James Hathaway is having a strange week. Not a bad one—though when your job centres around violence and death, you have a different definition of 'bad' to most people—but definitely strange. At first, it's mostly little things. On Monday, all of the biros in his desk drawer seem to contain green ink. A prank, no doubt. Fortunately, he discovers the substitution before signing his name on the form he'd been about to submit to the Chief Super. No doubt Innocent would have had some pointed remarks about official police documents not being the appropriate place to express one's artistic side, or ask if he'd joined the cranks and lunatics of the green-ink brigade..
On Tuesday, the scraggly Christmas cactus on the office window-sill decides to burst into bloom, despite it being August. DS Latham from Fraud, a keen gardener, looks at it in awe. "What's your secret? Did you feed it something special?" James can only shrug. He doesn't even water the bloody thing, leaving that task to one of the night cleaners.
On Wednesday, they're eating sandwiches on a bench by the river when a swan climbs up the bank and stalks towards them. James tenses. An adult swan can inflict a fair amount of damage, even though the bit about breaking a man's bones is a myth. He's seen the results of some unpleasant encounters at Cambridge, usually involving rowers who came too close to nests. But breeding season ended three months ago. He holds his breath as the swan pauses less than a metre in front of them, and... bows. There's no other word for the movement. He bends his supple neck until his head is nearly touching the ground.
"Off with you," Lewis says softly. Before James can warn him not to antagonise the swan, he stands up and waves a hand. "Shoo." The swan turns, strutting back to the water. "Daft bird. Must be heat-addled."
"That was... odd," James says. It was more than odd, it was eerie. Almost like something out of the old tales about the Fae beloved by British folklorists, in which birds and beasts, behaving strangely, are revealed as portents or messengers. He'd been fascinated by stories of the Fae when he was a boy, especially those grounded in history, rather than 'once upon a time'. One of Bonnie Prince Charlie's more dramatic escapes from British troops was aided by a sudden thick fog supposedly raised by Fae magic. Dr John Dee, Elizabeth I's court astrologer, was alleged to be Fae or part-Fae, and an inventory of gifts to the Virgin Queen included 'a scarfe of greene silke set with Fae-wrought golde spangles'.
He's read so many theories over the years, most of which don't meet his standards of credibility, either as a policeman or a former academic. Margaret Murray wove the Fae into her bizarre theories about a British witch-cult, suggesting that they might be a special caste of priests and priestesses. James Frazer saw them as a symbol of the decline of primitive superstition. An 18th-century Bishop of Durham proclaimed that they were 'Gypsie tricksters' out to deceive good Christians. In 1902, Sabine Baring-Gould interviewed some 'rustick grandfers' who claimed to have seen the Good Folk on Dartmoor in their youth, but he admitted reluctantly that their memories had most likely been 'dimmed by time and distorted by ale'.
He shakes his head. The Fae, whatever they might be, have proved elusive for centuries. Archaeologists have explored supposed Fae hills with tools ranging from spades to metal-detectors to ground-penetrating radar, without success. The true believers on claim that the Fae use their magic to hide themselves from mortals. James isn't sure what to think. He definitely doesn't believe in magic; the idea is anathema to a rational, educated person. Still, he has long been fascinated by the notion that there could be an entire hidden society whose members live undetected beside ordinary people. He doesn't share any of these thoughts with Lewis, who will only roll his eyes and accuse James of reading too much Harry Potter.
On Thursday morning, a letter appears on Lewis's desk. James doesn't remember seeing it when he arrived, but when Lewis walks in a few minutes later it's beside his laptop: a stiff, cream-coloured envelope, face-down, and sealed with a disc of green wax. As James approaches, he glances curiously at the seal, but before he can make out any details, Lewis tucks the letter into his jacket and launches into a discussion of their current case.
Later that day, James returns from lunchtime errands to find Lewis talking to a stranger. The man, who tops James by a full two inches, is clad in an immaculate grey silk suit and a jade-green tie, and carries a leather briefcase that probably cost upwards of £500. The two men fall silent as soon as James walks in, but it's clear from their body language that the interrupted conversation had not been casual or friendly. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"
Lewis seems relieved. "You're all right. Mr Alveray is a solicitor. My uncle died, and he's... there are some things that have got to be sorted out."
"Matters of inheritance," Mr Alveray says curtly. He turns back to Lewis. "I will await your reply," he says, and sweeps out of the office without another word.
Belatedly, James realises that he's staring at the now empty doorway. "Sorry to hear about your uncle. Will you be taking leave to go to the funeral?"
"Will I what? No, no. There won't be a service. And to tell the truth, we didn't exactly get along."
