The Traitor’s Sword: The Sangreal Trilogy Two. Jan Siegel
think …’ He checked himself. ‘There’s a lot I never learned about that business last year.’
‘The accomplice,’ Annie said promptly. ‘The woman who pretended to be Rianna Sardou. You never heard any more about her, did you?’ She herself knew the truth quite as well as Bartlemy, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could explain to a policeman. It occurred to her that it was unkind to mention it, but in view of Pobjoy’s record she decided she didn’t care.
‘We’re still looking,’ he said, privately annoyed because he knew they weren’t, and the fugitive would never be found. He felt he had lost control of the conversation, and told himself it had been a mistake to come in, succumbing to the urge to see her again. ‘I wondered … It was a terrible experience for you. I hope you were able to get over the shock.’
‘Shock?’ Annie echoed blankly.
‘Discovering the corpse. I’ve seen a few – I’m used to it – but it wasn’t pretty.’
‘I was all right,’ Annie said. ‘I’m tough.’
She didn’t look tough, he thought, with her slight, compact figure, her soft short curls, the muted shades of her skin and hair. But there was a vein of strength under the softness, a core of something hidden – his detective instincts could sense it, even though it was out of reach.
He said awkwardly: ‘I just wanted to be sure. You can get help with these things, but … I should’ve come sooner.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Annie responded, confused by the pointlessness of the exchange. ‘It was nice of you to bother. Er … about the burglary at Thornyhill: do you believe there was something behind it?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Could be just teenage youths going off the rails as usual. At that age, they think they can get away with anything.’
‘Really?’ Annie said, her hostility reviving. She assumed he was alluding to Nathan. ‘I’ve always thought kids were a lot like adults, both good and bad, only braver – more reckless – more generous. Life hasn’t yet taught them to be careful, to hold back, do nothing. Children are trusting and confident where people like me – and you – are cynical and afraid.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ He wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he said: ‘I don’t think you’re afraid of very much.’
She stared at him, surprised and disconcerted. Before she could find something to say, another customer came in, and Pobjoy, with a mumbled goodbye, had gone. Annie, feeling the encounter had been oddly unfinished, returned to her computer screen.
But the wildflower dictionary was proving elusive and her mind wandered. She studied the latest customer, idly, conscious that she had come across him somewhere before though she didn’t think it was here. He was a heavily-built man who looked as if he had once been heavier: his skin had that ill-fitting sag which occurs when someone has lost too much weight too quickly, and his jacket flapped around his midriff. His hair was thinning above an anxious frown; possibly he was unused to second-hand bookshops. Annie’s routine Can I help you? made him turn, and suddenly she remembered.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said. ‘At Ffylde. It must have been the carol service last Christmas.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t appear to consider it a talking point.
There was a short pause. ‘What are you looking for?’ Annie asked.
‘A – a book. A book on pagan customs, magic rituals … A grimoire.’
Annie suppressed a jolt of shock. (After all, someone who wasn’t traumatized by a dead body shouldn’t be jolted by a request for a book, particularly in a bookshop.) ‘At the back in the left-hand corner,’ she said. ‘Under Arch and Anth.’
As he moved away Annie opened the drawer, glanced down at the sketch, closed it again. Presently, the man came back to the desk carrying an old book with a stained cover which Annie had bought in a job lot several months ago and never looked at properly. He gave her the money, clutching his purchase as if afraid somebody might take it from him, and refused her offer of a bag. She thanked him, making no further parent-to-parent overtures. When he had gone, she picked up the phone.
‘Barty?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you see the future in the smoke as well as the past?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But there are many futures. What you see may not always come true. The future can be changed, if you are resolute.’
Annie waved this irrelevance aside. ‘A man just came in and bought a grimoire. I can’t tell if he’s the man in your picture – it could be a coincidence – but –’
‘There are no coincidences in magic,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Did you get a chance to learn his name?’
‘No,’ Annie said, ‘but I recognized him. I’ve seen him at Ffylde, at the carol service. He must have a son there.’
There was a thoughtful silence.
‘What was in the book?’ Bartlemy asked.
‘I never really looked at it. Drawings I think – sigils and stuff. Incantations in Latin – you told me those don’t normally work. Some hand-written notes at the back. I don’t remember anything else.’
‘A pity. Still …’
‘If you had told me to check any grimoires in stock, I would have done,’ Annie said with dignity.
‘I know. Magic is invariably unpredictable. You’d think I would have learned that by now. But at least we have the link with Ffylde: that’s something.’
‘Do you think he’s the father of that boy you were so interested in?’ Annie inquired. ‘The one who’s always in trouble.’
‘That,’ Bartlemy said gently, ‘really would be a coincidence.’
‘Would it?’ Annie said.
It was a couple of weeks before Nathan had the chance to tell his uncle what he had learnt about the Hackforths. ‘Dear me,’ Bartlemy said. ‘I seem to have shown my curiosity very plainly. First your mother catches me out, now you. And I thought I was being subtle.’
‘Oh, you were,’ Nathan said. ‘Hazel and George didn’t notice anything. Mum and I are more observant – and we know you better.’
Bartlemy smiled. ‘I must be more careful,’ he said.
Nathan was sitting on the hearthrug in the living room where he had sat when he was a baby, while Hoover rolled onto his back to have his tummy rubbed. ‘I ran into Damon the other day on the stairs,’ he remarked. ‘I mean, literally. He was sprinting down two steps at a time and he clouted me with his shoulder, I think it was an accident but I don’t know. I sort of stumbled and said something – Look out, look where you’re going – something like that. Anyway, he swore at me like it was my fault. A bit later he stopped me in the corridor. “You’re the wonderboy, aren’t you?” he said. “Keep out of my way.” He looked like he really hated me. It was bizarre, I don’t know why he should even know who I am – or care. He’s four years ahead of me.’
‘What did you say?’ Bartlemy asked.
‘Nothing. I was pretty surprised – and the whole thing seemed awfully silly. You know, as if he was the bad guy in a Western: This school ain’t big enough for the both of us. Stupid.’
‘Well done,’ said Bartlemy. ‘As Kipling put it: If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs … Restraint is a rare gift at your age.’
My head is the problem, Nathan thought ruefully. Aloud he said: ‘There must be something behind it. Are you going to tell me?’
‘Tell