Catherine Fisher: Obsidian Mirror

Jake laughed, but it was a mirthless laugh. “Good word. But his life crashed. Four years ago he was driving a hired car along a narrow coast road in Italy. His wife was in the car with him. There was some sort of accident—an oncoming truck. The car went down the cliff. Venn survived. His wife, Leah, didn’t.”

The cold, cruel way he said it made Wharton very uneasy. “That’s a terrible thing for a man to have to live with.”

Jake shrugged. “He was in the hospital for weeks. When he came out he seemed to have been like a different person. No photos, no interviews. He sold his London flat and went and holed up at Wintercombe Abbey, an old place deep in Devon that’s belonged to his family for centuries. He set up some sort of secret project and works on it obsessively. He never leaves the estate or speaks to anyone outside. Except my father, David Wilde.”

Now we’re coming to it, Wharton thought. But he kept his voice neutral. “His best friend.”

Jake nodded. He kept his eyes on the sky. “They’d been friends since they were kids. Been in some bad situations together. Dad used to say he was the only one Venn trusted.”

“And where were you at this time?”

“Home. We lived in London. Dad and Mum had just split—well, at least they were still talking at that stage.”

Wharton waited for more. When it didn’t come, he said gently, “I wondered why you didn’t live with your mother, after…”

“She’s too busy in the U.S.” Jake’s answer was curt. “She doesn’t want me messing up her new life.”

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” The air hostess was bending over him, the trolley blocking the narrow aisle. Wharton was glad of the interruption; he took his time choosing a glass of wine and a Coke for Jake. All this explained a lot, he thought, cracking the lid and pouring. The boy’s cool unconcern was just front. He must be bitterly wounded underneath.

When the trolley had rattled away Jake pulled out earphones, so Wharton said hastily, “You were saying…about murder.”

Jake had one earphone in. He pulled it out and stared ahead. Then he said, “In July of the year following the accident, Dad went to stay at the Abbey for some important phase of the project. I asked about it, but Dad wouldn’t talk. ‘Top secret’ he used to say, but he was really excited, I could tell. I got the feeling that it might be dangerous. I wanted to go with him but he said Venn says no kids. So I ended up staying with my cousins in St. Ives. It was okay—the beach and all that—but I missed him. He was away two weeks, then three, then four. At first there were phone calls, e-mails. He was careful not to give anything away. I remember him saying something once about a mirror, and then stopping himself. As if he shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“A mirror?”

“Yes. ‘Of course, the mirror’s giving any number of weird results.’ When I asked him what he meant, he changed the subject. I got the feeling someone had come into the room, or was there with him. He laughed. I remember that clearly because it was the last time I ever spoke to him.”

Wharton kept silent. Jake took a breath. Then he said, “There were no more calls. When we called the Abbey all we got was voicemail. After three weeks of that my aunt got worried. She called the police. They went there and spoke to Venn. He said my father had left the Sunday before to catch the nine thirty train to London. But he wasn’t on the Plymouth station CCTV, and he never arrived in London. And since that day, no one has set eyes on him. My father just vanished from the face of the earth.”

Wharton had no idea what to say. He sipped the wine, barely noticing the sharp taste, and put the glass down. The plane veered, and the glass slid gently toward the edge of the table. He caught it. “So, you were left all alone.”

Jake drank some Coke. “I stayed on at my aunt’s for a while, but it was awkward. Then she had a call from Venn. He said as he was my godfather, he’d take responsibility for me. He arranged for the school in Switzerland. Expensive. And as far away from him as possible.” He turned, suddenly urgent. “You see what he was doing? Paying a fortune to keep me away. Because he killed Dad.”

“Keep your voice down.” Wharton looked around anxiously. A dark-haired man across the aisle had glanced at them from behind his newspaper. “You can’t just go around making wild accusations.”

“Why not?”

“What on earth would be his motive?”

“This thing they were working on! My father knew too much.”

“Highly unlikely. And you have no evidence of—”

“Yes I have.” The words were very quiet, but they were bitter as acid. Wharton felt a small shiver travel down his spine.

“What do you mean?”

Jake looked at him. “Swear you’ll never tell anyone.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake…”

“Swear.”

“What is this? Hamlet ? All right, I swear.”

Jake kept his eyes on him. Then he pulled out a small wallet from his pocket. Wharton stared at it. It was made of some dark leather, very worn and stained.

“Was that your father’s?”

“Yes. He always kept it with him. He used to say it was crocodile skin, and that he and Venn had killed the croc one time in Africa, when it was terrorizing some village. It meant a lot to him.” Jake opened it; he took out a photo and a sheet of paper. “Last term a parcel came for me through the post. I don’t know who sent it. The postmark was British. These were inside.” Reluctant, he handed Wharton the paper. “It’s definitely my father’s writing.”

Fascinated, Wharton took out his glasses and put them on. The letter was very short and had obviously been written in a hurry. The writing was scrawled; in places the pen had broken through the paper.

Wintercombe Abbey

Sunday 14th August

Dear Jake,

Not sure if I’ll get this to the post; it’s a bit of a walk to the village, so I may leave it till tomorrow. Sorry not to have called—we’ve been incredibly busy with the Chronoptika.

I can’t tell you how fascinating it is, and what success we’ve already had! If all goes well tonight, we should go public, whatever O says.

It will blow the scientific world wide open! Here’s a little present for you. O wouldn’t approve, but I can’t resist sending it. See you in a few days, promise.

Love always,

Dad

He folded it slowly and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Jake. Really sorry.”

Jake took the note back, silent.

“ O is short for Oberon, I suppose?”

“Dad always called him that. But you see the important thing?”

Wharton shook his head.

“The date.” Jake laid the note on the table and tapped it with his forefinger. “The fourteenth is the day Venn says my father took the train to London. But this is headed Wintercombe—he was still there when he wrote it, and it’s clear he wasn’t going anywhere.”

Wharton read the central sentence again. If all goes well tonight, we should go public . “They were planning some sort of event that night.”

“Experiment. With this thing he calls the Chronoptika.”

“What is that?”

“No idea.” Jake stared ahead, brooding. “I think things did go well, and Venn wanted the discovery for himself. Maybe they argued. Maybe he killed my father to keep him quiet.”

It was bizarre. Wharton shook his head. “You’re just looking for someone to blame.”

Jake snatched the letter up and folded it, his fingers shaking with anger. “Right. Forget it.” He jammed the earphones in and turned away, hunched up in the seat.