It's not hard to locate the entrance to the former Lambourne estate. Two massive stone pillars bracket the driveway, each carved with a capital 'L' above a coat of arms in bas-relief. Lewis eyes the heraldry as he turns slowly into the drive. "The lamb is clear enough, but what's that squiggly thing under it? A snake?"
"A small stream, also known as a bourne," James says.
"Oh, aye. Up north, we call that a burn," Lewis replies, his Geordie accent heavy on the last word. "Is Millicent related to the Lambournes?"
"Not as far as I know. The last of the family died some time in the 1930s. The next owner tried starting up a hotel, which was about to go out of business when it burned down."
It's half a kilometre from the entrance to the gatehouse. James feels just a little claustrophobic, as the gravelled driveway is bordered by dense woods on the left and a hedgerow on the right. Then the woods angle away and the driveway splits into a neat circle in front of the gatehouse. It's a two-storey stone cottage in the Georgian style. The attached gateway arches from the cottage to a ten-foot section of wall. The driveway continues a short distance beyond the arch, then vanishes into a tangle of weeds.
Lewis parks the car on the left side of the circle. "Must have been a grand place, back in the day."
James shrugs. The entire Lambourne estate would easily fit in the southwestern corner of Crevecoeur, between the hay meadow and the apple orchard. Whatever else it may have done to him, his life at Crevecoeur gave him a very high standard for grandeur.
As they walk up to the door of the gatehouse, James spots an elderly blue Volvo parked behind the building. "Looks like she's home."
"Let's hope she's feeling talkative."
Apparently, finding two uninvited policemen at her door is the most delightful thing that has happened to Millicent Dardenne in months. She ushers them into the sitting room, then excuses herself to make tea.
James looks around the room, silently cataloguing its contents, from the mantel clock over the electric fireplace to the faded Persian rug to the framed print of Waterhouse's Lady of Shalott. Shabby gentility.
Millicent returns with a laden silver tray. The porcelain tea set is decorated with deep pink roses, as is the matching plate holding an assortment of biscuits. She pours three cups, serving her guests first.
Lewis adds sugar and milk to his cup, then helps himself to a biscuit. James follows suit. They murmur thanks.
"Have some more biscuits," she urges. "I know how you young men love your sweets."
James blinks. The muffled cough to his left is his governor, trying not to choke on a mouthful of tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Dardenne, but—"
"Miss," she says crisply.
"Thank you kindly, Miss Dardenne," James says obediently. "I really couldn't manage another bite."
"I had hoped at one time to marry, but it was not to be. I was a Land Girl during the war," she explains. "It was while I was picking hops in Kent that I met Duncan. He was stationed at a nearby RAF base." She goes on to describe their nightly trysts, which never progressed beyond kisses. And then Duncan was shot down over the Channel. They'd planned to be married on the following day, which was Millicent's birthday.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Robbie says, with more formality than compassion. It's very unlike him.
She accepts his words with the dignity of a queen accepting tribute. "Kind though you are, I doubt you came all this way to hear an old woman's reminiscences. What can I do for you?'
Lewis carefully avoids any mention of the murder. There appear to be some irregularities at Excelsior Letting. Perhaps she can help them sort things out. Has her nephew Harry been to visit lately? Yes? Might he have left any papers with her? Might he have left papers in the house without informing her?
Millicent informs them that Harry does not visit very often. He did come for tea two days ago. It's possible that he left something behind, but as they can see, the house is not very large. "You have my permission to search the property," she declares.
"Thank you, Miss Dardenne," James says gravely. "We very much appreciate your cooperation."
It doesn't take long. The gatehouse is small. They search the kitchen cupboards, the sideboard in the lounge, and the pantry. Millicent does not accompany them upstairs. They divide the two upper rooms between them. Lewis goes into the sitting room; James tackles the bedroom. He quickly goes through the massive wardrobe that dominates the room. When he opens the drawers inside it, they exude the faint odour of lavender.
