Page 30 of The Magpie Lord
“I expect so. You said I was invited tonight?”
“We’re not going,” said Crane emphatically.
“I think we should. I need to see Lady Thwaite in action, if possible, make sure itisher. I won’t let anyone assault your virtue,” he added, and received a withering glare.
“Tsaena. Bloody woman. Oh dear God, is she the jack’s maker?”
“Not if she’s also trying to marry you to her daughter, surely. But anyway, the jack came from around Nethercote, which is the opposite direction to Huckerby Place. I could show you the pinpointer, except you wrecked it.”
They both looked down at the chaos on the desk. It was familiar stuff to Stephen; through Crane’s eyes it must look like madness. A map was spread out on the faded green leather top. A couple of contorted needles lay by it, and a mess of twisted fragments of wood. There was a small pool of solid tin, the size of a fingernail, on the leather, a few pieces of broken needle stabbed randomly into the desk surface, some papers and a pen wiper. A tangle of needles lay like spillikins on the map. It had, at one point, been quite a satisfactory casting.
“Sorry,” Crane said.
“I’d got the location, at least. It was a phenomenally difficult piece of work. Everything in here is flowing in the most peculiar way. But I did get Nethercote. Definitely.”
Crane was looking closely at him. “Is that a problem?”
Stephen sighed. “My Aunt Annie lives just outside Nethercote.”
“I see,” said Crane. “No, I don’t. So what? Unless she’s like my Great-Aunt Lucie, in which case you have all my sympathy—”
“She’s a witch.”
“Just like Great-Aunt Lucie.”
“No,” Stephen said. “She’s awitch.”
“Oh. I see. Oh, the devil—you don’t think—”
“The jack? I can’t think so. Father’s been dead twelve years, why would she do it now? And she’s always been a stickler. It’s just, I only know of one other practitioner in Nethercote and I find it hard tobelieve it was her either—Mrs. Parrott, her name is, a respected craftswoman. But there may well be someone else. This is the devil of an area for the craft, you know, so much power. I can’t think why this house is so bad.”
“So what do we do?”
“Have some lunch, go to Nethercote, talk to Mrs. Parrott and see if she can lead us to the maker. And hope to God my aunt doesn’t turn up.”
Chapter Ten
Nethercote barely earned the name of hamlet. There was a stagnant willow-hung pond around which stood a tiny, ancient, grey stone church, lit by the afternoon sun, and five cottages, two badly tumbledown.
Merrick tied the reins of the dogcart as Stephen and Crane looked around.
“Is this it?” Crane asked.
“This is Nethercote, yes, my lord.”
“God almighty. I want to go home.”
“You give the word, I’ll book the boat,” said Merrick. “We could be drinking Shaoxing wine in, what, two months if you stopped mucking round here. What do we do now, sir?”
“Don’t ask me,” Crane said.
“I wasn’t,” said Merrick, with ineffable scorn.
Stephen was still surveying the area. A dusty, patchwork-clothed boy of about seven was staring at them from behind a heap of stones. Stephen beckoned him over, and he came reluctantly, pausing about twelve feet away.
“Hey,” Stephen said, holding out a tuppenny bit. “Can you tell me where Mrs. Parrott lives?”
The boy stared, wide eyes fixed on the coin. He reached out a tentative hand, changed his mind and darted away.
