Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

I did as he asked, and he grabbed the holdall on the way out. I followed him and we walked to the front of the Sno-Trac, the sun warming our faces. There was now a slight breeze, but little else to suggest the impending storm.

‘Give me your Bambi, Wonk.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then give me your Bambi.’

I handed it over, not understanding, but then saw the movement of someone in the spinney. There was another person to the right of us, then a third by one of the snow-covered cars. They were dressed in the much-mended patchwork clothes typical of womads, scavengers or cold-hermits – but they weren’t any of these: they were Villains.

And not any Villains. This was the family of the Earl of Farnesworth.

‘What the—?’ I asked, and Fodder looked down at me with his empty dark eyes. My heart fell. There were no issues at the Frances Hoggan . We were out here for one reason and one reason only: to make amends for the loss of Lucky Ned Farnesworth and to try to broker a peace. And there was one big bargaining chip in all of this: me.

‘You shouldn’t have told Lloyd,’ said Fodder as the Villains approached. ‘News like that travels across the Sector like wildfire.’

‘Frightfully sporting of you to drop by,’ said the eldest of the Villains, a middle-aged woman with a wind-blown complexion who wore a faded twinset and pearls on the outside of her parka, ‘although I have to confess I thought you’d pass up on the invitation.’

‘And miss the finest cakes Mid-Wales has to offer?’ replied Fodder in perfect English. ‘Not a chance.’

There were eight of them, and they formed a wary half-circle about fifteen feet away. Half were armed with Thumpers, the other half with the short stabbing spear favoured by those who wish to leave no barometric fingerprint. Two were carrying cumbersome knapsacks, and one seemed to have some furniture on his back, secured by what looked like silk curtain-ties. The son we had seen the day before was there, his eyes badly bloodshot. They all looked in far worse health than the Winter alone might suggest. Fodder was taller by at least a foot, and more powerfully built than all of them put together.

‘His Lordship and his son broke the truce, ma’am,’ said Fodder, ‘and we retaliated in self-defence.’

‘I always knew stamp collecting would get them into trouble,’ said the woman, who I assumed was the 13th Earl’s widow, ‘but look here, they were only doing a harmless spot of thieving – and it was the 2d Lloyd-George Mauve.’

‘With the Anglesey cancellation,’ said a man off to our right.

‘Only one in the world,’ said another.

‘Stealing is stealing,’ said Fodder, ‘and they were in the town. Off-limits, as per the truce.’

They stared at one another for a few moments.

‘Will you take tea?’ asked Lady Farnesworth. ‘I always find it so terribly, terribly uncivilised doing deals on matters of life and death just standing in the snow.’

‘I’ll take tea,’ said Fodder.

The piece of furniture that one of the group was carrying turned out to be a gate-leg table and two folding chairs. These were soon set up, along with a tablecloth, cups and saucers and a cake stand with fresh Victoria sponge cake. Another member of the group had set up a small Primus stove and was heating the water.

‘I do so abhor tea from a thermos,’ said the countess, inviting Fodder to sit and then sitting herself, ‘it always tastes stewed.’

She turned to the man heating the water and reminded him to warm the pot.

‘It is so hard to get reliable staff these days,’ she said to Fodder, ‘which is why we have to resort to kidnapping and the occasional murder. Help yourself to some cake, why don’t you?’

Fodder did so, while I stood there uneasily. Beneath the politeness was real menace.

‘So,’ said Lady Farnesworth, ‘how is Aurora these days?’

‘Pretty well, I think.’

‘Is she still doing that thing where she’s two people?’

‘Yes.’

‘She always loved to be centre stage,’ said Lady Farnesworth, ‘ever since we were little. I liked her, despite that. Would be happy to kill her now, of course, but with regret. So: how do we know you’ve not got my husband prisoner, with that reptilian Agent Hooke scouring his dreaming mind for intel? I know what you lot get up to at HiberTech.’

‘We’re Consuls,’ said Fodder, ‘not HiberTech, and we’ve no real idea what goes on there.’

‘Nonsense,’ scoffed the countess, ‘you Welsh are as thick as thieves and I don’t trust a single one of you. Ah, Chuck, bless you.’

The man boiling the water had brought a Meissen teapot to the table and laid it on a mat.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said Fodder, ‘that the 13th Earl speaks only to the Winter.’

He unzipped the holdall that he’d laid at his feet, removed Lucky Ned’s head and placed it on the table along with a large gold signet ring. The 13th Earl was blue-white and frozen solid, and his expression seemed to be one of, well, surprise .

Everyone stared at it, as though sizing up a goose’s suitability for the pre-winter feast.

‘We thank you kindly for returning what is ours,’ said Lady Farnesworth after staring at the head for a few moments. ‘You know what this makes me?’

‘Angry?’ suggested Fodder. ‘Vengeful?’

‘No,’ she said, passing the gold signet ring to her son, ‘this makes me the Dowager Countess Farnesworth and my son the 14th Earl.’

We all looked at the earl’s son, who tried not to look as though he was pleased. There was a ripple of applause and someone blew a party hooter, but in a dispirited manner. To the Villains, it seemed that death was neither something to become sad over, nor particularly unusual.

‘Marigolds, please, Chuck,’ said the Lady Dowager, and once he’d passed her the yellow washing-up gloves, she removed the late earl’s head and placed it in the picnic hamper with a gingham cloth on top. She then patted it in an affectionate manner, and returned to the table.

‘One lump or two?’ asked the Lady Dowager, pouring the tea.

‘Two, please,’ said Fodder.

‘Well, then,’ she said, pushing the cup and saucer across the table to him, ‘is this the Novice that killed my husband?’

She looked at me directly for the first time, and my heart thumped nervously.

‘It is indeed,’ said Fodder.

‘Looks a mite scrawny to have taken His Lordship in single combat,’ she said, peering at me through a lorgnette. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to palm us off with a sacrificial patsy, now, would you? The disposable runt of the litter?’

‘Tell them you did it,’ said Fodder.

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Tell them.’

I could feel my hands trembling and wanted to put them in my pockets, but thought that might appear threatening, so simply pressed them against the side of my coat.

‘I was there when Lucky Ned— I mean, His Lordship was taken,’ I said, forcibly trying not to let my voice crack. ‘One moment he was about to kidnap me, the next he was gone.’

‘Don’t try to tell us it was the Gronk,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘trying to wriggle out of your responsibilities by invoking the Wintervolk is beneath contempt.’