The wood chest at the foot of the brass bed is full of wool blankets and flannel sheets, and smells of cedar and mothballs. The bed itself has a pale yellow valance that falls with military precision to a centimetre above the floor.
James is on his hands and knees peering under the bed when Lewis enters.
"Nothing in the other room. You find anything here?"
"Not even a dust bunny," James replies. He stands up, bracing his hand against the bed, then smooths away the dent he left on the surface of the duvet.
"She was lying," Lewis says abruptly.
"About what?"
"Her tragic wartime romance."
"And you know this because...?"
"Because that whole load of bollocks is straight out of an old film. 'Bitter Harvest,' starring Ellen Marsden and whatsisface, Cecil Harding."
"Could it be a coincidence?"
Robbie shakes his head. "Every last detail matches: a Land Girl in Kent, picking hops, RAF boyfriend who crashes in the Channel the day before her birthday."
"So she's a lonely old woman who chose to reinvent her past. That's not a crime."
"Giving false statements to the police is."
James doesn't bother to point out that the details of Miss Dardenne's love life are irrelevant to their case. "She may have lost someone, even if it didn't happen that way."
"Isn't much of a tribute to someone she supposedly loved, lying about him," Lewis growls.
James isn't sure about that. There are all sorts of reasons to lie about people in one's past. Still, he's not going to say that to Valerie Lewis's widower. "Maybe she never had anyone to lose." That comment hits home, and he can see his governor's natural compassion emerge, softening his face.
"That's as may be. Any road, we'd best be going. There's nowhere left to search. It's not likely that Bingham would have buried his files in the garden."
"Or hidden them in a hollow tree in the woods," James agrees.
They make their way downstairs. Lewis thanks Miss Dardenne for her cooperation, and hands her one of his cards. A few more pleasantries—Lewis must be feeling guilty about his uncharitable thoughts, James concludes—then they're out the door.
Lewis proceeds slowly down the gravelled driveway. He presses his lips together in the way that says he's considering their next move.
They're almost to the road when James spots something that he missed on the way in. "Sir? Sir! Stop, please?"
Lewis steps on the brakes suddenly enough to send a spray of gravel behind the rear tyres. "What's wrong?"
"Sorry." James points out a side-lane running from the right side of the driveway. Narrow and unpaved, it parallels the main road for about twenty metres, then curves away sharply into the woods.
"Think there might be something there?" Robbie asks.
"Could be a gardener's shed or maybe an old stable."
Lewis eyes the lane dubiously. "No way of telling if there's a turnaround at the end, and I'm not going to drive all the way back in reverse. We'll walk." He continues the short distance to the road, and turns sharply left, parking on the grass verge.
The walk down the lane is pleasant. The August sun, filtered through the rustling green canopy above, is a warm, gentle benediction on his head. The undergrowth in the woods is just thick enough to keep them from seeing what lies around the corner. Spots of colour catch his eye: the pale blue of forget-me-nots and the bright yellow of celandine. He points them out to Robbie. It reminds him of their holiday on Araney. The scenery is nothing like—Araney had no trees, nothing taller than scrub bushes—it's the sense of companionable exploration that brings the island back to him. Of course, on Araney he wouldn't be wearing a suit. He'd be in jeans and a t-shirt, wings half-extended, feeling the sea breeze.
The first sign of what lies ahead is the sudden brightness that becomes actual glare as the lane ends at a clearing. James pulls his sunglasses out of his pocket.
"You were right about the shed," Lewis observes, "but that doesn't look like any stable I've ever seen." The shed at the north end of the clearing is a squat box made of corrugated iron and covered in rust. It is dwarfed by the tower at the centre of the clearing: a square Norman-style keep, fifteen feet across and some seventy feet tall. The only visible openings, other than the door, are cross-shaped arrow slits.
"Definitely not a stable," James agrees. He's never seen this place before, but something about it niggles at his mind.
"I'm not what you would call an expert on mediaeval architecture, but didn't they usually build these things out in the open? On top of hills, or at least in the edge of a meadow? So they could see the enemy coming or whatnot."
