won’t get into any trouble.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said apprehensively as he looked into his empty mug. “I think I could use a bit more ale first to settle my stomach, if you don’t mind. It’ll help me to tell my story.”

  “Of course, of course!” Ned Adams pushed Arthur back into the tavern and signaled to an exasperated Clay Brindle to follow. Clay set the torch down and accompanied them inside.

  After Arthur refilled his mug at the crowded bar and promptly gulped down a third of it, he was prepared to resume his story. The trio remained inside, cramped into a corner of the room beneath a mounted deer’s head whose black eyes seemed to watch their every move. The trio soon became the object of curiosity of many in the tavern who quietly speculated what business the constable and Ned Adams could possibly have there.

  “Like I said outside, I didn’t see any strangers around the mill after closing up, but I did see someone I know stop by a couple of times. I hesitate to say who because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Arthur said.

  “We’ll determine who’ll get in trouble and who won’t,” the constable replied. “Now enough stalling, Arthur. If you have something to say, spit it out!”

  Several people eavesdropping nearby were emboldened by the constable’s outburst and stopped pretending they weren’t listening. Many circled around the men for a better take on the story to the obvious annoyance of Constable Brindle. He exhaled slowly through his clenched teeth and glared at Arthur Weeks.

  Arthur stared back at all the curious eyes fixed on him and took one more gulp of his drink. “It was Nicholas Raven. He stopped by the mill on a couple nights just before I closed up. He told me he had to catch up on the bookkeeping.”

  Ned Adams tightened his face. “I don’t understand. Nicholas worked extra hours himself on many nights. The books were always kept up-to-date. Even during our busy times, every ledger entry was checked and double checked.”

  “That’s what I always thought, too,” Arthur said. “But I’m just a laborer. If Nicholas said he had other work to do, who was I to say otherwise?”

  Constable Brindle wiped his brow again. “How long did Nicholas stay when he stopped by those few times?”

  “Difficult to answer,” Arthur replied. “You see, this is what I had hoped to avoid saying, not wanting to get me or Nicholas in trouble.” He rubbed a finger behind his ear. “I don’t know how long Nicholas stayed at the mill because, well, he was still there after I went home.” He looked at Ned with remorse. “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams, but Nicholas insisted that I leave when I finished my work. Even though I was under your orders to lock up the storage building when I was done cleaning, Nicholas told me not to. He promised that he’d do it after he finished up. I told him I’d be more than happy to wait, but Nicholas wouldn’t hear of it. Told me he might be there several hours working on the books. And since he had more authority, what was I to do? So I went home after he assured me that I wouldn’t get in any trouble.” His eyes connected with Constable Brindle’s. “But seeing you standing here in front of me, I guess that’s not to be.”

  Ned told Arthur not to worry. “Telling the truth is best. I appreciate it. There’s just one other thing I need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When did Nicholas last stop by the mill while you were working late?”

  “That would be last night, sir.”

  “The night of the robbery,” Ned whispered.

  “Yes, Mr. Adams. Nicholas seemed...” Arthur hesitated as the eyes in the crowd bore down on him. “Well, Nicholas seemed particularly anxious to get rid of me then.”

  “Why do you say that?” a voice in the crowd asked.

  Constable Brindle spun around. “Leave the investigating to me, Bob Hawkins! I think I’m qualified to handle matters here.”

  “Are you saying that Nicholas stole something?” someone else asked, struggling through the tightly packed crowd of onlookers in hopes of getting a better view.

  “Yes!” a third voice answered. “Open your ears.”

  “Quiet, all of you!” the constable ordered.

  “Nicholas stole some sacks of flour!” another added.

  Soon accusations and speculation rolled through the tavern like ripples on a pond. Several people pawed at Arthur for more information as the constable tried to keep them back. Ned also mentioned that part of the stolen shipment had been scheduled for delivery down south in Bridgewater County. That only intensified the bitter reaction since Bridgewater County had suffered heavy flooding early last summer, making its residents more dependent on provisions from other regions.

  “A lot of people down there depend on those supplies,” Bob Hawkins said. “And you’re telling me Nicholas Raven stole them?”

  “We haven’t accused anybody!” Clay snapped. “So don’t you boys start.”

  “Looks like he’s a thief to me,” someone said to murmurs of agreement.

  At Ned’s urging, it was decided to pay Nicholas a visit to get his side of the story. But despite Constable Brindle’s order that no one should follow them, several men filed out of the Iron Kettle Tavern anyway like a colony of ants. They paraded behind the constable and Ned Adams with oil lamps swaying and torches held aloft, their calls for justice punctuating the autumn air like a deep and steady drumbeat.

  The Iron Kettle was left quieter and less crowded moments later. But drinks still poured forth from the bar and the chatter of patrons continued to fill the air. As the flames jumped and snapped in the corner fireplace, a man sat alone at a nearby table, hidden in the smoky shadows. He sipped his drink and drummed his fingers over the table top, leaning back in his chair after witnessing the unfolding events. He sipped his drink again. A hint of a satisfied smile spread over the face of Zachary Farnsworth.

  They marched in a pack along River Road. Constable Brindle and Ned Adams led the way. Soon they neared Adelaide Cooper’s house on their right, bathed in darkness behind the wooden gate and hedges. The constable and
Ned turned off the road at that point and headed straight for Nicholas’ cottage. A wavering line of torch and oil lamp light followed them over the grassy field. Constable Brindle rapped his chubby knuckles against the front door. The windows were dark.

  “Nicholas, you in there? It’s Clay Brindle. I need to talk to you.” His words evaporated under the chilly night stars with only the field crickets responding.

  “He’s not home,” someone in the crowd softly remarked.

  “I can see that as plain as the night against my nose!” Constable Brindle sputtered.

  Ned pointed to the farmhouse. “I see a light in Maynard’s back window.”

  “We’ll visit him shortly.” The constable raised his torch and looked around, noticing the shed behind the cottage. “Let’s look in there first.”

  He and Ned approached the shed with a few men shadowing them. Several others drifted off to different parts of the property, bathing the area in a flickering orange and yellow glow. Dried grass and leaves crunched underfoot.

  Ned glanced at the constable with flames reflecting in his wide eyes. “Do you think we should snoop around here without Nicholas? I only wanted you to question him.”

  “This is a legal matter, Ned. As village constable, I have the right and responsibility to investigate wherever my suspicions lead.” He placed his fingers on the doorknob, ready to push open the door, when a figure came running toward them through the darkness.

  “What’s going on here? What are these people doing on my property?” Maynard Kurtz stepped into the light, slightly out of breath. “Clay, why are you sneaking onto my land in the middle of the night?”

  Constable Brindle quickly explained matters as Maynard furrowed his brow in disbelief. “I understand how you feel, Maynard, but rest assured that no one is accusing Nicholas of anything yet.”

  “I should hope not! Nicholas is not a thief and you know it.”