And yet he left you an inheritance. James's mind is filled with questions he can't ask. Lewis doesn't talk much about his family back in Newcastle, but James has the impression that they were respectable lower middle class people, and not likely to have a family solicitor who wears silk suits and custom-made shoes. Maybe this uncle earned his money on the wrong side of the law? That would explain the rift and Lewis's apparent reluctance to accept his inheritance.
Friday begins on a positive note. James finds a contradiction in two witness statements. It's not enough to crack the cold case they've been reviewing, but it's a step forward. At day's end, Lewis invites him over for an evening of takeaway, crap telly, and good beer. It's an invitation he's happy to accept. He's got to pick up a suit from the cleaners, so they agree that Lewis will head home and call in a takeaway order to Ming Palace, and James will collect it.
The scents of Kung Po chicken, prawns with garlic sauce, and Szechuan noodles filling his car are making him hungry, and he's happy to find a parking space right in front of Lewis's building, James holds the carrier bag with one hand and with the other fumbles for the key. Since he's expected, there's no point in ringing the bell and making Lewis come to the door. iRobbie. Call him Robbie/i. His governor has recently insisted that he stop being 'so bloody formal' and use his first name when they're off-duty. "A man doesn't want to be sirred by his mate when he's having a beer and a laugh."
Mate. Friend. He's got mixed feelings about that. They've always had a close working relationship, but despite the frequent pub visits and occasional telly nights, James hadn't presumed to claim friendship with his governor. He likes the man, and has since their first day together, despite (or perhaps because of) the prickly aspects of his personality. But he also struggles with frustration. Buried deep inside James are desires that he barely lets himself acknowledge. He wants to be much more than a friend to Robbie Lewis, though he knows that's impossible.
Focus on the positive, he instructs himself sternly, turning the key in the lock. Be grateful for what you have.
As the door opens, James wonders why Robbie has the telly on so loud. An impassioned voice declaims, "Will you not avert this peril, my lord?" What on Earth is Robbie watching? Costume dramas are usually not to his taste.
A familiar, Geordie-accented voice replies, "I already told you that I can't help," and James's jaw drops. That's not the telly—it's an actual conversation. But why in the name of God is someone calling Robbie Lewis 'my lord'? And who?
The second question is answered as soon as he walks into the lounge. Mr Alveray, the supposed solicitor, is standing in the centre of the faded blue rug, wearing the exact same outfit as he was yesterday. The two men fall silent as James enters the room.
He does a quick assessment of the scene. Robbie is on his feet, frowning at Alveray. The solicitor doesn't look threatening or hostile; if anything, he seems lost, diminished.
Robbie gives a quick glance at James, then returns his attention to Alveray. "Just calm down, man. I'm sorry, but I won't change my mind."
Alveray clasps his hands together. "Please, my lord—"
"I am not your lord. I am not anyone's lord," Robbie snaps. He straightens, and despite the difference in their heights, he seems to loom over the other man. "I want you gone. Don't come back."
The look of utter desperation on Alveray's face is so sharp that James finds himself shifting balance, leaning forward, in case he needs to rush forward and intervene.
In the event, his help isn't needed. The man's expression becomes impassive, and he turns on his heel and hurries out of the room. And though it's a calm summer night outside, as he opens the front door, an unexpected draught blows in, so strong that it flaps the pages of the newspaper on the coffee table.
"Good riddance," Robbie mutters. He looks at James, and sighs. "I reckon you're wondering what that was about."
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't burning with curiosity, but he can see that this is a deeply personal matter that Robbie is not eager to discuss. "Just tell me: are you in trouble? Can I help?"
Robbie's mouth curls into a faint smile. "Canny lad. No, I'm not in trouble. He was trying to drag me into someone else's trouble, but he can't do that without my consent. Which," he adds firmly, "he won't get."
"If you're sure..."
"I am, thanks. And I'm also sure I want my dinner. Step lively, now."
He follows Robbie into the kitchen, and sets the carrier bag on the table. Within minutes, they're tucking into their meal. The conversation is limited to "Pass the rice, please" and "Any prawns left?" Robbie seems quiet and subdued after his earlier burst of anger at the mysterious Alveray. James finds that his usual supply of glib chatter has dried up.
Things become more relaxed when they're settled on the sofa with a couple of bottles of Bridge. They spend a pleasant hour mocking an episode of a popular detective programme.
"How are there any people still left in that little village?" James asks. "They kill off two or three every week. You'd think the survivors would notice they're living in the murder capital of Great Britain, and relocate."
"And why has no one investigated that amateur so-called detective? A man who isn't a copper shouldn't be stumbling over that many dead bodies."
"Very suspicious," James agrees. By the time he leaves, he's in a much cheerier mood, but in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, all the questions he didn't ask swirl through his mind until he finally falls asleep.