"They did indeed. This isn't mediaeval at all. This is the Poet's Tower, built some time in the late 19th century, if the stories I've heard are accurate."
"Another one of your sodding poets?"
"Not one of the boys in the band, sir. I suppose he must have been a Lambourne, but I've only ever heard him called the Bard of Abingdon. Quite possibly the worst British poet since William McGonagall."
"That bad, eh?"
"I could recite the first few verses of 'Ode to the Gasworks Bridge,'" James offers.
"No, thanks." Lewis pauses. "So he built this for what? To have a place where he could sit and feel poetical?"
"Something like that, I suppose." They're close enough to the tower now that James has to crane his neck to see the top.
"Strikes me as a waste of time and money, hauling stones out here so a grown man could play make-believe."
"Yes and no..." James strokes his fingers across the surface of the tower, then curls them into a fist and knocks lightly. The result is a hollow thud. He smirks at Lewis's look of surprise. "Stucco. It's a sort of plaster made with lime and sand, used to imitate stone, among other things. It's used in a lot of modern fake-Tudor buildings."
"You're telling me that this is all wood underneath?"
"Yep. I imagine that the family coffers were dwindling by then."
"As fascinating as all this is, we should get to work. Best if we split the job."
James glances over his shoulder at the rusty shed. It looks like the perfect home for spiders. He suppresses a shudder. "I'll be happy to check the tower. No reason for you to climb all those stairs."
"I'm not ready for a zimmer frame just yet, sergeant. I can handle a few flights of stairs. You take the shed." His governor's frown indicates that it would be a bad idea to argue the point.
The shed is dark and oppressively hot, but thankfully free of spiders. James props the door open with an ancient coal scuttle. He pulls a small torch out of his jacket pocket, and lets the beam of light swing back and forth. There's quite a lot of junk lying about—a milking pail, rusty rakes, hoes, and shovels, an axe, a wheelbarrow with one handle missing, and a green bicycle with two flat tyres—but nothing that could be used to hide a few square feet of paperwork. His heart skips a beat when he spots a large willow picnic hamper in the rear of the shed. When he lifts the lid, he discovers that some long-ago mouse chewed up the blue floral lining to make a nest.
He's closing the hamper when he hears the whoosh and the bang. He doesn't remember leaving the shed. One moment he's staring down at scraps of fabric, and the next he's running full-tilt towards the tower, mobile pressed against his ear. He doesn't remember dialing 999. As he mechanically answers the dispatcher's questions, he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. A familiar figure in a long grey skirt and flowered pink blouse is disappearing into the woods at the southwest corner of the clearing. It must be a footpath leading to the gatehouse. He could easily run after her, but that won't help Lewis. A moment later, he hears the sound of a car engine starting up. He's already given Millicent's name to the dispatcher; now he adds a description of her car.
James stares in horror at the tower. The arrow slits cut into the walls at regular intervals allow him to see how swiftly the flames are advancing up the stairwell. The slits are acting as vents, he realises, providing the fire with the oxygen it needs to grow. He rushes over to the door, grabs the metal handle. "Fuck!"
Think, James, think! Use those so-called brains. Can't wait for Fire and Rescue to show up. Were there any tools in the shed that he could use to break the door open? A shovel might work... but wasn't there an axe, too? No, faster to kick it down. He raises his foot, then sets it down so swiftly that he almost topples over. God, no!
If the narrow window slits are fuelling the fire, how much more oxygen will an open door provide? The century-old wood structure is burning merrily—opening the door will turn it into a wild conflagration. Besides, the lower portion of the staircase is already fully engulfed. There's no way a man could pass safely through it without protective gear and a breathing mask. He backs up until he can see the top of the tower, and stands there, frozen. He's never felt so helpless.
He's got to do something. If he can get to the top of the tower, maybe he can get inside. He can use the axe to cut an opening in the roof. Was there a ladder in the shed? He doesn't remember. James runs at full pelt across the clearing. He darts inside and spins around, trying to look everywhere at once. Ladder, ladder, ladder—dear merciful God, let there be a ladder. There is one. His heart skips a few beats before he recognises that it's a standard household ladder, only a little taller than himself. Useless.
