The Mirror of Pharos

by J S Landor

  Jack felt nervous as he climbed the stone steps to the ornate front door. Close at hand, the house looked formal and intimidating, not at all the kind of place where a scruffy boy in plimsolls would be welcome. But Jago was already striding ahead, three steps at a time. It was too late to back out.

  The door opened and a small plump man in a dark suit stood before them. Jack started in surprise. He had no idea where he’d seen him before, but there was something familiar about him. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses and his neat hair was slicked back with oil.

  ‘Yes, can I help?’ The man spoke abruptly as if he had no time for callers.

  ‘Now then. We’ve come to see Lady Harington. My name is Jago Flyn.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s out riding.’

  ‘I see. Then we’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ snapped Jago with such ferocity that the man took one step back.

  ‘Strange, she said nothing to me. She must have forgotten. You’d better come in, I suppose.’

  The hallway was impressive, with a sweeping staircase and a high ceiling covered in fancy plasterwork. The black and white tiled floor reminded Jack of a giant chessboard. While the man’s heels tapped loudly across it, he tiptoed behind, avoiding the lines.

  They entered a large, wood-panelled room that smelled of cigar smoke and leather. A vast mahogany desk stood at one end under a glittering chandelier, and paintings of old ships covered the walls.

  ‘I’m afraid Lady Harington won’t be back for half an hour at least. She usually rides at this time of day.’ The man signalled for them to sit down.

  Jago ignored the instruction and walked about the room, while Jack sank into a big velvet chair. He gazed awestruck at the suit of armour that stood like a sentry next to the fireplace. Instead of a sword, it held a banner depicting the family crest below the head of a roaring lion.

  ‘What precisely is your business here?’ said the man.

  ‘I’m an artist. I’ve come to discuss a painting,’ said Jago, using the same abrupt manner.

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Are you the butler?’ asked Jack from the depths of the chair. He was keen to establish the man’s identity. He was sure he knew him.

  ‘No, I most certainly am not! I’m an accountant, Herbert Lonsdale. I look after the Harington finances.’ Lonsdale took off his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief, frowning like a toad.

  Jack’s heart lurched. He’d seen that expression before. Herbert Lonsdale. HL – the monogram on the pyjamas! Incredible as it seemed, this was the man from the cabin on The Empress. He looked younger somehow and had a lot more hair, but Jack was sure he was the same person.

  He glanced at the paintings on the wall. ‘Mr Lonsdale – sir – have you ever been on a ship?’

  ‘What an odd question! No, I haven’t. And I never will if I can help it. I detest the water.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack, crestfallen. ‘So you’ve never heard of a boat called The Empress?’

  Herbert Lonsdale looked startled. ‘The Empress! Why – how could you possibly know –’

  ‘You mean she exists?’ said Jack eagerly.

  ‘No. Er, not yet anyway. She hasn’t got past the design stage. Still on the drawing board, so to speak.’

  ‘I see. Then it can’t be the same ship. The one I’m talking about looks old-fashioned, like something out of a history book.’ Jack pointed at one of the paintings on the wall. ‘A bit like that.’

  Lonsdale looked up in surprise. ‘Well, yes … actually The Empress will look like that. She’ll be built with modern technology, of course, but furnished like the ocean liners of old. An Orient Express of the sea and a cruise ship second to none,’ he added proudly.

  ‘Really!’ Jack could barely contain his excitement. So he hadn’t dreamt about an old ship at all, but a new one that had yet to be built. ‘Can I see what she looks like? Do you have any drawings?’

  Lonsdale glanced towards the desk where a bundle of rolled-up papers lay. ‘Certainly not. I’ve said far too much already. The project is in its infancy. We don’t want our competitors knowing the details and – I say, leave those alone!’

  Jago had moved swiftly to the desk and picked up a bundle of plans. While he scrutinised them, his eyes flicked to Jack and back again. He dropped them with a thud.

  ‘Thank you!’ fumed Lonsdale. ‘Now tell me, boy, how did you hear of this ship?’

