The Thief on the Winged Horse

by Kate Mascarenhas

  “Did you get much chance to talk with him?” she asked Mama now.

  “Briefly, but he was busy inspecting my larder.”

  “He didn’t pass on any contact details?”

  “No. Hang on though – he said he was still living at his parents’.”

  That figured. Probably for reasons of thrift. Stanley was deeply sensible. It had always made Hedwig feel competitive.

  “Hedwig, are you thinking of calling him?”

  “No. The grocer’s at the door, Mama,” Hedwig invented. “I have to go but it’s been so lovely talking to you.”

  As soon as Mama was gone, Hedwig checked her contacts. She still had Stanley’s number. Time to give him a call.

  13

  The workshop was open as normal, but the police still made their presence felt. At noon Alastair told Persephone that Inspector Naidu wished to speak with her again. He put a girl from Interior Design on the counter and led Persephone to his office, where the Inspector was waiting, in the captain’s chair by the desk.

  Persephone concealed her anxiety at the prospect of further questioning. She had assumed the search was complete and that was the end of it. To be singled out for more probing could only be cause for alarm. But Alastair smiled when he instructed her to sit down, and asked if she wanted a drink. Both he, and the policewoman, had mugs of tea at their side. Persephone declined, and looked from Alastair to the Inspector in an effort to tell what they wanted from her.

  “Miss Kendrick,” Naidu said. “I understand that you maintain the records of sales here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including the customers’ personal data – their names, their addresses, their previous purchases?”

  “Only where their method of payment or delivery requires it. But that’s the majority of our customers. People usually view the dolls by appointment; it’s fairly rare for us to have passing trade.”

  “I need you to provide me with the details of your repeat purchasers. We’re particularly interested in those customers you would class as serious collectors.”

  “Going back how far?”

  “As far as your records allow.”

  “Why?”

  The Inspector ignored her question. “Are you friends with the most serious collectors, Miss Kendrick? Presumably you get to know them over time?”

  “I’ve never socialised with any of them.” Persephone barely socialised at all. “All that’s required is for me to know their preferences well. If a doll is made that I know matches a particular buyer’s taste, and it’s in their usual price range, I’ll telephone to let them know. That usually happens when there’s a new doll in a series – wooden dolls made from the same tree, for instance. Our most lucrative transactions are with a fairly small group of people.”

  “Have any of this small group expressed an interest in owning the Paid Mourner?”

  “They all have, as a pipe dream – she’s very famous. Are you saying a customer stole her?”

  “That, or a customer hired the thief,” Alastair cut in. “It seems that whoever orchestrated the theft had a personal motive. The motive can’t have been money, because the doll is too famous to sell on without questions.”

  “A run-of-the mill opportunist might be too thick to realise there was no safe market for it,” Naidu added. “But this crime doesn’t look spur-of-the-moment. It looks methodical and planned, by someone who’d done their research.”

  “Whoever planned the crime knew they couldn’t sell this doll,” Alastair summarised. “They wanted to possess it.”

  Or they didn’t think Conrad should possess it, Persephone thought.

  “Are you aware of any customer who feels that intensely, Miss Kendrick?” Naidu asked.

  “Every collector we serve is obsessive. But they’d have to be more than obsessive. They’d have to be able to tolerate the paranoia of opening the cage.”

  “How long will it take you to pull those records, Persephone?” Alastair cut in.

  “I can do it now. The files are locked behind the counter.”

  “I’ll come with you,” the Inspector said.

  All three of them rose from their seats. Persephone’s anxiety had not yet subsided, but it was in her best interests to comply with the Inspector’s request as quickly as possible. If her father was no longer under suspicion, and the police were truly shifting their focus to outside the family, she would breathe easier – and might even find her own way back to believing her father was innocent. Hopefully the thief would be found in the customer records, removing the risk of Conrad’s retaliation for the crime away from Briar and Persephone.

