Lambert had been most considerate, steadying her as they departed from the police station. In almost anyone else, the act of taking charge, bringing her home as if she were a parcel to be delivered, would have been infuriating. Jane marveled that Lambert's behavior did not infuriate her at all. Quite the contrary. Amy was right. He was a bit of a lamb.
Jane took off her shoes and unpinned her hair. Although her hair was not really wind-tangled, it still felt good to brush it out. Then, despite the fact it was merely afternoon, and no one lay on a bed in midafternoon unless one were sick unto death or disgustingly slothful, lazy to the point of vice, Jane took a nap. She had a dream.
Jane dreamed she was having tea in Number Five Study, back at Greenlaw College. Faris Nallaneen, looking precisely as rawboned and gawky as she ever had in the school days before she'd become warden of the north, was across the table. Under the black poplin of her academic gown, the frayed cuffs of Faris's made-over dress showed plainly. One of the cuff buttons was dangling from a thread.
“You're going to lose that button,” Jane observed.
Faris glanced at the button and frowned. “Things don't stay mended, have you noticed?”
“Did you sew it on yourself?” Jane asked.
“Several times. There are constant interruptions.” Faris pulled the button off and put it in her pocket. “You have something very important to say.”
“I do?” Jane knew she did. It was urgent as well as important but her mind was a blank and she could not recall what it was she ought to say. “I do, don't I?”
“Tell him to get to work. But first, he must see to the clocks.” There was a thunderous knocking at the door to Number Five Sturdy. Faris looked annoyed. “Never a dull moment” Faris reached in her pocket. “Damn, I've lost that button again.”
With that, Jane awoke. So vivid was the sense that someone had been knocking at her bedroom door, she went to answer it. When she opened the door, no one was there. The spacious hallway was empty, the house silent.
Jane hesitated, then walked downstairs in stockinged feet, hair loose over her shoulders, to open the front door. Mindful of her unconventional appearance, she peeped timidly out into the street. No one was there. The sense of peace within the house was profound. In the world outside, late afternoon had drowsed itself into the hush of early evening. Not a carriage in the street, not a breeze to stir the leaves, nothing moved. There was only birdsong and the measured tolling of a distant bell.
Jane locked the door and went back upstairs to put on her shoes, aware that her headache had vanished. She was surprised that the nap, a few hours according to the delicate carriage clock on her dressing table, seemed to have done her more good than a whole night's sleep. The rest had restored her sense of well-being and of purpose. With deft fingers she combed out her hair and pinned it up afresh. There was no time for laziness. She would have to beard Fell in his lair. She had to nag him on Faris's behalf anyway.
Jane permitted herself a small smile of anticipation as she selected just the right hat for her next foray to the great gate
of Glasscastle. Lambert seemed to appreciate a good hat. It was wide brimmed, of pale Parisian straw, with a filmy veil that tied under her chin. After all, one never knew when a veil might be useful. She pulled on her favorite pair of afternoon gloves and saw with a stab of annoyance that one of the buttons was missing.
For a moment, Jane frowned. The dream had dwindled away but she knew the missing button reminded her of something. She knew there was something of grave importance she had to tell someoneâFaris? She could not remember why she thought so, or what that message could possibly be. She only knew that Faris needed Fell's help.
Jane found a fresh pair of gloves and put them on. It was time to go find Fell and see how he had spent his afternoon. There might even be something she could do to aid him in his efforts. Inspect his intruder's bowler hat, for instance.
“If those you seek
It were a journey like the path to Heav'n,
To help you find them.”
L
ambert returned with Fell to the rooms they shared. For once, there was no chance to hear the soft persistent ticking of the clock. Fell was a one-man flurry of activity as he came into the sitting room, dropped his valise in the middle
of the floor, and went to the card tray and its small stack of accumulated mail.
“Message for you, Lambert.” Before Lambert had time to cross the room, Fell had already ripped open an envelope of his own. “Ha. Ridiculous. When did people forget how to take no for an answer?” Fell put the letter in his pocket without even bothering to fold it again,. The heavy paper crumpled audibly as he crushed it. “I'm off back to the archive. There's work to be done. Don't interrupt me before it is time for dinner.”
Lambert shook his head over Fell's single-mindedness but left the valise where it was. His own message was a summons from Voysey. Lambert was to report to Egerton House to participate in an unscheduled accuracy trial for the Agincourt Project, which amounted to target practice in the intense sunlight and shadow of late summer afternoon. Meredith wouldn't be there. Voysey felt they could manage without his help. Lambert hoped he was right.
Egerton House, a square gray Georgian structure designed around the courtyard set in its heart, was a ten-minute walk from Lambert's quarters. It was one of several buildings at Glasscastle built in and around gardens that encompassed the green lawns forbidden to any but the masters of Glasscastle. The only way through for Lambert involved a circuitous path along the maze of graveled paths. When he arrived at Egerton House, only a few minutes late, he had a brief conversation with the porter who lurked inside the doorway of the great stone edifice.
