by Kim M Watt
“Of course they did. But now you’ve had time to think about it, and maybe there were things that weren’t concrete enough to tell the police.”
The room was silent for a moment, and Miriam could hear the hum of the drinks fridges behind the bar, and a car passing on the road outside. Bryan started to lean back, as if to pull his hand away from Alice, then stopped and looked at both women carefully.
“You didn’t come here just to check on me,” he said.
Miriam started to mumble a denial, but Alice said, “No.”
“You’re always getting tangled up in stuff,” he said. “Police matters and things.”
“It has happened,” Alice said.
“None of this is … I mean, it’s just talk, you know.”
“We understand,” Alice said. “It’s nothing you could really tell the police.”
“But are you going to look for who did this? Because I know it wasn’t an accident. His heart was fine. He had it checked just last year, after his aunt got sick. He fussed about that sort of thing.” Bryan smiled for a moment, then it faded. “And then the police were asking about drugs. He would never. That is— was— just not him. Someone did something. I know they did. Someone killed him and made it look like an accident.”
“That’s what we were afraid of,” Alice said. “And why I need all the information I can get, Bryan.”
“What if they come after you?”
“It’s always a possibility,” Alice said, and Miriam swallowed hard against an unexpected obstruction in her throat. How could she be so calm? How could anyone say that and be calm about it? Her cheeks had been hot with shame a moment before, but now the temperature in the room seemed to have plunged to midwinter. She glanced around, half-expecting to see a door swinging open to let in a draught.
Bryan took a deep breath. “Okay. He didn’t really know a lot, or he didn’t tell me a lot, but someone was approaching the councillors individually.”
“What for?”
“That was the thing, it was all very cagey. They were just approached and told that it wasn’t going to be anything illegal, they didn’t even need to vote on anything, they just had to be ‘helpful’. But if it was legal, why all the secrecy?”
“And Thomas didn’t agree.”
“Of course not! He didn’t know what they were going to be asked to do. And he couldn’t exactly go to the police and say, someone wants to give me money to be helpful. It sounds silly.”
“I guess it does, in a way,” Alice said. “But dangerous, too.”
Bryan nodded. “I think that’s what Tommy – Thomas – thought. And then the odd person started turning up with a new car, or fancy clothes, so he figured some of them had agreed.”
“But he still didn’t know what they’d agreed to.”
“Not really, no. He thought it was to do with a new development going up on the other side of Skipton, all posh homes and so on, but he couldn’t see why. He pulled all the plans and everything was in order for them, so I think it was just the timing of it that made him think that.” Bryan sighed. “Maybe it was the digging around that got him in trouble, you know?”
Miriam wanted to protest, to say, no, that can’t be right, but she seemed to have forgotten how. And she thought she might have been lying, anyway.
“How many councillors did Thomas think were involved?” Alice asked.
Bryan shook his head. “He does— didn’t know. Gavin asked him if he’d had any letters, apparently. They were talking, I think Thomas trusted him, but that was when, um, you know.” Bryan suddenly flushed a rather appealing shade of pink. “Gavin, um, he seemed to be enjoying himself when he died. And there were a few others – Angela retiring, for instance, vanishing off on that cruise thing. But he couldn’t be sure.”
“Do you know where he went after he met with us last week?”
Bryan touched his mouth, the fingers trembling. “I’m not sure. It wasn’t planned. He called when he left you and said he was dropping by a farm, but he wouldn’t say who or why. The whole thing had really got to him, you know? He got a bit funny and paranoid about everything, and wouldn’t tell me very much. I’m sorry. I wish I knew more.”
Alice squeezed Bryan’s hand. “That’s very helpful, Bryan.”
Bryan clamped his free hand down on hers in a panicky grip. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? If they did this ….”
Alice smiled at him, and it was that terrifying, may-take-over-a-small-country smile again. “Then they will be found out.”
After a moment, Bryan smiled back at her, a tight and angry sort of smile, and Miriam pushed her chair back. “There was jam roly-poly in the fridge,” she said, her voice sounding squeaky and unfamiliar to her own ears. “I’ll just use a little of your cream, Bryan.”
She hurried through to the kitchen before anyone could stop her, and stood leaning over the sink with some inner wind rushing in her ears, wondering why she’d expected anything else.
There was always an Investigation, and Alice was always in the middle of it, and what sort of friend would she be if she just left her there?
Miriam growled at the bottom of the sink, and helped herself to a large chunk of brownie from a tub she’d discovered earlier. If a day like this didn’t call for generous servings of brownies, she wasn’t sure what did.
9
Mortimer
Mortimer stacked three new scales into the baskets in the corner of his workshop, and sighed so deeply he set the flowers floating under the low ceiling bobbing about in alarm. He’d been losing scales steadily ever since the impromptu meeting in Alice’s garden a week ago, and the fact that Beaufort kept muttering about needing to keep a closer eye on things wasn’t helping. He fancied some scones, with an inadvisable amount of whipped cream and raspberry jam, but when he’d crept into Miriam’s garden this afternoon she hadn’t been home, and he wasn’t at all sure about going to Alice’s. So he’d retreated to his workshop, his belly rumbling as he wondered if he could face eating a rabbit. He was starting to get as squeamish as Gilbert.
