Table of Contents

- Dedication

- 1. Unhealthy relations

- 2. The conference

- 3. The Gilderdyke case

- 4. Foxholes

- 5. Spalding

- 6. The dig

- 7. The escape

- 8. A hitch

- 9. Caught hopping

- 10. Serial killer

- 11. Babs chu

- 12. Deterioration

- 13. The options

- 14. Easier said than done

- 15. An evil twist

- 16. A message from babs chu

- 17. A fresh lead

- 18. Enquire within

- 19. The game is afoot

- 20. First contact

- 21. Freshers' week

- 22. Incommunicado

- 23. Heading south

- 24. Another mishap

- 25. No word as yet

- 26. Decision time

- 27. The mountain trek

- 28. A welcome return

- 29. A worrying time

- 30. The Evening of the Arrival

- 31. The chapel

- 32. After the departure

- 33. The Wake

- 34. The long trail north

- 35. An urgent meeting

- 36. The first test

- 37. A vexing problem

- 38. The guests

- 40. A shocking realization

- 41. Subdued

- 42. The cavalry arrives

- 43. Shu'la beland

- 44. The return

Whisperings of Love

By Etienne de L'Amour

Book 9 in the Shadowlands series.

Copyright © 2010, 2012 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition: November 2010

First edition for Kindle: 25 February 2012

Minor typographical fixes: 26 December 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

Front cover image: Whisperings of Love (1889) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905).

Dedication

We are like the fish in one of Idries Shah's stories

who went around asking, “What is water?”

They could not perceive it, even though it was

not only all around them, but within them also.

1. Unhealthy relations

Frederick Grimshaw paused for a moment at the rickety old wooden gate, momentarily glancing at the pigeons and the starlings squabbling at the old bird table. These rodents of the sky didn't give the twittering sparrows and tits a look in, but they soon took to the sky in fright when they spotted his approach, seeing him for what he was and recognizing his lofty station in the pecking order. This was more than might be said for the masses of his own blighted species, the new dominant rodents on the block who, for many intents and purposes beneath that gossamer-thin veneer of civilization, still lived in some palaeolithic age.

Straightened his brightly coloured kipper tie, he pushed open the squeaky gate and entered the oh-so-tidy garden, remembering as an after-thought to politely close the gate behind him. Then, pulling back his shoulders, he strode confidently up the short garden path. He paused again, about to pull the cord on the doorbell to announce his arrival, when the lace curtains in the bay window by the door twitched and a familiar face poked her head out to see who it was. For a moment, the occupant's face looked puzzled, even suspiciously, at him; then a realization clearly dawned on her and the suspicion abruptly changed to a welcoming grin before the face disappeared and the curtains fell back into place. The curtains next door were twitching, too, and Frederick pulled up his collar and turned his head away.

Again straightening his tie and with a suitably broad smile on his own face, he waited as the patter of slippered feet approached and the door opened.

“Hello there!” lilted the dumpy little woman, smiling radiantly and offering him a hug.

Though not one for sentimental scenes, he dutifully lent down and kissed her cheek. “Hello, Aunt Maud.”

“My, that's a bobby-dazzler,” she remarked, dabbing at his tie with her podgy finger. “Oh, it's so good to see you, Frederick, and after all these years. When I first saw you, I nearly had a turn: you've certainly grown, but you're so like your father. I thought it was him for a minute.”

“Aunt Maud, you're looking as good as ever. It's lovely to see you, too.”

“As good as ever," she laughed. "I think you're pulling my leg, Frederick. I'm no spring chicken, as you can see.”

“Yes, eighty years young and still going strong. I hope you got the card I sent on your big day.”

Aunt Maud stroked her greasy, thinning grey hair and thought. “Not that I recall, Frederick.”

He looked aggrieved. “Oh really? I sent a card and a big box of chocolates. Are you sure?”

“No, I'm quite sure,” she replied adamantly. “I may be getting on a bit, but my memory for such things is still tickety-boo. Now let me think. I distinctly remember getting a new pinny from your sister, Claire; a leather handbag from Wilfred and Alice; a cultured pearl necklace from Joe; and ....”

“Oh, Aunt Maud, I am so sorry,” he commiserated to divert her flow. “You know, a lot of things seem to go missing in the post these days.”

Aunt Maud heaved a sigh. “Yes, I expect you're right, Frederick. I don't know what the world's coming to these days, I really don't. And thank you all the same: it's the thought that counts. Anyway, let's not stand in the hallway. Come in, come in and I'll put the kettle on.”

He followed his aunt through to the kitchen and helped with the cups and saucers as she brought out her best bone china. “A new handbag, you say, Aunt Maud? I hope you don't carry much money around with you,” he queried, expressing concern. “I don't know about Arberry, but where I am in Newthorpe, muggings are rife.”

“Oh, there's not a great deal of crime around here, Frederick; though having said that, when I was a girl, you could leave your door open, which is something you can't do these days. Even the chapels are locked up when they're not in use. Now where was I?”

“The handbag,” he prompted.

“Milk?”

“Yes, please.”

Aunt Maud poured a little milk in each cup.

“Milk goes in after the tea, Aunt Maud,” he corrected her. “Though with coffee, you pour the milk in first so as not to scald the beans, which gives it an unduly bitter taste.”

“Sorry. Silly me. Where did you say I was?”

“The handbag,” he repeated, growing a little impatient by now.

“Oh yes, well to put your mind at rest, Frederick, I only carry a little cash with me when I'm off to town. I have meagre needs these days and I'm not one to be enticed into spending beyond my means.”

“That's wise, Aunt Maud,” he nodded seriously.

Aunt Maud poured the boiling water in the tea pot, gave it a quick stir and put the woollen cosy on to keep it warm, then rummaged in the cupboard to find the biscuits.

“If I were you,” he suggested helpfully, “I'd keep it in a bank where it's safe and earning interest.”

“In a bank?” his aunt queried, pooh-poohing such an idea. “Oh no, Albert – bless his soul – Albert was adamant that we should never trust banks. In the Great Depression, his father lost everything come the Crash. No, I keep it safe in a box under the bed. It may not be earning interest, but at least it won't be lost.”

He offered his arms. “Here, let me take that tray, Aunt Maud. You go and sit yourself down and I'll carry it through.”

“Right you are, Frederick. These legs are getting old and I'm a little unsteady on my feet,” she smiled, patting his shoulder affectionately. “You're good to your dear old aunt. I could do with someone like you around the house.”

“You'll have to get yourself a toy boy,” he called after her as she disappeared in the direction of the living room, but she didn't hear him.

They sat and chatted for a good few minutes over the tea, biscuits and the all-pervading smell of much too much cheap furniture polish, then Frederick rose to his feet. “Do you mind if I use the loo, Aunt Maud?” he begged. “The tea seems to have run straight through me.”

“Of course you may, Frederick. No need to ask. It's the second on the left at the top of the stairs.”

He laughed. “Last time I was here, you had an old wooden cubicle at the end of the back garden.”

“Oh, that went years ago, Frederick,” his aunt told him as he headed for the door. “One of the neighbours complained to the council – claiming it had a leak and was insanitary. So they sent a man in a suit round and he had it condemned. Anyhow, I finally persuaded your Uncle Albert to have a toilet put in upstairs.”

Uncle Albert had been rather staid in his ways and slow to get around to jobs about the house.

“And hot running water, too,” Frederick remarked as he re-entered the room a few minutes later, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You've got all the mod cons, Aunt Maud.”

His aunt nodded earnestly. “Yes, they talk about the good old days, and to an extent that's true, but those were hard times, Frederick, and it was character building. People have things altogether too easy these days.”

He took the last home-baked biscuit and drained his cup, then rose to his feet again, standing there for a moment wringing his hands, anxious to be away.

“Oh, surely you're not off already are you, Frederick?” his aunt protested mildly. “You're welcome to have dinner with me and stay as long as you like.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Aunt Maud, but this is just a flying visit. I'm on the way to the city and I broke my journey here.”

Aunt Maud rose to her feet and he gave her the obligatory hug, then picked up his haversack and headed for the door. He lingered for a moment on the doorstep saying his farewells, and gave his aunt a gentle kiss on the cheek, then he was away.

His aunt looked a little sad to see him go, but Frederick was happy enough. He'd got what he came for, he smiled to himself, patting his jacket pocket which was bulging with bank notes which he'd taken right under the nose of the stupid old bat. The notes were as crisp as they were the day they were printed and still had that distinctive smell of ink. Well, the cash was only going to waste. He'd probably have received a share of the money when she finally popped her clogs, so it really wasn't such a crime taking it from her now, and the old biddy would be none the wiser.

Maud gave one final wave as Frederick disappeared into the distance and hobbled back down the garden path, closing the door behind her. She had to answer the call of nature herself and trudged up the stairs. It was getting too much for her old legs these days and sometimes she wished she still had the old outside loo. Sometime soon, she'd have to ask Joe and Mary, her next door neighbours, if they'd mind moving her bed downstairs into the back room. What happened after that, heaven only knew. If fortune smiled on her, perhaps she'd pass away peacefully in her sleep? The alternative prospect, such as vegetating in a nursing home, did not bear thinking about.

As she reached the head of the stairs on the way back down, Maud noticed that her bedroom door was closed. She always left it open just a fraction to keep the room aired, without letting too much cold into the passage. It was one of Albert's daily rituals.

Maud opened the door and looked around the bedroom. Out of habit, she checked under the bed. Well, the old tin box was still there. But then again, she noticed that it was just a little too far under the bed. It was just too far for her to reach without a struggle, given how stiff her old knees were.

When she finally retrieved the old biscuit box and managed to get the lid off, what she saw inside told the whole story. She had no idea how much money was in the box, but she did know that it should be two thirds full. Half of the money had gone missing, and it was all too obvious who'd stolen it. Frederick. From an early age he'd been a troublesome lad, and now he had clearly grown into a callous thief.

Maud shook her head in despair. All the lad had to do was ask and she'd gladly have given him the money. And for herself, losing some money was no great shakes. But if he'd do this despicable thing once to her, he'd do it again, and other folk would get hurt. So there was only one thing for it, really. Frederick had to be stopped. She would go next door this minute and borrow their phone to call the police. Ah, but first things first. Maud went to the old chest beneath her bedroom window and rummaged inside. Yes, there it was. She brought out the leather-bound photograph album and hunted through until she found what she was looking for. Taking the photograph out, she slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan. It was a very old picture of Ainsley, of course, but anyone seeing it could not help but see the resemblance between Frederick and his dear departed father.

She'd descended the stairs to put on her hat and coat and briefly turned round to brush her hair in the mirror when she had such a start. There in the doorway of the living room loomed a figure. Maud turned around.

“Frederick,” she gasped.

“Going somewhere?” he asked with no trace of pleasantry or compassion in his voice. “I wonder where? Now let me guess ….”

She thought fast. “I just realized that I'm running short of milk and sugar, so I'm popping out to the shop, Frederick. What brings you back? Had second thoughts? You're welcome to stay the night.”

Frederick stepped purposefully over to the front door, leaving the lingering reek of stale aftershave and sweat in his wake. He turned the key in the lock and pocketed the key.

“I don't think so, Aunt Maud.”

“Why, Frederick. What are you doing? What's come over you?” By now she was quite flustered.

“Half way down the road, I realized that I'd made a mistake,” the man told her, matter of factly.

She put on a smile and waved her hands in the air. “If it's the money, you're welcome to your share of it ....”

The man nodded slowly. “Yes, a sixth sense told me that my deed would be – had been – discovered.”

This sixth sense was something that went back in their family for generations. “No matter. You're here now. Perhaps you might apologize and the matter will be forgotten?”

Frederick shook his head, clearly not taken in by her. “No, Aunt Maud. You're saying that, but I can sense that you don't mean it. I'm sorry, Aunt, but I really can't let you turn me in to the police. You see, I'm on the run and I can't allow anything, nor anyone to stand in my way.”

Aunt Maud was frightened by his chilling words, but also greatly saddened. “You know, Frederick, at the time I couldn't understand why your father should refuse to initiate you into the family tradition. Though you were something of a wayward soul even as a child, I always gave you the benefit of the doubt and trusted that you'd grown out of your foolishness. But now I can see why, and I can see the error of my own ways in not having realized sooner that you are and will always remain nothing more than a heartless scoundrel.”

“Nice speech, Aunt Maud,” Frederick smiled back at her, giving her a derisive, slow hand clap. “If it's any consolation, you're right on the button, as ever … not that it will make the slightest difference. I am indeed a hopeless cause.”

Then Frederick's tone abruptly turned to anger. “Do you want to know my father's last words as I stood and watched him die? Yes, I could have passed him his medicine and, yes, I could have called an ambulance. He lay there gasping for breath and rather than beg for my help, or offer words of contrition for all he put me through, or forgiveness for what I did to him – which might well have saved his life, I might add – all he had was venom for me, calling me an accursed abomination, and damning me for all eternity. He sealed his own fate with those foul words.”

There were tears filling Maud's eyes now. “I grant you, your father could be a hard man, Frederick, I'm not so foolish that I don't realize that.”

Frederick shrugged his shoulders. “Such is life, Aunt Maud. Such is life.”

“You know, it's never too late to turn your life around, Frederick,” his aunt remarked in vain, but he wasn't listening any more. The voice in his head was once again loudly demanding that he do its bidding. And if he refused, then he would not be given a minute's peace.

He placed his haversack on the ground and slowly came toward Aunt Maud. She backed away, but on he came. As he stretched out his hands and grasped her by the throat, she fainted and fell to the ground, and that is the last she knew; which is a blessing really.

2. The conference

Rosalie Muller sighed a deep but diplomatically-private sigh. It had been a mentally challenging and emotionally draining session that afternoon – well, the whole confounded weekend had taken its toll on the delegates, to tell the truth. A distinct lack of joined up thinking, and the bureaucratic machinations of narrow-minded pedants: those were the words that, for her at least, best summed up the proceedings; patient, charitable, amenable and affable as Rosalie most usually was. It would have seemed farcical were the outcome less tragic. Had Tenzing been there, it would been an altogether different matter, of course, because the director had such an energising and at times commanding presence, and such a skilled and penetrating wit, but he had been mysteriously called away on what the greybeards in their wisdom deemed more important – or at least more pressing – business, and she'd been flung into the arena as his deputy at a moment's notice, so embarrassingly naïve and ill-prepared.

Rosalie gathered up the papers scattered in front of her on the old oak conference table. There were almost as many hastily scribbled notes in the wide margins of the documents as typed text. Well, at least nobody could accuse her of not paying attention to detail. Pocketing her beloved fountain pen, she struggled to her feet and headed out of the medieval hall in the direction of the bar, her stomach beginning to gurgle at the prospect of good food which wafted up the corridor from the kitchens. A last supper had been laid on for the weary delegates and she was also in need of a stiff brandy. Indeed, in spite of being almost teetotal, perhaps two or three. Hang the consequences.

The proceedings had gone on far longer than she had hoped and the sooner she was back at the study centre, Foxholes, the better. But being so late in the day now, it looked like she'd have to stay over another night and head back home early the next morning. The conference had been held in Gothgoria, to the west, this year and it would take her a good three hours to reach the border with the Freelands; another five or six before she reached the metropolis, Sher Point, and a further hour negotiating her way through the city and to Foxholes which lay the other side of the river Dee on the city's outskirts. All being well, that would mean she'd arrive by about teatime the next day, or maybe early evening if she took a detour to have lunch at her favourite teahouse just outside Bidewell. There was no finer, nor more indulgent, raspberry and apple pie in the land, topped with lashings of freshly whipped cream.

Rosalie didn't sleep at all well that night, which was also quite uncharacteristic of her. Usually, after her nightly meditation, her mind would be cleared of the previous day's debris and, unless the mattress was lumpy, she'd fall into a peaceful slumber. But not that night. After turning in, she found herself going over and over the events of the conference; and it appeared that almost as soon as she must finally have dozed off, having worn herself out, the blessèd alarm clock sounded, jarring her nerves until, unable to stand the din any longer, she threw the bedclothes back, forced herself up, and stormed across the bedroom to the dressing table to silence the blasted contraption.