  Jack’s mind reeled. What if he really had seen the future? A shiver ran down his back and he didn’t know how to answer. As he stared at Herbert Lonsdale, all he could see was the man in the cabin calling him a thief.

  ‘The lad lives locally. He must have overheard some gossip,’ said Jago, without taking his eyes off Jack. ‘Perhaps your employer has been talking with neighbours?’

  ‘I hardly think Lady Harington would discuss such a sensitive project with the neighbours!’ Lonsdale blustered. ‘She has far more sense …’

  There were footsteps in the hall and a woman’s voice called, ‘Herb, I’m back. Earlier than I expected, I’m afraid. Chesterfield is lame. Something spooked him in the woods.’

  Lady Harington strode into the room, a big woman with ruddy cheeks that looked as if they’d been blown up with bicycle pumps. Her green jacket, jodhpurs and riding boots were covered in mud and there was a long scratch on her forehead.

  Lonsdale was at her side in an instant. ‘Geraldine, my dear, what happened? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Can’t think what got into him. He’s usually such a steady lad. He panicked. Put his foot down a rabbit hole and I went over his head. Herb, I’m fine! Please don’t fuss!’ Lady Harington turned to Jago and Jack. ‘I didn’t know we were expecting company?’

  Before Lonsdale could draw breath Jago was speaking. ‘I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Madam. My name is Jago Flyn and this is my nephew, Jack.’

  Jack clambered out of the chair to shake hands, blinking with surprise at his new status.

  ‘I’m an artist. I specialise in painting historic buildings. But I fear we’ve called at a bad moment. You’ve had an upsetting accident.’ Jago spoke in a voice Jack hadn’t heard him use before, a voice full of authority and power.

  Despite her riding ordeal, Lady Harington was all ears. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘Takes more than that to rattle me. I’m strong as an ox.’

  Jack tried to hide a smile. Lady Harington was just like an ox and her large flaring nostrils seemed to emphasise the resemblance.

  ‘I happened to be in the area and your house took me by surprise,’ said Jago. ‘Quite the most impressive example of Elizabethan architecture I’ve seen in years. The place has clearly been renovated with a great deal of sensitivity.’

  Lady Harington beamed and patted her dishevelled curls.

  ‘Most of my paintings are commissioned,’ continued Jago. ‘Particularly since my little coup at Buckingham Palace. But yesterday the weather was perfect, I felt inspired and I took the liberty –’

  ‘You’ve painted the house!’ Lady Harington sat down, clapping her hands in delight. ‘Show me, show me!’

  Jago reached into the depths of his leather bag and produced a long tube. He made a great performance of removing the rolled-up picture inside. By the time the watercolour was revealed, Lady Harington was on the edge of her seat, gasping with pleasure.

  ‘But how wonderful! What a likeness: you’ve captured the atmosphere of the place perfectly. Do look, Herb. What do you think?’

  Herbert Lonsdale studied the painting and shrugged. ‘Call me a philistine but the proportions don’t look right. The drive is too long.’

  Ignoring him, Lady Harington traced her finger over the windows. ‘So much light,’ she said. ‘And such attention to detail. Here’s the weather
vane and the lion at the gate and oh! – you can even see Percy peacock. Magnificent!’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jago allowed himself a slight smile. ‘I would like to show this at my next exhibition in London. That is why I’m here. I came to ask for your permission.’

  ‘You don’t need Lady Harington’s permission to show this picture,’ said Lonsdale bluntly.

  ‘True. But I came as a matter of courtesy. It seemed the polite thing to do since I did, in fact, trespass into the grounds.’

  Lady Harington looked disappointed. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. So you mean you don’t want to sell the picture?’

  ‘No. This is unique. I want to hold on to it.’

  ‘Oh dear, what a shame. Surely I can persuade you? I would give you a good price.’

  Lonsdale raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jago. ‘I’ve already been persuaded to let my Dellaston Manor painting go. Mrs Morgan was most insistent.’

