400 Boys and 50 More

by Marc Laidlaw

  “Many villages in Binderwood’s position are in a state of flux,” Hewell said, without trying to sound as if he were justifying the inexcusable. “Modern improvements are planned for all, to meet with the rise in demand, but some areas are still far behind the times. You have the telegraph, of course—”

  “But it is the mail I rely upon, and it is the mail that has gone to Hell! I cannot append my signature or set my stamp to a telegram! I assure you, this matter concerns the whole locale. Just because it has not troubled London—”

  “Pray do not mistake me, sir! It is a deeply troubling matter to London, and to me personally. The mail in all its parts is our concern, and I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I do feel, given the urgency I sense, that my time would be better spent attending directly to the situation. Meaning no discourtesy, I beg your leave to forego my tea and get on to my meeting with the postmaster, post haste.”

  “Well,” Lord Pellapon muttered, “it would be greatly appreciated. Tilly, where are the detective’s biscuits?”

  Deakins gave the postal inspector a nod and settled down to business: slurping his Lapsang souchong while the maid scurried off for the missing digestives. Hewell made his own way back along the passage to the foyer. Seeing no servants, he was about to open the front door himself when it flew inward, nearly crushing his nose.

  He found himself facing a tall young man in the act of delivering the afternoon mail. Before he quite registered that Hewell was a stranger, the lad had relinquished two handfuls of letters. It was rather a lot of mail for one house, Hewell thought, weighing them in either hand.

  “That will be all, boy,” Hewell said to the youth’s bewilderment. The dazed lad nodded, bowed, and returned to his waiting nag, looking back at Hewell several times. Hewell shut the door and inspected the letters in what illumination passed through the high foyer fanlight.

  Lord Pellapon’s mail was ordinary enough: the usual admixture of cancellations and the standard Penny Black stamp, self-adhesive pride of the Royal Mail. He could never see one without admiring it: Queen Victoria’s blessed profile, beautifully engraved against a background of engine turnings. The common red cancellation mark was a bit difficult to make out, which had led to talk of printing in new colors, a notion Hewell despised as undignified. The black ink framing Her white visage was elegant, unequalled. He had seen them being printed, had touched the etched plates, had welcomed what they meant for the efficient handling of mail in a reformed and modern postal system. Everything about them pleased him.

  The Penny Blacks decorated a number of thin, rustling envelopes, as well as a rather larger bundle bearing the inscription of a solicitor in London. But in his left hand were four or five packets of a more irregular sort: cheap, thick paper, each bearing a stamp he did not at first recognize. Foreign? Or some local variant?

  A troubling variety of unauthorized regional postage stamps had sprung up in the shadow of the Penny Black. It was not entirely accurate to call them counterfeit; they were more along the lines of homages, although of course highly unlawful. These were an affliction of remote counties but a manageable one, rarely worth the time it took to suppress them unless they traveled beyond their home districts.

  The letters in Hewell’s left hand all bore the same peculiar stamp: it was engraved with care and craft, but printed in violet ink on a press whose plates were minutely out of register, such that the profile was ever so slightly blurred. This figure of royalty wore a fanciful three-tipped crown and was definitely not Victoria Regina. The profile’s most remarkable feature was a sharp dot of carmine red marking out the iris of the eye. As a work of art and amateur production, it was intriguing. However, it also bore the legend “One Penny,” which rendered it a competitor to the Royal Mail, a blatant forgery, and therefore intolerable.

  “It is our job to deliver the mail,” said a piping, musical voice.

  “We’ll carry those to Papa!”

  The packets were snatched from his hands.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hewell!”

  Even as he turned to look after them, the twins were gone, ascamper down the corridor. They veered to the right and headed up a flight of stairs. Perhaps knowing that their father would not want to be interrupted in the sitting room, they left most of the letters stacked precariously on the newel post. But the left-hand delivery appeared not to be among them. Hewell considered this for a moment, then decided to continue with his own business.

  The coachman was still waiting, but the young courier had already passed into the distant spray of hornbeams that lined the drive. Hewell was quite certain he would be seeing him again soon enough.

