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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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The answer was prompt and profoundly indifferent. “Don't know, don't care.” The hope for more money gleamed clear as the groom asked, “Will there be anything else you would like to know?”
“No, thanks. That's all.” Lambert turned to go.
The groom's interest was sharp both in eyes and voice. “Why are you asking all these questions? Know her, did your?”
“I'm keen on motor cars, that's all,” said Lambert. “Saw her at the wheel earlier in the day. Quite a sight she made.”
The groom nodded sagely. “We'd best accustom ourselves. Madwomen everywhere these days.”
“Madmen too,” Lambert agreed.
Reluctantly the groom smiled agreement. “More all the time.”
 
T
he next morning, Lambert's day began badly. Tired after his night spent asking questions at the Feathers, he reported the answers he'd found to the police, who were hard put to conceal their lack of interest, though they promised him all possible cooperation.
Lambert kept his patience on a tight rein so as not to lose it. When he had done all he could with the police, he yielded to the temptation he'd had the day before and went to ask the Earl of Bridgewater for help.
It took more than a clean collar to gain admittance to Ludlow Castle. Fortifications that had held the high ground for seven hundred years were manned by well-trained staff. No one disturbed the Earl of Bridgewater unless he wanted to be disturbed. Lambert wrote a note to send in with his card.
Forty minutes later, word came back. His lordship would receive his visitor in the library.
As he followed the footman up staircases and down hallways, Lambert compared the massive walls of Ludlow to the architecture at Glasscastle. It felt less like walking into a labyrinth of stonework and greenery and more like walking into a root cellar. The heat of the day yielded to the thick walls at once. By the time Lambert was shown into the library, the cool of the place bordered on chill.
“Wait here,” said the servant.
Lambert waited. The library had been furnished by someone who liked books and didn't mind climbing ladders to get
to the highest shelves. There were deep armchairs with good lamps nearby. There were two vast library tables with enough curios, photographs, and keepsakes to make the place seem inviting, yet still provide room to work. There was a monumental fireplace and some windows, small and high. Otherwise the walls were an expanse of bookshelves.
As Lambert tried to work out the system used to order the books, the door on the far wall opened. The Earl of Bridgewater entered and greeted Lambert warmly. Judging by the way he was dressed, he'd either just been riding or he meant to go riding very soon.
“Haven't they brought up a tea tray yet?” Bridgewater asked. “Please forgive me. The staff are not quite at their best these days. There was a burglary here a few weeks ago and we seem to be devoting more attention to preventing another than to basic courtesy.” Bridgewater saw Lambert was seated comfortably, rang for the tea tray, and settled himself in a chair opposite.
“A burglary?” Lambert asked. “A man would have to be near as foolish as he was dishonest to try breaking in here.”
“I would have said so myself.” Bridgewater's long face was a picture of chagrin. “Whoever it was, he combined foolhardiness and courage sufficient to make away with a few small things, easily replaced, but full of sentimental value.”
“I'm sorry,” said Lambert.
“I blame myself. One cannot ignore the changes in the world just because one wished the old ways still held. Now, what is this urgent business that brings you to me this morning?”
Lambert stuck to the essentials. “Nicholas Fell is missing. So is Robert. Brailsford. Miss Brailsford—that's Robert's younger sister—came to Ludlow with me to find them. Now Miss Brailsford is missing too.”
Bridgewater regarded Lambert with astonishment. “My good man! You have notified the authorities?”
“I've notified authorities until I'm blue in the face. At Glasscastle, I told Stowe of St. Joseph's when Fell disappeared. Here in Ludlow, with three people gone, I can't seem to get the police to take me seriously at all. They listen, they nod, they're polite enough, but they don't do anything.”
“Good heavens.” Bridgewater turned as the door Lambert had come through opened and a servant arrived with a tea tray. “Foster, as soon as you've seen to that, send along to the police station and let them know I wish to speak with the man in charge.”
Without a flicker of curiosity, the servant acknowledged his new orders and withdrew.
“Permit me to talk to the police. We'll see whose face goes blue.” Bridgewater poured out tea for Lambert. “But for now, please continue.”
Willingly, Lambert went over his interrogation of the staff at the Feathers. Bridgewater was an excellent listener. With searching questions, he brought out every detail of Lambert's story.
“It shouldn't be too hard to trace a Minotaur, given enough time and men,” said Bridgewater. “And I think we might have luck with the lunatic asylum. I can dispatch a servant to ask the local physicians where they send their patients. If that doesn't turn up anything useful, we'll send to London
for more.” He poured out tea. “This will take time, you understand.”
“I know. But I'm not sure how long I can make myself sit still.” Lambert accepted the cup he was handed but refused the little pastries that accompanied the tea. “Maybe I could ask around myself. Might get answers faster that way.”
“That's true. But there is something to be said for being known locally. You've asked me to help. Please permit me to do so.” Bridgewater settled back to enjoy his own tea and pastry. “I am proud to be able to help Nicholas Fell and his friends. Thank you for enlisting me in your cause.”
“Thank you for listening to me,” Lambert countered.
Bridgewater looked pensive. “Can you think of any reason these three people in particular should disappear? I understand that Miss Brailsford was searching for her brother. But what connects the Brailsfords with Nicholas Fell?”
“It's obvious, isn't it? The Agincourt device,” said Lambert.
Bridgewater quirked an eyebrow. “Perhaps I flatter myself, but I fancy that if anyone could interest Nicholas Fell in the Agincourt device, I could. I tried and failed. I confess it is his disappearance that troubles me most.”