  Alastair was humming a tune under his breath as they descended in the paternoster – Persephone assumed to cover his discomfort with their lack of conversation. They proceeded to the cabinets, where Persephone entered the pin for the repeat customers’ drawer. She took out files for a dozen men – who, despite forming a small group, accounted for a quarter of Kendricks’ revenue. Professor Emlyn Madoc; Michael Colman; Julian Brown; the list went on.

  The Inspector opened the uppermost file. She ran her finger down the contact and payment details, then paused at the list of prior purchases, which included details of the enchantment borne by each doll.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Some of the feelings these dolls evoke – they’re not very nice, are they? Rage? Terror? Apprehension? What kind of person buys those?”

  “People who need catharsis,” Persephone said.

  “It’s harmless,” Alastair reassured the Inspector. “It’s like watching a horror film to feel frightened, or a weepy to have a good cry. No one finds that strange, do they?”

  “Hm,” the Inspector said. “I don’t watch horror films. There’s enough that’s horrific in the world without seeing it in my entertainment.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Alastair said. “Still. Some people find it a release, emotionally speaking.”

  The truth was more complicated than either Persephone or Alastair was acknowledging. Persephone believed that feelings were, in themselves, neither positive nor negative – it was a matter of balance, and what use feelings were put to in one’s dealings with the world. She thought of the First World War dolls; Courage was a supposedly positive attribute, but those dolls had helped send boys as young as fourteen to their deaths. And from personal experience Persephone knew that a demand to be Happy could be effacing, even brutal, when you had cause for discontent.

  The Inspector produced her phone, and began the process of photographing the collectors’ details.

  “Do you need me for anything else or can I have my lunch now?” Persephone asked.

  The Inspector nodded. “We’ll be in touch with any follow-up questions.”

  Persephone retreated to the cloakroom to fetch her sandwiches. Alastair came after her.

  “That was very helpful, Persephone,” he said. “You’re a good worker.”

  What did Alastair want, softening her with praise? He didn’t step away, so she assumed he had something more to say – but he wasn’t meeting her gaze, lending him an air of awkwardness.

  “I was thinking,” he went on. “When things have settled again, and the Paid Mourner’s found, we could maybe discuss a raise?”

  “OK,” Persephone said uncertainly. More money was welcome and he might change his mind if she showed insufficient gratitude, so she added: “Thank you.”

  She sat on the bench underneath the coats and peeled back the lid of her lunchbox.

  “I never wanted the police involved,” Alastair said. “Seemed like a family matter to me, best handled within the family. But if it turns out to have been a customer – it’s a good job the police were notified, isn’t it?”

  So that was why Alastair was offering her money. He felt guilty. He, too, had assumed Briar was the thief; perhaps he had even suspected Persephone’s involvement. The police’s new line of enquiry must have given him pause, and now he was salving his conscience for doubting her innocen
ce.

  “The Inspector just shouted for you,” Persephone fibbed, tiring of Alastair’s presence. He left and she wondered if he’d remember her promised raise once the investigation was over – whenever that might be.

  14

  Several times that week, Larkin took the occult wallhanging from his leather bag, and tried to work out its function – but failed. On Wednesday afternoon, when Dennis claimed to have seen a rat in the stockroom, Larkin volunteered to pick up poison from central Oxford. He usually avoided town, fearing he’d see acquaintances of his mother, however he welcomed this opportunity to leave the eyot with the wallhanging in tow. To his best recollection, a shop on Turl Street sold zoetropes, and other Victorian optical toys; it seemed to him they might know what the wallhanging was for.