  The last leg of the journey into Binderwood was uneventful. After the sullen demeanor of Pellapon Hall, he found the mien of the village cheerful. Hewell took little pleasure from the merely scenic. He preferred the presence of people, and those in quantity, with all the attendant reassuring noises and behaviors of his kind. He had dark suspicions of the sorts of associations and activities that might arise among naturally social and gregarious creatures such as man when they found themselves spread too thin.

  The village gave the impression of coherence. A tinsmith; a chandler; grocer and butcher cheek-by-jowl; an inn. At this last, the coachman helped him out and tendered his slightly scuffed luggage, plucking off a wedge of moss. From the door of the inn, Hewell looked along the central lane and identified the post office, just across the way. Everything was close and convenient. With a satisfied nod, he went inside.

  A small, tidy upper room overlooked the street, and the innkeeper’s wife was solicitous. He was far from Mrs. Floss’s first London visitor and Mrs. Floss was far from impressed. He immediately took a meal in the overheated common room, sitting as close to the door and as far from the unnecessarily roaring hearth as he could manage, while the landlady complained about a cold that wouldn’t leave her bones, giving every indication that she would be happy to complain about those who complained about the heat. As he swirled the last of his stout and washed down the last bit of bread, a lanky silhouette came in from the street and nearly stumbled over Hewell’s outstretched legs. The boy removed his hat and shifted it from hand to hand before realizing that he should offer one in greeting.

  “You are the postal inspector, sir, is that correct?”

  “I am, lad. We met at Lord Pellapon’s door. Sit down if you wish.”

  “I’m Toby, sir.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “My master, the postmaster, Mr. Merricott, sir, sent me to extend every courtesy and let you know he awaits you at your conveniently . . . earliness . . .”

  “Very well, Toby. Tell him I will be along—well, no. I’m finished here. I shall accompany you back this very moment.”

  “Sir, it would be my pleasure, sir.”

  “Mr. Hewell is sufficient.”

  Hewell pushed aside the empty tankard. They brewed a fine stout here in Binderwood—a very fine stout indeed. But for the sake of his duties he must keep a clear head.

  Young Toby led him the short distance down the street and then across. Hewell saw the courier’s nag slouched in a muddy paddock, all spattered herself. By contrast, the office was orderly, neat, and well maintained, with no obvious signs of systemic disruption that might explain a mail system gone awry. Postmaster Merricott was of demeanor consistent with his office. A thin, prim, fastidious man of slightly more years than Hewell, he rubbed his palms together continually, as if trying to congeal and remove a stubborn patch of gum arabic. He dispatched Toby to the back room to fetch a district map. Hewell already possessed a regulation map, but he was keen to inspect the village copy for any discrepancies. Local terrain was often at odds with London’s representation.

  Merricott managed to make himself present for any question Hewell might pose while at the same time blending discreetly into the background of the small office. Toby’s presence was harder to ignore. The lad rustled ledgers, sorted letters loudly, and was constantly banging in and out th
rough the rear door to attend to the horse and various other responsibilities of a rural postal clerk.

  After an hour spent in a survey of the most superficial aspects of the office’s functions, Hewell set aside his magnifying glass and let it be known that Merricott was at liberty to be more forthcoming.

  “I wonder whether you might educate me regarding any local, shall we say, irregularities. When it comes to postal standards, that is.”

  “Certainly, Inspector,” said Merricott, and followed this by waiting silently.

  “Well?”

  “Sir?”

  “I await explication.”

  “Of what, sir?”

  “Local irregularities.”

  “I would not tolerate them, Inspector. I’m sure London would take a dim view of that.”

  “Do you not sell, in addition to the standard Penny Black, some other form of postage?”

  Merricott’s expression turned from bland to befuddled.