Still a little out of sorts with herself after taking a hot shower and getting dressed, Rosalie packed her suitcase and headed downstairs to the dining room to get a much needed pot of tea and stoke the boilers with a light breakfast ahead of the day's journey. Rosalie must have been the first up that morning and, expecting that she would be too early for the kitchen staff, she had asked the waiter if she might have some cereal, but ever eager to please and in spite of her protestations that she did not want to inconvenience them or throw their routines into disarray, Anton had insisted that if Madam would forgive a short delay, he would ensure that the staff prepared her something more substantial. He was such a gentle soul, for whom nothing was too much trouble, no matter how busy he might be and most frequently was.

Breakfast back home in suburbia was a rather light and gentile affair, but here in Gothgoria where most work was still of a manual, agricultural or industrial nature, breakfast was a far more grand and solemn affair. Every portion was super-sized, inevitably fried, grilled or toasted and purposefully high in calories. Peering out of the dining room window at the murky weather, she saw that the once-regal roses in the gardens were looking distinctly grey and bedraggled. Nevertheless, she thought, with a long drive ahead of her, though her stomach might groan at the burden, she would no doubt be glad of the meal.

By the time breakfast arrived, many of the delegates having left the day before, the other stragglers began to enter the dining room. Not yet fully awake and hence a little reticent to socialize, Rosalie was hoping that her presence at the tiny table, tucked away in a corner of the room might go unnoticed; but no, one of the other delegates, a rather rotund lady who was not backward in coming forward, caught Rosalie's eye and made a bee-line for her table.

“Good morning,” the woman lilted as she approached. “Mind if I join you, Missus Muller?”

Rosalie smiled and even before she'd nodded her head and returned the greeting, the woman had drawn back one of the chairs and plonked herself down. The woman's name was on the tip of Rosalie's tongue, but for the life of her she couldn't recall it, though she would never forget that awful perfume.

“Gladys Penbury,” the woman introduced herself, perhaps sensing her difficulty.

Of course. “Rosalie Muller,” she again smiled and nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“So what brings you to the conference, Rosalie?” the woman asked. “How do you fit into the big picture, as it were?”

Rosalie thought for a moment. “Well, I don't know so much about the big picture, Gladys. I'm just one of Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen's deputies.”

Gladys raised her eyebrows appreciatively and spoke effusively. “Oh, really. Mister Rinchen is a lovely man – what I've seen and read of him. It must be wonderful to work with him. My, I do envy you. So you're based in the Freelands?”

Rosalie finished a piece of fried bread and washed it down with a sip of lukewarm tea. “Oh, forgive me. Would you like to share my tea while you're waiting?” she enquired, motioning toward the pot. There was a woollen tea cosy on the pot, so it would still be quite warm.

The woman raised her palms, as if fending off the offer. “No, no: you finish that; I'm sure the waiter will get round to me soon enough.”

“In answer to your question: yes, I'm based at Tenzing's study centre at Foxholes, not far from Sher Point.”

“Lovely,” the woman smiled. Then she reached across the table. “Actually, I am a little famished. I think it's anticipation from the tempting aromas emanating from the kitchen. So if that toast is going begging ...”

Rosalie put down the tea pot and passed the toast rack to her. “Certainly, be my guest. Sure you wouldn't like a cuppa?”

Gladys grinned mischievously. “Oh, go on then, let's be a devil. You've twisted my arm. I'm quite a tea belly, to tell the truth, Rosalie.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Oh, yes please. Three sugars.”

Yes, Rosalie had a hunch that Missus Penbury wouldn't be one to stint herself on the sugar. Less than two was for those with diabetes or on a diet. She had three or four written all over her.

The remaining toast had already been devoured and the woman was looking round, hoping to catch Anton's attention. “I say, I say ... Yoo hoo! Waiter ... if you please, my good man.”

“Two moments, Madam,” Anton smiled, before turning his attention back to his current clients.

“Oh really,” Missus Penbury hissed at her. “A lady could die of starvation.”

“So, what do you think of the wave of austerity that is sweeping through the Free World?” Rosalie enquired, in a bid to distract the woman. The New Austerity had been the major theme of the conference this year, and surprisingly it was something that had deeply divided many of the delegates.

At that moment, Anton arrived to take the woman's order, so it was a little while before she made her reply.

Gladys straightened herself up, with her nose in the air, as if ready to deliver a speech. “Well, Rosalie, what is happening is inevitable, really. People's aspirations and a false sense of entitlement have been far too high for too long. Far too many of the hoi polloi have been living way beyond their means on the never never.”

“The never never?” Rosalie enquired.

“On credit, my dear. During the good years, most could just about keep their heads above water; but as soon as their circumstances took a turn for the worse it left more and more quite unable to maintain their repayments. These bad debts led to the collapse or near collapse of the financial institutions that serviced these loans; which in turn weakened those dependent upon the financial institutions; and eventually bail outs by government treasuries very nearly bankrupted the countries.”

Rosalie vigorously disagreed. “No, no, Missus Penbury, I don't buy that at all. It all began when governments, financial institutions and advertisers started encouraging folk to live way beyond their means. It is they who should shoulder the blame and the responsibility more than those who bought into the madcap dream.”

The woman passed no comment, and went on undeterred, perhaps not even hearing what Rosalie had to say. “And now, everyone will have to tighten their belts if we are to recoup the vast amounts that this has cost the governments.”

Again Rosalie shook her head, though she knew it was in vain. “The money should be recouped by taxing those who engineered the bubbles that burst, not the ones who took a drenching when those bubbles burst.”

“The coffers are near-empty, Rosalie, and the money has to come from somewhere in the short and medium term.”

“And in the long term?”

“In the short term, the man in the street will have to downsize both financially and aspirationally. For a time it was considered a major faux pas to talk about class rather than equality, but at last and thank the Good Lord, the tide has turned, my dear. Everyone wants to be a celebrity or a big success or a chief, replete with all the trappings of apparent success, whether or not they've truly earned them; and nobody wants to roll their sleeves up and muck out the donkeys any more. You simply can't run a viable civilization on that top heavy and hence unstable basis. We're in this for the long haul, so like it or not, people will have to hunker down and get used to the New Austerity; indeed for most of the great unwashed and idle, until austerity becomes their way of life.”

“This will hurt a great many people.”

“Rosalie, this is the only viable option before us. And yes, alas, it will be a matter of sink or swim. The era of the free ride is over my dear, and the riffraff will simply have to shape up or ship out, as the saying goes.”

The woman wore her sympathy the way she did that slightly putrid perfume. Some people were unaware of the basics: that one applied perfume after having bathed, and not instead of a good wash. “Forgive me, Missus Penbury, but I find that offensive.”

“I'm sorry if that's how you feel, Rosalie, but I'm just being realistic ... taking into account the fact that the governments are not being frank with us about the true scale and depth of the crises that have befallen us. Whilst they publicly report that they are quietly optimistic about the economy, Rosalie, their unpublished prognosis is dire. Unfortunate as it may be, this is how it is, and we have to live with the necessity if civilization as we know and love it is not to perish, to be replaced by the most vile anarchy and the depravity that such anarchy would bring in its wake.”

Gladys Penbury was clearly on a roll. “The governments are stuck between a rock and a hard place. Were they to reveal the truth, there would be mass social unrest; and yes, if they push through new legislation to begin to rectify the situation, they face mass social unrest. So the deciding factor is simply which option will bring about true, lasting and necessary change.”

Rosalie eventually managed to break eye contact. She glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. “Well, it's been good talking to you, Missus Penbury, but time presses and I have a long drive ahead of me. Take care of yourself.” She held out her arm, curtly shook hands, then picking up her suitcase, she headed for the car park out through the side door, still shaking her head at what she had heard. Heaven help us, she mumbled to herself. She was going to say “Heaven help us if people like that ever rose to power”, but for the fact that they already had.

Rosalie had noticed as she slowly scrunched her way down the gravel driveway of the venue and turned onto the country lane that the car's steering felt a little strange, but it wasn't until she was some way down the narrow winding lane under the great canopy of horse chestnut trees that she realized that something was definitely amiss. Getting out to have a look, she found that the right front tyre was indeed flat. Faced with the choice of a mile long trudge back up the incline to the country house or fitting the spare, she stepped out of the car and hurriedly pulled on her coat to shield her against the cold, wet wind blowing up the valley. One thing about the rain, after it eventually stopped, it did make everything smell so alive and earthy, and make one feel more in touch with nature.

Rosalie went around to open the boot, got the jack, heaved out the heavy spare wheel and rolled it round to the front of the car. She soon had the car up on the jack, but with the fateful words “so far, so good” still echoing in her head, when she came to remove the rusty nuts securing the wheel, she found that two of the four simply refused to budge, despite her best efforts.

“Hello there, dear lady,” called a voice and she turned to see a ruddy-faced chap coming down the hill toward her with a spring in his step. He had a heavy coat on and an unfurled umbrella, but his trousers looked sodden. “I see you're having a spot of bother.”

More dash and bother and vulgar expletives, Rosalie growled to herself.

She drew a deep breath, got up off her haunches and turned to greet him. “Yes, I have a flat tyre and – try as I might – I can't undo the nuts. They seem to have locked solid with rust.”

“Perhaps I might lend a hand?” the man enquired as he approached, unslinging his haversack. “Here, you take the umbrella or you'll get drenched in this fine drizzle.”

The man got down on his haunches and examined the nuts closely, then had a go with the wheel wrench, to no avail, at length standing up.

“Would you have such a thing as oil, dear lady?” he enquired. “Penetrating oil preferably; otherwise whatever you have to-hand.”

She went back round to the boot, and when she'd finally managed to get it open – it having a will of its own and she not knowing the correct magical invocation – she opened the lid of the tool box and rummaged around inside. Sure enough there was a small can of oil in there. It was Tenzing's old car and as they made long and frequent trips out in the wilds to Narayana, miles away from garages, as she had expected he had thought of everything.

“Is this any use to you?” she enquired.

“Just the ticket,” beamed the man, taking the oil can from her. He bent down, took off the cap and dribbled the oil around the offending nuts; then he waited for a few moments whilst the oil penetrated the threads.

Rosalie heard the beep-beep of a car horn behind her and got off the road, out of the way. It was the sort of beep that chirped “cooey, I say!” rather than bellowed “shift yer arse, sister!”

It was Gladys Penbury. “Are you in trouble, Rosalie?” the woman asked, reaching over and winding down the window on the passenger side.

“No problem, thank you, Missus Penbury. I had a flat tyre, but this gentleman kindly stopped to help out. I'm sure I'll be back on the road quite soon.”

Missus Penbury peered over her half-moon spectacles and out through the window, and she gave the man a wave. “Jolly good. Well, see you again some time. Take care.”

“And you,” Rosalie smiled, though admittedly more out of habit than genuine pleasure.

“Are you far from home, then, dear lady?” the man enquired, once Gladys Penbury had driven on.

“A few hundred miles. I live near Sher Point in the Freelands, and I was at the country house up the hill attending a conference.”

“I see. Anyway, let's see if the oil has done the trick.”

Sure enough, though not without a good deal of exertion on his part, the remaining nuts were freed and within minutes the spare wheel was on, and the old wheel was in the boot.

“Oh well done, thank you so much,” she congratulated the man and went into the car to retrieve her suede leather purse. “Perhaps I might repay you?”

The man would have none of it.

“Then at least let me give you a lift. One good turn deserves another. Are you local?”

“No, I'm a good hundred miles from home myself, as it happens.”

“Then perhaps I might take you a few miles down the road. Where are you heading?”

He stood there with his hands eagerly clasped together. “As fortune would have it, dear lady, you're going my way. You see, I'm hoping to make it to the Freelands.”

“I see,” she replied, trying not to let her hesitancy show. “Well, take off your wet coat and hop in and we'll discuss this as we drive.”

Rosalie shook the umbrella, careful not to let it flip inside out in the wind; closed it up and passed it back to him when he'd removed his coat. “And thank you for the use of your umbrella. That was also rather gallant of you.”

Once they were settled in the car, she offered the man her hand. “I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Rosalie Muller.”

The man took her hand and for a moment seemed like he was going to give it a genteel kiss, then shook it gently. “Mackenzie Centhorn at your service, Rosalie. Since it's a bit of a mouthful, most simply call me Mac.”

“Mac it is, then," she smiled in agreement. "Well, fasten your seat belt and we'll be off.”

He hesitated for a moment. “You're sure I'm not inconveniencing you, Rosalie?”

“Not at all. As I say, we'll discuss the matter on the way. Getting to the border is the easy part and it's no skin off my nose whatsoever, apart from the fact that I'm sure I'll enjoy your company ...”

“Likewise, I'm sure, dear lady.”

“However, as I'm sure you're aware, Mac, actually getting across the border, without the correct paperwork is no trivial task.”

Mac nodded gravely. “So I am led to believe.”

“All the same, do not despair: we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“You've done this sort of thing before?”

Rosalie was about to say yes, but thought better of it. “There are ways and means of getting across, Mac, if you know the right people.”

He nodded. “Yes, again Rosalie, so I am led to believe.”

Mac patted the pocket of his tweed jacket. “I'm no millionaire, but I came with enough to lubricate the works and get me across.”

Rosalie negotiated a difficult hairpin bend in the lane before briefly turning in Mac's direction. “If you're thinking you might bribe the border guards, Mac, I would think again. That's one of the surest ways to end up in detention before finally being deposited back over the border. Leave the matter with me and, though not being in a position to promise anything, I'll see what I can arrange for you.”

“You know people who'll help?” It was more a statement than a question.

She thought for a moment, not willing to be pressed on the matter. “Relax, Mac. Let's just say that I'll see what I can arrange, and leave it that.”

“Of course, Rosalie: I didn't mean to probe. Forgive me.”

“A few do it for love,” she continued; “the vast majority for money. And many are absolute scoundrels, extortionists or slave traders by any other name, and best avoided at all costs.”

“I leave the matter in your capable hands, dear lady,” Mac smiled genially. Then: “You mentioned a conference, Rosalie. Was your visit here worthwhile?”

“I represent an ... um... charitable foundation, Mac, and we meet with other charities and interested parties.”

“For what purpose, if I might ask?”

Well, the theme itself was no state secret, though she wasn't going to allow herself to be drawn much further than that.

“The theme of the conference this year was the New Austerity. Have you heard of it?”

Mac rolled his eyes. “I have, Rosalie. The New Austerity is a matter all-too-painfully close to my own heart. More than heard about it, dear lady, I have sorely felt its effects. Indeed, that is the very reason I find myself in such adverse circumstances and on the road bound for the Freelands.”

She laughed to herself, all the more so for picturing the man standing on the street with a violin and a hat to collect the coppers of appreciative passers-by. There was something a little theatrical about him. She mentally drew her hand down over her face to wipe the smile off her face. “Funny, Mac, I was just about to ask about that very matter. And forgive me, that's what I'm laughing about, not your own misfortune. So, please, do go on.”

Mac seemed to absorb this well enough. “No offence taken, Rosalie.”

“How have the recent measures affected you, Mac?” she enquired, interested in picking up a bit of first hand intelligence.

The man again turned and peered at her, as if to weigh-up her reactions. “It's a long story, dear lady, and the last thing I want would be to burden you ....”

“It's a three hour journey to the border, Mac, and I'm all ears,” she offered in all honesty.

“Well, if you get bored or offended, just yell out and I'll stop, Rosalie.”

“Once upon a time, I set up a milk processing plant, and when we'd got over the initial hurdles, business built up until we were booming. We set up more processing facilities and finally we went into the distribution business ourselves.”

“In order to do this, we took out a sizeable loan with a major bank. We thought we'd planned for everything, but we hadn't planned on the bubble bursting in the housing and financial markets.”

He actually went into a good deal of technical terminology, and Rosalie had to admit that most of this either flew over her head or went in one ear and straight out of the other, and his talking loudly to be heard over the engine didn't help; rather it gave her minor earache.

“People always need milk, surely?” she offered weakly, unable to come up with anything more profound. What she had actually sensed was that Mac had an inflated opinion of himself and that this had come as a blow to his ego, but of course this was not her place to voice such an opinion.

“True enough, dear lady; but when a major contract came up for renewal, our main customer, a grocery chain, attempted to blackmail us. They had put the contract out to auction, and whoever offered the lowest price on the milk was to win the contract. We had no option but to consider tightening our belts and putting in a lower price than we could comfortably afford. We were confident that we would thus win the contract, the alternative being to mothball some of our facilities and lay off staff. However, following some deceitful dealing which I won't go into, a competitor was granted the contract, and we immediately lost fifty percent of our sales. I know, I know: that's what happens when you put too many eggs in the same basket, but there you go. You live and learn; sometimes too late in the day.”

