Марк Лэйдлоу - 400 Boys and 50 More

“What can be done about it?” the worried critics of postal trends demanded of Hewell.

“Probably nothing,” was his usual response, and he was content with that. Still, in pursuit of his employment, nothing was not an official option. And he was quite busy after all, keeping up with a certain long-legged fly named Toby.

Near noon, they walked the drive to Pellapon Hall, and Hewell noted Toby darting nervous, expectant glances at a certain curtained window of the upper floor. Above the second-story windows were several widely spaced portals, each matched to a roof peak.

“Perfect for concealing madwomen,” Hewell quipped.

“Why ever would you say that, sir?” asked a suddenly pale Toby.

“Never mind, lad. Novels are the staid diversion of an older generation that I fear will find no grip among your excitable peers.”

As they mounted the lichen-colored steps, the front door opened. The Pellapon twins stood there, hands outstretched for Toby’s delivery, but a tall and almost skeletal form rushed from the dimness, took Hewell by the shoulder, and compelled him deep into the house. Other than the two investigators the parlor was empty, and the detective shut the door behind them to ensure it remained that way.

“Hewell, we have much to discuss,” said Deakins with grim authority, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “I have made several discoveries and am on the verge of greater. I looked for you at the inn last night, but you were—”

“Out, yes, I often cannot sleep in unfamiliar quarters, and so I walk about to exhaust myself. Had I known you sought me, I would have come to visit.”

“I was hardly here myself. Strange goings-on. Furtive meetings. And much of it centered on this very house.” He clenched Hewell’s elbow and drew him in closer. “Tell me, sir—what have you discovered? If we put our clues together, the truth cannot elude us both.”

“Nothing has come my way, I’m afraid,” said Hewell. “With careful study of the postal procedures I have found a few discrepancies, easily corrected. Of course, my investigation is not complete, but—”

“I on the other hand have found what I believe to be a forger’s den,” said Deakins urgently, and stabbed a bony finger at the threadbare carpet beneath their feet. “In the cellar, sir. A small press suitable for printing currency. The plates are hidden away, but they cannot hide the stains of colored ink.”

“Perhaps there is a more innocent explanation. A small press may also be used to print festive broadsides for childish amusement.”

“This is no game, Hewell. In the woods, I have seen figures consorting. Figures of a decidedly weird aspect.”

“Surely you do not believe there is some… supernatural explanation?”

“The diabolic specter that attacked our carriage—”

“Mr. Deakins, I took you for a man of methodical detection. I would be disappointed to learn that you look to intangible—”

Deakins stopped him with a hand to his chest. “I am a man of tremendous imagination—that is my chief instrument, sir! However, my evidence is most substantial. Look here.”

From his inner pocket, he produced a crumpled sheet of paper, a letter writ in fine script with violet ink. It trembled between his fingers, but he would not let it loose despite the difficulty this afforded Hewell as he tried his best to read its fevered passages, succeeding only in snatches.

…a party of four shall advance north from the Serpent’s Lair… at the dungeon’s threshold, await instructions, for the winding stair is certainly entrapped… regarding encounters at the Green Monkey’s Tomb, take three cups of jade tea and consult the Augury of Night…

“Poetry?” Hewell ventured.

“Poetry? It is conspiracy! A cabal within this very house. Unbeknownst to Lord Pellapon, but dependent on his oblivious nature.”

At that moment, the door swung open and Lord Pellapon himself looked in. “Gentlemen! There you are. Mr. Hewell, I trust your investigations proceed apace. The postal courier dawdles in the hall. It is most unseemly. I will lose Tilly over such irregularities. Mr. Deakins, you mentioned developments?”

“Not as such yet, no,” Deakins said to Pellapon. “We have some increasingly tangible suppositions at the moment. But soon, very soon, I believe we shall have concrete results to lay before you, Hewell and I.”

“Glad to hear it, very glad.”

“We shall meet later, to confer,” the detective said quietly to Hewell. “I expect to have more proof by tonight, and perhaps the culprits themselves in hand. I may need your assistance. For now, betray nothing and trust no one. We will play the hand we’re dealt, and play it as two fellows well versed in bluffing.”

“You have my full confidence and you will receive whatever cooperation you need,” Hewell assured him, although he had seen no evidence whatsoever that Deakins understood even the basic principles of bluffing.

Toby waited at the bottom of the steps, visibly anxious not to fall behind with their deliveries. Hewell’s agitation suddenly became a match for the boy’s, a nervous nausea rising from the pit of his belly as if his heart were one of the dozen leeches in Dr. Merryweather’s celebrated Tempest Prognosticator, desperately throwing itself toward the minuscule hammer that sounded a warning bell. He dispelled much of the slimy dread by walking vigorously, so that by the end of the hornbeam drive he was feeling less oppressed; but the sense of an oncoming storm was still with him.

“Are you unwell, sir?” Toby inquired.

“Well enough, lad. Let’s get this over with.”

The Ghost Queen rose later than she had intended, given the importance of the day. The Terrors had left word of their successful delivery, so the first piece was in place. But Spectralia remained in grave danger and she must not lower her guard until the emergency had passed. She was still not entirely sure of its nature.

Although she had read the Concatenated Motivations to her subjects in a voice of supreme confidence and authority, in truth the compiled results of the Weaver’s carding were exceedingly vague and she had taken numerous liberties in her interpretation, erring always on the side of offering reassurance. The tabulations could only be precise in addressing dilemmas that admitted to bifurcation. “Shall I respond to my suitor? Yes or No ? Which fork of this road should I take? Right or Left ? Should I climb to the attic or descend to the cellar?” With dice, and especially her ivory Ptolemaic of twenty facets, she could select from a much wider set of possible paths. But she had not yet discovered a foolproof way to reduce all life’s questions to such a rubric. The card technique she had devised—based on the work of Jacques “Digesting Duck” Vaucanson, coupled with her own method of mechanical compilation—allowed another approach to analysis, but it was still more suited to fabricated situations than to the tangled weft and warp presented by reality.

Fortunately, she had founded Spectralia with a poet’s sensibility, which she leaned upon in times of uncertainty. Even when a course could be determined by rolling dice, the path beyond the first few steps must be elaborated if not improvised—spelled out and developed in detail. In this, her muse had served her well.

Each day began with an hour of historiography, the fabric of Spectralia spun in careful script in the pages of her minuscule books. When the work of word-spinning and world-weaving was done, the Terrors took the volume to be thread-bound and placed alongside the myriad others that made up an ongoing illuminated history of the Kingdom. Ordinarily she would then spend the rest of the morning deciding the fates of her subjects—all those who acknowledged her dominion within the square borders of Spectralia—but today contained more urgent business. It had rained in the night and the woods would be ideal for a harvest. She called the Terrors to equip an expedition.