  “Other form? Only the Penny Black, sir. We are not as remote as all that. I have heard tell of counterfeits in circulation elsewhere, but we’ve seen no sign of them here.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t recognize a good forgery, now would you? But come, come, that’s not what I’m getting at. Today I spotted another stamp, of a violet hue—”

  They were becoming aware of an increasing hubbub from the back room, and at last Merricott jumped to his feet and called, “Toby! What the blazes are you crashing about in there for?”

  “Tea, sir!”

  Merricott settled down again and resumed his guided finger-tour of the contents of his desk. Toby emerged a minute later with a peeling and blistered red and black japanned tray, upon which rested three cracked cups and a fissured, fuming teapot. His cheeks pink with embarrassment, he poured for the two men and then flushed further when he realized he had included his cup among theirs. He begged their pardon for his presumption and started backing out of the room, taking his empty cup along.

  “I wonder, Mr. Merricott,” said Hewell, arresting the boy’s retreat, “if you might be so kind as to allow me to accompany young Toby on his rounds tomorrow.”

  “Are the maps not sufficient?” Merricott asked.

  “They tell only part of the story, at least from my perspective. A guide well versed in the environs gives a deeper understanding of the ordinary obstacles. I am far from seeing how any sort of irregularity is possible in such a well-ordered office as yours, Mr. Merricott, so the trouble must lie outside it.”

  “Thank you, sir. And thanks to London for its trust. I see they have sent their finest. Toby! Tomorrow you are at Mr. Hewell’s disposal, understood?”

  “What . . . will, will you then join me on my route?”

  “Indeed,” said Hewell. “I shall return at first light.” For it had grown dark as they worked, and it had been the longest sort of day, comprising a journey followed not by rest and recuperation but by work and still more work. Hewell had but a handful of days for his investigation and dared waste none of them; he also dared not return to London without an explanation, and ideally a solution put in place. He doubted he could solve the issue of mysterious figures running across wooded roads and upsetting horses with their sinister costumes, but issues involving the mail could surely be sorted.

  Toby raised the cup to his lips and sipped air, his teeth clattering on the rim. “First light,” he said, and bounded backward out of the room. More clatterings ensued and then the boy resumed his work. Hewell heard the scratching of a pen.

  “A diligent lad,” he said.

  “Toby? A very industrious lad, yes. Deliveries twice, sometimes three times a day. Our residents are avid correspondents. He lives in the back there; no family worth mentioning, so I’ve taken him in. At times I’ve had to prevail upon him to slow down, if only for the sake of poor old Eglentine.”

  “You’ve a literate population, then.”

  “You will find many good souls, especially among our youth, who are charitable with their time and use it to help the unlettered. They compose missives where once they might have gone visiting. In some ways, it worries me, the decline in social intercourse. And yet the post office has benefitted thereby . . . and it does keep the young ones out of trouble.”

  “Would you say this might be the cause of a recent increase, even an overabundance of mail?”

  “It might appear so, but the increase in postage has been slight. No letter travels unless it has been stamped. No stamps are sold but in this office. And there has been no noticeable increase in postal sales. Therefore . . .” With a plain-dealer’s shrug and open hands, he demonstrated the simplicity of the problem: there was none.

  Toby put his head through from the rearmost room. “Night mail is accumulating, sir. I’d best attend to it.”

  “Don’t you dare risk Madame Eglentine in the dark, Toby! I won’t have it!”

  “No, sir. It’s a fine night, I’ll have no trouble on my own two pins.”

  Merricott gave him a nod, but Hewell merely blinked. After a few moments, he pleaded fatigue and excused himself, leaving the postmaster to begin whatever shop-shutting he normally conducted.

  Out in the dark lane, Hewell stood quietly watching and listening until he saw a tall figure pass through a far-off haze of light. The long-legged character strode away from Floss’s inn. The inspector headed after him.

  Beyond the faint light cast in the lane by the homes and shops of Binderwood, where the buildings grew sparser and the distance between them greater, Hewell’s eyes had to catch what glimpses they could by starlight. There was just enough of this astronomic glow to keep the striding shape in sight without putting himself at risk of having his footsteps overheard.