The porter knew Lambert, since the courtyard inside
Egerton House had been the site of several of the early accuracy trials, but he didn't let that interfere with the careful check of Lambert's identity and authorization. Lambert tried not to let his impatience with the slow bureaucracy show. After all, it was high time to be more careful about such things, given the way the man in the bowler hat had wandered in, out, and around as if he owned the place.
“Just sign here. And here, if you please,” said the porter, as he directed Lambert to the spot where he needed to add his signature. “Very good. Mr. Voysey and his guest are waiting for you.”
Guest?
Lambert wished he'd been told as much in the note. He hadn't bothered to change clothes for target practice and the heat of the day on top of his morning's exertions had done nothing to freshen Lambert's appearance.
Lambert became acutely conscious of all his shortcomings as he was brought into the sunny quadrangle where Voysey and his guest were already inspecting an assortment of weapons arrayed on a folding table.
Voysey's guest was a solemn man with the gleam of an enthusiast in his dark eyes. He possessed luxuriant side whiskers and wore a canary yellow waistcoat with his summer flannels.
“Timothy, allow me to present Mr. Samuel Lambert, our resident sharpshooter. Samuel, this is Mr. Timothy Wright, an expert who will be helping us today.” Despite the heat, Voysey himself was even more immaculate than usual.
Lambert shook hands with Wright. It was like shaking hands with a blacksmith. Lambert suppressed the urge to double over, clutch his right hand, and whimper. He confined himself to wincing silently at the man's grip.
“We have a treat in store today,” said Voysey. “Mr. Wright has kindly offered to help our research by permitting us to experiment with his Baker rifle. We'll save that for last. Meanwhile, let's just run through the routine Meredith usually gives you”
Obediently, Lambert took off his hat and jacket, put his cuff links safely away in his pocket, and rolled up his sleeves. He scanned the table. “Where do I start?”
“Begin with this.” Voysey handed over a derringer of the lightest possible caliber. It was small enough to be palmed or concealed up a sleeve. “careful”
Lambert inspected the tiny thing thoroughly. “Oh, a toy.” He held it at arm's length and squinted at the sight. “What's the ammunition? Tin tacks?”
“Perhaps you've been spending too much time with Meredith. It's nothing to joke about” Voysey picked up a clipboard and ushered Wright to the observation point. “A weapon is a weapon. You can kill a man with this just as well as any of the others.”
“By shooting him with it? I think I'd have better luck if I threw it at him.” Lambert took his place at the mark. He was firing from bright sunlight, into shade. It made hitting the three of hearts Voysey had mounted on the target a challenge, but despite the ferocious kickback of the little weapon, Lambert succeeded to Voysey's satisfaction. Wright was polite, no more, about Lambert's marksmanship. Lambert rubbed his hand and shook the sting out as unobtrusively as he could manage.
It was cool in the courtyard when Lambert stood in the shade. When he stood in the sunlight, the heat threatened
to plaster his shirt to his back. Sweat trickled down his spine. The kick of the little handgun made Lambert's collection of bruises reverberate unpleasantly. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and wished he could take off his collar.
The rounds with the Colt Peacemaker went as smoothly as usual. The Colt had a kick of its own, but Lambert was used to it. He was pleased to note that Wright seemed mildly impressed by his accuracy.
The last weapon Lambert was assigned for the day's trial was at first glance even less efficient than the derringer. It was a muzzle loader, at least a hundred years older than Lambert himself, and he handled it gingerly, treating the antique with the respect it deserved.
“No tin tacks this time.” Voysey gazed at the weapon as if it were made of gold. “All thanks to Mr. Wright, this is a Baker rifle. There was a day when arms like this ruled the world. At its foundation, our empire still rests on what such weapons won for us.”
Lambert said, “It wasn't weaponry alone. It never is.”
“That's true,” said Mr. Wright. “It always comes down to the courage of the men who fight.”
“I have nothing but respect for the men who hold the weapons. Brave men, all,” Voysey said, “yet superior armament never yields to gallantry alone. We are here today on behalf of brave men to come. Mr. Wright, if you will do the honors?”
In silence, Mr. Wright demonstrated the fine art of loading a Baker rifle. His strong hands were surprisingly deft as he prepared the weapon, doling out gunpowder and placing
the leaden ball with an artist's delicate care. Voysey's enthusiasm for Wright's expertise made a sharp contrast to Meredith's pragmatism. Lambert wondered if he might not have become a little spoiled by Meredith's calm efficiency. With Meredith, firearms deserved the utmost respect, but the point of the exercise was to shoot things. With Voysey and Wright, firearms seemed to hold a fascination that went past respect to border on veneration.
As Voysey and Lambert, with Wright's expert assistance, worked slowly through Voysey's checklist, the change in the angle of the sun made the shadows deeper. This time the target was a standard size, but the rings were hardly more than pencil lines, impossible to see at a distance.
