The Eighth Court

by Mike Shevdon

  “Ah, I said. “Now we come to it. What exactly am I supposed to have done?”

  “You’re a murdering bastard,” said the Scot, “and we all know it.” Carler shot him a warning look, but he ignored it.

  “And who am I supposed to have murdered?” I asked him.

  “Where do you want to start?” asked the Scot. “The body count at Porton Down alone would justify any action we cared to take.”

  “Porton Down was in violation of every treaty we have,” said Garvin to Carler. “I thought Lord Krane made our position clear on that when we were here last. If we’re going to start a score-settling exercise, I think we have a few of our own.”

  “This isn’t about score-settling,” said the Scot.

  “Then what is it about?” I asked.

  “A rogue. Someone upsetting the status quo,” the Scot answered. “Whenever the body count starts to rise, we just have to look for you and you’ll be lurking somewhere. Like a bad penny, you always turn up.”

  “That’s like accusing firemen of always turning up at a fire,” I said. “It’s nonsense.”

  “Were either of you involved in this?” asked Secretary Carler of the two dark suits. They both shook their heads. “Very well,” he said. “This is an internal matter,” he said. “I can only apologise for my colleague’s ill-advised actions.”

  “Hey now,” said the Scot. “You’re not burning me for him, surely? He needs taking down.”

  “We would like to restore the meeting to some order,” said Carler. “You,” he addressed the dark suits. “Arrest that man. Take him into custody. Hold him until I tell you otherwise. If he has accomplices I want them held as well.” They stood watching him. “Now!” he barked.

  “Are you nuts?” shouted the Scot. “Do you know how many deaths this guy has caused? Take your scabby hands off me, you moron.”

  We watched as they manhandled him out of the room. There was a difficult moment when they tried to take him outside. Apparently there was a stand-off outside between the Warders and the police. It wasn’t resolved until Garvin went outside with Secretary Carler and together they ordered everyone to stand down.

  While they were busy I collected all the weapons and put them safely out of reach, ejecting the rounds from each gun and paying special attention to the pistol used by the Scot.

  “I can only apologise,” said Secretary Carler when they returned, “and assure you that such an operation was not authorised.”

  “I’d like to believe that,” I told him, looking around at the broken chairs and scattered furniture.

  “I wish I could say something to reassure you,” said Carler.

  “There is no Secretary Carler, is there?” I asked him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “I checked. There is no Secretary Carler anywhere in Whitehall.”

  “What makes you think I work in Whitehall?” he said.

  “Then where?” I asked.

  “Better not to go into too much detail. It only makes things more difficult.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Cheltenham, a big building, locally known as the ‘doughnut’. How am I doing?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” he said. His face was studiously blank.

  “The way I see it, you owe me,” I told him. “After all, you’ve been spying on me and my family and you ran an operation to try and kill me.”

  “I don’t think I want to comment on any of that,” he said, “but if you want to trade information, I’d like to know what you did with the safe that was taken from the Royal Courts of Justice.”

  “You think I took it?” I asked him.

  He smiled. “Now who’s being evasive?”

  “OK,” I said. “I did not steal anything from the Royal Courts of Justice, especially not a safe or what was in it. If you know anything about us at all, you’d know we’d find it difficult to lie about something like that.”

  “You were seen,” he said. “You attacked one of the staff on the same day the safe went missing.”

  “I was asked by the Remembrancer’s clerk to go there,” I told him. “I went to protect the safe and the clerk.”

  “So why did you kill the clerk?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “Now it’s my turn. Who is De Ferrers?”

  He went suddenly still. “I can’t say I know what you’re speaking of,” he said.

  “Which is an interesting way of phrasing it,” said Garvin.

  We were rejoined by one of the dark suits who nodded confirmation to Carler and stood waiting at the door.

  “I came here last night after dark,” I told Carler. “I was looking for a link between this place and GCHQ at Cheltenham.”

  He was better at hiding it this time. “You didn’t find anything,” he said.

  “Instead, I found that this castle was owned by the De Ferrers family.” I looked around slowly. “A castle hall lined with horseshoes, used by you and your predecessors for meetings with the Feyre, all arranged under the name, De Ferrers.”

  “What does that have to do with Cheltenham?” he said.

  “A very good question,” I told him “How would you describe the purpose of GCHQ?”

  “I’m not sure I would,” he said.

  “To keep the secrets of the Kingdom, perhaps?”

  “What an odd phrase,” he said, his face carefully neutral. “Quite archaic, don’t you think? If you didn’t kill Ms Radisson, then who did?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t see,” I said, thinking back to the events in the National Archive. “I thought I knew who took the safe, and who killed Claire, but now I’m not certain. You need to ask yourself, though, in whose interest is it that the safe and the clerk are out of the way? Who stands to gain? Then you can answer your own question.” I watched him absorb that information. “Was it your lot that redecorated Claire’s flat?” I asked.

  “From time to time it is necessary to ensure that peace is maintained,” he said. “It doesn’t do to leave too many loose ends.”