  * * *

  Spectralia’s Courier was in a state of panic. He had never felt such dread, not through all the conflicts and quarrels that had beset the Kingdom during his tenure. The Dispute of the Seventeen Borders; the Deputation of Ghosts; the Battle of the Sea Stars—none of these events had involved him directly. Even the War of the Woods, in which he was conscripted, had been fought and finished quickly, resolved with several duels, one sword fight, and a formal armistice followed by cake. Although the Kingdom had certainly been in danger and dealt with its share of spies and subterfuges, the threat had never before come from beyond. Internal pressures were one thing. Civil wars flared up continually, but Her Ladyship, the Ghost Queen, had a strong and fair hand when it came to managing her subjects. This was a different matter. What bulwarks could she erect against the actions of external principalities? What chance had Spectralia against the far-off yet famously meddlesome influence of London? The people there obeyed no monarch but their own!

  In darkness, moving stealthily down astral paths known only to Initiates, the Courier Tobianus reminded himself that his duty was not to solve these problems but simply to report them. The Ghost Queen, once roused and enlightened, would certainly know what to do.

  But arriving at the meeting place, Tobianus discovered that word had spread already and his errand in this instance proved superfluous. Several dozen subjects of the Ghost Queen, apprised by the Terrors themselves, had gathered in the dark glade near the Grimstock Menhirs—those standing stones older than London but by no means as ancient as Spectralia. In the lee of the stones, they guarded a lantern and shared what they knew while waiting for the pale Queen to pass judgment. When Tobianus finally caught sight of her, she appeared to be listening patiently with closed eyes to their worries. Hearing of his arrival, her carmine eyes flashed open. She beckoned him forward and asked him to contribute whatever unique information he might possess. Under her warm regard, he felt his fear melt away. The Queen knew already of the convocation at the Oblivious King’s estate, where the breach of security had been observed at first hand. The Royal Terrors were her eyes and ears in that place, so of course she knew whatever they knew—and in fact they knew far more than the Courier regarding the disposal of the mail he had delivered.

  “We know he st
udied a Ghost Penny,” said the Queen, and the twin red Terrors nodded. “From this he may infer, eventually, the existence of our post.”

  A murmur swept the gathering.

  “I am to take him on my rounds tomorrow,” said Tobianus. “He will accompany me throughout day, which means the Spectral Mail will stall completely.”

  The Queen dismissed his fears with a small flick of her hand. “For the duration of this emergency, We are suspending the Courier’s exclusive contract and putting all delivery in the hands of the citizens. Ferry your own correspondence. If you wish to pool your efforts, We will leave that to your discretion. Use the astral paths. Eschew the main routes. And especially avoid engaging with the Courier while he is compelled by the Inspector.”

  “But who will tabulate the Motivations?” Tobianus asked. “My quarters are under scrutiny. I dare make no calculations.”

  “Again, for the duration of the emergency, all citizens are to be responsible for their own tabulations. We hereby suspend the Haruspices of the Shuttle and refer you to rely on the actions of dice, as in days of old. We trust you have all retained the original Codex of Action and Circumstance. If your copy has been misplaced, you will need to confer with a neighbor.”

  Apparently many copies had been misplaced, which pleased Her Eminence not at all. Without the basic Concordance, they were all at odds and evens; her ongoing addenda were useless on their own. Various complaints were made regarding the clumsy process for emergency Concatenation. Few remembered how it was done, many of the original dice had been misplaced or swallowed by pets and small children, there was endless room for erroneous interpretations, &c., &c. At last the Queen was forced to make a ruling.

  “Very well,” she said, without hiding her exasperation. “We will perform one final Compilation tonight, before the Inspector puts the Courier under compulsion. The matter will be submitted, all possible actions Concatenated, and a course revealed. We will rule for the collective, but each of you must then make your own tabulations until the threat passes. Therefore watch carefully. We are disappointed, however. It was never Our intention that the knowledge would settle in one place, the procedures forgotten by all of you. That is a dangerous way to organize the Kingdom, for centralized knowledge is vulnerable and easily lost. You must, in future, do better.”