“Then came the bursting of the proverbial bubbles and the downward spiral into recession. At which point, feeling the squeeze themselves, the bank took advantage of some small print in a contract that we had signed with them. Under normal circumstances this would not have happened, but one of our admin staff had made an error and we had missed our monthly repayment by a week. The bank took advantage of this minor infraction and demanded immediate repayment of the whole of the loan they had given us. And, to cut a long story short, the knock-on effect of this was that we ended up insolvent, we went into liquidation, and in order to repay the creditors as the law of the land demanded, we had to sell the family home and move into a God-forsaken bedsit on a festering housing estate.”

The man paused for a moment to bring out a handkerchief and mop his brow after building up a full head of steam.

“Again, to cut a long and torrid story short, this placed a great strain on family life, culminating with my wife leaving me and taking the children with her. We went to bed one night, in separate rooms by that time, and in the morning when I went down for breakfast, I found a packet of cereal, a bowl and a note informing me that she and the boys had gone, taking the car, too. All I was left with were a few necessities and a pile of unpaid bills. I'd been giving the missus money to pay the household bills, but alas she'd either been squandering it or else saving it up for her great getaway.”

“And yet ... and yet, you know, I don't really blame her. I brought about our meteoric fall from grace, when all is said and done. Life must have been hell for her and for the boys. There were many who were gloating at the demise of our lofty ambitions. You know the thing: 'Hark! How the mighty have fallen'. People, and no less children, can be so cruel, you see. It was more than dear Elsie could take, indeed should have to take. She was quite fragile at the best of times, poor dear. And the boys, though more resilient, had a hard time and got into a few scuffles at school.”

“So the long and the short of the matter is: I either skedaddle to the Freelands and start my life over, or else next week I end up in court, and then undoubtedly get sent down to the debtors' prison or to the workhouse, above whose gates are allegedly written the words 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'.”

Rosalie shook her head sadly, not least because she was unable to offer anything suitable profound in response. “I really am sorry to hear of your woes, Mac. I hate to see a man down on his luck.”

“As I say, Rosalie, the last thing I want to do is to burden you with my affairs. Ten miles ... five miles ... one solitary mile further on down the road would be sufficient blessing. Perhaps more than I truly deserve ....”

“No matter, Mac. Please don't worry: we'll get you out of this mess one way or another. I should perhaps have pointed out earlier that those who assist people's passage into the Freelands for the love of it, rather than the money, have of necessity to carefully pick and choose whom they take on. However, given what you've told me, I shall put in a good word for you, so hopefully that will remove some of the burden of worry from your own shoulders.”

A wide, beaming smile creased Mac's face and he patted her gently on the shoulder. “You're too kind, dear lady. Too kind. Thank you.”

They spent the next couple of hours idly chatting, interspersed with quiet periods when both were content to relax and take in the scenery. It had stopped raining now and she wound down her window a little to savour the air and to demist the windscreen. Rosalie would normally have taken the western road and headed straight for the border, but Mac being on-board this necessitated a short detour to the north, so that she could call on a couple of friends and leave Mac with them for a few days whilst arrangements were made to transport the man across the border via more clandestine means. Just before they arrived, she brought Mac up to speed regarding what she proposed.

For a moment, Mac looked a little taken aback, then he brightened once more. “Forgive me, I clearly hadn't joined up the dots,” he apologized. “And I've so enjoyed your company, dear lady. I should have realized that there would be a parting of the ways for us.”

She let him into a little secret. “If all goes well, Mac, you'll be seeing me again in a week or two. I work at a study centre not far from Sher Point, and that is where you'll be taken once across the border. You'll spend a few months there, acclimatizing to the ways of the Freelanders, so that when you are again released into the community, you won't stand out like a sore thumb or find yourself lost in the complexities of modern, city life. Life in Sher Point is a world away from the ways of Gothgoria in so many respects.”

“Ah, I see! And the cost?”

“There is no cost to you, nor profit made from you: the study centre is funded by a charitable foundation with a few wealthy benefactors and a great many not-so-wealthy benefactors. However, of course residents are allocated basic cores, and donations are always welcome from those who are able to afford it.”

“Excellent. Well, I look forward to the weeks ahead with eager anticipation, Rosalie. And, quite clearly, I am in safe hands. I hadn't appreciated that you were so well connected.”

Rosalie bit her lip, thinking that perhaps she'd revealed too much. It was a dangerous business she was in. “I'm just one tiny face in a complex and elephantine organism," she offered, again biting her lip almost before the words were out. She'd said far too much already, she knew that, and yet she had been temporarily unable to stop herself blabbing.

“Mum's the word,” Mac assured her, tapping the side of his nose. “I will be the soul – indeed, the very epitome – of discretion.”

Amie was already standing there by the door as Rosalie drew the car up at the front of the house. It was a very quiet neighbourhood and their nearest neighbour was half a mile away in the village, known to locals as Sleepy Hollow, so if they heard a car, most likely it was the grocery van, the postman or a visitor. If it was a visitor, most likely it was someone from the Network on official business. And if the visit was unannounced, then like as not it was either important or urgent.

They got out of the car and approached the door. Rosalie marvelled at the riot of colour from a dozen and one varieties of freesia and the delightful scents that still filled the garden, even this late in the season; and not least she was in awe of Amie's horticultural skills.

“Hello there, Amie,” she lilted, glad to see the lady again. “I'm sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but I have a friend here. Amie, this is Mackenzie Centhorn. I know it's poor form on my part ...”

Amie smiled and gave a knowing nod.

She cocked her head to one side and completed her sentence. “... But could you please look after Mac for a day or two until we can get him across the border.”

Again Amie smiled, most likely at Rosalie's mention of a day or two, knowing full well just how flexible and stretchy the time scales could be. “No problem at all, Rosalie, and it's always good to see you. Please, do come in both of you and Gregory will entertain you while I go and brew a cup of tea.”

“Oh, thanks ever so.”

They carefully wiped their feet and followed Amie inside, down the plush hallway. “You won't have eaten ... can I offer you a sandwich?”

Rosalie was about to decline, thinking that she might still make it to her favourite tea-house that day, then changed her mind. She wanted to be back at Sher Point before it started coming in dark.

“If it's not too much trouble, Amie.”

“No trouble at all, Rosalie.”

“Then yes, thank you,” they both nodded in unison.

“Gregory?”

A face popped out of a doorway and Gregory, a tall, thin man in his mid-forties, strode eagerly down the hallway to greet them.

“Rosalie!” he beamed, “how good to see you. And welcome to your gentleman friend, too. Come in, come in and sit down.”

“Gregory,” he introduced himself.

“Mackenzie Centhorn,” Rosalie offered.

“Please to meet you, Mackenzie.”

“Hello Gregory. Good to meet you, too. The name's a bit of a mouthful, so just call me Mac.” Then, “I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your second name.”

They never used surnames, for safety's sake. What the head doesn't know, the heart won't grieve, as they saying went.

Gregory merely smiled. He came forward and shook Mac's hand enthusiastically, gave Rosalie a warm hug, then guided them through to the spacious front lounge. The lounge was dominated by a magnificent ornate stone fireplace with clever niches, that Gregory had himself built.

“You sit yourselves down and I'll be with you in just a moment after I've poked a bit more life into the fire and put on a fresh log. It's been a bit on the nippy side this week. That's the ticket: don't stand on ceremony, pull the chairs closer to the hearth and make yourselves at home. Then when Amie returns with the tea pot, we can have a natter. If you'd prefer something stronger than a cup of tea, just help yourself at the cocktail cabinet. What's ours is yours.”

Rosalie and Mac exchanged glances. “Not for us, thanks, Gregory, but would you like a drink?”

Gregory crouched by the fire and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well ...”

“A double whiskey?” Rosalie enquired.

Again the man scratched his chin.

“I'll take that to mean 'yes',” she laughed.

“Oh go on then, you've twisted my arm. Just this once,” he smiled back.

She was about to enquire how many times she'd heard that one before, but thought better of it.

At that moment, Amie re-emerged with plates of sandwiches. “Gregory needs no encouragement, Rosalie,” she smiled, taking in the scene. “Anyhow, don't wait for us, just tuck in. I'll be back in a minute with a pot of tea.”

Amie and Gregory played the good host, but with a stranger in their company, there were things that they couldn't discuss, so for the most part conversation was light. However, in spite of protestations about being a guest, Amie did allow Rosalie to help her clear up the debris after lunch, and they had a private natter in the kitchen over the washing up. Out here there was no gas supply, so they cooked over a magnificent old black wood-fuelled range that had been in the family for generations. Amie was ever eager to hear her periodic updates about the coming, goings and goings on at Foxholes, and she in turn would later relay the news to Gregory.

All too soon, however, it was time for Rosalie to move on. She glanced at the chiming clock on the shelf over the hearth and rose to her feet. “Well, I'm sorry friends, but I'm going to have to love you and leave you, though I promise I'll be back to see you again. And of course I'll be seeing you again in a week or so, Mac. I have a long drive ahead of me and I want to get back to Sher Point before it comes in dark, as I don't so much like driving at night when it's wet. I had to borrow the Director's old car whilst my own is being serviced, and the windscreen wipers have been playing up on me. I've been nagging Tenzing for years about trading in his car for a newer model, especially given the long journeys he frequently makes to Narayana, and at length he met me half way, hanging onto his old banger 'in case of emergencies' such as this.”

“Want me to have a look?” Gregory offered, rising from the sofa.

“No, thanks all the same, Gregory, I'd best be off. And thank you so much for everything.”

“You're welcome, as always,” Gregory replied, as Amie hovered there, ready to show them to the door. “And don't be a stranger. Next time you're through, perhaps you might break your journey here for a day or two? Amie and I would be only too happy to show you around the area. There are some wonderful walks, and a lovely public house in the village where we might eat, drink and make merry. And feel free to bring a friend. We have one or two guest bedrooms going begging.”

Not only two guest bedrooms, but luxurious four poster beds to-boot.

“Thank you, Gregory, you're very kind. Yes I'd like that very much. And any time you fancy a vacation in the Freelands, all you need do is call me or write. Living on my own, there's generally more room in the house than I can use.”

3. The Gilderdyke case

Lieutenant Examiner Hugo Foss arrived at work late again that day. He tossed his battered satchel down on the document-strewn desk and clicked on the limescale-encrusted kettle to make himself a third cup of coffee. His mug was looking a bit stained and banded, but he could see no mould, so that could wait.

“Morning, sir,” his sergeant greeted him, peering over the top of his morning newspaper.

“Jenkins,” he muttered back, without making eye contact. “Nothing better to do?”

“Sorry, sir.” Jenkins hurriedly folded up the newspaper and made a pretence of looking busy, though not fooling Foss for one minute.

He sniffed the air. “And what's that awful smell? Is it you, Jenkins or have you had a floozy in here?”

Jenkins frowned. “It's eau de cologne, sir. The wife got it for my birthday and I feel obliged to wear it.”

“Eau de cologne? It smells more like eau de toilette, if you ask me.”

Foss had worn himself out, and at his own admission had grown more than a tad irritable, working on the Gilderdyke case. He'd followed up any number of probable, possible and patently implausible leads and sightings and he was still no closer to catching the rat. The fact that Frederick Grimshaw and his wife had now vanished pretty much convinced Foss that he was the culprit, or at least a major player in the deception and fraud; but even if they did catch the man, little did Grimshaw know as yet, they had insufficient evidence to arrest and hold him, let alone take the case to trial. There were a hundred and one possibilities: that Grimshaw had been afraid that his wife might buckle under interrogation, or that still bigger fish intent on covering their own backs might have abducted or even murdered them, but of course at the end of the day all Foss had was lame conjecture and circumstantial evidence. And the captain, who was forever under pressure herself to improve the clear-up rate of her section, was growing ever more impatient and irritable.

Returning with his coffee, Foss picked up the tabloid newspaper from Jenkins' desk and idly flipped through the contents, casually lingering on page five for a few moments to enjoy the sight of today's buxom wench. That's about as good as the daily snoozepaper got.

He was about to close up the paper and toss it back in Jenkins' direction when he happened to notice a small photograph toward the bottom of page six. For a moment he was quite taken aback, and nearly choked on his coffee. At first glance, the image of the man in the photograph looked the spitting image of Frederick Grimshaw, and yet it couldn't be, for the photo was clearly very old. Nobody wore those irksome starched collars and bowler hats these days. Nevertheless, there was a distinct resemblance.

Draining his coffee, he made the appropriate guttural noises and, taking the hint, Jenkins dutifully came over to refill his mug.

“Page five, sir?” Jenkins ventured. “I'd always thought of you as more of a Daily Standard man.” The Daily Standard was one of the few quality newspapers still in print.

“Less of the cheek, Jenkins,” he scolded, thumping his finger on the newspaper. “Not page five, my man, but the bottom of page six.”

Jenkins came back from the kettle and peered over his shoulder.

“The murder at Spalding? A bit far off our beat, sir.”

Foss threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “The photograph, Jenkins. The photograph.”

Jenkins peered more closely and read the text. “So, some old dear has been strangled. And when police examined her body they found a photo of some old codger in her pocket.”

“Must you be so uncouth, Jenkins?”

“Upstairs they found a photograph album,” Foss continued, “from which the photo had apparently been taken; and an empty tin on her bed. The police believe that the tin may have contained money.”

Jenkins was clearly none the wiser. “Well, I'm sure it's very sad, sir. But what has that got to do with us?”

Foss folded the paper and held it out to Jenkins, who examined the short article more closely.

"Ah," the man said at last, as it dawned on him. “The gent in the photo does bear more than a passing resemblance to that Grimshaw chap ....”

“A good deal more, Jenkins. You should really be more observant, man.”

“But it's clearly a very old picture, sir. The chap will be long gone and pushing up the daisies by now.”

“There's a possibility that the two are relatives, Jenkins. Skip the coffee and get your coat. Find the captain and let her know we'll be away for a couple of days.”

Jenkins was dithering at the mention of the captain. “Away, sir?”

“Paying a call on the local plod at Spalding, Jenkins. We'll take your car.”

“I'll have to let the wife know, sir. It's our anniversary tomorrow. She'll go ballistic.”

Foss merely looked at Jenkins. “And so will the captain unless we get a result ....”

“Ah, right.”

“'Ah, right' indeed. Very well, Jenkins. We'll pick up spare clothes on the way, and you can have a few moments to make your apologies.”

“Right, sir.” Now the man didn't know which way to turn.

“Well, don't just stand there man, get on with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jenkins grabbed his car keys and coat and headed off in the direction of the captain's office with his tail already between his legs in worried anticipation, leaving Foss to help himself to a wee nip of brandy from the flask he had stashed at the back of the filing cabinet. He closed the drawer – then had second thoughts, retrieving the flask and pocketing it.

Spalding was way out of his jurisdiction, of course; but screw that, he was not going to blindly go without that other trusty sidekick: his pistol.

4. Foxholes

Rosalie made it back to Foxholes just before supper that evening; hungry and tired after the long drive. When she set foot inside the college, her first port of call, since Matron's office was shrouded in darkness, was the staff common room. She always felt slightly out of place and awkward after a spell away, all the more so after the long journeys to and from babs chu, the mountain retreat in Narayana. And then there was the worry that there might have been some crisis whilst she was away. Tenzing had been called away to babs chu, which was the reason she'd had to attend the conference in his stead, though of course he could be contacted within hours. There were no phones at babs chu, but they could always relay messages via Wilbur who had an amateur radio station at the town of Shakra on the central plains of Narayana. So Foxholes had been left in the eminently capable hands of Harold Grainger, Tenzing's number two. And then there was Matron, who was a formidable force in her own right, so Rosalie really had no rational reason to worry, come anything short of hell and high water; and yet she couldn't help but fret. If there was a reason for this, perhaps it was that she didn't like been disconnected from the daily goings-on at Foxholes, and some kind of primitive fear of the unknown. Of course her connection to Tenzing himself – and to what he represented and embodied – was of a different order; there was a deep mystical bond there that was not diminished by geographical separation, nor for that matter by time. Indeed, Tenzing held that time itself was a localized phenomena, and that the subtle or real world both permeated it and transcended it.