  “So you took the horseshoe,” I said. “Did you also take the one from the National Archive as well?”

  “The horseshoes are not your concern,” he said.

  “Did you know the family crest of the De Ferrers family has horseshoes on it?” I asked him.

  “What an interesting coincidence. As you pointed out,” he said, “no one will ever stand trial for Ms Radisson’s murder. It serves no purpose to leave a host of confusing evidence that goes nowhere and leads to nothing. Better for the police to spend resources on problems they can solve. Speaking of which, do you know the whereabouts of the missing journals from the National Archive?”

  “I believe I do,” I admitted.

  “We would like them returned,” he said, “sooner rather than later.”

  “What about the two knives,” I asked him, “one blunt, one sharp.”

  “The knives are not your concern,” he told me. “Neither are the nails or the horseshoes. Those things will be taken care of.”

  “But you lost the safe,” I told him. “What was inside it?”

  “That would be another matter that is not your concern,” he said. “Omnia praesumuntur rite essa acta.”

  “Latin,” said Garvin to me. “Roughly translated it means, it is presumed until proved otherwise that what should have been done, has been done.”

  “Quite so,” said Secretary Carler.

  “And if you can’t do it?” I asked.

  “We try not to give ourselves airs and graces,” he said. “We only do what we can.”

  “We have what we came for,” said Garvin. “I assume you will take appropriate action regarding our Scottish friend?”

  “An internal matter,” said the secretary. “Please give my regards to the Lords and Ladies and tell them that we value our continued accord on all matters. I’m glad we were able to clear up a few matters. We hold to the treaty.

  “As do we,” said Garv
in. “You’ll excuse us.”

  “Of course,” said the secretary.

  When we got outside, there were a lot of nervous policemen. Instead of holding their weapons across their chests, as before, they were now held ready, pointing at the ground. Opposite them stood Tate. In his hand was a sword, the blade naked. It looked like a toy in his hand. Slimgrin was nowhere to be seen, but then that was to be expected. Garvin smiled at the policemen. They exchanged glances, but did not respond.

  He walked across the grass towards the Way-node. Tate didn’t move. “Next time you plan something like that, tell me first,” he said to me.

  “I didn’t plan it,” I said, “and you would have left me back at the courts if I’d voiced my suspicions.”

  “You’re making assumptions about what I will or will not decide,” he said. “We can be deceived by our assumptions, I said that to you before.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “What would you have done?” I asked him.

  “If I’d been in your place? Probably much the same. I liked the move with the table. It was worthy of a Warder.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Compliments from Garvin were rare.

  “Don’t get over-confident,” he said.

  “I’ll try not to get carried away.”

  NINETEEN

  When I returned to the courts I went to find Blackbird. She was in the kitchen with Lesley, discussing arrangements for the evening while Lesley laid out plates ready to be carried to Grey's Court. I told her what had happened with the meeting with Secretary Carler.

  “And you say that after all that he still claimed to be Secretary Carler?” she asked.

  “He was evasive on the matter.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “It may be the truth.”

  “I had Sam check the records. There is no government department with a Secretary Carler, male or female.”

  “Secretary,” said Blackbird. “Literally one who keeps secrets. Carler – from the word carl, a loyal bondsman.”

  “So Secretary Carler is…?”

  “A title, most likely, or a codename. It’s appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “I wonder if his real name is De Ferrers?” I asked her.

  “Why?”

  “There are links to the De Ferrers family. Oakham Castle was owned by the De Ferrers.

  “One of the Knights in your dream was called De Ferrers – it is a Norman name,” said Blackbird, “Probably from Ferrier, a Blacksmith, but it could also mean simply of iron.”

  “An iron keeper of secrets?” I commented. “That seems a hell of a coincidence.

  “Or it is no coincidence at all,” she said. “It’s a powerful combination and may offer some protection to the holder of that role. Still, it was resolved peacefully. A death today would be an inauspicious event, Niall. If you’d asked me, I would have recommended any other day than this. Such things leave a taint, which is not something I want to carry into the founding rituals of the Eighth Court.”

  “I’d rather go into the founding ceremony knowing that the person who was trying to kill me is not still out there waiting for an opportunity,” I told her.

  “There are always dangers,” she reminded me. “At dusk we will beat the bounds of the court to establish a boundary. It is an ancient ritual both among humanity and the Feyre, which in our case will place a warding around the court. We will finally have the beginnings of a secure future.”

  “Do you think someone might try and prevent us?” I asked.

  “It’s possible,” she said. “But we must establish our boundary for ourselves. No one can do it for us.”

  “As a Warder, I’m bound to all the courts,” I said.

  “I know. In time I hope you will join us, but until then you may not join in. It is only for the members of the new court. You may accompany me as my escort, but you may not join in.”

  “I shall be pleased to escort you, Lady.”

  “Just keep your eyes sharp,” she said. “There are those who would not see this come to pass.”

  “I shall bring my sword.”

  “And your wits,” she said.