There was scuffling at the entrance, and he busied himself sorting through the scales, trying to find one that would give just the right sheen for a bracelet. He had some vague idea about making multi-purpose jewellery, but he really was going to have to concentrate. The last one he’d tried had transformed from bracelet to umbrella perfectly, but on turning back had started pouring water everywhere. The whole workshop had been awash by the time they’d got it off Amelia’s paw and back onto the bench, and even then it had leaked so much they’d barely been able to melt the charms out of it.
“Mortimer?” Gilbert said, padding down the tunnel. “Are you about?”
“In here,” Mortimer called, wondering if he should ask Gilbert about rabbit alternatives. The young dragon was very fond of pumpkins, but Mortimer was unconvinced by them. It was something to do with the squidgy texture when they were roasted, and that they couldn’t seem to decide if they were sweet or savoury. He couldn’t be doing with indecisive vegetables.
“I had an idea,” Gilbert said, and Mortimer braced himself for flaming stars and model ships armed with actual firing cannons.
“Oh?”
“We need more help, right?”
“Well, we’re managing—”
“Only just. And look at how you’re shedding!”
Mortimer curled his tail protectively under the workbench. “That’s not really from work.”
“Well, yeah, I know, but it’s not like things are going to stop with Beaufort or the W.I., is it?”
Mortimer glared at the young dragon, wanting very much to throw a handy pair of tongs at him and tell him to keep his opinions to himself. Because he’d been trying quite hard to avoid the fact that, rather than there being less Investigation and meddling in police business as time went on, there seemed to be more. And now there were jaunts, which he was coming to heartily dislike.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” he asked, a lit
tle more harshly than he intended. It was the lack of scones, he decided.
“I just mean that you could do to be doing less work here, so you only have to worry about Beaufort.”
“I don’t want to worry about Beaufort,” Mortimer mumbled.
Gilbert snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think you have any choice in that one, M.”
“I … well, your point, please?”
“Why don’t we have bauble auditions?”
“Bauble auditions?”
“Yeah, like those talent shows Miriam likes. You know, people come on and show what they can do, and if they’re really good – or really weird – they get through to the next round, and eventually one person gets to be the best baker, or the newest pop star, or whatever.” Mortimer opened his mouth to argue, and Gilbert added hurriedly, “We wouldn’t go with the weird ones, obviously. I mean, you’ve already got me.” He gave such a huge, toothy grin that Mortimer couldn’t help grinning back.
“Well, okay, I see what you mean, but would anyone even be interested? I mean, Amelia’s already handling the scale trade, so no one really has to contribute anything more.”
Gilbert shrugged. “Sure, not everyone’ll be interested, but I think a lot will. I mean, old Lord Walter might mutter on about hating humans, but even he loves the barbecues and the blankets and everything. They know what you’re doing’s important.”
Mortimer could just see his snout going a flattered orange. “Us.”
“Everyone knows it’s all you, really.” Gilbert picked up a scale and examined the edge. “So, what do you think? Can’t hurt, right?”
Mortimer scratched his neck. Technically it couldn’t, but … “Okay,” he said. “But not some silly competition thing. Just give everyone some guidelines, and then we can take a look. No scores or anything.”
“Awesome. This is going to be awesome.” Gilbert dropped to all fours and scampered for the tunnel entrance, and Mortimer shouted after him, “No flames!”
Mortimer played around with the bracelet for a little longer, before his rumbling tummy forced him to pad out into the sunshine. That, and the fact that while this bracelet wasn’t pouring water everywhere, it was refusing to let go of the pipe he was using as a make-shift wrist. Plus it kept getting tighter, and the metal was starting to groan with the strain. He shook his wings out on the ledge, and decided that he’d catch himself a fish. He hadn’t had fish for a while, and the thought of it didn’t seem to make him as queasy as rabbits did at the moment.
He launched himself off the ledge with the easy grace of long practise, his wings curving to catch the updraft, and took two long sweeps around the lake before he touched down in the shallows, the cold water making him squeak and shiver as it splashed against his belly. He could see Lord Pamela sunning herself on the rocks across the water, and a couple of hatchlings playing in the shallows while a large dragon called Alex watched them with his legs flopped to either side of a fallen tree. The lake – or tarn, really, as it was hardly big enough to qualify as a lake – was sheltered from the worst of the wind by the mount on one side and the forest that stalked up the hill to the others, but ripples and patterns played across the surface like the footsteps of invisible things. No one came here. There were ways of making places unseen, even in the days of humans and GPS and trail bikes. There were ways of making paths vanish and trees huddle too close to penetrate, and even more there were ways of making places faint, just the way Folk are. Faint in a way that means the eye passes over it and the feet turn away. It took time, and skill, but dragons had plenty of both.
Mortimer took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that sent ripples running away from him across the water, thinking of how close they had come to having to leave last Christmas. Not all of them, just Beaufort, but he would have gone too. There had never been any question in his mind about that. Imagine having to find a new place, though. Imagine having to rebuild this? He shook his head, and stared down into the water instead. Fish. That was the thing. There.
