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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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“Not Max's?” the driver asked. He'd reached the station but instead of pulling in, he drew rein and sat waiting to hear the rest of the story.
“Max was all right, as he'd been innocent of the whole scheme, so he got off free and clear. The devil took Caspar, though.”
“Didn't Max agree to cheat by using that Sharp's rifle?” the driver countered. “Doesn't sound innocent to me.”
Lambert decided the driver had a point, and he made adjustments accordingly. “That's what Agatha thought. By the time the dust had settled, she was feeling more herself, and she came to see what her father had known all along. Max wasn't the man for her after all.”
The driver looked dubious. “She didn't marry him?”
“She didn't marry anyone. She settled down to take care of her father instead. When he died, she took over his ranch and ran it herself.”
“What, lived alone and died a spinster?” the driver demanded.
“I never said she was dead. She's living in Wyoming yet.” Lambert gauged the driver's tolerance for embellishment with care. “It's a fine spread too. About fifty miles out of Medicine Bow.”
“Off my rig and get along with you,” said the driver, disgusted. “That's never how the story goes.”
“It's how it goes in Wyoming,” Lambert said, climbing down from the box.
The drayman spat again, shook his head, and drove on.
The train to London was mercifully quick. Lambert found himself squarely in the thick of London by midday. In contrast to Glasscastle, the streets were jammed and dirty. Great buildings crowded wide streets. People of every degree jostled their way through the press as if they had been born knowing where they had to go and what they had to do once they got there. If there was ever a season in which London was supposed to be quiet, it was mid-August. To Lambert, the place seemed about as quiet as a stockyard on market day.
By one o'clock, Lambert had elbowed his way through the mob to present himself at Fell's club, a leather-bound retreat well supplied with rubber trees and aspidistras. After a brief wait, he was shown to one of the club rooms, where Fell had covered an entire table with his papers.
As usual, Nicholas Fell looked as if he had slept in his clothes. There was nothing wrong with the cut of his gray flannels, but something about Fell's posture made it impossible for him to stay tidy looking for long. He had obviously been immersed in his work, for when Fell looked up at Lambert, he wore the abstracted air of a man trying to listen to a voice from far away. Fell tugged at a corner of his neatly trimmed mustache and greeted Lambert.
“There you are,” said Lambert.
“Agreed,” Fell countered. “And here you are. Not your usual choice of outing, is it? May I ask why you have come, Lambert?”
You disappeared and I was worried about you.
Lambert
felt a bit sheepish, now the moment to explain his presence had arrived. “I thought you should know that there was an intruder in the Winterset Archive yesterday. Someone was in your study.”
Fell had gone back to his papers. With no annoyance, only mild curiosity, he asked without looking up, “Whatever for?”
“I don't know. But whoever he was, he tore the place up some.” Lambert's stomach growled. “Have you eaten lunch yet? I'll tell you all about it while we eat.”
“Luncheon? Of course I haven't. I've only been here—by Jove—” Fell broke off as he consulted his pocket watch. “It has been a bit longer than I thought.” His apologetic tone gave way to crispness. “What a refreshing change, to be allowed to get on with my work in peace.” Fell surveyed Lambert from head to foot. “Relative peace, that is. Still, I'm glad you're here. Otherwise I might have missed my appointment. I'm to meet the Earl of Bridgewater for luncheon. You may join us.”
“Are you sure?” Lambert hesitated. “Won't he object at having a stranger join you?”
“Let him object,” said Fell. “It was his idea to invite himself to lunch with me. He seemed to have the idea that we should meet somewhere posh and make an afternoon of it. Just because he has time for such frivolity doesn't mean anyone else does. I insisted he come here. There's nothing wrong with the food at this place, I'll say that much.”
“What time were you supposed to meet him?”
“One o'clock.” Fell rose and clapped Lambert's shoulder. “Come along. He's far too polite to object to you. It's only
thanks to your interruption that I remembered the appointment at all.”
Fell did not hurry down to meet his guest. Nevertheless, the nobleman was waiting patiently when they arrived.
“My lord, allow me to present Mr. Samuel Lambert, our advisor on the Agincourt Project. Lambert, please let me present the Earl of Bridgewater,” said Fell. “Mr. Lambert will be joining us for lunch.”
The Earl of Bridgewater was an imposing main. Well over six feet tall, clean limbed, with a mane of flowing hair that must have been raven black in his youth but was now brindled like a badger with white at his temples, the man could have played Merlin as easily as King Arthur. To Lambert, Bridgewater had all the elegance of the long-limbed aristocrats featured in the
Illustrated London News.
Sidney Paget himself could have drawn no more imposing a profile. Bridgewater's eyes were benevolent yet piercingly clear, his long face kind.
“Never mind the formalities,” said Bridgewater. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Lambert. Mr. Voysey speaks of you often. I've heard only praise for you and your extraordinary natural eye. You and your abilities make an invaluable contribution to the Agincourt Project.”
Lambert stared. “You've heard of the Agincourt Project? I thought it was supposed to be a secret.”
“So it is.” Bridgewater looked amused. “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it, even in relative privacy. Forgive me. I take a proprietary interest in the matter, as I have provided some of the resources, financial and otherwise, that Mr. Voysey required.”
“You're a backer?” said Lambert. “I didn't know.”
“How could you?” Bridgewater led them to the club dining room. Effortlessly, he caught the eye of the host, who showed them immediately to the best table in the room. Fell showed no sign of noticing that Bridgewater had taken the initiative from him. “I play the dilettante, after all. Nevertheless, when imperial duty calls, a man must answer.”
“Imperial fudge,” said Fell. “Contrary to the opinion of the Vice Chancellor, the safety of the empire does not hang on the success of the project. A bit of luck for us all, given how many times the designers have changed their minds about the very nature of the thing. I'm sick of hearing that the project's inspiration is simple patriotism, when in truth it is mere love of gadgetry.”