Lambert put his teacup down untouched. “To be honest, Miss Brailsford's disappearance worries me considerably more”
Bridgewater winced. “I'm sorry. Of course. I misspoke. The abduction of the young lady must be our first concern. Fell can take care of himself. As can Robert Brailsford. It is the girl we must seek most urgently. If the police won't detail enough men, I have servants to help. We'll start with Ludlow itself, then fan out to cover every inch of the surrounding
countryside. It will take time, but it is vital to be thorough.”
Bridgewater's sternness surprised Lambert. “You make it sound like you're organizing a search party.”
“Precisely so. I only hope we are not already too late.”
Lambert thought for a moment. “You've never met Miss Brailsford, have you?”
“I have not had that good fortune,” said Bridgewater, “although I know her brother rather well.”
“Trust me, Miss Brailsford can take care of herself better than Fell and Robert put together. When I said her disappearance worries me, I meant it worries me that she was on her guard, ready for trouble, and still she disappeared. Do you have any idea how difficult that must have been to arrange?”
“To be honest, I fail to see any difficulty. Of the three, I think it would be easiest by far to subdue a young lady.”
Lambert chose his words with care. “Miss Brailsford was trained at Greenlaw. Now she teaches there.”
Bridgewater's eyebrows climbed. “Miss Brailsford is a witch of Greenlaw?”
“Yup.” Lambert gave him a moment to let the idea soak in.
“Ah. I see.” Bridgewater chose a framed photograph from those on the table beside him and held it out to Lambert. “My grandmother.”
Taken aback by the non sequitur, Lambert found himself examining the likeness of a middle-aged lady dressed in a fashion sixty years out of date. Despite the frills and full skirts, there was something austere in her expression, something like sadness in her eyes. The way she carried her head,
the arch of her brows, and the proud set of her jaw were very like Bridgewater himself. “I see the resemblance,” he said politely.
“She was a witch of Greenlaw,” Bridgewater explained.
“Oh.” Lambert took another look at the lady before he handed her back. What a pity photography hadn't been invented in time to capture her likeness when she had been Jane's age. He tried to imagine the years away but he couldn't do it. There was no girl left in her, just the habit of command. “Then you understand.”
“I do. Although my grandmother did not believe in Greenlaw's use of a strict curriculum in magical education. She felt the rigidity of her training cost her a good deal of her power.” Bridgewater smiled faintly as he replaced the photograph. “Even so, she was a force to be reckoned with.”
Lambert could just imagine. “What about you?” Bridgewater aided the scholars of Glasscastle even though he'd never studied there. Did he regret his decision now? It was none of his business, but Lambert could not help asking. “What do you think of magical education?”
Bridgewater sobered. “I think there is more to magic than any one person can ever live long enough to understand. The wise men of Glasscastle have been studying it for centuries. Their efforts do them credit, but how can they truly teach what mankind understands so little?”
“They understand more than anyone else does,” Lambert said.
“Pygmies placed on the shoulders of giants see more than the giants themselves. Left to themselves, how far might giants see?” Bridgewater's faint smile was back. “I'm sorry.
You must not tempt me to ride my private hobby horse when we have a witch of Greenlaw unaccounted for.”
Lambert brought himself back to the point. “Right. So we're up against someone who can overcome Jane's kind of power and formal straining. The police may be able to help locate her, but I don't think that's going to be good enough.”
Bridgewater frowned. “You say the authorities at Glasscastle are aware of the situation?”
“They know Fell has disappeared. They haven't heard from Robert Brailsford at the time I left, but they didn't seem to find that as alarming as I do.”
“What influence I have with them is at your disposal. I'll send a wire at once.” Bridgewater moved to a worktable and took up a pen.
“Thank you.” Lambert rose. “I appreciate all your help, but in the meantime, I need to do something. At least let me start hunting for asylums.”
“I understand.” Bridgewater thought for a moment. “You might start with Dr. Hanberry. He's the best medical man here in Ludlow. Meanwhile, you know where to find me. Keep me informed. If nothing else, I can act as liaison with the authorities.”
“Well, if you can get the authorities to handle this properly, I'll tip my hat to you.”
“Speaking of hats,” said Bridgewater, “I'll ring for Foster. You'll want to be on your way.”
“That's right.” Lambert shook hands with Bridgewater. “Thank you for everything.”
“My dear boy, when a man who shoots the way you do asks me for a favor, I make it a rule to oblige him.” Bridgewater
accompanied Lambert to the door as the servant arrived. “Mr. Lambert needs his hat, Foster. Show him out when he's ready. Oh, and let it be known that he is to have any assistance he requires. Understood?” To Lambert, he said, “Remember, keep me informed.”
“I will. Thanks.”
 
B
ack in the streets of Ludlow, Lambert found his way to the red brick building that held the office of the best medical man in Ludlow.
“If I may ask, why do you wish to see Dr. Hanberry?” the young man who booked the physician's appointments asked. His expression suggested anyone suffering from a measly insect sting could just take himself off and stop wasting important people's time.
Lambert opted for honesty. “I want to ask him about insane asylums. I was told he was the best man to consult locally. Where would he send a patient of his? Is there a place hereabouts?”
Warily the young man eyed Lambert over his pince-nez. “Is this question a personal one? That is, are you interested on your own behalf?”
“I'm asking on behalf of a relation of mine,” Lambert said in as reassuring a tone as he could manage.
“There's no need to trouble the doctor. He sends his patients, on the extremely rare occasions when he must,” added the young man, looking down his nose as well as over the neat little optical contraption clamped to it, “to St. Hubert's. It's a very exclusive institution.”

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