Anyhow, as it turned out, all was well. She could tell that instantly when she nervously entered the staff room, to be greeted warmly and made to feel at home by the others; and some like Missus Morgan, the cook at Foxholes, appeared relieved to see that she was safe and sound after her journey. Even the layer of aromatic tobacco smoke emanating from Bernard Flint's brier pipe and creeping across the room had a certain comforting charm, as much as she detested the habit, being a born-again ex-smoker, though thankfully not an evangelist, herself.

Cook was up on her feet as soon as she caught sight of Rosalie, as she hesitated momentarily in the doorway.

“Mollie,” she called out to one of the other kitchen staff, temporarily seconded from amongst the mature students. “Make Rosalie a nice hot cuppa. Lovely to see you again, Rosalie. Go and sit yourself down. You must be famished after your drive. Could you go a plate of sandwiches? Or I could fix you up something more substantial. There's still some vegetable soup left over. Perhaps a bowl of soup to start you off?”

Rosalie slumped down in an easy chair nearby. “Missus Morgan, you've probably been on your feet all day ....”

The redoubtable and bighearted Missus Morgan stood there hands on hip and gave Rosalie one of her looks and Rosalie knew better than to argue.

“Okay, you've twisted my arm, Cook. Yes, soup and sandwiches would go down a treat. Thank you so much. Really, I mean that: thank you very much.”

“It's no trouble at all, and you're very welcome, my dear,” nodded Missus Morgan, pausing for a moment, then the woman turned and headed off to the kitchens.

Rosalie seldom had need to set an alarm clock on a night as invariably she'd wake at six thirty the next morning of her own accord. You might say that she was “as regular as clockwork”, if you'll forgive the pun. However, on this occasion it was gone seven before she awoke, not that she had anything planned for the early morning.

One thing she did have to do, some time after nine when more sensible folk would have breakfast out of the way, was to make arrangements to have Mackenzie Centhorn brought over the border. Under normal circumstances, this would first of all have involved a quite lengthy vetting process, but she'd weighed up the situation and decided to skip that formality. All right, perhaps that wasn't the wisest decision she'd made, so on her head be it. Mac seemed a pretty mature and dependable guy, though, and she had no cause to believe that he'd let her down. Being so close to the border, and pretty much en route between the capital cities, this time it wouldn't involve moving him between a series of safe houses, it was more or less a matter of simply waiting for the next available transportation. As long as they could get him across the border, that's all that mattered. Any closer than that would be a bonus. One of the staff could always meet Mac and bring him north to Sher Point.

By ten that morning, after a flurry of ringing around, overcoming initial obstacles, and having chewed the end off her pencil by that time, it was thankfully all arranged; so, feeling relieved, she got back to Amie and briefed her to expect callers at eight in the morning in two days time. As it happened, the delivery lorry had an order destined for Sher Point and that was their last drop off of the day, so all she had to do was meet up with him at a road side lay-by just the far side of the city. The trucker would drop off Mac and be on his way; Mac would hang around, as if waiting to be picked up by a friend, and she would play the part of that friend.

5. Spalding

When Foss and Jenkins arrived at Spalding, the first thing they did was check in at the local police station. Being out of their jurisdiction, it was only right and proper. It was already quite late in the day, so they arranged to return the following morning, and in the intervening period they found a quiet guest house to stay the night, before getting some food down them and taking a stroll through the town in search of a cosy hostelry that served a good pint of ale.

All too soon morning came and after breakfast, having swept the sleep from their eyes, they headed for the local station to meet the detective leading the case.

Examiner Goodwin reached for his coat. “Good, the house is only a few minutes' walk, so I can brief you on the way.”

“No, please don't trouble yourself, Examiner. Perhaps you might spare one of your constables? I'd prefer to visit the house and see it with my own eyes. Then perhaps you might brief us on our return?” Foss didn't want the detective's opinions interfering with his own investigation, which should be fresh and unassuming.

The examiner looked a little put out by this, but reluctantly agreed, parroting Foss' own words and presenting them in such a way that they sounded as if he and not Foss had originated the idea.

As they walked up the short garden and approached the house, the constable went ahead. He lifted a flower pot from beside the door and produced a key, an act which tested Foss's credulity and his experience of human nature in the wild, then ushered them inside.

“That's where we found Missus Hepplethwaite,” the constable offered, pointing to a spot in the hallway in front of a large mirror. The body had been removed earlier, but the position had been roughly sketched out in chalk on the flower-patterned green linoleum, so the constable's observation was somewhat redundant.

“Other than removing the body, has anything been touched?” Foss enquired.

“No, sir. We left everything exactly as it was. Examiner's orders.”

“What time did the murder occur?”

The constable consulted his note book. “The body was discovered by a neighbour at eleven fifteen on the morning of the Tuesday 3rd. She knocked and knocked but there was no reply, so she peered through the letterbox and saw Missus Hepplethwaite laid out on the floor here. She ran round to the station and I came out. The door was locked and there was no key in the door, and try as I might I couldn't break the door, so I had to get hold of a locksmith.”

“Locked, you say? Did you manage to locate the key?”

The constable shook his head. “The pathologist eventually found it, sir, in the victim's mouth.”

“And yet the door was locked, you said earlier.”

The constable merely shrugged.

“Well, I suppose the assailant might have gone out by the back door. No matter. And the time of death?”

“The doctor couldn't be sure, but sometime before eleven that morning.”

“Good.”

Foss noticed the mother of pearl-backed brush on the floor, just by the foot of the stairs, a few feet distant.

“She was facing away from the mirror when the assailant struck,” he noted for Jenkins' benefit. “Tell me, constable, what was she wearing?”

“A long, beige-coloured coat, sir, and a matching fur-lined hat.”

“Was she wearing the hat?”

“No, sir. The hat was on the floor under the body.”

“It's not there now,” Foss noted. It was hanging from a peg by the mirror.

“Sorry, sir. I inadvertently picked it up after they took the body away.”

“No matter. My initial guess is that Missus Hepplethwaite was standing at the mirror about to go out when she turned to see her assailant in the house behind her. It's less likely that she'd brush her hair on returning; well, unless it was windy out. Was it windy that day, Constable?””

“Not that I recall, sir.”

“And did she have a bag with her?”

“Yes, sir. It was taken away for examination.”

“What about the neighbours? Have you talked to them?”

The constable nodded and again consulted his notebook. “Mrs Harper at number 36, that's the next house on the left, looking out of the front door. She reported seeing a stocky sort of a man in a brown woollen suit at the door at ten fifteen, sir. Unfortunately, she didn't get a clear look at his face, so we couldn't get much of a description out of her.”

“Missus Hepplethwaite had a photo in her pocket when she was found.”

“It was a very old sepia print, sir. The geezer in the photo must have been pushing up the daisies long ago.”

That was what Jenkins had pointed out, almost word for word. Foss nodded. “All the same, constable, it's the spitting image of a chap we're after for fraud and deception over at Newthorpe. Did you show the photograph to the neighbour?”

“Not that I know of, sir. But she was quite adamant that she hadn't seen his face. She caught a glimpse of him through her net curtain and he pulled up his collar and turned away.”

“Well, my thinking is that perhaps the woman had the photograph in her pocket for a reason; that it might be a clue to the identity of her killer. The man we're looking for did a moonlight flit a few days ago. His name is Frederick Grimshaw.”

The constable took out his pencil and scribbled a note.

“The man may be with his wife Elsie, as she also went missing at the same time. A buxom woman with curly hair dyed blond. Perhaps it's a long shot or perhaps it's a major lead, but it's possible that Grimshaw may be a relative of Maud Hepplethwaite.”

The constable stood there sucking the end of his pencil. “Well, the examiner did notice that there were two cups and saucers on the draining board, sir; and two side plates.”

“Miss Hepplethwaite lives alone?”

“Yes, sir. Evidently she's a war widow.”

“So whoever it was, she entertained them. That would figure. Tell me, constable, is the photograph album still here?”

The constable shook his head. “The examiner took it away, sir. It's at the station.”

“Good, then we'll have a look through it when we get back. Let's have a look around the rest of the house, then we'll see what the examiner has to say.”

Foss had a thought. “Jenkins, you go back to the station now. I want you to phone Newthorpe. Have them dig up the gardens to the front and rear of Grimshaw's place; and thoroughly search the house. Take it apart brick by brick, if necessary.”

“And what are we looking for, sir?”

“Elsie Grimshaw,” Foss replied. “Elsie Grimshaw.”

“You think she's dead, sir?”

Foss shook his head. “No, Jenkins, I'm thinking they're hiding in a secret underground bunker. Sometimes you can be so slow on the uptake, Jenkins. Yes, I do have a hunch that she may be dead. Now don't let me detain you. Off you go.”

“Okay, sir,” replied Jenkins sheepishly.

“Oh, and give them the number of the guest house. If they find anything – night or day – they're to let us know straight away. Get it? Got it? Good. Right constable, let's have a look in the kitchen, then we'll go upstairs.”

Foss and Jenkins had lunch in the tiny works cafeteria with Examiner Goodwin when they got back to the station and Foss went over what he'd found at the house. “So, my current working hypothesis, Goodwin, is that the assailant somehow knew where Missus Hepplethwaite's money was or else got her to divulge its location, which would require that she trusted her assailant, even perhaps that they were related. To get the money, a simple ruse and a bit of stealth is all that would be required. So having obtained the money, why kill her? Perhaps because she discovered what her assailant was up to.”

“So why are you so interested in the photograph?” the examiner wanted to know.

Foss told him about the case he was working on in Newthorpe, which involved alleged fraud and deception. As soon as he mentioned the name Grimshaw, the examiner's eyes lit up.

“Each photograph bears a caption, describing the scene,” he told them. “And Grimshaw is indeed a name that crops up many times.”

“Aha!” smiled Foss, cutting the last grease-oozing sausage in two, dipping it in his spicy baked beans and thrusting it into his sausage-shaped facial orifice. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. “Do go on.”

“Maud Hepplethwaite is a widow. Her husband was indeed a Grimshaw, and the photograph in question is that of the woman's brother-in-law, Ainsley.”

“Well, well. I'd suggest then that you get onto Records Office. Of course, we have to be sure, just for the record, but Maud Hepplethwaite has to be the aunt or perhaps great aunt of Frederick Grimshaw, and it is he we should both be looking for. I haven't been able to find any recent photographs of Grimshaw, but if we were to re-publish the photograph you have, together with details of the Newthorpe case and your own, then it might turn up a few fresh leads.”

“Jolly good work, Foss,” Examiner Goodwin congratulated him, lighting his pipe and blowing a plume of blue-grey smoke in their direction. Foss wafted it away with his hand.

Goodwin rose to his feet, chomping at the bit and eager to be off. “Right, well you finish your lunch, and I'll set the wheels in motion.” And with that, he was gone with a fresh spring in his step.

Later that day, as they were relaxing whilst their evening meal settled, Missus Harding, the landlady called them to the phone. And Foss in turn relayed the message to Examiner Goodwin at the station.

“Hello, Goodwin? Foss here. Just had a call from Newthorpe. You can add another murder to the list: my people have just found a body in the back garden of Grimshaw's mansion. They think it's his wife, Elsie, but haven't as yet obtained a positive identification. In view of this, perhaps it would be best to warn people that we have a dangerous criminal on the loose and to contact the police rather than play the have-a-go hero?”

6. The dig

Forensic Examiner Sandie Hayes got up off her padded knees and clambered up the short wooden ladder and out of the trench, confident that the area where the corpse had lain would yield no more clues. The body they'd found earlier that day was that of a woman, approximately matching the description of Grimshaw's wife, Elsie. A superficial examination had revealed that her head had been shattered and caved in, by repeated and violent blows using some heavy blunt object such as a hammer. The body had been taken to the morgue for a full forensic examination, and in the meantime, the police were attempting to get in touch with the woman's brother who they'd been told worked at Shipley, so that the body might be positively identified.

Content that they had found what they were looking for and could now wind up the dig, Sandie was just pulling off her rubber boots, about to head off home when one of her colleagues called out to her.

“Sandie? Do you have a minute?” the man called out.

“What now, Johnnie?” she snapped back. “I was hoping to get back home before bed time.”

“Here, come and look,” was all Johnnie would say.

Sandie pulled on her rubber boots and went back to the trench. “Well? This had better be good.”

Still chomping away on his chocolate bar, in lieu of taking his official break, the man pointed to something glinting at the edge of the trench and scraped away the surrounding mud with his gloved hand. Even from where she stood, some feet away, she could make out the bones. That body had lain there a lot longer than the woman.

He had made another gruesome recovery, for it was a third hand.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” she groaned.

“What now, Sandie?”

Sandie pulled back her left glove and waved her wristwatch around, trying to read the dial in the light of the nearby lanterns. “I suggest we have the plod secure the scene, Johnnie, and that you and I turn in for the night. And tomorrow, we start again and we go on until we've dug up the whole of the gardens front and rear. I'll get in touch with the captain on the way back home.”

Later that evening, on her way home Sandie phoned the captain.

“I see, well thank you for letting me know, Sandie. I'll have someone posted at the site for the night, and also call in some reinforcements tomorrow to help out with the dig.”

The captain sighed deeply. “You do realize that you may be in this for the long haul. I know it's a fag, but in the case of multiple burials, procedure dictates that we investigate all previous residences ....”

It was Sandie's turn to sigh. “Yes, Captain, I thought you might say that. I'll have a word with the boss and draft in a few more of our people.”

7. The escape

A few minutes after eight o'clock that morning, the delivery lorry arrived and with the driver wanting to be off since he was running late, Mac shook Gregory's outstretched hand, gave Amie a gentle hug and followed the man to the lorry. They didn't exchange names, nor even pleasantries beyond the polite, which was perhaps just as well. The least they knew about one-another, the better. He had expected to be sequestered amidst piles of boxes in the rear of the lorry, but the driver instead ushered him to the cab. The driver pulled up the long bench seat in his cab, which was on concealed hinges, and Mac clambered in the cab and squeezed himself into the confined space beneath and partly behind the seat. The driver waited patiently until Mac was settled in the padded bolt hole, then gently closed the lid, until the seat clicked back in place. Mac's first reaction on entering the cell was how he'd cope with the darkness and whether he'd survive the journey without suffocating, but as the driver climbed aboard the lorry and started up the engine, he realized that the designers had thought things through. When the engine started up, a small bulb set in the lid of the cell lit up and, though it wasn't bright enough to read a book by, for instance, as his eyes got used to the gloom, so he found that he could see well enough for his current purposes, taking the edge off an irrational fear akin to being “buried alive”, as it were. As for the air, he could feel a cool breeze on his right leg, and waving his hand about in the vicinity, he could feel a gentle flow of air, presumably emerging from some vent or tube in the side of the cell.

The tiny cell was amply padded, and Mac could almost stretch out to his full length, with his knees bent a little, and he could turn onto his other side with a bit of a struggle, not being able to lever himself with his arms; but all the same, it was an uncomfortable ride. The driver had his foot on the accelerator most of the way, and frequently hammered the brakes. When he took the corners, Mac was pushed up against one end of the cell, and whenever the man hit a bump or a pot hole in the road, he was bounced up and down. Still, beggars could not be choosers, as the saying went, and the ordeal would be over in a few hours, so it was a minor inconvenience when all was said and done.

Every few minutes, the driver would slacken his pace and bring the lorry to a stand-still, then there'd be the tell-tale sound of boxes being loaded or unloaded, and again they'd be on their way.

“Hush now, chum, we're at the border,” a voice called in warning from the cab as the lorry slowed down once more and came to a halt. Mac heard the heavy doors at the rear of the lorry being opened and he could feel the lorry moving up and down on its suspension slightly. Someone must have clambered on board to check the cargo. Mac could feel a sneeze coming on, at the worst possible moment, but remembering something his dear mother had once said, he placed his index finger just under his nose and pressed it against his skin and, though unable to prevent the involuntary sneeze, he was at least able to keep it quiet.

The doors of the lorry were slammed shut and he heard footsteps coming around the side, to the cab. Again, Mac could feel movement as someone entered the cab and rummaged around inside, altogether too close for comfort, and he held his breath.

“Thank you, driver,” called a man's voice at length. “Everything is in order, so you may go on your way. Have a safe journey in the Freelands.”

The driver thanked the man, slammed the cab door, started the engine and slowly drove off. They appeared to climb for a short time, then drop back down again, as best Mac could tell. Ah yes, that would be the bridge across the River Wye, which separated Gothgoria and the Freelands. So they must have come a fair way north before crossing the border.