“Do you often mock simple patriotism?” Bridgewater inquired stiffly.
“Only when it wraps itself in the Union Jack and strikes dramatic attitudes for my benefit.”
Accustomed to Fell's brusque response to any form of interruption of his studies, Lambert watched Bridgewater's reaction to Fell's rudeness with interest. The momentary stiffness vanished and was replaced with smooth courtesy.
“That was hardly my intention,” said Bridgewater gently.
“No,” Fell agreed, “no need. That's why we have the popular press, after all. Leave that sort of thing to the people who excel at it.”
If anything, Bridgewater's gentleness increased. “You're in a tart mood this afternoon. Perhaps a good meal will mellow you.”
They ordered and in due time the courses began to arrive.
Bridgewater made pleasant conversation until they reached the end of the meal. Then, as he and Fell enjoyed their coffee and Lambert looked on wistfully, Bridgewater addressed Fell. “I hope you have given my offer your serious consideration. My library remains at your disposal. You are welcome to arrive when you please and to stay as long as it is convenient for you.”
“You are hospitality personified,” said Fell, his mood visibly softened by the excellence of the meal he'd enjoyed. “I thank you, but I must decline. As fraught with distraction as Glasscastle can sometimes be, I do my best work there.”
“The invitation stands. If you change your mind, merely notify me.” Bridgewater turned to Lambert. “My mission has failed. If you can prevail upon your friend to accept my invitation to visit, I'll be in your debt. Gentlemen, thank you for your time.” Bridgewater took his leave.
As Lambert and Fell left the dining room, Lambert marveled. “Yes, you're the dutiful one, aren't you? You do your best work at Glasscastle. So why did you light out for London without a word to anybody?”
“I did, didn't I? Didn't I?” For a moment, an apology seemed to tremble on Fell's lips. “No, wait. I must have left a note or you wouldn't have known I was here.”
“You didn't.” Lambert told him about the newspaper's society column.
“What on earth possessed you to read rubbish like that? You have too much time on your hands. I should speak to Voysey about accelerating the tests.” Fell's eyes brightened at the thought.
“If you think it's rubbish, why do you take that newspaper?
Lucky I did read it. I was ready to report you as a missing person.”
Fell's brows went up. “You're right. It was lucky. You'd have found it most embarrassing, had you reported me missing. You don't care much for embarrassment. I've noticed that.”
“Nobody does. What brought you here anyway?”
“I came up to hear Bridgewater address the Royal Society. I had one or two questions to ask him afterward. For some odd reason, he thinks I should stay with him for a fortnight at his ancestral seat. His invitation was very flattering. It was all I could do to think of a reason to refuse.”
“Why should you refuse?” Lambert asked. “I'm glad you didn't just disappear for a fortnight without a word to anyone, but why shouldn't you if you felt like it?”
Fell looked disapproving. “I didn't feel like it. He's the sort who thinks it's all very well that the sun never sets on the British Empire, but if we put our minds to it, we could do better. Always detecting fresh menace from overseas, going on about the threat posed by the Pan-Germanic party. As if the Pan-Britannic party isn't just as bad. He makes me tired. More than that, I can't spend a fortnight away from my work. Nor do I dare to leave you to the tender mercies of those fellows you keep company with. What has Meredith had you doing while I was away? Throwing harpoons?”
“As for your work, you have a bit more of it on your hands. You need to sort out the mess in your study.” Lambert gave Fell a quick summary of the incident of the man in the bowler hat, including the plans he'd given to Brailsford.
“By Jove.” Fell thought for a moment. “Wait here while I fetch my things. We're leaving at once.”
“For Glasscastle?” Lambert asked.
“Didn't I say? Of course we're going to Glasscastle. I won't be five minutes.”
 
L
ambert was as lucky with trains on his return as he'd been that morning. He and Fell not only caught an express, they had a compartment to themselves.
“There's nothing extraordinary about that,” said Fell, when Lambert remarked upon it. “Even if the train were full, I can always get a compartment to myself when I want it.”
“You can, can you?” Lambert doubted it. “How? Do you show your credentials to the conductor when you board?”
“Hardly. No, if the train looks like filling up, I merely make a point to smile and nod as I beckon strangers to join me. I've discovered that people will go to considerable lengths to avoid me.”
“I'm not surprised.” Lambert had purchased a selection of newspapers to read on the journey. He opened one at random. From an inside page, the name Bridgewater leaped out at him. “I see your friend Bridgewater has been named a patron of the Royal Hospital.”
Fell looked up from a scholarly journal. “He's not my friend. A man in Bridgewater's position doesn't have friends.”
Lambert snorted. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course he does.”
“He doesn't. Not unless he made them before he inherited
his title. I suppose that might explain why men of Bridgewater's station are so often sentimental about their school days.” Fell brushed at a fleck of soot on his cuff. “When he was a schoolboy, Bridgewater made discreet inquiries about admission to Glasscastle. He was told he'd have to take his chances like anyone else. This put him off, apparently. He never did apply.”
Lambert frowned. “How could Glasscastle have turned a man like that away? If anyone ever had the right background, Bridgewater has.”
“True. But the Fellows of Glasscastle couldn't guarantee it in advance and Bridgewater refused to risk rejection. This came as a great relief to the Fellows on the admission committee at the time. It seems his great-grandfather had displayed an uncomfortable amount of initiative as a student here. A case of enthusiasm outrunning discretion, I gather. Given the way talent sometimes runs in a family, they were glad to avoid the potential awkwardness of a similar situation with Bridgewater. Fortunately, he has kept up his family's tradition of generous support to the university.”

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