Saturday is busy with errands, shopping, and in the evening, his band has a gig. He doesn't have much time to think about Lewis and his peculiar visitor, and he doesn't expect to see his governor until Monday morning. Naturally, his phone rings just after dawn on Sunday. There's been a body of a boy discovered at the edge of Wytham Woods.
It's an ugly case. All murders are, but ones involving children always more painful. Identification comes swiftly: Evan Wilson, aged 11, disappeared from his Summertown home the day before. The first round of interviews focuses their attention on Sid Conover, the new boyfriend of Joan Wilson, Evan's divorced mother. He's a broker of some kind, a big shot in the City, who glances too often at his gold Swiss watch.
Lewis is masterful in interview, sympathising with the difficulty of dealing with someone else's child. Boys that age can be a real handful. Moody and unpredictable. Running away is a common response to family problems. Fortunately, most of them come safely home. Is Sid aware of any issues between Evan and his mum? Any indications that he might have been playing around with drugs?
James knows that there were no needle marks on Evan's body, and that the tox screen came back negative.
It takes a while, but eventually Conover says something that contradicts an earlier answer. James jumps in: prodding, challenging. Lewis interjects with more questions. The familiar rhythm reminds James of rowing in a two-man shell, minds and bodies in perfect coordination.
"I didn't mean to do it."
As the admission slips out, James feels a fierce satisfaction, mixed with sorrow for the innocent life cut short for no good reason.
It's the beginning of the end. They lead Conover through a full account of Evan's death, from the initial argument to the dumping of the body after dark. The confession is laced with feeble excuses: the boy "disrespected" him, he only wanted to teach him a lesson... James is relieved when Conover is escorted to the custody suite and he and Lewis can escape the windowless interview room. There are still the initial reports, statements, and forms which must be completed before they can even think about leaving the nick.
The office is quiet, and not just because they're both concentrating on the paperwork. James is starting to feel the effect of his short night's sleep. Lewis is being stingy with his words, and the crease between his brows is getting progressively deeper. He's angry. It doesn't take a detective to figure out why. The murder of a child always hits harder than other deaths, and Sidney Conover is everything that Lewis hates in a suspect: rich, privileged, and completely unwilling to accept fault.
A little past 8:00 PM, Lewis switches off his computer. "Right. That's us done for the day." He looks James up and down. "Get yourself some real food and an early bed. And 9:00 will be soon enough to come in tomorrow. We've earned it."
"A pint first?" James suggests. He doesn't particularly want a drink, but it might do Lewis some good to relax at a pub. It's been a long time since he's seen his governor this shaken by a case.
Lewis shakes his head. "Thanks, no. I'm for home and bed. Good night."
They head outside together, then separate, each man to his own car. James pauses to light a cigarette, and he watches idly as Lewis pulls out of the car park and turns left. That's unexpected. The most direct route to his home is in the other direction, and so are most of the favourite takeaway places where he might go for a quick, easy meal. It's probably nothing, but... James climbs into his car and follows Lewis.
It's absurd, really. Lewis is a grown man and an experienced copper. He's dealt with the aftermath of far more horrific cases. He doesn't need his sergeant (friend, an internal voice whispers) trailing behind him like a fretful minder. So what if he wants to go for a bit of a drive after a long, stressful day? James ought to go home and leave Robbie be, but he can't help worrying. He drops back, letting two cars pass him, just as he was taught in the police driving course. No, he's not treating Lewis like a suspect—he's just trying to be discreet. No need to embarrass them both if everything's all right.
His concern grows when he sees that Lewis is heading towards Wytham Woods. It's nowhere near the spot where Evan Wilson's body was dumped, but still, it's a peculiar destination at twilight. Is he meeting someone? James thinks again about the enigmatic and persistent Mr Alveray. What if he's persuaded Lewis to rendezvous with him?
Lewis's car pulls over. James continues forward another fifty metres around a bend in the road before doing the same. He jogs along the verge until he sees Lewis walking into the woods.
He slows, walking as quietly as possible, keeping Lewis just at the edge of sight. It's difficult, in the deepening night, but there's a three-quarter moon above, splashing pale, dappled light on the path ahead. He can also hear the faint sound of Lewis's sturdy shoes crunching on fallen twigs and leaves. The man is making no effort to be stealthy.
James pauses when the sound of footsteps stops. The typical woodland concerto of a summer night—bird calls, the buzz of insects, the rustling of small creatures going about their nocturnal business—suddenly falls silent. Only the thudding of his heart and the distant swoosh of traffic assure James that he hasn't gone deaf.
A new sound fills the silence. It could be rushing water, except that there is no stream nearby; or wind, but the air is still. James forces himself to continue up the path. After walking just ten metres, he freezes, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.