  They came in ones and twos, looking nervous and furtive. Some arrived in cars, complaining that sat-nav never worked for them. Others came down the Ways, tramping up from the village. No curtains twitched as they passed. There wasn’t even a face at the window of the house with Neighbourhood Watch stickers in the window. No one in the village saw them arrive. Alex surprised me by offering to direct them from the Way-node. I went into the village and hung around near the Maltsters Arms, the only pub in the village, so that I could offer directions to the lost. My directions to the couple looking for the road to Henley-on-Thames were probably less than accurate, but I expect they found their way eventually.

  As the afternoon grew late and the light started to fade, I headed back to the house. Angela was at the door most of the afternoon, greeting those she knew and welcoming those she didn’t. Word had gone out, and the response was larger than anyone had expected. I joined Lesley and Blackbird in the sitting room as they watched the latest batch of arrivals climb out of a battered Citroën 2CV.

  “I hope we’ll have enough food,” Lesley said to Blackbird.

  “They’re still unloading round the back, and if there’s a problem, we’ll send out for takeaway,” said Blackbird.

  Lesley looked horrified.

  “It’s a joke,” Blackbird explained.

  “Do you normally make jokes?” asked Lesley.

  “Not really,” said Blackbird. “I never got the hang of it.”

  “That explains it,” said Lesley.

  Somehow, through a combination of cajoling and threats, Angela managed to find them all places. Yes, some were sleeping on the floor, or in the servant’s quarters in the loft-space, and some were cosier with their colleagues than they would like, but they did it. The converted office became Angela’s hub, and messengers were appointed to relay information back and forth. There was a buzz of excitement, an air of expectation. People were introducing themselves to each other, hesitantly and awkwardly. I heard Andy explaining to a bald guy from the North East with his hand stuck out expectantly that the Feyre didn’t shake hands, and why.

  “That’s just rude, that is,” the guy said.

  I left them to it.

  Angela sent out a call to assemble before dusk at the front of the house, suitably attired for a walk. It mostly worked apart from the young woman in the yellow miniskirt who swore she only had heels. She had to manage in black knee-high boots, which were made her look very sixties. I was guessing that she was a city girl. There was a dark-eyed teenager all in black standing at the edge of the crowd. I watched Sparky sidle up to her and offer her a swig of whatever brew it was he had concocted.

  “Long time, no see.” The voice came from behind me. It was low and soft but definitely female. I turned and faced a face I knew. “Megan?” I said.

  “And a memory for names, too,” she said. “You’ll go far.” She looked exactly as I’d first met her in Covent Garden when I’d been on my way to Kareesh with Blackbird. She still wore the long hippy skirts and loose top, and her neck and waist were decorated with strings of small stones.

  “How’s the jewellery business?” I asked her.

  “Same as always,” she said. “Not been a great year for the market. Too many other things going on. I told you she’d find you,” she said, nodding towards Blackbird who was marshalling people with Angela.

  “And you were right,” I said, “though that’s a story in itself.”

  “And I understand you have a son,” she said. “I’m jealous.” It was said without any malicious intent, but in the way that the Feyre sometimes have of saying something completely true.

  “Perhaps that proves it’s not too late for any of us,” I said.

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “Isn’t that what this is all about?” She looked around the faces of the people gath
ered before the house. “We’re all looking for something.”

  “If that something is a home – somewhere to be accepted for who you are, and what you are, without anyone judging you for not being something else, then yes,” I said, and I found myself believing it.

  “You’ve changed,” she said, looking up at me. “The guy following Blackbird around in the market would never have said that.”

  “Maybe I was looking for something too,” I said.

  At that moment we set off, straggling into a long line, following each other into the dusk. I excused myself and headed up the line to join Blackbird. “We’re going to need sticks,” said Blackbird.

  “I wish you’d mentioned that earlier,” I said.

  “No, they must cut them for themselves.” It’s part of the ritual.

  Angela walked down the line, handing out wooden handled hatchets and billhooks she’d found in the outbuildings to random people in the line. “Is that wise?” I asked her. What if one of them is an assassin?”

  “If they’re an assassin,” she said, “they’ll have brought their own weapons.”

  I watched as the tools were dished out. The woman in the miniskirt held a billhook as if it might bite her. No one held it easily and professionally, which was a cause of some solace to me. If they couldn’t hold a bill hook they’d make awful assassins. Blackbird led us across a field with brown stubble waiting to be ploughed under to a hedge along the back of the estate.

  “I want each of you to select and cut a stick,” she said to the assembly. “It doesn’t have to be a big one, but you have to be able to beat with it, so choose something you can handle. Pass the tools between you until you all have something.”

  There was a degree of hesitancy and then someone stepped forward and started hacking at the hedge. I walked down the line, helping out where people were unfamiliar with the tools. I saw Andy neatly sever a rod and tip and tail it with the billhook before gracefully presenting it to the women in the miniskirt. She took it from him as if it were a snake.

  As an ice-breaker it was working, though. The challenge of equipping everyone with a stick to beat with meant that they had to speak with one another. At the back of the line I found Alex with a pole, almost as tall as she was.