A Matter of Magic (23 page)

“Couldn’t we go around?” Kim asked without much hope. When Mairelon took a notion, he was stubborn as a hackney coachman wanting full fare in advance. “This ain’t—isn’t the way we came the other night.”

“It isn’t dark now, either,” Mairelon pointed out. “Unless Bramingham has replanted the entire grounds since I was here last, there’s a wood on this side that will screen us from the house. The other way, there’s a vista from the South Lawn. We’d be seen at once.”

“Right,” said Kim gloomily. “What are you plannin’ to do when we get up by the house?”

“I’ll work that out when we get there,” Mairelon said. “I think the bushes are thinner here, follow me; and mind your head.”

With considerable difficulty and more than a few scratches, they forced their way through the thin spot in the hedge. When they emerged into the little wood on the other side, Mairelon’s clothes were covered with leaves and twigs, there were several snags in the previously smooth surface of his coat, and one sleeve sported a long smear of mud that ended in a small tear. Kim had fared little better, but she hadn’t been wearing gentry togs.

“Hunch isn’t going to be happy when he sees what you’ve done to them clothes,” Kim said.

“Do you think so?” Mairelon said. He brushed the leaves and twigs from his shoulders, ignoring the ones caught in his hair, and studied his mud-flecked sleeve. “It is a little extreme, I suppose. Well, there’s no help for it now. I think the house is—”

The echo of a shot from somewhere nearby cut Mairelon off in mid-sentence. His head whipped around and his eyes widened. “That was a pistol,” he said, and started running in the direction of the noise.

Kim choked back a shout of dismay and ran after him while her mind listed in a remarkably clear fashion all the reasons why this was intensely foolish. Shots were something you ran
away
from, not toward. Someone else might have heard and roused the house. They would be taken up for poachers. They should sherry off while they had the chance.
She
should sherry off while she had the chance.

The list came to a sudden end as she broke out of the woods into one of the tree-lined alleys she so disliked. Mairelon was several steps ahead of her, slowing to halt beside an anonymous figure in a dark blue coat that lay sprawled on the ground at the edge of the woods. As Kim skidded to a stop next to him, she caught a glimpse of someone running off
through the trees. The distance was too great for her to get more than a vague impression of a dark shape, but Kim didn’t care. What mattered was that he was going in the right direction: away.

Mairelon went down on one knee and reached under the collar of the blue coat with one hand. “He’s dead,” he said. He shifted and bent to grip the corpse’s shoulders, then gently turned it over.

“Fenton!” said Kim. She felt very odd, looking down at the empty, staring eyes and slack face. She had seen dead men before, and even robbed a few, but a fresh corpse in a shadowy London alley, wreathed in yellow fog, was somehow very different from the same sight in the calm green countryside.

“Get back, Kim,” Mairelon said sharply, as though he had just remembered her and was not at all pleased to find her standing next to him.

Nothing loath, Kim backed up a few paces and looked around. A large canvas bag lay on the ground a few feet away. She stared at it with a sinking feeling, then went over and picked it up. It was much heavier than she expected, and she frowned as she tugged at the strings. If it wasn’t another platter, what
was
it? She got it open at last, looked inside, and made a strangled noise.

“What’s that?” Mairelon asked, looking up. “Another platter?”

“No,” Kim said. “It’s two of them.”

“
Two
of them?” Mairelon stood and came over to her. He took the sack and put his left hand inside for a moment, then shook his head. “And both fakes. Well, at least now we know who was responsible for making them.”

“We do?” said Kim.

“Well, nearly. It has to have been either Fenton or the man who shot him,” Mairelon said. “One of them brought that bag here, and who would have two false platters except the man who’s been making them?”

“You do,” Kim pointed out. “Or you did until just now. Now you’ve got four.”

“Yes, well, that’s different. We’ve been collecting them, not making them.”

“Why couldn’t Fenton do that, too?”

Mairelon sighed. “True. It doesn’t seem likely, but it’s possible.” He stared into the trees for a moment, then shook his head again. “There’s no help for it. I shall have to send you back to get Hunch.”

“
What?
No! I ain’t goin’!” Kim barely stopped herself from shrieking. Leave Mairelon alone for over an hour with a dead body and a killer lurking in the woods, more than likely? Leave without having any idea what Fenton had been doing—or what Mairelon was going to do next? Leave now, and have to pry the story out of Mairelon later?