  ‘Della Morgan has one of your paintings? Well, I can be insistent too. Name your price!’

  Jago turned to Jack, who had been hugging his knees in delight throughout the exchange. ‘Now then, my boy. I’m not sure about this. What do you think?’

  As far as Jack could see, this was just another of Jago’s games. And he was clearly enjoying himself, winding Lady Harington up like a clockwork mouse. ‘I think you should let the lady have the picture,’ he said.

  Jago looked directly into Lady’s Harington’s pleading eyes; her lashes fluttered and everyone held their breath. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘But I cannot part with the painting for any less than two thousand pounds. Cash.’

  Lonsdale spluttered and began to protest, but Lady Harington held up her hand.

  ‘And a brief tour of the house would well and truly secure the deal,’ Jago continued. ‘I hear Osmaston Hall has quite the most impressive collection of medieval wall paintings.’

  ‘Done!’ cried Lady Harington. She loved nothing better than to show off her house and her knowledge of its history, particularly if the audience included a handsome connoisseur of art.

  ‘Herb, please organise the payment. There’s cash in the safe. Mr Flyn, Jack, come with me.’

  ***

  Herbert Lonsdale scowled, thoroughly vexed by the turn of events. He didn’t like being mistaken for the butler and he’d been rattled by the questions about The Empress. And he wasn’t at all happy about Lady Harington’s fluttering eyelashes. In his opinion, Flyn was nothing more than a cheap salesman. It was preposterous that he should breeze in as though he owned the place and breeze out again with a cool two thousand pounds.

  Lonsdale thumped a button on the desk. A section of the wood-panelled wall flew open to reveal a small safe. He walked over and punched in the secret code on the electronic keypad alongside it.

  Outside, Percy shrieked in alarm. Lonsdale glanced over his shoulder. He could see nothing through the latticed window except a magpie sitting in the tree. Damn peacock, he thought. He went to the window and was surprised to see several more magpies on the lawn. Percy was busy rattling his feathers and charging at them with his head down. Unimpressed, they simply hopped a few feet away and regrouped. Lonsdale counted them: one for sorrow, two for joy, three, four, five, six, plus the bird in the tree. He’d never seen so many magpies in one place before.

  He returned to the safe, took out several wads of cash and slammed the door firmly shut. Then he punched in the code once more.

  From its branch in the ash tree the magpie watched intently, its eyes shining like black beads.

  Chapter 17

  Jago had a spring in his step as they headed away from Osmaston Hall. ‘That woman has far too much money for her own good,’ he said. ‘She didn’t even bother to haggle over the price.’ He patted his waistcoat pocket, which bulged with crisp, pink fifty pound notes.

  Jack gave the artist a sideways glance and said nothing.

  ‘What?’ Jago threw his hands up in the air like a man under arrest.

  Jack frowned. ‘You don’t really have an exhibition in London, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you never painted Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Mr Lonsdale was right. You didn’t have an appointment. Lady Harington wasn’t expecting you at all.’

  ‘Well, we had to get past the pompous toad somehow, didn’t we? You can’t conduct business like that on the doorstep,’ said Jago. ‘Perhaps I did embellish the story a bit – oh, all right, a lot – but she liked the picture, didn’t she? Of course she did. There was genius in it, Jack. One hundred per cent pure Jago genius! You can’t put a price on that. And you know what? I could paint the Palace if I wanted to. The Queen has only to ask!’

  Now Jago sounded pompous. The beginnings of a smile flickered across Jack’s face.

  ‘Artistic licence,’ Jago continued. ‘We all stretch the truth sometimes, show people what we want them to see.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Jack. ‘You’re good at stretching the truth. You said I was your nephew!’

  ‘Ah, now that was a blunder, I agree.’ Jago’s eyes twinkled. ‘I mean, who in their right mind would believe that I, Jago Flyn, distinguished artist to Her Majesty no less, would have such a scruffy, snot-nosed scamp for a relation.’ He elbowed Jack off the path.

