He shivered, and this intrusion of meteorology bothered him like the name of the cottage. First the taste of food, now weather
Do you live locally, Mr Hat? asked Waverley.
He had a gentle well-modulated voice with perhaps a faint Scots accent.
No, said Hat. I got lost in the forest.
The forest? echoed the man in a faintly puzzled tone.
I think Mr Hat means Blacklow Wood, said the witch with that nice smile.
Of course. And youre quite right, Mr Hat. As you clearly know, this and one or two other little patches of woodland scattered around the area are all that remain of what used to be the great Blacklow Forest when the Plantagenets hunted here.
Blacklow again. This time the vibration was strong enough to break the film of ice through which he viewed dreams and reality alike.
Now he remembered.
A dank autumn day but his MG had been full of brightness as he drove deep into the heart of the Yorkshire countryside with the woman he loved by his side.
One of those small surviving patches of Blacklow Forest had been the copse out of which a deer had leapt, forcing him to bring his car to a skidding halt. Then he and she had pushed through the hedge and sat beneath a beech tree and drunk coffee and talked more freely and intimately than ever before. It had been a milestone in what had turned out to be far too short a journey.
Yesterday hed driven out to the same spot and sat beneath the same tree, indifferent to the fall of darkness and the thickening mist. Nor when finally he rose and set off back to the car did he much care when he realized hed missed his way. For an indeterminate period of time hed wandered aimlessly, over rough grass and boggy fields, till hed flopped down exhausted beneath another tree and slept.
The fog had cleared, the night had passed, the sun had risen, and he, waking under branches, imagined himself still sleeping and dreaming
The woman placed the teapot on the table and said, So what brings you out so early, Mr W?
The man glanced at Hat, decided he was out of it for the moment, then said, Im afraid Im the bearer of ill news, Miss Mac. I take it youve heard nothing?
Heard what? You know I dont have any truck with phones or wireless.
Yes, I know. But I thought they might have no, perhaps not Im sure that eventually someone will think
What, for heavens sake? Spit it out, man, said the woman in exasperation.
Perhaps you should sit down As you will, said Waverley as the woman responded with a steely stare that wouldnt have been out of place on a peregrine. I heard it on the radio this morning, then rang to check details. Its your nephew, Pal. Its very bad, Im afraid. The worst. Hes dead. Like your brother.
Like? You mean he?
Yes, Im truly sorry. He killed himself last night. In Moscow House.
Oh God, said the woman. Laurence, you are again my bird of ill omen.
Now she sat down.
It seemed to Hat, who had emerged from the depths of his introspection just in time to take in the final part of this exchange, that the soft chirruping of the birds, a constant burden since he entered the kitchen, now all at once fell still.
The woman too sat in complete silence for almost a minute.
Finally she said, This is a shock, Laurence. Im prepared for the shocks of my world, but not for this. Am I needed? Will anyone need me? Please advise me.
I think you should come with me, Lavinia, said the man. When you have spoken to people and found out what there is to find out, then you will know if youre needed.
The shock of the news had put them on first-name terms, observed Hat. It also underlined his obtrusive presence.
He stood up and said, I think I should be on my way.
Dont be silly, said the woman. Carry on with your breakfast. I think you need it. Laurence, give me five minutes.
She stood up and went out. The birds resumed their chirruping.
Hat looked at Waverley and said uncertainly, I really think I ought to go.
No need to rush, said Waverley. Miss Mac never speaks out of mere politeness. And you do look as if a little nourishment wouldnt come amiss.
No argument there, thought Hat.
He sat down and resumed eating his second slice of bread on which hed spread butter and marmalade to a depth that had the robin tic-ticking in admiration and envy.
Waverley took two mugs from a shelf, and poured the tea.
Is there anywhere I can give you a lift to when we go? he said.
Thank you, I dont know
It occurred to Hat he had no idea where he was in relation to his own vehicle.
To cover his uncertainty, he said, Did you come by car? I didnt hear it.
I leave it by the roadside. Youll understand why when you see the state of the track up to the cottage. Miss Mac doesnt encourage callers.
Was he being warned off?
Hat said, But she makes them very welcome, with just enough stress on she for it to be a counter-blow if the man wanted to take it that way.
Waverley smiled faintly and said, Yes, she has a soft spot for lame ducks, whatever the genus. There you are, my dear.