  That day the Iffley Road was troubled by few cyclists and fewer cars. Larkin was watchful regardless – and was glad at the token drops of rain falling, because they allowed him to lift the lapel of his coat round his face. No one stopped to speak to him, other than a grey-bearded man on Magdalen Bridge who requested money for a cup of tea. After startling, Larkin fished a two pound coin from his pocket. The High Street was thicker with people – but that was no bad thing; they were tourists in the main, disembarking from coaches, which were unlikely to carry anyone he knew and may even provide the cover of a crowd. He passed Queen’s College, watched by a statue of George II’s wife; then the University Church. Shortly after, he took a right onto Turl Street, with relief, where he saw the dark-timbered shop front he remembered. A display of ornate toys and folio books crowded the window.

  The bell rang above the door as he entered. Due to the narrowness of Turl Street, the interior received little natural light. However, that added to the premises’ cosiness. At the counter, another customer was being served by a lady who put Larkin in mind of a Hitty folk doll. She had black eyes, a neat centre parting, and wore two rosy apples of blusher.

  He approached once the other customer had left the shop. The woman didn’t seem to mind that he had a query to make rather than a purchase; she accepted his wallhanging and gave it a name.

  “It’s a thaumotrope. And an elaborate one,” she added. “More usually they’re just a single bit of paper on string.”

  “Do you have any idea what the symbols represent?”

  “Why should they represent anything? The artist’s aim might have been to create something beautiful and momentarily diverting. Do you wonder what the patterns represent when you look through a kaleidoscope?”

  “I thought these symbols were letters, or a written character that represents a word.”

  “Not from any language I recognise – although…” She looked again at one of the discs in the bottom right corner, spinning it thoughtfully. “They all have the same border pattern, don’t they? It looks familiar. Bear with me.”

  She walked to the door and turned a carousel of postcards, stopping at the section which depicted local figures of historical interest.

  “Aha. As I thought.” She passed Larkin a postcard.

  He gazed on it with interest. The picture was of a middle-aged Victorian woman. She was portly and light-haired. Her necklace bore a disc with the same geometric border – but the face of the disc was blank.

  “She’s a woman of some note,” the shopkeeper said. “Her name is—”

  “Lucy Kendrick. The maker of the Paid Mourner.”

  “Quite right,” the shopkeeper confirmed.

  He bought half a dozen copies of the postcard. It seemed only fair, having taken up the lady’s time.

  On his journey to the hardware shop he was too absorbed in his thoughts to worry about being seen. A plan was forming: he would ask one of the Kendricks the significance of Lucy’s necklace. What could be more innocent? He had seen her in a postcard, quite by chance, he would say. For now, he still wouldn’t mention the thaumotrope; instinct told him that, if the symbols were occult, the Sorcerers would confiscate it. He would rather they took a postcard than the thaumotrope, which he might continue to study, privately, if it was concealed.

  The rain hit the ground with increasing force. Had this shower come at the weekend, the police might have tracked the intruder’s escape route more easily. But the earth had been too dry to receive any impression of footfall. Larkin reached New Inn Hall Street, and hastened down the turning, keen to buy the poison before the weather turned much worse. Who, he speculated, should he ask about the postcard? Conrad, Hedwig, and Alastair were too tight-lipped on anything that might constitute a family matter. Margot Mayhew was so inquisitive she would press and press to find out why Larkin was asking.

  He stepped into the shelter of Robert Dyas. It didn’t take long to find the right aisle. A bewildering array of poison brands confronted him, and he picked the box at eye level. Mentally he continued his inventory of residents who might help him. Dennis was too shrewd. He might answer Larkin’s questions, but he’d tell Alastair and Conrad afterwards. Then there was Persephone. Persephone; the first plausible option. She never meant to be helpful. He knew that. But she had shown her willingness to bargain. And he remembered their allyship in the bar. If she knew what that necklace meant – and he could work out her price – she would tell him.

  His mobile rang while he was in line for the till. Madoc’s name scrolled across the screen. Larkin picked up.

  “You’re elusive,” Madoc said. “This is the fourth time I’ve called since yesterday. I couldn’t get through.”

  “I told you before. There’s no signal on the eyot. What did you want?”