He lunged forward.
He was still snapping at the water twenty minutes later, when Amelia and Gilbert paddled out from the shore to watch. He was drenched, wings slapping at the water wildly, and so far had a mouthful of weed and a bruised snout for his efforts.
“You alright there, M?” Amelia asked.
“No. Since when have fish been so hard to catch?”
“Since they don’t want to get eaten,” Gilbert said, and Amelia rolled her eyes.
“You’re just out of practise.”
“I’m a dragon. We don’t get out of practise at hunting.”
“Of course we do,” Gilbert said. “It’s not an automatic thing, like breathing. You have to practise. I couldn’t catch a rabbit to save my life.”
“You can’t even fly,” Mortimer pointed out, then immediately went an uncomfortable mustard yellow. “Sorry.” He really did need to eat something.
Gilbert shrugged. “I don’t care. You want a pumpkin?”
“He can’t live on pumpkin,” Amelia said.
“I do,” Gilbert replied.
“You’re a freak of nature.”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“What I said.”
Mortimer held up his paws to stop the arguing, but before he could say anything a shadow swept over them, and they looked up to see the High Lord of the Cloverly dragons, his scales brilliant green and running with gold, banking toward them, his wings broad and powerful against the summer sky. He came in low over the water, legs outstretched, landed heavily enough to splash them all, then tucked in his wings and grinned.
Mortimer recognised that grin, and he had the sudden feeling that he wasn’t going to be getting any lunch.
“Hello, hello. What are you all up to, then? Work day out?” Beaufort asked.
“Mortimer’s fishing,” Amelia said.
“Oh, wonderful. Much luck, lad?”
Mortimer looked at the churned-up water washing around four sets of dragon legs, and sighed. “Not much.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” Beaufort peered around, his old gold eyes glittering with the light reflected off the surface, then shot a paw forward and came up with a wriggling carp. He offered it to Mortimer, who just stared. “Got to sneak up on them.”
Mortimer took the fish, mumbling “Thank you,” and tried to ignore Amelia, who was doing a bad job of not laughing.
“That fish,” Gilbert started, and his sister swatted his ear.
“Is Mortimer’s lunch. He doesn’t need you ascribing a personality to it.”
Mortimer tried to avoid the fish’s eyes. “Ah – did you need something, sir?”
“I was thinking of heading out for a while. A bit of a jaunt.”
What appetite Mortimer had drained away, and he sighed. “Now?”
“Can we come?” Gilbert asked.
“We’re not going to be walking,” Amelia pointed out.
“No harm, actually,” Beaufort said. “I wanted to take a look at something from the ridge just beyond the mount. We could walk that.”
Gilbert grinned at his sister, and she huffed, then looked at Mortimer. “Are you going to eat that, or play with it?”
The fish flopped a couple of times and gave a rather despairing gasp, and Mortimer put it back in the water. It rolled over once, sinking toward the bottom, then righted itself and shot away. “I’ll eat later. After our jaunt.”
“Right you are, then. Off we go.” Beaufort waded ashore, shook himself off, and trotted away through the boulders that surrounded the lake, Amelia and Gilbert ambling after him. Mortimer wished again for a scone, and padded on behind them.
The dragons left the mount behind, slipping deeper into the forest, the mulch soft and fragrant underfoot, the shrubs among the trees whispering against their scales. They took on the colours of the woods, dappled browns and greens, even with no one to see them, and the birds sang on unconcerned as they passed.
It was a lot longer by foot than by wing, and by t
he time they slipped out of the trees and climbed to the heather-clad stone ridge that separated the forested valley from the farmland beyond Mortimer was regretting letting the fish go. His stomach was growling insistently, and it seemed far too hot, with the sun baking on his scales. He started looking for rabbit trails.
Beaufort led the way to the ridge with his head high and his wings sleek against his back, and stopped next to one of the cairns that pinned the dragons’ faintness to the land. He lifted his snout, as if scenting the wind, then looked at the three young dragons as they lined up next to him. “Tell me what you see,” he said.
There was a grave edge to the High Lord’s voice, and Mortimer looked out across the variegated green of the fields, crosshatched with dry stone walls and garnished with pockets of woods and forest. A couple of skinny roads meandered here and there, and a thread of trees marked a waterway. Houses clustered together for company, and in the distance more fells hulked up, cutting off their view of the land beyond. The wind was stronger here, but still only enough to rumple through the heather and set the long grass leaning. He could smell sun on hot stone and grass unfurling, and the pale pink scent of small creatures hunkering down in fright lest they become lunch. But there was something missing. He couldn’t quite taste what it was, but it was there, the way you know something is lost before you even see it’s gone.
“It’s so still,” Amelia said, and Mortimer nodded in sudden comprehension.
“No tractors,” he said. “No quad bikes.”
“There’s a car,” Amelia added. “So people are still around.”
They watched the little red car slip down a lane, disappearing and reappearing with the roll of the land. Beaufort didn’t say anything.
Then Gilbert said, “I can’t hear anyone.”
Mortimer and Amelia looked at each other, then at Beaufort, who nodded. “No dogs. No shouting.”