  ‘You are the biggest liar!’ Jack shoved Jago back, knocking him into a bush, and soon the two of them were locked in a scrimmage of arms and legs, each trying to wrestle the other to the ground. Eventually Jago gave in, collapsing first on his knees and then flat on his face with a roar of defeat.

  ‘Very distinguished!’ shouted Jack, shaking with laughter. He didn’t mind Jago claiming he was his nephew, not in the least. In his heart he wished it was true.

  ‘By the way,’ said Jago, brushing the twigs and mud from his coat, ‘what was all that about the ship?’

  Jack stopped laughing. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Probably a coincidence but … I think I’ve met Mr Lonsdale before.’

  ‘On a ship called The Empress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The ship that has yet to be built?’

  ‘I know it sounds strange …’

  ‘Very!’

  ‘I had this dream – well, more of a nightmare really – about a shipwreck. Everything about it was so real, like I was actually there. And … well, he was in it.’

  ‘Now that is a coincidence! Especially when he’s got the plans on his desk. Practically psychic. Has anything like this happened before?’

  ‘Never.’

  Jago looked over at the woods, his brow creasing in thought. ‘What brought it on, I wonder? Tell me more. When did this happen?’

  But before Jack could answer, something hard and sharp hit him on the shoulder and he cried out in surprise. A large stone lay at his feet.

  ‘Bull’s-eye!’

  The sound of boyish laughter rippled up the hill. Jack felt his cheeks burn with shame. He knew the voices at once: Blunt and his mob. They were leering and gesturing obscenely from behind a clump of bushes further down the path.

  ‘Trouble?’ said Jago.

  ‘Morons. Ignore them,’ replied Jack.

  They walked on, and another larger stone landed with a thud close by. Jago picked it up and looked at Jack, who was doing his best to fight back tears.

  Jago weighed the stone in his hand for a moment. ‘Wait there.’ He marched purposefully in the direction of the gang.

  The bullies came out of hiding and, sensing a battle, grouped themselves around Blunt, who stood arms folded, feet apart, commando style. As Jago drew near, he spat on the ground.

  ‘Whassup, Grandad?’

  Jago dropped the stone with an ominous thud at his feet. ‘Now then. Listen carefully, because I’m not going to repeat myself. You will never go
near that boy again.’ His words carried such force they sounded more like a prediction than an order.

  ‘Oh yeah? And who are you, then? His bodyguard? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Shall I show you what will happen if you ignore me?’

  ‘Yeah, go on.’ Blunt smirked at his friends. ‘I’m sooo scared.’

  Jago reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out something metallic. The boys shifted uneasily, expecting some kind of weapon. But Jago merely put the metal object to his lips and blew hard. There was no sound and nothing appeared to happen.

  Blunt exploded with laughter and pointed a contemptuous finger. ‘Is that it? He’s only blowing a whistle at us!’

  ‘It’s about time someone did,’ said Jago with a smile.

  The boys fell about, hooting with derision.

  Further up the hill, Jack cringed. He couldn’t hear what was being said but Blunt’s reaction was clear enough. A blaze of fury welled up inside him. What was Jago playing at? This was no time for silly games.

  Then, long before anyone else, he heard it – the swish of parting grass like a hundred swords unsheathed and the heavy panting of an animal on the run. The hairs rose on his neck as he turned towards the wood. Running full tilt down the hill, its thick, dark coat rippling over its long body, was a wolf.

  With a mixture of terror and fascination Jack watched it advance, his heart drumming almost as fast as its approaching feet. It was heading straight for him. At the last moment he shut his eyes. A strong breeze lifted the hair from his face and the animal whistled by so close it seemed to pass right through him, its soft fur brushing his hand.

  The bullies were no longer laughing. Instead, their faces grew long with horror as they realised what was charging their way. One of them swore loudly, another screamed, and they all turned on their heels, running for their lives like a herd of stampeding cattle.

  The wolf accelerated, his long legs moving with such apparent ease that his body seemed to float over the ground. He gained on his quarry with every stride, his sights set on the straggler at the back of the group.