“I’m afraid you must,” Mairelon said. “In case you had forgotten, there is a man around with a pistol. Once he’s had time to reload, he’ll probably recover his courage, and when he does I would like to have Hunch—and the shotgun—near at hand.”

“Then you better go to the wagon yourself,” Kim advised. “It ain’t goin’ to take an hour for the cove to reload, and it’d take that long just for me to walk back.”

“True,” Mairelon conceded. He frowned down at the bag. “I don’t like leaving bodies lying around, but I can’t very well march up to the door of Bramingham Place and explain matters, can I?”

Kim stared at him, amazed that he would even consider such a foolish action. “With the Runners after you? Not hardly!”

“Yes, there’s that, too,” Mairelon said absently. He was still frowning. “Well, let’s finish here first, and then decide.” He handed the canvas sack back to Kim. “Hold this.”

Feeling a bit bewildered, Kim took the sack and watched as Mairelon returned to Fenton’s corpse. Her bewilderment deepened when Mairelon began going through Fenton’s pockets with the brisk professionalism of a London cut purse. He ignored Fenton’s handkerchief, shook his head over a gold snuffbox and an expensive-looking pair of gloves hidden inside Fenton’s waistcoat, and frowned at a note he found in Fenton’s jacket. Then, to Kim’s complete confusion, he began patting Fenton’s sides and pulling at the hems of his clothes.

“What are you doin’ that for?” Kim demanded at last.

“I’m checking for—ah!” Mairelon stopped and took a penknife from his pocket. Carefully, he made a slit along the left seam of Fenton’s waistcoat; a moment later, he pulled a folded paper from inside the lining.

“Well, well,” Mairelon said, shaking the paper open. “What have we here?”

“How should I know?” Kim said. “How did you know to look for it there, anyways?”

“It’s a trick the Frenchies used now and then when they had something important to send,” Mairelon said. “If it comes to that, it’s a trick I’ve used myself a time or two . . . well, well.”

“Well what?” Kim said crossly. “What’s it say?”

“Unless someone else finds out about this and gets there before we do, which seems unlikely, I believe we have discovered the location of the Saltash Platter at last,” Mairelon said with great satisfaction. He refolded the paper and tucked it into an inner pocket, then rose, dusting his hands.

“You mean he really
was
makin’ those fakes?” Kim asked, feeling a little chagrined.

“Probably, but it doesn’t matter much any more. The important thing is that Fenton knew where the real platter is, and now we do, too.”

“Then we can leave?”

“Not just yet, my dear,” said a new voice. “Particularly not if your friend’s most recent statement is true. I have a great deal of interest in the Saltash Platter, you see.”

Kim whirled and felt the blood drain from her face. “Dan Laverham!” she said.

Dan was standing next to one of the tall, grey-barked trees that lined the avenue. He held a pearl-handled pistol in each hand, and beside him stood Jack Stower, similarly armed. Jack’s eyes were fixed warily on Mairelon, and as Laverham stepped into the avenue he said, “Be careful, Mr. Laverham! That there’s the frogmaker I told you about.”

“Really.” Dan smiled. “Richard Merrill, I assume?”

“The same,” Mairelon said, inclining his head. “May I inquire how you guessed?”

“Oh, come, now. There aren’t many first-class wizards who’d be out chasing after the Saltash Set. You’re far too well behaved to be one of the Sons of the whatever, and I am . . . familiar with Lord St. Clair’s appearance. Who else could you be?”

“You are uncommonly well informed,” Mairelon observed.

“It is necessary, in my business,” Dan replied. “Don’t try any spells, by the by. After Jack told me his little tale, I prepared a few odds and ends especially to take care of that sort of impromptu effort. You wouldn’t have a chance.” He gave Mairelon a long, appraising look that made Kim feel cold inside, then said in quite another tone, “Move over by Kim.”

Without comment, Mairelon did so. Dan Laverham took two steps forward and glanced down at the body. “James Fenton. Dear me, how dreadful. And just when I thought he was finally going to be of some use to me, after all. Well, it can’t be helped. By the way, why did you kill him?”

“I didn’t,” Mairelon said.

“How interesting,” Dan said. “Jack, go get that bag from Kim, there’s a good fellow, and see what’s in it. Then I think we had all better be going. You can’t depend on amateurs to do the sensible thing; whoever shot Fenton might decide to come back and take a shot or two at us, and that would never do. Assuming, of course, that Mr. Merrill is telling us the truth.”