The sound of tyres on the uneven ground makes him run outside. Two cars emerge from the green cavern that is the lane through the woods. They come to an abrupt halt near the shed. The Chief Super and DCs Hooper and Ripley get out of one car; a pair of uniforms that he doesn't recognise spring out of the other.
Innocent hurries to his side. "Hathaway, report!"
James rattles off the essential facts. "What's keeping Fire and Rescue?"
"There's a multi-car collision on the A34. The next available unit is ten minutes away."
"That'll be too late." If it isn't too late already. "Even if he's safely above the level of the fire, the smoke..."
Innocent's face is bleak. She knows as well as he does that most fire victims succumb to smoke inhalation long before the flames reach them. "Is there access to the roof? If he can get onto the roof, into fresh air, he'll stand a much better chance."
"I don't know for certain, ma'am, but I suspect there is. That tower was designed by a poet. I imagine he'd want to stand atop his battlements and be inspired by the view."
"I hope you're right.."
I'm an idiot. A fucking idiot. "Ma'am," James says urgently, "I can't just stand by and do nothing."
"I'm open to suggestions, Sergeant, but unless there's an extension ladder lying about—"
He doesn't hear the rest of her sentence. He strips off his grey suit jacket, praying that his stupidity, his failure to think and remember what he is, hasn't killed Robbie. He throws the jacket on the ground, followed by his favourite blue silk tie. He removes the white shirt so quickly that a loose button pops off the left cuff and disappears in a patch of fallen leaves.
"James, what are you doing?"
"Stand back, ma'am." He tugs at the straps of the binder, and silently blesses Sir Andrew yet again. This new binder is much easier to remove than the old one.
He sees understanding dawn in her face. She doesn't waste time by asking if he's sure he wants to do this. "Can you carry his weight? Would it be better to bring a rope up?"
"Not a rope, ma'am. That's wood behind the stucco facade. Old, possibly rotten. I wouldn't trust it to hold a rope securely—not with anything heavier than a cat at the other end. A small cat."
She nods. "Wait just one moment." Innocent strides over to her car and returns with two items: a small bottle of spring water and a large scarf in an intricate pink, orange and blue geometric print. "Take these."
He understands immediately. A wet cloth tied around his face will act as an impromptu smoke mask. He won't be able to help Lewis if the smoke gets to him, too. As soon as his fingers touch the fabric he realises what she's given him. It's a Liberty silk scarf. Probably costs more than one hundred pounds. "Ma'am, I'll use my shirt—"
"You'll take this," she snaps, steel in every word. "Silk is finer than cotton. It will be a better filter."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." He ties it loosely around his neck and shoves the water bottle into his trouser pocket.
She doesn't weigh him down with too many words, saying only, "Be careful."
James pulls the binder free, throwing it on top of his discarded clothing. He shakes the stiffness out of his wings, ignoring the gasps and exclamations from the men behind him. Wings up, into takeoff position. Thank God for all the practice he got on Araney. He hasn't got time to flutter awkwardly like a child again. Robbie hasn't got time. Three quick steps and a leap, and he's up. The surrounding trees don't give him a lot of room to manoeuvre, but he flies around the tower rather than towards it as he gains height. Once he's ten feet above the roof, he descends, backwinging furiously to soften the landing. The wood of the roof shakes under the impact, but remains solid.
There's a hatch in the roof. It's closed. A few wisps of smoke drift through the narrow crack, but the wood isn't hot to the touch. He pulls Innocent's scarf from around his neck and opens the water bottle. He soaks the silk thoroughly, takes a deep breath, then ties the scarf over his mouth and nose.
The hatch lifts up to reveal a circular room, with a staircase curving along the wall. Through the haze of the white smoke he can dimly see the contents: an antique writing table and matching chair, a small bookcase (empty), and a cardboard bankers' box with a motionless Detective Inspector slumped against it.
