had mentioned a sword, the Traitor’s Sword …
With that question, that connection, the dream jolted. Tell me about the sword, Nathan wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out. It was like in an ordinary dream, when you try to speak but your vocal chords don’t work, and everything slows down, and the person you want to speak to is receding, fading inexorably from your thought. He had felt insubstantial, a pyjama-clad teenage ghost, but now he was growing solid, and the world around him thinned, the world of Arkatron on Eos, becoming ghost-like while he alone was real. He heard the voice of Osskva, insect-small and faint with distance: ‘Don’t go. We have things … to discuss … Questions … answers …’
But he couldn’t respond, and sleep swallowed him, plunging him back into the dark.
A few weeks after the attempted burglary, Chief Inspector Pobjoy called at Thornyhill again. ‘Of course, they won’t get custodial sentences,’ he said, referring to Ram and Ginger. ‘They’re underage. Ginger has a record already, petty theft, petty assault, petty everything. Ram’s been smarter: no previous, just a government health warning. The really interesting thing is their lawyer.’
‘Dear me,’ Bartlemy said, replenishing his guest’s tea mug. ‘I had no idea lawyers were interesting.’
Pobjoy didn’t grin – he wasn’t a natural grinner – but a sharp-edged smile flicked in and out, quick as a knife-blade. ‘Boys like that – backstreet kids, no dosh – they usually get whoever’s on call that day. Legal aid, no frills. That’s what they had in the past. But this time they get a Bentley among lawyers, top-of-the-range with power-steering and champagne-cooler. Hugh Purlieu-Smythe, legal adviser to the very, very rich. It would be a giveaway – if we knew who was footing the bill. Still, it is interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed. Do we know who else this Purlieu-Smythe has represented in the recent past?’
‘I’ve been finding out.’ Pobjoy sipped his tea, nibbling the inevitable seductive biscuit. Sometimes he fantasized about what lunch or dinner might be like at Thornyhill. He was a single man living alone on a diet of ready meals, takeaways, and the occasional omelette, and the mere thought of such home-cooking must be put behind him, or it would seriously disrupt his professional detachment. ‘He’s done a few white-collar fraudsters – big city types who’ve brought their cash and their bad habits into the area in search of rural peace and quiet. Then there was that local authority corruption case – he was for the developer, got him off too. Grayling made donations to police charities – all the right people wined and dined – lent his Spanish villa to a lucky few. You get the picture.’
‘Are you suggesting some of your colleagues could be … swayed by such things?’ Bartlemy inquired gently.
‘It wouldn’t be anything overt,’ Pobjoy explained. ‘Just a general feeling that Grayling was a good bloke, one of the lads. One of the chaps, I should say. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be interested in this place, though. Or that cup of yours.’
‘It isn’t actually mine,’ Bartlemy murmured, but the inspector held to his train of thought.
‘Grayling isn’t much of a one for history and culture,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for the classic movie villain, right? Sinister type with very big bucks and an art collection no one ever gets to see. I have to say, most of the super-rich around here like to show off their paintings, at least to their chums; no point in having them otherwise. They collect for status, not pleasure. The Grail’s a little obscure for them.’
Bartlemy made an affirmative noise.
‘Myself, I’ve only come up against Purlieu-Smythe once before,’ Pobjoy resumed after a pause. ‘Another kid. Not quite like our Ram and Ginger, though. Poor little rich boy wanted for stealing a car, even though Daddy has four and Mummy two. Beat up a girl about a year ago, but someone talked her out of going to court. The boy’s a nasty little psycho in the making. Not yet eighteen.’
‘And the father?’ Bartlemy queried. ‘I assume it was he who employed the lawyer.’
‘Respectable,’ said Pobjoy. ‘Squeaky-clean businessman, plenty of good works, pillar-of-the-community image.’
‘Highly suspicious, in fact,’ said Bartlemy with a faint smile.
Pobjoy read few novels, but he took the point. ‘Real life isn’t much like thrillers,’ he said. ‘Pillars of the community are usually stuffy, but …’
‘Upright?’
‘Yeah. Just one point: he’s a publisher. Educational books, art, that sort of thing. He might have heard of the Grail.’
‘His name?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you that.’
Bartlemy offered the policeman another biscuit.
‘Hackforth. Giles Hackforth. The company’s called Pentacle Publishing.’
‘A long-established firm,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Very reputable. So … we can infer that Hackforth is a cultured man, who might well have an interest in local antiquities, and the folklore that accompanies them.’
Pobjoy nodded. ‘I’d say you were imagining things,’ he went on, ‘if it wasn’t for Purlieu-Smythe. But lawyers like him don’t do charity work. There has to be a connection with someone, and Hackforth seems to be your best bet. I don’t see what we can do about it, though. Suspicion isn’t evidence.’
‘As you say. However, all information is valuable. Is there anything more you can tell me about him?’
Pobjoy hesitated. ‘Your nephew, Nathan Ward …’ There was a certain constraint in his manner. He was still uncomfortable at the mention of Nathan’s name, not least because in his view any individual, once suspected, was suspect forever, and he found it hard to change his mindset.
‘What about him?’ Bartlemy’s tone, as always, was mild.
‘I heard he was at Ffylde Abbey. Scholarship boy.’
‘Yes.’
‘So’s the problem child. Damon Hackforth. Should have thought they’d expel him, but apparently not. I expect Daddy’s buying the school a new wing or something.’
‘Ffylde Abbey is fundamentally a religious institution, remember. Perhaps they feel they cannot abandon the stray lamb – they want to bring him back to the fold.’
The inspector, cynical from experience, made a sound something like a snort.
‘Don’t dismiss the possibility,’ Bartlemy said. ‘I’ve seen things that would surprise you.’ And, on a note of irony: ‘You do not know the power of the light side.’
But Pobjoy missed the allusion. ‘I ought to be going,’ he said, finishing his tea. The biscuit plate was empty.
‘Next time,’ Bartlemy said, ‘you must stay to lunch.’
Nathan was accustomed to his uncle’s cooking, but habit didn’t take the edge off his appetite. He, Hazel and their friend George Fawn were devouring roast lamb with teenage