  “The police were round here last night, full of questions about my collection and whether I had ambitions to own the Paid Mourner – apparently I was on their list of suspects.”

  “You?” Larkin laughed. “Of all the people. Do they know how lazy you are?”

  “My boy you wound me. I’m sure I could orchestrate the perfect crime. Although – it pains me to admit it – the whole interview was boringly routine. My impression was that I was a name to be ticked off a list, and they still think it was an inside job.”

  Larkin passed the poison to the cashier with a ten pound note. “I thought they’d ruled out the residents.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. They were asking me a lot about how well I knew different people there, and whether I’d heard of any disputes or grievances between Conrad and his subordinates. I gave them a potted history of Kendricks’ succession disputes – told them Conrad’s as gay as a daffodil in February and had once thrown over the love of his life for fear of angering his father. Conrad bullied plenty of gay family members himself, afterwards, from twisted jealousy I think. So I gave the police those names. But the family feud they were much more interested in was Conrad and his brother. They asked me quite a few questions about Briar Kendrick. Also – now don’t lose your head over this – your name came up, what with you being so new to the family.”

  “Oh, I won’t lose my head. Christ, Madoc, why would I do that? It’s only the bastard police looking into me, after all.” Larkin had enough problems establishing himself on the eyot. He didn’t need the police making people wonder if he’d stolen the Paid Mourner.

  “Spare yourself the vapours. It was the merest mention. What do you have to worry about? You’re an eager-to-impress young man, with a first rate degree behind you and a bright future ahead. Briar’s a drunk with a vendetta against Conrad. Who do you think the police are going to pay more attention to?”

  “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “It’ll be fine. Must dash; I have a lecture.”

  Larkin didn’t leave the shop straight away. It was still raining heavily outside, and he watched through the window, waiting for it to subside. Madoc was right. He must be. The police wouldn’t be interested in Larkin when Briar was a much easier collar. Briar had guilt written all over him.

  15

  On the morning of her thirteenth birthday, Persephone had lain on the bedroom rug, watching the pale octagons of light
from the window track their path across the wall. She could hear her father singing in the garden, and her mother, Akemi, on the stair.

  A few seconds later the hinge creaked. Her mother’s head poked round the door.

  “Still in your dressing gown, Seph? Hurry up and wash. You don’t want to be late.”

  “I washed before you and Daddy were up. Hours ago.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Waiting.” Any kind of ceremony day was the same; the morning of a masque ball she had just this excitement and anticipation thrumming in her blood between the flashes of real incident. Most of such days were waiting.

  “Put your clothes on, it’s nearly time to go.” Mother’s head retracted back into the hall as though she were a depressed jack in the box.

  Persephone’s dress hung at the front of the wardrobe. Mother had finished embroidering it the afternoon before; a chain of stitched dancing dolls adorned the hem. As Persephone pulled it over her face she smelt the clean scent of ironed cotton.

  By the time she got downstairs her mother was coated and hatted at the front door, keys in hand. They passed into the warmth of the garden. Father was polishing his shoes on the low wall.

  “You go ahead,” he told them. “I’ll catch you up.”

  Mother didn’t answer immediately. This was another kind of waiting; Persephone recognised the tipping point between the state of tension they normally lived in and the flaring of a row.

  “It starts in ten minutes,” Mother said. “Just put your shoes on and come with us now.”

  “I’ve a thing or two to do first,” Father replied.

  Persephone pushed by her mother and made her own way to the top of the street. She heard the shouting start but kept walking, till the voices passed from earshot, and she arrived at the workshop alone.

  This was a day to mark her place within the family. Because the workshop was part of their heritage, the ceremony was held there, on the top floor. About thirty households would be present. The descendants of Botham and Jackson were permitted but unlikely to attend. As Persephone ascended from the ground floor in the paternoster, the building was near silent – unlike the busy workplace she knew it to be during the week. She hoped she wouldn’t be expected to make small talk before the ceremony started. Any social interaction drained her.