Miss Mac had reappeared, having prepared for her outing by pulling a cracked Barbour over her T-shirt and changing her wellies for a pair of stout walking shoes.
Shall we be off? Mr Hat, you havent finished your tea. No need to rush. Just close the door when you leave.
Hat caught Waverleys eye and read nothing there except mild curiosity.
He said, No, Id better be on my way too. But Id like to come again some time, if you dont mind Sorry, that sounds cheeky, I dont want to be
Of course youll come again, she interrupted as if surprised. Good-looking young man who knows about birds, how should you not be welcome?
Thank you, said Hat. Thank you very much.
He meant it. While he couldnt say he was feeling well, he was certainly feeling better than he had done for weeks.
They went out of the door hed come in by. She didnt bother to lock it. Waste of time anyway with the window left open for the birds.
They went down the side of the cottage, Miss Mac leaning on the stick in her right hand and hanging on to Waverleys arm with the other as they headed up a rutted track towards a car parked on a narrow country road about fifty yards away.
If Hat had thought of guessing what sort of car Waverley drove, he would probably have opted for something small and reliable, a Peugeot 307 for instance, or maybe a Golf. His enforced absence from work must have dulled his detective powers. Gleaming in the morning sunlight stood a maroon coloured Jaguar S-type.
He said, That lift you offered me, my cars on the old Stangdale road, if thats not out of your way.
My pleasure, Mr Hat, said Waverley. My pleasure.
2
Some miles to the south, close to the picturesque little village of Cothersley, dawn gave the mist still shrouding Cothersley Hall the kind of fuzzy golden glow with which unoriginal historical documentary makers signal their next inaccurate reconstruction. For a moment an observer viewing the western elevation of the building might almost believe he was back in the late seventeenth-century just long enough after the construction of the handsome manor house for the ivy to have got established. But a short stroll round to the southern front of the house bringing into view the long and mainly glass-sided eastern extension would give him pause. And when further progress allowed him to look through the glass and see a table bearing a glowing computer screen standing alongside an indoor swimming pool, unless possessed of a politicians capacity to ignore contradictory evidence, he must then admit the sad truth that he was still in the twenty-first century.
A man in a black silk robe sat by the table staring at the screen. He didnt look up as the door leading into the main house opened and Kay Kafka appeared, clad in a white towelling robe on the back of which was printed IF YOU TAKE ME HOME YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE CHARGED. She was carrying a tray set with a basket of croissants, a butter dish, two china mugs and an insulated coffee-pot.
Putting the tray on the table she said, Good morning, Tony.
Hes back.
Junius? That was the great thing about Kay. You could talk shorthand with her. Same stuff as before?
More or less. Calls himself NewJunius now. Broke in again, left messages and a hyperlink.
I thought they said that was impossible.
They said boil-in-the-bag rice was impossible. His style doesnt improve.
You seem pretty laid-back about it.
Why not? Some bits I even find myself agreeing with these days.
What bits would they be?
The bits where he suggests theres more to being a good American than making money.
You tried that one out on Joe lately? she asked casually.
You know I did, end of last year when the dust had started to settle after 9/11. There were no certainties any more. We talked about everything.
Then after that Joe said it was business as usual, right?
Not so. Youve got Joe wrong. He feels things as strongly as me. I dont see him face to face enough, thats all.
Hes only a flight away, she said gently.
It wasnt a discussion she wanted to get into. Joe Proffitt, head of the Ashur-Proffitt Corporation, wasnt a man she liked very much, but she didnt feel able to speak out too strongly against him. Last September she knew that every instinct in Tony Kafkas body had told him to head for home, permanently. But with Helen three months pregnant, hed known how his wife would feel about that. So Tony was still here and, as far as she could detect, Joe Proffitts business certainties had hardly been dented at all.
Yeah, I ought to go more often. Its as quick going to the States as it is getting to London with these goddam trains, he grumbled. Look at me, up with the dawn so I can be sure to be in time for lunch barely a couple of hundred miles away.
Youll have time for some breakfast? she said.
No thanks. Ill get some on the train. What time you get back last night?
Late. Two oclock maybe, I dont know. You didnt wait up.
What for? You may not need sleep but I do, specially with an early start and a long hard day ahead speaking a foreign language.
I thought it was just Warlove you were meeting?
Thats the foreign language I mean. They smiled at each other. Anyway, last night when you rang, you didnt think there was anything there to lose sleep over. Has anything changed? Ill get asked.