Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

Apart from my mum and certain senior aunts and uncles, I don’t do deference as a rule. And certainly not to inherited titles. But I also believe in making people comfortable enough to make mistakes, so I smiled and called her Lady Helena.

I noticed that she didn’t tell me to call her ‘just Helena please’.

I invited them inside and let the doors close behind them.

Lady Helena paused in front of the statue of Sir Isaac Newton and read the inscription.

Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night;

God said ‘Let Newton be’ and all was light.

‘“I do not know what I may appear to the world”,’ she said and I recognised the quote, ‘“but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore”.’ She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Where would be without the “great men” of history to guide us.’ And with that she swept, unprompted, into the atrium.

I caught Caroline’s gaze and she rolled her eyes.

We use the atrium for afternoon tea because Molly won’t let us use the breakfast room for anything but breakfast, and the main dining hall is, despite having a high ceiling decorated with a fine Enlightenment mural of Newton bringing light to the world, actually a bit dingy.

Still, the green leather armchairs had been artfully rearranged so that the comfy one with the severe cracking on the armrests was not amongst those arrayed in a loose u-shape around a couple of walnut coffee tables. I noticed that both the table tops and the green leather gleamed and there was a definite lingering smell of polish.

The silver tea service, which I’d only ever seen decorating a dresser in the small dining room, was assembled upon those coffee tables. On the service were a selection of biscuits, cakes and iced delights in pink and yellow. Enough, I was to learn much later, to make a Swedish housewife proud. Molly had been baking all night and in such quantity that Toby had fallen into a diabetic coma around dawn and was currently lying in the kitchen with his legs in the air.

Nightingale had stood as the women entered and he waved them towards the chairs. I’d been hoping that Molly would suddenly materialise behind them, but instead she came gliding in from the direction of the kitchen stairs bearing a silver tray and a squarish art deco teapot in white china with gold trim.

Lady Helena watched Molly approach. She looked interested but not surprised. I wondered, what did she know about Molly? And what had she heard about the internal disposition of the Folly?

Once we were seated, and Molly had poured the tea, Nightingale gave a little formal nod in the direction of our guests and invited them to eat and drink without fear of obligation.

‘Thank you,’ said Lady Helena. ‘But I’m curious as to whether you believe that sort of thing is really necessary.’

‘Between us?’ said Nightingale. ‘Among practitioners I doubt it’s necessary. In the Court of the Rivers or amongst the High Fae I’m not sure I’d be willing to take the chance.’

Lady Helena took a sip of her tea.

‘You don’t think it’s based on an atavistic fear of the feminine realm?’ she asked and, when Nightingale looked politely blank, added ‘Food and sustenance traditionally being a woman’s responsibility.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’ve always liked to err on the side of prudence.’

They fenced along these lines for a bit while I had a slice of strawberry lattice tart and Caroline ate two pink angel cakes in quick succession.

‘I gather you were taught by your mother,’ said Nightingale. ‘Was this the usual practice?’

‘I don’t think there was such a thing as a “usual practice”,’ said Lady Helena. ‘My mother was taught by her aunt, and her aunt by a friend of the family.’

‘A female friend?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Naturally,’ said Lady Helena. ‘But I think we may have exhausted that topic – shall we get down to business?’

‘By all means,’ said Nightingale. ‘What would you like to discuss?’

Lady Helena put her tea down – she’d barely touched it.

‘Jonathan Wild’s Ledger, The Third Principia , alchemy, the secret of eternal life.’ She smiled – a bright echo of the young woman in the photograph. ‘Is that enough to be going on with?’

‘We’re always interested in information leading to the recovery of stolen goods,’ said Nightingale.

‘Is that the case here?’ asked Lady Helena.

Nightingale glanced my way.

‘ The Third Principia was definitely stolen in 1719,’ I said. ‘The Master of the Royal Mint at that time was one Sir Isaac Newton, who was busy sending counterfeiters and coin clippers to the gallows for crimes against the currency.’

‘Stolen by Jack Shepherd himself according to legend,’ said Nightingale. ‘So, yes, I believe it counts as stolen property.’

Lady Helena held up her hand to surrender the point.

‘We are both the true heirs of Isaac Newton,’ she said. ‘Whether you’re willing to recognise it or not. We can’t ignore each other and I’m sure you’ll agree that any conflict between us would be both pointless and counterproductive. Which leaves us where?’

Nightingale nodded slowly.

‘You think we should work together,’ he said and then he looked at me and laughed. ‘A stakeholder engagement,’ he said.

Oh, he looks like he stands still and lets the modern world flow around him, I thought. But he’s always watching and when something useful catches his eye, he merely reaches out and takes it – things, ideas, people.

The smile vanished as he looked back at Lady Helena.

‘Let’s leave the question of a common cause aside for a moment,’ he said. ‘And start by clearing the air. Have you ever heard of a wizard who conceals his identity?’

‘Does he use a glamour and mask to hide his face?’ asked Lady Helena.

‘We call him the Faceless Man,’ I said and Caroline didn’t exactly snigger, but I could tell she wanted to.

‘We believe there might have been two of them,’ said Nightingale. ‘One active during the sixties and seventies and a second, a successor if you like, active since the mid-nineties.’

‘The older one is dead,’ I said.

‘If we’re talking about Albert Woodville-Gentle,’ said Lady Helena, ‘Then I should bloody well hope so – since I killed him.’

Nightingale was so stunned he looked shocked for almost half a second before moving on to ask quite when that might have happened.

‘August Bank Holiday, 1979,’ said Lady Helena.

‘And you’re sure he was dead?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Are you saying he wasn’t?’ asked Lady Helena.

‘He turned up alive and well and living in the Barbican Centre,’ I said. ‘Under the care of a Russian woman.’

‘Wait,’ said Lady Helena. ‘Not Varvara Sidorovna Tamonina?’

‘That’s the one,’ I said.

‘That lying witch!’ said Lady Helena and turned to her daughter. ‘You said she was lying, but I didn’t want to believe you.’

‘So you know each other?’ I asked.

‘Our paths have crossed,’ said Lady Helena. ‘But fuck her. Is Albert still alive?’

Nightingale told her he wasn’t, which was an obvious relief. He gave some of the background, that he’d been disabled by brain damage, by hyperthaumaturgical degradation, but I noticed that he didn’t mention that Varvara Sidorovna had located and arranged for Albert Woodville-Gentle’s care on behalf of the second Faceless Man. Like me, he wanted to see if Lady Helena knew this already.

‘Perhaps you should start by telling us why you tried to kill him in the first place,’ said Nightingale and this, I realised, was why he had opted for tea in the Folly. In here we were all like-minded individuals of quality and learning, not police officers and suspects, and Lady Helena was about to regale us with an interesting story and not implicate herself for an attempted murder. Which was why I didn’t have my notebook out.