Mac wasn't sure how long it would be before the driver left him. He'd been told none of the details, other than that the man would get him across the border. So he might be dropped off at any moment now, or perhaps driven to Sher Point itself. It was a blessed relief to be out of Gothgoria and Mac could afford to relax a little, in his mind if not bodily. There was no way he could sleep with things the way they were, but at least he could close his eyes and rest a little.

Another hour passed, and then another, and he was becoming quite hungry, so he pulled his arms up and opened the paper bag that Amie had given him. He had not drunk any liquids since the night before and had only a tiny bottle of water with him, for obvious reasons; and his mouth was very dry. Amie had thoughtfully provided him with a few sandwiches and a chocolate bar for the journey, which was most welcome, not only to fill a hole in his aching stomach but also to help alleviate the boredom and distract his mind from being constantly joggled this way and that in the confines of the cell.

On and on they went through the morning and the afternoon. Still, the longer the journey took, the nearer to Sher Point he must be, so he was not complaining. And then at length, not long after he had finally begun to doze off, the tiny cell was flooded with light, at least in comparison to the gloom in the cell, and the driver was peering down at him.

“Well, chum, we're here.”

Mac struggled out of the cell and he sat with the driver for a moment while he came round. Only now was he beginning to feel the dull ache in his muscles.

“Where are we?”

“A lay-by a few miles south of Sher Point. This is as far as I go.”

“Many thanks, sir. So what now?” Mac asked the man.

“Someone will come and meet you. All I've been told is that you're to look out for a lady in an old brown estate car. I can't say more, chum. Now, you'd best be off before we attract attention. If you want my advice, you'd be best off away from the road in the trees.”

“That's fine, thank you again, sir,” Mac smiled gratefully, shaking hands with the man. The lady in the brown estate would most likely be Rosalie Muller. He clambered down from the cab, pushing the door to behind him and headed for the trees, his most pressing priority being to relieve himself before his bladder burst. He watched as the lorry driver turned off down a narrow road to the left and disappeared from view, leaving the odd puff of blue smoke in its wake. No doubt engine oil entering the cylinders, maybe through a defective gasket or O-ring. The lorry was long overdue servicing by the look of it.

8. A hitch

Rosalie had just slowed the car and was looking out for Mac when she noticed the familiar blue and yellow livery of a police patrol car. The vehicle had been pulled off the road and a little way down a heavily rutted track running into the ash trees beyond the lay-by. There was no sign of Mac. Quickly turning her head away, she took her foot off the brake and drove on. To have turned back here threatened to attract attention, so there was no option but to drive on to the village of Haw-in-the-Woods, ten or so miles down the road; wait there a few minutes, perhaps to pick up some fresh vegetables and drop by the tea-house, before returning.

She spent half an hour at the quaint village and phoned Foxholes on the off-chance that they'd received news about Mac, which was not the case; then she slowly drove back along the road toward Sher Point. Not far from the village, a police car had been drawn up, blocking one of the carriageways and she slowed her car, expecting to be pulled over, but an officer waved her on. It seemed they were interested in vehicles heading the other way. They were searching these cars, and there was no need to ask why that might be.

She drove on, slowing a little as she passed the lay-by, and there was no sign of Mac which, given the police presence, was just as well. Ten miles further on, just before she entered the suburbs to the south of Sher Point, she encountered another road block, and this time she was required to leave the car and open the boot for inspection.

She had ventured to ask what this was all about and was told simply that a man had been seen in suspicious circumstances and had fled when a police sergeant approached him with a spotty faced rookie in-tow. Did they have a description of the man, she enquired. No, all they could say was that he was of a stocky build and wearing a long brown coat; and that he might be dangerous so should not be approached. Had she seen such a man in her travels? No, she could confidently reply, trying her best to conceal her trembling hands and the slight quiver in her voice, before being given the all clear and urged on her way. She had no option but to head back to Foxholes, and then all they could do was hope and wait.

9. Caught hopping

No sooner had the lorry disappeared than Mac saw the police car approaching out of the corner of his eye. He had not yet made it to the trees and he was sure that they must have seen him by now. There were two choices: to stand and perhaps to fight, or to take flight. In an instant, his mind was made up and he spun on his heel and dashed for the trees. Just as he disappeared from view, glancing back, he saw the police car turning off the road and onto the lay-by, to stop at the head of a muddy track which led into the trees. There were two of them and they were getting out of the car.

But this was no time for sight-seeing; he desperately had to gain a lead on them. In his youth, Mac had been a cross country runner; but that was some time back and he'd gained a little weight since then; and not so much muscle as flab. As Mac ran on, crashing through the undergrowth and dodging the trunks and low-slung branches of the trees, all he could do was hope against hope that if he could hold them off for long enough, they'd tire and give up the chase to call for support, which would buy him more time.

He could have stood his ground, of course, and bluffed his way through. Smooth talking was, after all his forte and it was how he earned his bread and butter and more than a few luxuries besides. But it would not have availed him for long. Inevitably, they'd have asked to see his papers; and of course, since his evacuation had been so hastily prepared, there had been no time to furnish him with papers. He might have gone through the charade of searching through his pockets and suddenly realized that he must have left them at home, but chances were they'd have taken him in for questioning. So running was the only viable option, really.

On and on Mac ran through the muddy ground, hardly daring to look back. Up a steep wooded hill and down the other side. Then wading through a shallow stream, following its course for a time, on the off-chance that the police later brought in tracker dogs, so that the scent would be broken. Then he left the stream, pausing for just a moment while he caught his breath, emptied his aching bladder and had a much-needed drink of water, before tackling the hill on the far side of the stream. Only when he got to the top, still under the protective canopy of the tall and stately elm trees, did he dare stop. Mac found a fallen log and sat down, clutching his aching sides. He had run out of second wind and was on his last legs, barely able to put one leg in front of the other. Thankfully, however, he appeared to have lost his pursuers and he could afford to take time out and give some thought as to what to do next.

It was already quite late in the afternoon and he only had another hour or so of daylight, as the autumn was almost over and winter fast approaching. So, it looked like he'd be spending the night outdoors, freezing his balls off. Well, at least some of that insulating blubber would finally find a practical use, he smiled to himself.

Mac's feet were sodden through and felt like blocks of ice, but fortunately he had his walking boots with him and a spare pair of thick woollen socks, so he unslung his haversack, rummaged around inside and brought out a short green tunic, the sort ramblers and hikers wore, changed his shoes and put on a woolly hat. Ah, yes, the goofy teeth and the spectacles, too.

He rolled up his long brown coat and stuffed that in his back pack. The police must have seen what he was wearing but most likely not seen his face, so in spite of the cold, a change of appearance was called for. Changing his appearance was another of his fortes; and distraction played a part in that. Ask ten people who'd seen him for a description and chances were that all they would remember would be the tunic and woolly hat, but most of all the goofy teeth; the glasses and, if they had spoken to him, some affected accent. Anyhow, if he pressed on, he'd build up a sufficient sweat to keep himself warm.

At the peak of the next hill, Mac emerged from the mêlée of trees and entered a managed clearing. There was a woodsman's hut there and a lot of sawdust in heaps on the ground around the stumps of freshly sawn trees, but the hut appeared to be empty. Looking out over a wide plain, he could see wisps of smoke and what looked like houses in the distance, so the next thing to do was to find a road that led their way. Finishing off the remains of the chocolate bar and the small bottle of water, Mac pushed himself to his feet and headed down the grassy slope, slipping and sliding as he went. Half way down he came across a road snaking its way down the other side of the hill, and he took to the narrow road, hoping that it led him toward civilization. Well, the road was liberally gravelled, rather than full of muddy pot holes, so it looked vaguely hopeful.

After what seemed like an age, Mac came to a cluster of terraced houses and a tiny inn, which appeared to be solely composed of a single room set aside in one of the small houses. He'd seen the wheel of a colliery not far from the village, so this had perhaps been built to house the workers? Mac could see a telephone cable stretching between the house and a nearby telegraph pole, and was in two minds about whether he should go in and perhaps attract unwarranted attention, or to move on. In the end, his Master decided the matter for him, and he headed for the door and into the blackened oak and whitewashed interior.

Seeing that the phone by the bar was currently occupied, he ordered a coffee and waited impatiently for the woman to put down the phone, but as the minutes ticked by, he could see that she was going the full distance. She'd already inserted coin after coin into the box, and still had a heap on the counter by her side.

Finally, growing ever more impatient at the old biddy's incessant cluck, cluck, cluck, Master again took matters into his own hands. The woman was abruptly cut off mid-flow, much to her consternation, and for a time she rattled the cradle of the receiver and attempted to re-dial the number, until she finally gave up and turned to leave.

She was briefly startled to see Mac hovering right behind her, then recovered her composure. “Don't waste your time. It's out of order, love,” she reliably informed him. But Master knew better. Mac simply picked up the receiver, dialled the emergency number that Rosalie Muller had given him and inserted a coin.

“Apparently not, Madam,” he smiled through the goofy teeth, ignoring the woman's immediate protestations that “she was first.”

Rosalie Muller herself was on the other end of the line, clearly relieved to hear from him again, confirming that she could be there in an hour to pick him up and take him on to their study centre, Foxholes.

“And about ruddy time,” the woman huffed, snatching the receiver from his hand even before he'd replaced it in the cradle.

All the miserable biddy got for her troubles was a secondary dial tone, indicating that her call could not be connected due to a fault on the line; and a sudden and dire urge to dash to the loo to empty her bowels. Master was not without a wicked sense of humour.

10. Serial killer

Foss and Jenkins had just begun to pack their belongings ready for their return. Foss was despondent and beyond caring and forcibly stuffed the clothes in his battered old carryalls. The captain had been on the phone earlier, rattling his earpiece, and had insisted that they return to Newthorpe and leave the matter to the Serious Crimes Squad, who had nationwide jurisdiction. Of course the SCS would not be submitting their bills for expenses and overtime to her; and she in turn to her own equally pernickety and fearsome Commander.

At that moment, the phone jangled for a second time and Foss snatched up the receiver to take the call and to deliver a broadside, if needs be; but calmed down a little when he discovered that it was not the captain on the other end. Well, that would have been an embarrassing moment. Jenkins was lurking in the background, but all he would have heard were grunts, followed by a series of “ooh”s and “ah”s.

“Who was that?” Jenkins was eager to know.

Foss took a swig of brandy to calm himself down before he went supernova. “It was Sandie Hayes, one of the forensic examiners.”

“And ...”

“The first body has been positively identified. It's Grimshaw's wife, Elsie.”

Jenkins cocked his head to own side and looked askance. “First, you say?”

“The first and by no means the last. They've found further remains buried in the back garden and they're still digging. It looks like we have a serial killer on our hands.”

“You mean on the SCS's hands, remember,” Jenkins replied, perhaps in some vain attempt to bring him back down to earth.

Foss drew a deep breath and anxiously paced the plush burgundy and gold carpet of the hallway.

“What's on your mind, sir? A problem shared is a problem halved, as they rightly say.”

Jenkins had a ruddy proverb for all occasions.

Foss glanced at his watch and waved his finger in the air as a delightful thought occurred to him. “The pub will be open, Jenkins, that's what I'm thinking right now. And I'm in need of a pint. Let's clear the rooms, drop our bags by the door and adjourn for some liquid nutrient.”

“You're planning something, sir,” Jenkins noted quizzically as he brought their drinks to the table.

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Let's say, a creature of habit, sir. And you have that enigmatic smile and a glint in your eye.”

He held his hands up. “If the truth be told, Jenkins, I am working up to something. I thought a pint down my neck would give me the courage to call the captain.”

“Her mind seemed pretty made up, sir. The case is to handed to the Serious Crimes Squad.”

“Yes, Jenkins, I am well aware of that and I am in no need of a reminder from you, thank you very much.”

Foss rose to his feet, looking around the brightly lit bar for a phone. If there was one thing he detested other than bars built like farmyard barns, it was bright lighting, especially during the day. If they had to put up the lights, then they should do so at the end of the evening after they'd called last orders.

Ah, there was a phone fastened to the wall beside the bar. He rummaged in his pockets, looking for change, and turned apologetically to Jenkins. “Sorry, Jenkins. Do you have any change for the phone? No, no: tell you what, I'll go and buy us a couple of whiskey chasers and the landlord can give me some change.”

When the landlord had pulled himself away from a conversation further down the bar and eventually got round to serving him, he took Jenkins' drink over, then returned to use the phone. He'd called that number so many times, yet for the life of him he couldn't remember it at that moment.

“586345, sir,” Jenkins helpfully called across the lounge.

Of course.

“Captain Mason, please.”

“Yes it's me, Joan. Tell her it's Foss calling long distance, so take my number in case I run out of change and you have to call me back. I'm at, now let me see ... Spalding 378456. No, I don't know the area code, you'll have to look it up.”

He paused for a few moments, beating an impatient tattoo on the counter, and had a swig of his whiskey while Joan connected him.

“Hello, Ma'am. Yes, it's me. Yes, I am still in Spalding. Indeed, that's what I'm calling you about.”

“Yes, Ma'am, I am a little peeved that we've got this far and we're being called off the case. I'm hot on the trail of Grimshaw. We're clearly dealing with a dangerous man and the sooner he's off the streets the better.”

“With all due respect, Ma'am, you seem to forget that I'm doing you a big favour here. I was due to retire two years ago, but you were reluctant to let me go, so I figure you owe me one. I'm perfectly happy for Jenkins to return to Newthorpe but I'd like to go on, while the trail is still warm. What? Well, I don't know: get back onto the SCS and have me temporarily seconded, if needs be. Or set me up for the bounty, as a freelancer.”

“And if they won't buy into that, then as you keep reminding me, I'm due four weeks' paid leave. You yourself told me that I'd have to take it before the Harvest Holidays; and that this is simply not going to happen. Look, the pips are going again and I have no more spare change, Ma'am. I'll send Jenkins back and leave you to think over the matt ... Oh, darn it.”

Foss slammed down the receiver and stalked back to the table, having worked up quite a lather.

“Well, Jenkins," he said, taking the lad's chaser and knocking it back. "I've just realized that you're driving. Let's get back to the guest house and then you can head off.”

“So I gather, sir,” muttered the lad, looking somewhat despondent.

“Don't you know that it's rude to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, Jenkins?” he objected.

“Eavesdrop, sir? Eavesdrop? With respect, your voice was somewhat raised. I expect everyone in the pub could hear you.”

“Be that as it may,” he replied, picking up his coat and heading for the door without further ado. “It's time you were off. Unless you want another roasting from your good lady, that is. Look on the bright side, Jenkins: you're off the hook with the missus.”

11. Babs chu

Several hundred miles from Sher Point, in the highlands to the north of Narayana lay a fertile valley, home to the Network's mountain retreat. They called the retreat babs chu which simply meant waterfall, since the valley was accessible only through a long and winding tunnel hidden beneath the curtain of water at the base of a high waterfall. The original stream had gradually carved out a tunnel over the millennia and some time after the settlement at babs chu was first established, the workers had diverted that stream, so that it joined with the river that flowed over the waterfall, thus leaving the tunnel dry. So they used a part of the tunnel which had formed naturally, and over a period of something like two decades the founders selflessly laboured to extend the tunnel until eventually it emerged on the slopes of the valley, having passed right through the mountain's heart to the other side. As for the original opening of the tunnel, a sink hole which was prone to flooding, that had been completely sealed off with rocks and concrete. What little water did seep through was safely channelled in a shallow gulley to one side of the long tunnel. It was a monumental task, dwarfing even the building of the original settlement, which was a marvel in its day, and which by now lay in scavenged ruins some distance from the current settlement. What the original builders had not catered for were the once in a century calamities that flooded the lower valley, so the present settlement had been built on slightly higher ground to protect them from these freak events. One might imagine that it would have been hard for the founders to abandon the old settlement, having invested so much in its granite and marble construction, and in the intricate and colourful mosaic tiling but they were pragmatic folk and what concerned them most of all was not the container but the contents and the dynamic, and that went with them wherever they found themselves. So what they left behind them, though a great beauty to behold, was really no more than an old and empty shell. As they said, the world had the fossilized relics, the bones or skeletal remains (and not least the archaeologists, the museum keepers and cultism); they had the living and regenerative marrow.

Throughout the world, legends abounded about just such a lost valley as this and the tales and the theories had become more and more embroidered, colourful and misconceived as the centuries passed. But only a few knew the real name of the valley, its actual location and its true raison-d’être; and rather than tell, they themselves simply added to the speculation at times, to ensure that this lesser secret remained intact. As for the greater secret, well: the secret protects itself.

