(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord (11 page)

“They’ve only the one. Midtwenties, unmarried, very pretty, very charming—what?”

Stephen kept his face inexpressive, biting back an inappropriate urge to laugh. “Out of curiosity, have you been having any thoughts of matrimony, at all?”

“Well, it’s crossed my mind. For obvious reasons, I’m not inclined to marry, but there’s the succession…which…which I don’t give a damn about…” Crane’s voice tailed off, then he exploded, “That fucking harpy!” He stalked a few paces, spine stiff with anger. “Do you seriously think I was being entrapped into marriage by magic?”

“It’s possible,” Stephen said. “Fluence wouldn’t do it alone, but if Miss Thwaite is pretty and charming, it could certainly pave the way. You’re the last Vaudrey, you’re in search of a wife and an heir—”

“I’m not. I am
not
.”

“You might be expected to be,” said Stephen patiently. “Wealthy neighbours, lovely daughter, good family. You might well be led to feel she’d do as well as another.”

The darkness was back behind Crane’s eyes. “She is not charming. She’s a thoroughly nasty, foul-tempered piece of work. I am not going to marry that ill-conditioned little shrew, and I will not be manipulated by that sour-faced bitch her mother!”

“No, you won’t,” Stephen said. “I’ll put a stop to it.”

“Do you think she’ll listen to you?”

“I expect so. You said I was invited tonight?”

“We’re not going,” said Crane emphatically.

“I think we should. I need to see Lady Thwaite in action, if possible, make sure it
is
her. I won’t let anyone assault your virtue,” he added, and received a withering glare.

“
Tsaena
. Bloody woman. Oh dear God. Is she the jack’s maker?”

“Not if she’s also trying to marry you to her daughter, surely. But anyway, the jack came from around Nethercote, which is the opposite direction to Huckerby Place. I could show you the pinpointer, except you wrecked it.”

Crane looked down at the chaos on the desk. A map was spread out on the faded green leather top. A couple of contorted needles lay by it, and a mess of twisted fragments of wood. There was a small pool of solid tin, the size of a fingernail, on the leather, a few pieces of broken needle stabbed randomly into the desk surface, some papers and a pen wiper. A tangle of needles lay like spillikins on the map.

“Sorry.”

“I’d got the location, at least. It was a phenomenally difficult piece of work. Everything in here is flowing in the most peculiar way. But I did get Nethercote. Definitely.”

Crane was looking closely at him. “Is that a problem?”

Stephen sighed. “My Aunt Annie lives just outside Nethercote.”

“I see,” said Crane. “No, I don’t. So what? Unless she’s like my Great-Aunt Lucie, in which case you have all my sympathy—”

“She’s a witch.”

“Just like Great-Aunt Lucie.”

“No,” Stephen said. “She’s a
witch
.”

“Oh. I see. Oh, the devil—you don’t think—”

“The jack? I can’t think so,” Stephen said. “Father’s been dead twelve years, why would she do it now? And she’s always been a stickler. It’s just, I only know of one other practitioner in Nethercote and I find it hard to believe it was her either—Mrs. Parrott, her name is, a respected craftswoman. But there may well be someone else. This is the devil of an area for the craft, you know, so much power. I can’t think why this house is so bad.”

“So what do we do?”

“Have some lunch, go to Nethercote, talk to Mrs. Parrott and see if she can lead us to the maker. And hope to God my aunt doesn’t turn up.”

Chapter Ten

Nethercote barely earned the name of hamlet. There was a stagnant willow-hung pond around which stood a tiny, ancient, grey stone church, lit by the afternoon sun, and five cottages, two badly tumbledown.

Merrick tied the reins of the dogcart as Stephen and Crane looked around.

“Is this it?” Crane asked.

“This is Nethercote, yes, my lord.”

“God almighty. I want to go home.”

“You give the word, I’ll book the boat,” said Merrick. “We could be drinking Shaoxing wine in, what, two months if you stopped mucking round here. What do we do now, sir?”

“Don’t ask me,” Crane said.