James can't see Robbie's face. He's got to be alive. He folds his wings tightly and steps through the hatch, running halfway down the stairs before swinging over the railing and landing on the floor with a loud thud. There's a harsh, raspy cough, which is the most beautiful sound James has ever heard. He hurries over to his governor, grasps him by the shoulders, and pulls him up into a sitting position.
"James?" Robbie sounds bewildered. "What're you doing here?"
"Don't try to talk. Can you stand?" Without waiting for a reply, James grasps Robbie under the arms and pulls him to his feet.
Robbie shakes his head and gasps, "Get box... evidence."
He wants to say Fuck the bloody box! Duty makes him hesitate. "I'll come back for it. Let's get you up to the roof first." He pushes his stumbling, coughing governor towards the stairs. Once Robbie is sitting down in the fresh air, James shoves the half-full bottle of water at him. He pulls down the scarf and inhales deeply, then tugs it back into place.
Re-entering the room, he notices another hatch at the opposite side of the room. Thank God Robbie had the presence of mind to close it behind him. If the smoke had been rising freely—no, he won't think about that. The lid of the box is ajar, so he can see it's full of file folders. With a grunt, he lifts it and carries it up to the roof. As he stoops to close the roof hatch, he sees that the hatch in the room below is now outlined in a flickering red glow.
Robbie is standing, waving over the parapet. Letting Innocent know he's alive.
"Feeling better, sir?"
Lewis spins around. "I thought I was dreaming you. How did you—oh!" For the first time, he seems to notice that James is bare from the waist up. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I thought you might need a lift."
"Don't be ridiculous, man. You'll never—" A series of staccato coughs interrupts his protest. "You'll never bear my weight in the air. You're not a bloody rescue helicopter."
"I don't need to be a helicopter, sir. I just need to be a parachute. And the fire is doing us a favour—it's creating updrafts."
"Isn't the fire service is on the way?"
James explains the delay, and the fact that the fire is about to eat its way into the chamber beneath them.
Robbie nods. He looks at the cardboard box. "Can you drop that over the side? With luck, enough of it will survive to help nail the murdering sod."
James starts to lift the box, then sets it down again. "Take off your tie." The tie is James's own, that he lent to Robbie what seems like a century ago. It's longer than a standard one: 160 centimetres of charcoal grey silk wraps around the box with just enough left over to make a secure double knot.
His mobile rings. There's only one person it can be. "Yes, ma'am?"
"What's going on?"
He makes a quick explanation.
"Don't take too long with the box. Getting you two safely down is the first priority." A pause. "Would it be safer to wait for the fire service?"
James kneels down and places his hand against the faux-stone surface of the roof. It's noticeably hotter than a few minutes earlier. "No, ma'am. There isn't time."
"I understand. I'll see you shortly, then."
He shoves his mobile back in his trousers pocket and without ceremony throws the box over the parapet. He doesn't wait to watch it land, but turns back to Robbie. "Ready?"
"Right. How do we do this? I can't exactly ride piggyback."
James has already considered the issue. "Give me your belt, please." He steps up onto the wide ledge of the parapet and beckons Robbie up. "Don't look down. Face me, arms around my waist." He has removed his own belt, and quickly threads Robbie's belt through his buckle, and loops the expanded band around them both. It's not much of a safety harness, but it's better than nothing. "Hold tight." He wraps his own arms tightly around his governor. Lewis's body is solid and warm against his bare torso, but it's the calm trust in his eyes that most comforts James.
"Have you got a pithy quote for the occasion?" Robbie asks.
"I'm afraid I don't," James confesses. He's been praying non-stop in the back of his mind, but he doesn't think Robbie wants to hear that. "I suppose I could shout 'Geronimo!'"
"Not in front of the Chief Super. Besides, I reckon the parachute isn't supposed to do the shouting," Robbie replies dryly.
James laughs. The unexpected merriment lightens his heart and possibly the rest of him. He raises his wings. "Mind the gap, sir," he says, and leaps.