Just as was rumoured, there was indeed a great treasury at babs chu and only a small number of the highest and most trusted elders knew where the vast wealth was held or to what use it was put.

And yet there was more to the community at babs chu than even this. It was a working community, producing all manner of fine arts and crafts; but the production of artefacts was only one facet or constituent of the work. There was the work for the Work, for the mystical tradition itself, for humanity, and above all for all that the tradition represented and embodied; the work for the group; and the work for the self: that is the work on one's base, commanding self for the benefit of the Higher Self, and again above all for what the Higher Self embraced and was infused with, which some might call God and others Truth, Unity, Spirit, Love, Wisdom, Peace, Welcome and so forth.

Yes, indeed, those highly evolved souls some called the Secret Chiefs, who had also been sought out for centuries, they did exist, and some of the adepts at babs chu were in contact with them, though not through mundane means; however, the Secret Chiefs lived in their own, yet more distant abode which some called Shu'la beland. Shu'la means blaze, flame, light, lustre or splendour; and beland means high. The realm of Shu'la beland lay beyond babs chu and through a complex and dangerous labyrinth, inaccessible to all but a chosen few and then only after many years of rigorous preparation and unstinting dedication to the Cause. They said that only those invited to Shu'la beland could complete such a taxing journey, but this was not in the mundane sense of an invitation; it was a matter of the heart and of the spirit.

There had been such a community at babs chu for centuries now, indeed the mystical tradition that they represented was essentially timeless, pre-dating all organized religion; an uncomfortable fact which many in the latter's ranks with a vested interest strongly denied and zealously opposed. They almost invariably simply referred to the tradition as just that – the Tradition, with a capital “T”, not so much to give it a sense of importance, since they were but servants when all was said and done, not so much this as to signal that they used the term in a way which was went beyond the confines and meaning of the standard dictionary definitions. In a similar vein, they referred to themselves as Custodians of this tradition and simply of “the Way”.

Between themselves, they sometimes spoke of being Sarmouni, meaning bees, and a vital aspect of their work was in collecting a subtle, graceful substance which might be likened to honey, storing that substance and distributing it in times of need. This was an appropriate formulation, but they had been known by other names over the centuries, such as the Masters, the Designers and the Weavers. Their name changed, as did their form and superficial functions, to appropriately suit right time, place, people and circumstances; however, their basic, deeper functions were ever the same.

Following the Way and delving into things esoteric was not without its attendant dangers; even beyond the impediments all too commonly found in humanity beneath the superficial veneer of civilization, such as selfishness; impatience; distrust; ignorance; heedlessness; delusion; intolerance; closed and narrow mindedness; anger; greed; pride; vanity; envy and hypocrisy.

One of the mottoes or watchwords of the mystical Order was that “the Rose gives Honey to the Bee”; however there was a lesser known rider to this, which was that “Wisdom is as a flower from which the bee its honey makes and the spider poison, each according to its own nature.” Wisdom in itself was neither good nor evil; what could be good or evil in a sense was how seekers approached and used or abused it.

For Conrad, it had all begun seven years ago. After a whirlwind romance he had married Dzoldzaya Khalili, Tenzing's niece. On a mission to help a needy couple cross south from the Outlands into the Freelands, his papers, which the Network had provided for him, had been discovered to be forgeries. Apparently there'd been a change in their design which had taken the Network by surprise. He had been sentenced to a minimum of six months' hard labour at Darrok, a notorious jail near the northern border, and subsisted for a time under a grey cloud, not knowing if he'd be released at the end of the six months or have his sentence extended. This was entirely at the whim of the prison warden. When his time was up, he was thankfully released; taken to the border and exiled to the Outlands from whence he'd originally come. Fortunately, however, the Network had not forgotten him and with their aid, he eventually made it to babs chu and had lived in exile at the retreat ever since. Every now and again, however, he and Dzoldzaya did sneak back into the Freelands to spend a little time at Foxholes; but whilst the subterfuge had their hearts racing at times, the ever-present threat of being discovered, and the prospect of a further twelve months' hard labour should they be caught a second time, rather soured their enjoyment. Caught a third time and you could expect a long drop on the end of the hangman's noose.

As for the studies themselves, he'd spent quite a time at Foxholes, beginning with the Freelands acclimatization course. Looking back he could see how this was partly designed to begin softening up and shifting the commanding self, subtly infused with a mystical element and of course carried out by those who turned out to be masters of the Tradition. However, it wasn't until Mister Flint suggested that he might join his Thursday evening development course that studies proper really began. Eventually, after a time at babs chu, he took the first plunge and was formally initiated into the Order; though in reality, this exterior initiation merely outwardly confirmed the inner change and the prior initiation in his heart.

However, this was by no means the end; it was more a new beginning, the first of several degrees, if you like. His study, or rather the real change, began in earnest later, however, when the Director, Tenzing made a two month long visit to babs chu ....

12. Deterioration

The first thing Tenzing did after he arrived at babs chu was immediately head for Mair Freida's chalet, anxious to see for himself how she was doing. The poor dear had started off with little more than influenza a few weeks earlier, but unable to shake off the flu, it had settled on her chest, and this had become a cause for some concern in the tightly-knit community. Making this his number one priority, Tenzing had dropped everything and set out for babs chu as soon as he had been informed.

Tenzing knocked politely on the squat wooden door and one of the students, a waif of a girl named Belieze with a copious heart and a lot of common sense, scurried to answer it.

“How is Mair Freida?” he asked in a quiet voice, so that he would not be overheard.

The student, one of the trainee healers that Mair Freida had been coaching until taken ill, cast her eyes down. “Mair Freida is not at all well, Mister Tenzing,” she replied in hushed tones. “She is concerned that with the flu settling on her chest, and being so weakened, that she might develop pneumonia. We're thinking of moving her to the medical ward.”

Tenzing drew in his breath, running over the possibilities. “Is she too weak to travel?” he enquired.

The student nodded. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“I'm just thinking aloud, really, Belieze. There is a hospital at Shakra on the central plains.”

Belieze shook her head. “Perhaps it's not for me to say, sir ....”

“Call me Tenzing. And do I value your judgement, Belize, so please don't hold back, just speak what is on your mind.”

“Perhaps it's not for me to say, Tenzing. But I don't think that she's well enough to make a journey down through the mountains, especially not at this time of year.”

“Even if she was all wrapped up and carried down?”

Again the young lady shook her head.

Tenzing cupped his head in his hands and turned away, in search of divine inspiration, then he turned back. “Well, I think the best thing to do would be see Mair Freida myself.”

Belieze stood to one side and ushered him through to the bedroom. The air was thick with the aromatic smell of eucalyptus.

He spoke slowly and with deliberately clarity. “Hello, Mair Freida. It's me, Tenzing. I thought I'd come and see how you are getting on.”

Mair Freida's eyes opened a little and a smile creased her careworn features. “Hello Tenzing. It's so good to see you again.”

Noticing that her eyelashes were slightly glued together, Belieze briefly leant across the bed and gently bathed them.

“Thank you, Belieze,” Mair Freida said, clearing her throat. “That's a lot better.”

“Since she was having troubles with her chest, Mair Freida had us prop her up in bed, sir,” Belieze told him. He pulled up a chair close by the bed side and held her hand.

Tenzing was deeply concerned, almost moved to tears by the sight of Mair Freida in such a frail condition. “Yes, I can see that you're in good hands, Mair Freida. And we're doubly fortunate in that you are no doubt able to diagnose and prescribe for your own condition. So perhaps the best thing you can do would be to tell me what to do for the best, eh?”

“Oh, don't look so worried, dear Tenzing,” the old lady chided him, but even before the words were out she had broken into a heavy, ruttling chest cough that told him that she was indeed in quite a bad way.

“What can we do for that chest of yours, Mair Freida?” he enquired, slowing his breathing to keep himself calm.

“Well, the comfrey and eucalyptus are helping a little. There are better remedies, but they disagree with me. I'd say callodum ...”

Tenzing pulled a pen and a pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “How do you spell that? I'll have a look in the library to make sure we know what plant we're looking for.”

The old lady pursed her lips and appeared hesitant. “I was about to say 'but you won't find any callodum this side of Lilith'.” Lilith was a tiny protectorate to the south east of the Freelands and the south of Narayana, and they travelled through Lilith on their way between the two, since the mountains to the west of the Freelands were pretty much impassible and since the sea crossing to the north was not ideal.

Tenzing raised his eyebrows and feigned a stern expression. “Mair Freida, whatever it costs; how ever far we have to search ... rest assured we won't stop until we've found what it is you need. How many plants are we talking about?”

Mair Freida wasn't going to argue the point. “One a day for three to four weeks; and some for the gardeners to grow in the greenhouses. That's a lot to ask. These plants are hard to come-by at the best of times.”

He slapped his thighs. “Then that is what you shall have, my dear. Fear not.”

Mair Freida smiled and squeezed his hand, then she spoke again in a serious tone. “Tenzing, there are things which we need to discuss ....”

Tenzing got to his feet and straightened his posture, something that Mair Freida had herself encouraged in him, many moons ago. “And so we shall, Mair Freida, but first allow me to set the wheels in motion.”

“Important things,” she added for emphasis.

He noted the urgency in her voice. “I'll be back soon.”

“Very well, Tenzing. And thank you,” she replied, and no doubt she noticed the slight quiver in his own voice.

“No, Mair Freida: thank you for all you've done for us over the years. This will never be forgotten,” he reciprocated, turning to leave. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return later this afternoon.”

Tenzing waited until he'd left the chalet before wiping away the tears that had suddenly welled up in his eyes.

13. The options

Having begun his homework and set one or two wheels in motion, as he had promised, Tenzing returned to sit beside Mair Freida's bed later that day. As Belieze had suggested, the old lady had already been moved to the medical ward where she had a room, and a degree of privacy, to herself.

“If you're thinking about my prognosis, Tenzing, it will take a while,” Mair Freida began, attempting to push herself up further in bed, “but I'm sure that I'll shake off my current woes.”

She said this, and yet Tenzing sensed that this was said more for his benefit than something she was so sure about.

The words were no sooner off her lips than she had a coughing fit and Belieze waited patiently until the cough had subsided before administering some more of the cough syrup.

“However,” Mair Freida croaked valiantly, “there's another pressing concern. I'm no spring chicken, as I'm sure you're all too well aware. The time is rapidly approaching when I must move on from this place, and as you know I will shortly be faced with the Choice. I have two options: to leave this place in a pine box – and I'm not one to go quietly. Or else, being an elder, to face the labyrinth, bound for Shu'la beland.”

That was the grave choice they'd all have to face when the time came.

Again she broke off for a time to cough and spit out phlegm into a porcelain receptacle she had close at-hand.

“And then there is the question of my successor.”

Tenzing nodded seriously. “And what does Rifatzada have to say on the matter?” he asked her. Rifatzada was one of the elder abbots or secret chiefs of the Order and his name meant the elevated noble. His consort was Banu Zadar. Banu means a lady, a bride or a flagon of wine and Zadar means noble. Mair Freida was one of the few amongst them who could channel the elder abbots, and in her case she had a particular affinity for Rifatzada.

“Rifatzada tells me that only I can make the decision when the time comes, though he did confirm that I would be welcome at Shu'la beland.”

Tenzing bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Nobody could enter the realm of Shu'la beland without an invitation, and no mundane invitation but one experienced in the heart. Some had tried, through all manner of foolish and worldly ways and more arcane means to gain entry and they had invariably been forced back, been driven to insanity or perished. There had been more casualties over the years than he cared to imagine, and a great many who mistook mental illness for enlightenment of the first order. Even for those with an invitation, the journey through the labyrinth was perilous; and though there appeared to be no reason why a return journey should not be possible after renewal, to Tenzing's knowledge, none had ever returned … at least not in the same lifetime. Whether that was due to an inability, through choice or that they were rendered in a certain way “invisible” to others, he did not know.

“Your dear niece Dzoldzaya is a wonderful student, Tenzing, and I could not recommend her more highly to take on my rôle. And then there will be the need to train and initiate a new Elder, perhaps two or three, to make up the numbers, if we are to sustain the community, both here and at Shu'la beland.”

Yes, there were many details to sort out, Tenzing pondered.

For some, the calling came within weeks of their becoming elders; for others it came toward the end of their lives. And at the final moment, there had been some who turned back, or the converse, abruptly choosing to leave. Until it actually happened, or something “clicked”, there could be no telling what the eventual choice would be, or when that eventual choice would be made. Some even went so far as to suggest that though there was an apparent element of free will, the decision was made for one from on high or from deep within, but this was mere speculation. Truth be told, nobody this side of the labyrinth really knew.

One thing that Tenzing had noticed, however, was that there was never any compulsion; neither in the worldly Order, unlike some cults and organized religions, nor in the further calling. Having said that, the choice could still be a difficult one, like the earlier choice of the heart between the desires of the lower self and spirit, but three or four octaves deeper in tone.

Again Tenzing nodded solemnly. “Don't worry yourself, Mair Freida, you can leave me to sort that out while you concentrate on getting better. That's the most important thing.”

He knew already the option that Mair Freida would choose – truth be told, Mair Freida did, too – and he couldn't help thinking that perhaps she'd left it late, for even when Mair Freida was well, she was growing physically weak as the years took their toll. Nevertheless, that grave decision was one that only she could make. Even if he were to speak his own mind, the elder abbots would not take kindly to such an intervention and would most likely tie his tongue and wipe all influence from her mind.

14. Easier said than done

True to his word as ever, Tenzing pulled out all the stops in the search for the callodum. He'd spent some time in the library and managed to find out a little more about the species. But when he found that the plant only flowered in the summer, it now being autumn and unseasonably cold, at least in the mountains, he was crestfallen. Even a non-specialist might recognize the plant by the distinctive bell-shaped yellow and purple flowers, his hope being of course that he might mobilize the whole of the Network of field agents to take part in the search. But if the task required specialists who might recognize the plant by its foliage and location alone, this rather put the dampers on that strategy. And yet he had no other option but to try, even if the efforts might be in vain.

It was thus with a degree of trepidation and a heavy heart that he next went to see Mair Freida.

“I know why you've come, Tenzing,” Mair Freida told him, between fits of coughing, and wheezing heavily. “I can see it in your eyes and I can sense it in your aura.”

He told her of the difficulties, ending on as up-beat a note as he could muster. “There must be somewhere we can find the callodum, Mair Freida ....” he ventured.

For a moment the old lady made no reply. “You've done more than enough for me already, my friend.”

Tenzing picked up on that momentary pause. “Is there something you're not telling me, Mair Freida? And yes, that is more of a statement than a question.”

Again, there was that tell-tale pause, and he could almost feel the old lady squirming inside.

“You're in two minds about something, Mair Freida, I can tell.”

The old lady slowly shook her head from side to side. “Oh, Tenzing. If I open my mouth, it will be to say too much. Even telling you this is telling too much, don't you see?”

He squeezed her hand gently. “Simply drop your concerns, Mair Freida. We know one-another too well to hold back in this way.”

“I'm going to put you in an awkward position, you see, Tenzing. As I said, you've done more than enough for me already; and I don't want to put you out any further..”

“Oh, Mair Freida, Mair Freida; you know that I am in no way put out. I would go to the ends of the earth to help you.”

“Well, that's just it, you see. Callodum flowers in the summer-time and here it is already well into autumn. But there is another place where you are sure to find the plant, and being a good deal further south, it will still be in flower there.”

“Gilgamar?” That was the land of the lamas, who had been invaded and occupied by the Collectivist Republic of Nur Galan, in order to quell the Hujardi, religious zealots who had sought to expand their own dominion. Subsequently the Nur Galanese had embarked upon a major plan to populate Gilgamar with their own people and to plunder its wealth of natural resources, as if the whole country were some vast factory or open cast mine. Their industry would be the ruin of the east.

Mair Freida sighed. “At least as far south as Gilgamar, if not further ....”

“Now perhaps you appreciate my reticence, Tenzing,” the old lady sighed deeply for a second time, “and why saying this, given your generous nature, is saying altogether too much. I wouldn't ask for myself, but I can feel Shu'la beland calling me. I can hear the whisperings of love in my ear ....”

“And of course the labyrinth would be beyond you in your present condition ....”

She nodded.