“I wasn’t,” said Merrick, with ineffable scorn.

Stephen was still surveying the area. A dusty, patchwork-clothed boy of about seven was staring at them from behind a heap of stones. Stephen beckoned him over, and he came reluctantly, pausing about twelve feet away.

“Hey,” Stephen said, holding out a tuppenny bit. “Can you tell me where Mrs. Parrott lives?”

The boy stared, wide eyes fixed on the coin. He reached out a tentative hand, changed his mind and darted away.

“He’s probably never seen anyone who wasn’t his first cousin,” Crane said.

Stephen shrugged and strolled over to a rickety house front with a few bits of broken woodwork in front of it. There was a faint, tuneless whistling from inside, the kind hissed through a gap in the teeth, and a brief outbreak of hammering.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone in? Good morning,” he added, as a skinny man in fustian emerged, scowling. “Sorry to trouble you. Can you tell me where I can find Mrs. Parrott?”

The man snorted. “Try the church?” he said. “Reckon you find her there.” He looked as though he was about to continue, but stopped, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on Crane. He blinked a couple of times and darted back into his dark workshop without a goodbye.

“Charming,” Crane muttered.

“Well, if you must wear a suit costing more than this entire village, you can expect to be stared at,” Stephen said.

“Nobody could level that accusation at you.” Crane headed to the churchyard wall. The tiny building looked deserted, the roof as though it wasn’t far from collapse. The iron-grey aged oak door was firmly closed.

“Could she be inside?” Stephen asked dubiously. He walked up to the ivy-grown lychgate and cocked his head sideways, examining it.

Crane went through the lychgate without waiting, brushing past Stephen, who didn’t react, and strolled through the daisies and buttercups that grew in profusion over the lichened tombstones around the church. “I doubt it,” he called over his shoulder. “My experience of the rural sense of humour—yes, here we are.”

Stephen and Merrick joined him. The neat new gravestone had some withered daffodils left by it, and the inscription was clear.

“Edna Parrott, dearly departed,” Stephen read. “Two months ago. Good God, Mrs. Parrott dead, I thought she’d live forever. Well, that’s a nuisance. I’ll need her replacement. I wonder if we can find someone to ask about that.”

“Reckon so,” said Merrick, in a tone that made the other two look round.

Heading across the dusty road towards them, with a determined air, was a band of people. The carpenter was marching next to a big, burly man dressed like a farm labourer and a thinner, worried man. Two women, one sharp-faced and heavily pregnant and one tall, older, in a dark-brown stuff gown, accompanied them. The boy lurked alongside.

“A deputation,” Stephen said.

“A mob, I expect.” Crane led the way out of the churchyard. The little gang headed his way, faces hard with anger. Crane raised his hands in a pacifying gesture and walked forward to meet them. Merrick hurried at his long-legged master’s heels.

There was a susurrus of anger as Crane came up to the villagers.

“Good afternoon. I’m Crane.”

“We know who you are,” said the pregnant woman shrilly. “What are you doing here?”

“My lord,” mumbled the thin man with an apologetic dip of the head.

“No lord of ours.” The pregnant woman spoke to a mumble of approval. “And no Vaudrey got any right to set foot in this place any more. We don’t want you here.”

“We won’t be here long,” said Crane. “We came in search of Mrs. Edna Parrott.”

The pregnant woman gaped for a second, then screeched, “Pig! Filthy pig!” and rushed at Crane, hands outstretched like claws, nails out for his eyes. Crane sidestepped; Merrick caught her round the hips and spun her away. The big labourer gave a roar of rage and pulled back a ham-like hand, ready to land a sledgehammer punch on Crane, who skipped back a few steps, hands spread wide and conciliating, saying loudly, “
Don’t
do that. Do
not
.”

“I’ll knock your damned head off for you,” growled the big man, lumbering forward. Crane sidestepped again.

“Please don’t. I never learned to fight like a gentleman. It would be ugly. And this lady is endangering herself.”