Lambert took his time. He had to. Wright could reload with dexterity, but Lambert needed the recovery time to nurse his shoulder. The kick of the weapon was formidable. When he was finished, he'd put three shots into the heart of the target, after another three that ringed the center at three, six, and nine o'clock, and had collected six new bruises, each atop the last, for his trouble. After the kick of the Baker rifle, the fight in Fell's study, and his sojourn on the forbidden grass of Winterset Green, Lambert felt ready for a hot bath, a tot of brandy, and a bit of horse liniment. Lambert knew he was unlikely to get anything but the horse liniment, and it did nothing to cheer him up.
“Not bad at all,” Wright conceded. Before Voysey had the target down, Wright was already cleaning his treasured antique.
Voysey was as satisfied with the result as Wright was. Lambert initialed the spot beside his name on the ammunition
inventory, claiming responsibility for fifteen cartridges for the derringer, six for the Colt Peacemaker, and for the Baker rifle, what the inventory described as
six projectiles.
The projectiles looked like lead musket balls but might, given the unpredictable enthusiasms of the Agincourt research committee, have been anything from solid silver to the magical bullet from
Der Freischütz.
The whole exercise took hours. By the time he had gone back to his quarters, washed, and changed for dinner, Lambert had just enough time left before the evening meal to look in at the Winterset Archive. Fell might know where Lambert could get some horse liniment for his shoulder. Lambert was also curious about what sort of progress his friend had made bringing order out of the chaos in his study.
“Fell, are you there?” Lambert pushed the half-open door wide.
No answer. Lambert regarded the deserted study with disbelief. Every object in the room gave mute testimony to the work that had been interrupted. Books were on the floor, some open, spines straining and pages bent. Papers, more than Lambert remembered, were scattered everywhere. Broken glass had been swept into a heap, but the heap had been scattered as if by a careless misstep. The armillary spheres had been tipped over in one corner, worlds within worlds jostled recklessly together.
Fell was gone.
The study windows were open to the warm twilight, but no breeze stirred the heavy fabric of the institutional brown curtains. Not a floorboard squeaked. Lambert could hear nothing but random birds chirping and the distant sound of
bells as they struck the quarter. The room might have been deserted for five minutes or five hours. There was no way to tell.
For an hour and twenty minutes, Lambert searched the desk, the floor, and the bookshelves. He scanned every bit of paper he could find, looked for any juxtaposition of objects that might convey a message, and found nothing. The bowler hat was gone. Fell was gone. Lambert could find no other clue. At last he sat at the desk and rested his chin on his clenched fist.
If Lambert had come sooner, there might have been a chance of interrupting the intruder, if there had been another intruder. If Lambert had thought faster, there might have been a point in alerting the gatekeepers, or notifying the authorities of Glasscastle immediately.
But had there been an intruder? Could Fell have left of his own volition?
Lambert knew that Fell hadn't been back to the rooms they shared. Or if he had, he'd disturbed nothing. If Fell had been called away, it would have been the work of a moment, if he wished, to leave some kind of message. But what could have called Fell away? Who would have? What reason could Fell have for leaving without a word, if he had left willingly?
Did the man in the bowler hat have a partner? Had Jane's friend, the warden of the north, resorted to more direct methods of persuasion? Could Jane herself have played some role in Fell's disappearance?
Lambert caught himself. That line of thought was ridiculous. Jane was honest, if anyone was. She had her reasons for pestering Fell, but she was on the square about them. In fact,
her keen interest in Fell probably made her Lambert's best ally in the search.
Lambert found the idea of a second intruder a more likely scenario. If one man could be provided with a cantrip to equip him to come and go through the gates of Glasscastle, why not another? Fell might have left of his own free will. Lambert chose to think otherwise.
When at last Lambert yielded to the urge to swear, it took him several minutes to cover the full situation. He swore because it was human nature, because he wanted to, because he could, and most of all because it was time yet again to visit the Brailsford house. Four times in a single day was well over his limit. His only consolation was that it was far too late for anyone to offer him a cup of tea.
The sun was long since down and the late summer twilight was deepening to evening. The intense shadows of afternoon had run together and mellowed into a general chiaroscuro as the light faded. The day was at that point between twilight and evening when all but the most vivid colors yield to shades of gray. The spires of Glasscastle, each tipped with its finial as a flame tips a candle, took on a sharp edge, black against the deep blue of the sky, proud and graceful as wildflower spikes of agrimony. Bells and birdsong provided counterpoint as the world grew quiet. Through the beauty of the twilight, Lambert walked muttering under his breath, his language as blue as the sky.
Â
A
s Jane approached the great gate, she removed one glove, put her hand inside the drawstring Dorothy bag she carried, and drew out the intruder's cantrip, handkerchief and all.
She put the handkerchief back and held the wooden cylinder in her bare hand. It would be a good test of the cantrip to see if it worked for her as well as it had for the intruder. Jane stepped softly. It wouldn't do to have an unwary footfall betray her presence.