Tenzing tenderly patted Mair Freida's wrinkled hand and rose to his feet. “You hang in there and leave the matter with me, Mair Freida.” And with that, he was off with renewed purpose; and a sense of urgency, not knowing how long the task would take, other than that it was going to take many days; nor whether they actually had that much time.

15. An evil twist

Whilst out on her regular shopping expedition, Gladys Penbury had seen an ornate urn in a local second hand shop. It was a rather seedy looking shop and usually she would not deign to set foot in such a grubby emporium; but then one does not concern oneself with the mantelpiece whilst stoking the fire, as one of her male companions had once informed her.

Going in to enquire the price, though all too aware of the old adage that if one needed to ask the price of a thing one could not afford it, she'd momentarily been taken aback by the sum the owner was asking. However, her mind was already made up: the urn would be perfect for her garden. The piece was a good eighteen inches across, almost as high and a good deal heavier than it looked, so rather than struggle with it to her car, which was parked at the other end of town, she had arranged to have it delivered.

So there she was, carefully lifting it out of the tatty old cardboard box, when something else caught her eye. The space in the box had been filled with screwed-up newspaper and the urn itself had been wrapped in several sheets, not that this would have made any difference should the precious urn have suffered a knock, though at least it stopped the piece from joggling about in the box.

There on page one of the newspaper, beneath a bold black heading of shock and horror, as might be expected of the gutter press, was a photograph, and something told her that the face was somehow familiar.

Placing the urn carefully on the kitchen floor, Gladys unfolded the newspaper and studied the photograph more closely. It rang some distant bell in her mind, but her association with the man eluded her, so with a shrug, she screwed up the newspaper and tossed it in the swing bin. Dropping the matter, she went to make herself a fresh pot of tea and cut herself a slice of the gorgeous cream cake she'd just bought. Well, what else was money for but for enjoyment? It wasn't as if she'd be able to take it with her beyond the grave.

Two bites into the cream cake and it came to her. She had a sip of tea and retrieved the newspaper from the bin; wiping off a disagreeable splodge of gravy. Yes, there was no question: that was the man she'd seen – what's her name? – the woman at the conference with. He had stopped to change the woman's flat tyre.

Gladys went through to her antique writing bureau, swung down the desk top and rummaged through the compartments and drawers. Ah yes, there was the glossy brochure and the typed list of delegates. Three years ago. Was it really? My, how time had flown. She scanned down the long list of names and came to Tenzing's name. Of course, the woman was standing in for Tenzing that weekend, but the list had not been updated, since the swap must have been arranged at short notice.

Going back to the newspaper, Gladys read the article, not having as yet taken in the content, and was shocked by what she read. The man was on the run from police, suspected of some kind of fraud in Newthorpe and a later murder in Spalding. Ah, but this was an old report. She checked the top left hand corner of the newspaper and was dismayed to see that the edition was published a couple of months after the conference. Reading through the newspaper, however, it would appear that the man must have been on the run when he and what's her name crossed paths; and he would have been travelling in her direction from Newthorpe, then Spalding and on to Grey Friars where the conference was held that year.

No matter. Again she screwed up the newspaper and tossed it in the bin. The police must surely have caught the man before now; and if not then the trail would be stone cold. So there was no point in worrying her head over the matter, nor needlessly bothering the police.

~~~O~~~

Gladys was woken in the middle of the blessed night by a most peculiar and disturbing dream. Of course it might simply have been the cheese and cream crackers she'd had for supper the night before. Gladys wasn't one for old wives tales, but perhaps cheese actually did have that effect? Anyhow, she'd been out shopping, though not in her home town in Gothgoria: her surroundings were unfamiliar and for that matter, she couldn't for the life of her remember what she was meant to be shopping for. She rarely went out into town on speculation; she always made a list and had a set goal in mind. But not that day. Gladys had rummaged around in her pockets, but all she'd found was a piece of crumpled newspaper. Looking back, of course, she could see how the day's events had led to the dream; but at the time, it had been so confusing.

What woke her with a start, however, was seeing what's-her-name? sauntering down the street toward her. And who should be with her but the fugitive. The woman appeared genuinely pleased to see her, though the man was more distant. Naturally, she'd tried to warn the woman, and this greatly displeased her companion. He came toward yours truly, with some kind of cord in his hands and with the most evil expression on his face. Realizing to her horror that he was intent on strangling her, so that she could not warn the woman, she'd awoken with a start and bathed in sweat from head to foot.

So shaken was she, that Gladys got out of bed and scurried downstairs. Switching on all the lights to banish the darkness, she put the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea, and had a drink of water to wash down one of the tablets that she took for her nerves. She was supposed to take them at set times, but right now she desperately needed one.

Gladys didn't go back to bed that night. She turned on the gas fire, pulled the leather sofa a little closer to the hearth and lay down there, with her coat over her and a heavy brass poker close by her side. She didn't have the nerve to go back upstairs to fetch a blanket.

She dozed for what seemed an age with one eye open, not daring to fall asleep again, for fear that she'd land back in that awful dream again and that the monster would come for her. At length she must have fallen asleep again, however, only to be awoken by the infernal alarm clock going off in her bedroom upstairs.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she grumbled, casting her coat on the sofa and going through to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. She wasn't that fond of coffee, but feeling so dozy after a broken night's sleep, an extra strong coffee was definitely the order of the day.

Half way through her bowl of crispy chocolate cereal, the woman's name came back to Gladys. It was Missus Muller. Rosalind? Rosabelle? No, Rosalie Muller. She took out her note pad and wrote the name down while she still remembered, and finished off her cereal. She was still in two minds about whether or not to bother the police. In the end, Gladys decided that she should. The worse that could happen to her was that she ended up feeling a little foolish, and if she had information that the police could have used, but didn't, and some other poor dear was conned, battered or murdered by the man, well, she'd never be able to square that with her conscience and forgive herself. Telephoning, however, was out of the question. She always ended up gibbering on that ruddy contraption. Instead, she'd write the policeman a personal letter and post it.

Retrieving the screwed up newspaper from the bin yet again, she jotted down a few details and began to compose the letter, anxious to remember all the facts of Missus Muller's encounter, to convey the right message, and also to cross her I's and dot her T's.

An hour later, after several abortive attempts, though still not satisfied with what she'd written, Gladys folded up the letter, carefully addressed the envelope “For the private and personal attention of ...”, deciding against a last P.S. on the back of the envelope, and when the ink had thoroughly dried, she popped it in her coat pocket.

Something kept nagging at her, all morning, telling her that she was being foolish; but in the end, unable to stand the tension a moment longer, she pulled on her coat, locked the house and set off at a determined pace for the post office. Only when the letter was out of her hands would she be able to relax, knowing that she would not be able to change her mind yet again.

Just as Gladys was about to leave the garden and enter the lane, a fierce wind suddenly blew up, making the nearby maples bow and snatching the wooden gate from her hand. The gate slammed it into her leg and nearly knocked her off her feet. Well, that was a good start to the day, she huffed to herself. But it would take more than that to deter her. Clinging onto the brim of her hat, she struggled down the lane toward the high street to post the blessed thing and get back inside out of the bitterly cold wind.

Gladys had gone no more than a few yards when the wind blew up again. She heard the clattering of tiles on a roof nearby and instinctively ducked, shielding her face with her hand as a large slate sliced through the air, just catching her gloved hand before hitting the hard pavement and shattering. “It'll take more than that to deter me, you old goat. I know your game,” she muttered to herself, hurrying off down the high street, all the more determined to post the letter.

Just as Gladys came to the post office, fighting the wind to open the door without it flying out of her hand, she felt the most excruciating, crushing pain in her chest and an awful tingling sensation running down her arm. She staggered inside, pulling the envelope out of her pocket with her good hand, before collapsing head-long on the shiny, fake marble lino floor.

And, like Elsie Grimshaw and Maud Hepplethwaite before her, that is the last she knew.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor who had been called to the scene gently closed Gladys Penbury's eyes and pronounced her dead as the ambulance arrived. Having to come all the way from Churley, it had arrived too late, but in any case the woman was probably dead before her head had hit the floor.

The doctor got to his feet as the ambulance crew hovered close-by, an anxious look on the post master's face. The shake of the doctor's head said it all really.

“Well, there's little doubt in my mind that Missus Hepplethwaite, being of an age and with a portly build, died of natural causes,” the doctor informed them. He walked over to the counter and quickly filled out the necessary paperwork, before handing a copy to the crew. “You might as well take the dear lady straight round to the morgue on your way back. She was a patient of mine, and I'll endeavour to contact her next of kin.”

The crew gently moved the body onto a stretcher and carried it outside to the waiting ambulance, and with the wave of his hat, and taking it all in his stride, the doctor was on his way.

Just then, the post master noticed the envelope on the floor and picked it up. It was addressed to some detective over at Newthorpe. Heaven only knew what she'd written, as Missus Hepplethwaite had a long history of mental illness; folk were forever gossiping about the dear lady behind her back, since she often got all manner of odd ideas in her head. Nevertheless, if it had meant so much to the lady to come out on a God-forsaken day like this to post the letter, well who was he to stand in her way? That was her business, not his. She was a good woman who'd never really recovered from the tragic loss of her husband. There was no stamp on the envelope, but that was the least he could do for the poor dear. Now, as for Missus Hepplethwaite's sister, she had a moral duty to take care of her. To disown her had been sheer cruelty.

He went outside to let the folk know they could come in now, thanking them for their patience and passing on the sad news; then went round the back of the counter, licked a stamp, franked the envelope and dropped it in the bag with all the rest.

16. A message from babs chu

Rosalie Muller listened intently as Wilbur relayed an urgent message from Tenzing. There were no phones at the babs chu retreat; so they had to rely on Wilbur who was an amateur radio operator based at Shakra, a town on the central plains of Narayana.

As Wilbur spoke, she hurriedly scribbled down the message in shorthand. “Thank you, Wilbur. No, there's no need to report back to Tenzing now. It's just gone seven in the morning here, and it's going to take me a few hours to see what arrangements I can make. What time is it there? Okay, then let's say I get back to you the same time tomorrow? If by any chance I have anything substantial to report earlier, I'll call you. Anyhow, thanks again for your help, Wilbur. Take care. Yes, you too.”

Rosalie did wonder whether or not she should contact Harold Grainger, since with Tenzing away at babs chu, that left him in charge; but she decided against it. With her back at Foxholes he was taking a couple of days off, and she didn't want to mess up his family's plans. Besides, she could brief him later when she had more news.

At that moment, Randal Smith poked his head through the door of Rosalie's office, followed by Helen, his wife. She beckoned them in. “Good to see you again, Helen; Randal," she smiled. "And I must say your timing is impeccable.”

Helen was clearly in high spirits at being back at Foxholes. “Well, we thought we'd come in early. Randal wanted to be well prepared if he's to take Mister Flint's computing classes today.”

“Come in and sit yourselves down for a minute. Actually, something else has just come up, and I was referring to the fact that you've arrived at just the right time to help me out, if you wouldn't mind. I have a couple of things to do, and I need to get the staff together for an extraordinary meeting. Let's say for nine in Tenzing's office. The meeting will take about half an hour at most, so they'll have to leave work for the students to be getting on with during first period.”

Helen was already on her feet. “I can do that,” she beamed, ever eager to be of assistance, and was off on Rosalie's nod.

“Anything I can help with?” asked Randal.

Rosalie thought for a moment. “We'll need some chairs, Randal. Maybe you and Louis Barker, the caretaker, could borrow some from class 11?”

“Wilco,” he nodded in accord and he, too, was heading for the door.

“Thanks Randal, then you can relax in the staff room for a while, or prepare for the lessons: but it would be good for you and Helen to sit in at the meeting: it's Network business, rather than for the study centre. I don't have time now, but I'll explain soon enough.”

That being the case, once he'd located the caretaker and sorted out the hard back chairs, Randal went off to make himself a coffee in the staff lounge, then took a stroll to the new computing room to get ready. Fortunately, he was free until second period, which started at ten. It wasn't so much a matter of preparing material, since he had a good grasp of the subject itself and Bernard Flint had left copious notes; it was more a matter of calming his own nerves.

~~~O~~~

Helen entered the cafeteria and looked around. As yet the place was empty, though she could hear the clatter of kitchen utensils, so somebody was already around.

“Can I help you, miss?” asked a portly looking chap, putting down a pile of plates on the counter and turning to face her. He must have been one of the mature students on kitchen chores.

“No, it's okay, thanks,” Helen dismissed him and went round the back of the counter and peered into the kitchen. There were three other students there, but there was no sign of the cook. She turned back to the man.

“Actually, I'm looking for Missus Morgan,” she told him. “When she returns, please let her know that there'll be an urgent staff meeting at nine o'clock in Tenzing's office.”

“I would if I could, but I can't,” the man quipped, with a mischievous grin, then suddenly he was quite serious. “I'm sorry to say that Cook is in bed with the flu and won't be back until Monday at the earliest. I've stepped in to take her place.”

“Mackenzie Centhorn,” he smiled, wiping his hands on his apron and stretching out his arm. “But being a bit of a mouthful, most people call me Mac.”

“Oh, I see. Thanks for letting me know. Helen Wiggins. Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, tell you what, once breakfast is served up, I'll be along and sit in on Cook's behalf. And if anything important comes up, I can keep Cook posted,” the man offered genially. “Anyhow, I must go: the hungry hordes will be descending on us in the next few minutes.”

“A woman's work is never done,” he quipped. And with that, the man spun on his heel and went back to the kitchen. “Right girls and boys, I think we can take the first batch through to the hot plates now. Mollie, if you could man the counter, and I'll send Bernard out when things begin to get busy. Come on now, chop chop.”