A venerable oak tree stands in the centre of a clearing. A miniature cyclone encircles it at a distance of four or five feet, the winds made visible by the leaves, sticks, and clods of earth they carry. This isn't real. Can't be real. Then he sees the man standing inside the calm eye of the storm, rigid back pressed against the oak's thick trunk.
"Robbie?"
The whirlwind stops immediately, dropping its payload into a rough ring on the ground.
"James?" Robbie gawks at him, as if he's the one found doing something uncanny in a moonlit forest. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was concerned. I could see you were troubled by the case, and when I saw your car turn the wrong way..." He stops, not sure how to explain.
"You ifollowed/i me? Who do you think you are to stick your nose in my personal business?"
Under normal circumstances, James would have delivered a curt apology for intruding, then turned and walked away. These circumstances are far from normal. "I thought I was your friend," he snaps, and realises to his horror that a person far less observant than DI Lewis could surely hear the hurt mixed with anger in his voice.
Robbie sighs deeply. "Aye, that you are. Sorry, man."
"Are you okay? Can I—?" He stops, not sure what he meant to say or what he should say. "What happened?"
Robbie grimaces. "I'm all right, now. I was getting worked up over that bastard Conover, and I thought being with the trees would help." He looks ruefully at the circle of detritus surrounding him. "Lost my temper. And then I lost control of my magic."
"There's no such thing as magic," James replies automatically,
Even in the faint moonlight, James can recognise the familiar waggle of Lewis's brows. 'Sure of that, are you, Sergeant?' His governor waves a hand—much like when he shooed the swan back to the river—and the ring of dirt and leaves moves, spreading itself out until the area around the tree looks untouched. Even as James fumbles for words, because this can't be happening, Lewis says softly, "I reckon I owe you an explanation. Let's go back to mine, though. It's a long story, and this isn't the place."
They're sat on Robbie's sofa again, but with no beers in hand this time. James's mind is already jumbled and dizzied by what he saw earlier.
"The story begins with my mam, Betsy. She was born in a village west of Newcastle. Her dad was a leather-worker with too many bairns to feed, so when Mam was sixteen, she was hired as a kitchen maid at Kirkbride Manor, ten miles north of the Wall."
Hadrian's Wall, James's storehouse of historical trivia adds. He frowns. Why hadn't Betsy gone into Newcastle to seek work? In the years just before the Second World War, industry was booming, and factory jobs paid much better than domestic service.
"It was June, and she was to start work on the Quarter Day, so she set off on foot the day before."
"On foot? Sorry." Not surprising that a poor family didn't own a car, but surely there would have been a bus to take her at least part of the way?
"It was only ten miles," Robbie says. "She was a strong lass, and she was wearing shoes. She often told me how proud she was of those shoes—they were new-made, just for her. Her father gave the leather to the cobbler, so she shouldn't be ashamed before the gentry at the Manor."
James frowns. New shoes might be a necessary expense for a girl entering service in a stately home, but custom-made?
Robbie's voice has taken on the sing-song quality of an old, well-remembered bedtime story. "It was a hot day, and her feet ached, and she stopped more than once to slip off those new shoes and bathe her feet in the waters of a burn—a little stream. When she got hungry, she looked about for a place to sit. There were no trees nearby, but she saw a standing stone, taller than a tall man and three times as broad. She sat in its shade and unwrapped the food her mam had given her—half a loaf of stottie cake, filled with pease pottage. When she'd eaten, she decided to rest a little while before continuing on. And she fell asleep beside the standing stone of Matfen."
James feels a prickle across the nape of his neck, as if a cold draught was blowing. Obviously nothing happened, he tells himself. Robbie's mum lived to grow up, marry, and bring up at least two children: Robbie, and the brother he once mentioned.
"When she woke up, it was dark. The moon wasn't up, but she spied a bonfire in the distance, on the top of a hill."
The night before Quarter Day in June would be... "St John's Eve?"
Robbie nods. "Aye, it was Midsummer Eve. Mam reckoned that there'd be people at the fire who could set her on the right path. When she got nearer, she heard music playing and saw folk dancing around the fire." His eyes fix on empty air, and his lips curve into a gentle smile. "She said, 'They were tall and fair, and dressed grander than lords and ladies. I was afear'd to speak a word, but the harps and the horns and the flutes played so sweetly that it made me weep, and when the tallest lord leapt over the fire, my heart was so merry that I laughed out loud.'"
I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know this, James thinks, but Robbie's voice flows on, meandering gently like a Northumbrian burn, heading always to its inevitable destination. Young Betsy Tanner danced all night around the Midsummer fire. Just before dawn on Midsummer Day, she let the tall lord lead her to his dwelling inside the hill, and there she lay with him.
"I was born nine months later, on Lady Day." Robbie pauses. "The twenty-fifth of March, 1821."
TBC