Paul Witcover - The Emperor of all Things

‘I’ve urgent business with Master Magnus,’ he said. ‘He’s expecting me.’

The man bowed and stepped aside. Quare could not tell if this action constituted an implicit refutation of Aylesford’s claims or not. He made to enter; then, considering, paused on the threshold and turned to Mrs Puddinge. ‘I’m afraid you can’t accompany me any further, Mrs P,’ he said. ‘But if it will make you feel better, I’ll ask the masters to send another journeyman to escort you safely home.’

‘Very kind of you, I’m sure, Mr Quare,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t come all this way just to turn back now. I mean to see justice done.’

‘But—’

‘I’m known here,’ Mrs Puddinge stated. ‘As the widow of a master, it’s my right to enter the guild hall. Why, I’d like to see anyone try to stop me!’ This with a challenging glare at the liveried servant, who showed as much reaction as if she had addressed a brick wall.

Quare shrugged and gestured for her to precede him, not at all convinced the servant would not step up to bar her way. But she bustled past the man without difficulty.

‘Come along, Mr Quare,’ she commanded, glancing back over her shoulder.

Marvelling, Quare stepped through the door.

At once, to his utter surprise and confusion, strong hands took hold of him. It was the servant, and another, indistinguishable from the first, who had been lurking, unseen, behind the door, which now swung shut with a bang.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded, too shocked even to struggle in the grasp of the two men. ‘Release me at once! When Master Magnus hears of this—’

Mrs Puddinge interrupted him. ‘Master Mephistopheles can’t protect you now, Mr Quare.’ Reaching forward, she deftly unbelted his rapier and its scabbard. Then, addressing the servants in an imperious tone he had not heard from her before: ‘Fetch him along, you two. We mustn’t keep Sir Thaddeus waiting.’

QUARE FELT AS if he had entered into an oppressive dream as the two servants frogmarched him through empty corridors. Mrs Puddinge preceded them in frosty silence, navigating the maze of the guild hall with an assurance that bespoke considerable familiarity. Quare held his tongue as well; in truth, speech was beyond him. He’d walked these hallways just yesterday, feeling himself judged and found wanting by the dour-faced portraits looking down from the walls. Now that gloomy gallery seemed to regard him with outright hostility. So, too, the servants who had bent his arms behind his back and held them in a grip of iron as they impelled him – rather more roughly than necessary, he thought – in Mrs Puddinge’s wake. What was happening? Why was he being brought to the Old Wolf in a manner more befitting a criminal than a journeyman of the guild? And how was it that Mrs Puddinge, of all people, had ordered the servants to lay hold of him … and been obeyed without hesitation?

Mrs Puddinge did not pause to knock at the door to Grandmaster Wolfe’s study but pushed it open and strode inside. The servants bustled Quare across the threshold behind her. The room was as sweltering as ever, yet Quare perceived a distinct chill in the air.

The Old Wolf sat behind his desk as if he had not risen from it since Quare had last seen him. He took a long-stemmed clay pipe from his lips and exhaled a dense cloud of smoke, through which he gazed at Quare as balefully as a dragon. Mrs Puddinge, meanwhile, still holding his sword and scabbard, crossed the room to the Old Wolf’s side and bent low to whisper into his ear. Quare felt his arms released; rubbing them briskly, he glanced back to see that the two servants had taken positions to either side of the now-closed door. They stared ahead like twin statues. Then the rumble of Grandmaster Wolfe’s voice pulled his gaze forward again.

‘Well, Mr Quare, it would appear that you’ve had quite a busy night and morning. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?’

‘I-I’ve come to warn you,’ Quare stammered, removing his tricorn and tucking it under his arm. He scarcely knew where to begin. He had so much to tell, so many questions to ask. Mrs Puddinge, standing beside the grandmaster’s chair with her arms crossed over her chest – she had laid his weapon upon the desk – gazed at him inscrutably. He marshalled his thoughts. ‘The French have sent a spy among us – a spy and a murderer. Aylesford, a journeyman claiming to be from Scotland, a man who—’

‘Yes, yes, we know all about Mr Aylesford,’ interrupted the Old Wolf, giving his pipe an airy wave. ‘Master Magnus was not the only one with a network of spies and informants, you know.’

Mrs Puddinge gave a satisfied smirk.

But Quare was not concerned with Mrs Puddinge at the moment. ‘Was,’ he echoed dully. ‘You said was . Is Master Magnus dead then?’

‘Dead?’ repeated Grandmaster Wolfe. ‘Regrettably, yes.’ Though if there was an iota of actual regret in his tone, Quare couldn’t hear it. ‘Murdered, in fact. But then, that is not news to you, is it, Mr Quare? Don’t bother to lie – I can see right through you, sir.’

In truth, it was no more than Quare had feared – yet that fear hadn’t prepared him for the reality. A kind of shudder seemed to pass through the floor, as if he were standing on the deck of a ship. Or perhaps the unsteadiness was his own. In any case, it was a moment before he felt in sufficient command of himself to reply. ‘I had heard … That is, Aylesford said …’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘Aylesford told me Master Magnus was dead. Said that he’d come to do the job himself, but that someone had beaten him to it.’

‘I don’t suppose he mentioned a name.’

‘No. But tell me, sir, how did he die? Who found him?’

‘You were working closely with him, were you not?’

‘Indeed, we were very close. That is why I wish to know—’

The Old Wolf overrode him. ‘You were present, I believe, at what the wits of the Worshipful Company have dubbed the Massacre of the Cats?’

Quare gave a wary nod.

‘And that unfortunate event, unless I am gravely misinformed, had something to do with an unusual timepiece, a pocket watch – this pocket watch, in fact.’ At which, with a triumphant flourish, he pulled from beneath the desk the silver-cased hunter that was at the centre of all that had occurred.

So, Quare thought with a sinking heart, despite all the efforts of Master Magnus to keep the watch out of his rival’s hands, Grandmaster Wolfe had ended up with it anyway. And now, he realized further, his own role in deceiving the grandmaster must come to light. He did not know what the repercussions would be, but he did not doubt they would be severe. This was not the time to mourn his master. Nor to solve the mystery of his death. His own life might well be hanging in the balance. He must weigh every word with the utmost care.

‘Well, Mr Quare? Do you recognize this watch? It was found in Master Magnus’s hand, clutched so tightly in death that, I regret to say, his fingers had to be broken in order to extract it.’

‘I …’ How much should he admit to? How much did the Old Wolf already know? ‘I may have seen it before …’

‘Do not fence with me, sir,’ barked Grandmaster Wolfe. ‘This is the very timepiece that you took from Grimalkin, is it not? The timepiece that originally belonged to Lord Wichcote?’

Quare sighed; it seemed he had no choice now but to reveal the truth – or, at least, that portion of the truth which was known to him. ‘Yes, though I didn’t realize it at the time. That timepiece – the one you are holding, I mean – was hidden within the one I took from Grimalkin. Or so Master Magnus told me.’ He judged it best to say nothing yet of Grimalkin’s gender.