Jack stuck one of his pistols into his belt and swaggered over to Kim. Silently she handed him the sack. If she hadn’t been so scared, she would have enjoyed the way his expression changed when he opened the bag and saw what was inside.

“It’s
two
of them wicher cheats, Mr. Laverham!” Stower said. “That there frog-maker’s gone and doubled the thing!”

“Bring it here,” Dan commanded.

Stower did so, eyeing Mairelon nervously the whole time, as if he thought the magician might make twins of himself if he were not watched carefully. Dan felt around inside for a moment, just as Mairelon had, then shook his head. “They’re forgeries. Fenton was probably hoping to pass one of them off as the real thing. Leave them.”

Stower gaped at Dan in disbelief. “
Leave
them? But they’re
silver.
”

“I said, leave them,” Dan said sharply. “I don’t need any more complications. This”—he gave Fenton’s body a casual kick—“is more than enough.”

The canvas sack hit the ground with a thud and a clatter. “Very
good,” said Dan. “Now, drag our late friend back into the woods a little, where he won’t be so likely to be noticed. I don’t want him found until we’re well on our way back to London.

“I see you were acquainted with the late Mr. Fenton,” Mairelon said as Jack Stower, glowering, complied with Dan’s commands.

“James was one of my least reliable men,” Dan said. “I was positively looking forward to disposing of him myself. If I’d realized he was getting ideas above his station, I’d have done so long before this.” He gave the canvas sack a disapproving look.

“Then Fenton
was
the one who made all the fakes!” Kim said before she could stop herself.

“All the fakes? You mean there are others besides these?” Dan gave the sack a look that should have made it crumble to dust on the spot. “My, but he was ambitious. Or perhaps greedy is the proper word; under the circumstances, it’s difficult to be sure. It was James, all right. His eldest brother is a silversmith.”

“ ‘The black sheep of ’is family; they’re mostly respectable tradesmen,’ ” Mairelon murmured. “I should have asked Hunch for details.”

“Speaking of platters, I think it’s time you told me where the real one is,” Dan said pleasantly. “It’s what I came for, after all.”

“I’m afraid your Mr. Fenton didn’t say,” Mairelon said with equal affability.

“I don’t care whether he told you where he put it or simply gestured so eloquently that the knowledge sprang into your mind unbidden,” Dan said dryly. “I want to know the location of the Saltash Platter. I’m sure you don’t need a list of the various painful things I could do to your young companion to make you talk.”

“Quite so,” Mairelon said in the gentle tone he used only when he was particularly angry. Kim glanced apprehensively at Dan, but he seemed oblivious to Mairelon’s reaction, and Kim realized with a sense of shock that Dan did not know Mairelon at all. She was so used to taking for granted that Dan Laverham knew everyone and everything better than she did that she barely heard Mairelon continue, “It’s somewhere in the druid lodge. I’m afraid he wasn’t any more specific than that, but a little
searching should turn it up without too much difficulty. The place isn’t that large.”

“Very good,” said Dan. “Jack! Leave that and come along.” He gestured with one of his pistols. “That way, Mr. Merrill, and not too fast. Follow him a little to the side, Kim.”

“What d’you want them for?” Jack demanded, emerging from the woods with a sour expression. “Pop them and leave them with the other cove.”

“You have no imagination,” Dan responded. “Get that sack out of sight and meet us at the carriage. And don’t linger; I won’t wait for you.”

As they started up the avenue in the direction Dan had indicated, Kim glanced back and saw Jack glare after Dan. He bent and grabbed the open end of the sack, and, with a strong heave, sent it flying into the trees before he ran to catch up with Laverham.

Dan Laverham directed them down the tree-lined avenue and along a bridle path to a wooden gate in the hedge. Kim, remembering how difficult getting through the hedge had been, gave Mairelon a reproachful look as Stower opened the gate and waved them through. Mairelon did not seem to notice; he was studying Stower in a way that made Kim very nervous. After all, Dan was still behind them with a pair of guns.

To Kim’s relief, Mairelon did nothing to annoy Dan, and they reached the lane with no more than a few dark looks from Jack Stower. A closed carriage waited near the roadside, the driver’s perch occupied by a figure muffled in a shabby, ill-fitting coat that, to Kim’s experienced eye, had the indefinable aura of the London back streets. The horses were placidly chewing wisps of grass, and Mairelon gave them the same long, considering look he had just given Jack.