The pregnant woman was thrashing and screaming curses, but unable to break Merrick’s grip. Crane glanced at the other woman, who had her arms folded. “Madam, could you persuade this lady not to overexert herself?”

“If she wants to scratch your eyes out before Henry packs you on your way,
I
don’t care.”

The labourer moved towards Crane again, fists up, and Stephen flung a gloveless hand up so that it smacked against the labourer’s meaty fist and said, “Stop.”

There was a second’s silence as the big man froze in place. Stephen’s arm was stretched high to reach the other’s hand, and he was dwarfed by the labourer’s bulk, but there was no question at all who dominated the scene.

“Listen to me. Stop.” Stephen moved his hand down and took the big man’s arm with it in an unnervingly fluent way. “You don’t want to hit Lord Crane. You don’t want to be involved. You want to take your wife home. No fighting. Go home.”

“Liza.” The big man turned obediently away. “Come on, now. Let’s us go.”

The pregnant woman gaped at him and appealed to the woman in brown. “Marjorie!”

“Go home, madam,” Stephen said. “Henry, listen to me, take your wife home now.”

“Marjorie—” The pregnant woman fell silent as the big man put a heavy arm on her shoulders. Merrick let her go, exchanging a quick glance with Crane.

The woman in brown was thin-lipped, glaring between Stephen and Crane. “Go on, Liza. Think of the baby. I’ll deal with this.”

“And the rest of the spectators,” Stephen said. “You, you and you. Off you all go. Now, please.”

“You don’t give the orders here,” said the woman called Marjorie.

Stephen flicked a glance at her. “Yes, I do.”

Merrick and Crane watched in silence as the small, bewildered group trailed away. The woman in brown stood alone, staring resentfully at Stephen.

“Right,” she said. “You’re here for Edna Parrott, are you? Well, she’s dead. So if
he
’s here to finish the job his brother started—”

“What’s your grievance against Lord Crane?”

“He’s a damned Vaudrey!”

“
Lucien
Vaudrey,” Crane put in. “Not Hector, not Quentin. Lucien. The one who’s been five thousand miles away for twenty years. I have no idea what my father or brother did to you, or to this place. Perhaps you could tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” The woman’s arms were tightly folded. “Just get out and take your dogs with you. You’ve no right to be here.”

“Wrong,” said Stephen. “I am a justiciar, and I am here on a matter of dark practice and murder. I am requesting you to speak to me now.”

“And what if I don’t?” said the woman through stiff lips.

“Then it will stop being a request.”

The woman’s face was set like stone. She stared at Stephen, eyes dark, and Crane suddenly realised her pupils were dilating.

“Don’t be silly,” Stephen said, with a touch of impatience.

“This is my place,” she said, low and angry. “I have rights.”

“And you have duties,” said Stephen. “What’s your name?”

“Bell. Marjorie Bell. I’m Gammer’s granddaughter.”

“I’m Justiciar Stephen Day. This is Lord Crane, that’s Mr. Merrick. Now—”

“
Stephen Day?
”

There was just a hint of a pause before Stephen nodded.

“Nan Talbot’s nephew Stephen?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth dropped open, a picture of incredulous contempt. “Allan Day’s son? Helping the Vaudreys? Your father must be turning in his grave.”

“My father knew his duty,” said Stephen stonily. “He did his job, and I am doing mine. Starting now, Miss Bell.”

“Does Nan Talbot know you’re working for
that
?” She jerked her head at Crane.

“
Now
.”

Miss Bell went a deeper red. She spun and led the way with angry nervous steps to one of the cottages. The boy ran up to her as she walked; she said something quietly to him and he hurried away.

The cottage looked neglected, the plants outside withered and dead, and the door stood open.

They filed inside, Merrick leaning against the door to discourage eavesdropping. It was dark and dusty with an accretion of spider webs in the corners, smelling of dead fires and some acrid scent Crane couldn’t place. The air felt withered and old and greasy. Crane, who was starting to recognise some things, darted a look at Stephen and saw him rubbing his fingertips together like a pastry cook at work.