A woman's work is never done, indeed, grumbled Helen, as she left the cafeteria. Still, the man didn't appear to be such a bad stick as chauvinists go. A few choice words from the redoubtable Missus Morgan or from Matron, or failing that a few more years in the Network and they'd have him straightened out.

~~~O~~~

When Rosalie noticed Mac sitting at the back, she did think about having a discreet word with him; after all, though he was helping them out of an awkward situation with Missus Morgan being ill, that didn't make him staff, let alone a part of the Network. But when he caught her eye, she had second thoughts. Perhaps it was time they took Mac under their wing, after all? He was proving to be a rather resourceful chap to have around.

Rosalie waited patiently until all the staff were present and they were settled into their seats, then she politely coughed to attract their attention, and addressed them.

“Good morning, friends. Earlier I had a message from Tenzing. As you may know he's away in Narayana for the next two months; perhaps longer if, heaven forbid, winter comes early and he gets snowed in. Some of you who've been to the retreat will know of our dear elder sister in the Way, Mair Freida. She has been an active member of the community for over five decades now, the last forty of those spent in service as a healer, a teacher and not least a very dear friend. I am sad to say that Mair Freida has come down with influenza and, weakened by this, she has developed pneumonia; and to compound matters, the remedies they have available to them at the retreat have either failed to improve Mair Freida's condition or else have disagreed with her.”

She paused for a few moments while a number of the staff expressed their sadness or suggested remedies of their own.

“However and on a brighter note,” she continued, "I am reliably informed that there is a plant which may well help her pull through.”

She'd found a book in the library and a picture of the plant, and she had them pass it around. “The plant goes by the name of callodum, it's very scarce in the wild, and it flowers in the summer, so finding this plant would be no easy task, even for the specialist.”

It quickly became apparent that the staff had either never heard of the plant, or else never seen it, which did not surprise Rosalie.

When the book was passed to Mac, his eyes lit up. “What Mair Freida calls callodum, others know as khalon daat,” he chipped in. All eyes turned to him.

“Ah, perhaps we're onto something now,” smiled Rosalie. Well, that was a turn out for the books. “Could you say more?”

He nodded eagerly and she beckoned him to come forward, rather than have the others cricking their necks looking round.

“If it's the blossoms you're after, you'll find the plant still flowering in abundance some way south of here.”

“Gilgamar?” she enquired.

“You're getting warmer, Rosalie ....”

“Erigwid?” she asked, trying not to let her immediate misgivings show.

Mac nodded. “Yes, dear lady: Erigwid.”

Oh, surely not?

Erigwid was the homeland of the Hujardi. Once upon a time it was the heartland of civilization; its people so learned and outward looking, but lately it had become a very dangerous place to be, and a hot bed of blinkered fanaticism. Having largely pulled out of Erigwid, only a handful of the Network's people were still placed there and they went around with their heads down for fear of attracting undesirable attention. With no way they could get across the border into Gilgamar, that would necessitate a circuitous route south through the mountains to the west of Gilgamar until they swung around toward Erigwid.

“Erigwid is a big place, Mac, did you have a specific location in mind?”

“Ah, now that's the easy part,” Mac replied, with his hands clasped on his lapels and puffing out his chest. “Though khalon daat or – what did you call it? – callodum is rarely found in the wild these days, it is grown in abundance in northern Erigwid. They use the leaves as a substitute for tea, amongst other things.”

Mac paused for a moment. “Back to you, Rosalie,” he motioned, returning to his seat.

“Erigwid it is, then,” echoed Rosalie, her mind racing as she tried to work out what to say next.

“If it's a common commodity, then can't we simply 'put in an order', as it were?” asked Miss Franks.

“I wish that we could, Millie. What we're interested in, however, is not the flower, nor the leaves, but the bulbous roots. Mair Freida calculates that she will require one plant a day for three weeks; and suggests that more is obtained, so that the gardeners at the retreat might cultivate the plant in the greenhouses.”

“I'll go get it, if you're looking for volunteers,” piped up Helen in the front row. “And me,” Randal concurred.

Rosalie smiled to cover her apprehension. “I haven't told you the whole story yet, Helen. This will involve a long and difficult journey, through the mountains skirting Gilgamar and south to Erigwid. Given the difficult position women find themselves in in that society, I'm sorry but I couldn't ask you to make such a journey.”

“Then I'll go,” Randal reiterated.

“Thank you, both of you,” Rosalie smiled.

“So what's the plan?” asked Randal.

“Bear with me for a moment, as I'm thinking on the hoof here.” Rosalie took a few moments to clarify matters in her own mind.

“Okay, things being the way they are, only a handful of our people have stayed on in Erigwid, and you will need to contact them and obtain the plants. Time being of the essence, I suggest you meet with Conrad Harper half way between the retreat and Erigwid, hand over the plants, then return to Foxholes at your leisure.”

“Wouldn't it make sense to meet our people from Erigwid half way, too? That would save yet more time,” Helen queried.

“The few who stayed on in Erigwid after the religious uprising were those native to the area, Helen. And with the loss of so much infrastructure there, including the telephone network, which was poor at the best of times, we cannot contact them in time and we cannot contact them openly. You would be there before letters could be exchanged, and in any case it would be far too dangerous to write to our people there. All communications to and from Erigwid are strictly monitored and censored.”

“And ....” Rosalie began.

“And?”

“And there's more. We need to find someone who is familiar with Erigwid to act as your guide, someone who is also fluent in the local dialects.”

“When you need to get in touch with them, how do you do that?” Helen queried.

“Without going into details, we use a code. Tenzing speaks the language sufficiently well, so it's usually left to him.”

“Except that he's at the retreat,” Helen noted.

“Indeed.”

Someone was waving his arm in the air at the back of the room and looking up, she saw it was Mac again.

“Yes, Mac. Do you have any suggestions? Or a question?”

Mac rose to his feet. “Well, a suggestion or an offer actually, Rosalie. You see, my father was stationed in Erigwid for many years and I spent my childhood and early youth there. I'm quite familiar with the local customs – well, the customs as they were before the revolution – and the language.”

Again Rosalie's mind was racing. They seldom, if ever, involved students in Network business until they'd been thoroughly tried, tested and initiated into the Order. This was a lengthy process of assimilation more than study, and the process worked through intuition rather than training. But desperate circumstances called for exceptional methods.

“... And I'd be more than willing to go along with Randal and act as an interpreter.”

“Thank you. Leave it with me, Mac,” Rosalie nodded thoughtfully. She did not wish to commit herself at that precise moment, and glanced at her watch. “Do you have any questions, friends?”

There were none forthcoming, only requests for her to pass on their best wishes to Mair Freida.

“Yes, I'll certainly do that. Well, thank you friends, time's pressing on, so I won't detain you any longer. Randal and Mac, I'll certainly bear in mind your kind offers. I have a few matters to attend to first, but I promise that I'll get back to you before lunch time.”

~~~O~~~

Come lunch time, Rosalie's mind was made up and she went in search of Randal and Mac, to find them sitting together in the staff common room, deep in conversation. There was a distinct whiff of tobacco smoke in the air, which was something the college frowned upon, but there were more important matters on her mind at that time. Judging by appearances, the two of them seemed to have clicked, which was fortunate under the circumstances; Mac was a genial soul, but he had a tendency to rub others up the wrong way from time to time by opening his mouth without first engaging his brain, or his heart.

“Hi Rosalie. So when do we go?” asked Mac, either presuming that they'd be given the go-ahead or else reading her mind. Still, this was no time to worry about such minor points.

“The matter is of the utmost urgency, so you'd best go first thing tomorrow morning,” Rosalie advised them.

“Can we borrow Tenzing's old estate?” Randal enquired. “Helen will need our car and the thing's rather under powered for anything more than nipping around town or day trips.”

Rosalie shook her head adamantly. “That old banger? I wouldn't like you to risk a long journey in that. Borrow mine; it's fresh back from servicing, so it shouldn't let you down.”

“What about you, though?” Randal wanted to know, as considerate as ever.

“Oh, the old battle wagon will do me. I'll only be travelling between here and Sher Point on a routine basis.”

Randal looked at his wristwatch and exchanged glances with Mac. “We can be packed and out of here within half an hour, and there are still three or four hours of daylight left. I figure we could reach Houghton in the late evening and stay there the night. What do you say, Mac?”

Mac was already on his feet and equally eager to be off. “Yes, that's fine by me, Randal. See you at the car park in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Excellent,” beamed Rosalie and she fished the car keys out of her shoulder bag, jangled them in the air, then tossed them in Randal's direction. “While you're packing I'll go and raid the cafeteria on your behalf. You'll be more than hungry by the time you get to Houghton and it may be too late to dine out. I'll also sort you out with some money. We only have a few coins from Erigwid, but I gather they are more than willing to accept or exchange silver and gold, trusting that more than their own ailing currency. Ten of their shingles will just about buy you a loaf of bread these days, by the way, so don't let them diddle you.”

As ever, Rosalie seemed to have thought of everything. “How are you at haggling over prices?”

“Useless,” confessed Randal. “And that's just Sher Point on market day. So how much should we be prepared to pay for say thirty plants?”

Rosalie shrugged her shoulders, then had second thoughts. “At the end of the day, the cost is immaterial, though of course they needn't know that. Pay whatever you have to pay.”

“Don't you worry, Randal, that's my forte,” replied Mac, his hands again grasping his lapels. “I won't let them short change us, my friend. When I'm through with them, they'll be left thinking that perhaps they should pay us to take the scraggy things off their hands,” he laughed, clapping his hand on Randal's shoulder a little too heavily for his liking.

17. A fresh lead

Hugo Foss had been retired for two years now and still hadn't settled down into the rudderless mediocrity and obscurity of civilian life. Life? It was a fucking great sausage machine, with sentient beings being sucked in one end, and some shrink-wrapped, homogenized goo being spewed out from the other.

Hugo hated life on his own, now that he was no longer focussed on his work; yet could not bring himself to join an over sixties club. The job had been all-consuming; so much so that within five years of marriage, tensions growing by the day and still childless, he and his wife Belinda had separated and twelve months later she divorced him, citing irreconcilable differences. That had knocked him back a bit at the time, and the trauma had at length receded into history, and yet he was still consumed from time to time with sorrow and remorse; and as for a belated reconciliation, she had a new fancy man and it was more likely that hell would freeze over than that they would ever again get back together again. The only contact he had with his ex-wife now was an ongoing exchange of letters via solicitors: he was now in receipt of his works pension, less the ten percent they'd all lost in Austerity Tax, and Belinda was out to collect her share of it.

In the most recent letter, he had been informed that she would be willing to settle for a lump sum rather than a monthly percentage. Apparently she and her new fancy man were planning on retiring by the sea and were in need of a deposit on a cottage that had taken their eye. And here was he, living in a seedy one bedroom flat above “The Greasy Diner”, as he had nicknamed the café. The odd whiff of bacon and eggs was quite appetizing; but hour after hour? Day in and day out? You could have too much of a good thing. Still, he worked ten hours a week there, washing up, and this did give him a little more money to spend on necessities and the odd luxury.

Hugo was on the point of going out on his daily shop and peered out through the net curtains to check on the weather. He could have shopped weekly like most sensible people, but living on his own, it helped get him out of the flat for a few minutes. Casting his eyes down to the narrow street below, he saw the white trolley. He thought he'd heard it clattering along the cobbles. The post lady had just delivered a large bundle of mail to the café and turned to move on; then, pulling what looked like a solitary white letter from the clutch she had in her hand, she went back and stuffed it through his letter box at the bottom of the stairs. Well, it was too early in the month to be his pension, and official letters were invariably in brown manilla envelopes, so perhaps some old friend had thought of him and this was his lucky day?

Hurrying down the steep flight of carpeted stairs he picked up the white envelope from the coarse door mat and examined it. The letter was addressed in elegantly swirled handwriting using an old-fashioned fountain pen. Well, it wasn't from a youngster then. It was from someone around his own age. He examined the back of the envelope but there was no return address.

Taking the envelope back upstairs, he paused to fill his pipe and had a few puffs before slitting open the envelope with a nearby kitchen knife. Funny, all those years he'd spent in the force and he'd never once even felt the urge to start smoking. It was only since he'd retired that he'd taken to a pipe.

Scanning the first page quickly, he was about to consign the letter to the bin, thinking that it was just about some old case. When he left the job, he was determined to leave anything to do with the job behind him. He wasn't the sort to spend his retirement having a drink with the lads at the local, nor attend commemorative services in his dotage.

And then, turning over to briefly scan the second page, a name popped out at him: Frederick Grimshaw. Now there was a name that did interest him. They'd closed the case just before his retirement, never having brought Grimshaw to justice, much to Hugo's annoyance and frustration. Grimshaw had vanished without a trace.

Relighting his pipe, Hugo went through to the living room to read the letter more thoroughly, and the more he read, the more intrigued he became. So, after the murder, someone had spotted Grimshaw at Grey Friars, wherever that was. He got up and searched around his road map. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. No, there it was: a village half way between his last sighting at Spalding and the border with the Freelands.

On he read. So Grimshaw had changed this woman's car tyre, but it didn't of course tell him whether Grimshaw was holed up at Grey Friars or passing through. Well, there was one way to find out. Hugo looked at his watch. It was still early, and if he put his foot down, he could be there by late evening.

Grey Friars was a small village; indeed it was comprised simply of one street of cottages, interspersed with the odd farm yard, and a few outlying farms, so the next day once his breakfast had settled, Hugo started at one end of the village and methodically worked his way to the other, making door to door enquiries. Half way down the street it became clear to him that if Grimshaw had spent any time there, which included having a drink or a meal at the local pub, he would have been noticed, but not one of the residents had seen anyone matching his description.

That being the case, he gave that effort up as a bad job and, obtaining directions, he headed off to the country house where his informant had told him the conference had been held. Spotting that they had a bar and that it was open for lunch, he decided that he might as well have something to eat there while he considered what to do next. Sitting on a tall stool at the plush bar, he fell into conversation with the landlady, and he asked whether she knew a Rosalie Muller who had attended a conference on August 7th three years ago.

The landlady scratched her head, not that Hugo could see any practical use in doing so. “That name doesn't ring a bell, love. Sorry.”

Then she had second thoughts and stuck a finger in the air. “Hang on, if the conference was held over a weekend, then the delegates will have signed the register. August 7th you say?”

Hugo nodded. “Three years ago.”

The landlady returned with a red leather bound book just as one of the kitchen staff arrived with his pie and peas and a bowl of chips. They were good and golden and slightly crisp, unlike the pale, limp fingers they peddled at the Greasy Diner.

“Thanks, I'll have my meal and then have a look through the book, if that's all right with you?”

“No problem; that's an old register, so there's no rush, love. Would you like a top-up? On the house.”

“I'd love to, my dear, but I may well be driving again later.”

“A half, then? I'm sure you could squeeze that in without going squiffy eyed,” she enticed him.

He graciously accepted and tucked into his chips.

Unable to contain his excitement, however, between mouthfuls he flicked through the register until he came to the right date; then slowly scanned the hand-written entries.

“Yes!” he called out to himself. There she was: “R. Muller (Mrs).” To his dismay, however, she'd given her address as simply Sher Point, and that was a vast and sprawling city in the Freelands.

Still, this Rosalie Muller was the only lead he had to go on, and she might only be a telephone directory entry away.

Hugo fished a quantity of change out of his jacket pocket and went to use the phone in the foyer. Dialling a number, he asked to be put through to Jenkins, his old protégé.

“Jenkins, yes it's me. Yes, it's good to hear you, too. Lieutenant Examiner now, you say? Well, congratulations on your well deserved promotion. Oh, so so. I don't think I'll ever get used to civies.”

“Anyhow, listen, could you do me a favour? No, no, I know records are confidential. All I want you to do is look up a name in the Sher Point phone directory. I need the address and number of one Rosalie Muller. Muller. M.U.L.L.E.R. Somewhere in Sher Point. Maybe down as Missus R. Muller. Yes, it'll take time, so phone me back on Grey Friars -- that's the Simmington area – 663459. No, Jenkins, five nine. Thanks.”

Meanwhile, Hugo went back to sit at the bar, finished off his beer and ordered a large coffee.

Ten minutes later, Jenkins phoned back. It turned out there were just three R. Mullers in the phone book, so chances were it wouldn't take long to track her down. Thanking Jenkins once more, he went back to finish his coffee and to plan his next move.

It hadn't escaped Hugo's attention that the journey from Spalding to Grey Friars was heading toward the Freelands. So it was possible that having changed Missus Muller's tyre, Grimshaw could have gone with her. Of course he wouldn't have got past the border in her car. It was also possible that the woman was in some way involved with him, so perhaps phoning her would not be a good idea. If she was involved with him, then he'd be off like a shot yet again, and then he'd be even more distant. There was only one thing for it, really, other than simply handing over to the Serious Crimes Squad, and that was to go and see her himself. And if he was off to Sher Point, then he'd have to head for Stevenage, just this side of the border, and go through the usual rigmarole to get hold of an entry visa. They usually granted temporary visas for vacation travel.

There was a long standing agreement between the Newthorpe force and the constabulary in the Freelands in the case of serious crimes, but they had to go through official channels, and of course as guests in the country, their powers were limited to that of investigation and not direct apprehension. Indeed, being outsiders, they could not even make a citizen's arrest, unless failure to do so would place lives in direct and immediate danger.

However, being retired and not on official business, he wasn't going to obtain any help whatsoever from the Freelands police; indeed they would take a very dim view of any illicit freelancing. He was entirely on his own. Where this would all lead, he had no idea, but if and when he caught up with Grimshaw, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

18. Enquire within

As Rosalie Muller emerged from her semi-detached house that day, climbed into her car and nervously backed out of the drive and onto the street, Hugo watched and waited, before turning the ignition and following her at a discreet distance as she wended her way through the city. Fortunately, she seemed a careful and considerate driver, so he had no difficulty in keeping pace with her.

Hugo had been been to the public records office and already discounted the other two entries under “R. Muller” in the phone book. He'd done his homework and had already mined a surprising amount of information about her, but before he approached her – if indeed he did approach her directly – he wanted to find out more, not knowing as yet the extent of her involvement with Grimshaw, if any.

The woman drove through the city and across the bridge over the River Dee, and into the suburbs. Then thoughtfully signalling, she turned off the main road, through a set of ornate wrought-iron gates and up a long and winding, tree-lined driveway toward a large country house. Hugo paused momentarily to read the polished brass plaque attached to one of the gates, but seeing that the woman had entered private property, of course he did not follow. Instead he drove on a short way, turned his car round in someone's driveway and returned to the city to see if he could find out what this place “Foxholes” was. Chances were, it was a private residence; in which case, whoever owned it must possess a good deal of wealth and perhaps be deserving of mention in the local press. And if the manor housed a business, then its activities and annual accounts would be the subject of public records.

Hugo parked the car and went off to the local library, enquiring first of all with one of the staff, a lady perhaps in her mid-fifties with an air about her that suggested she was in charge.

The lady shook her head briskly. “I'm sorry, no. I've lived here in Sher Point for over thirty years now and I can't say that I've heard the name 'Foxholes'.”

“Do you have copies of the local newspaper?” he enquired.

“Well, yes, we have the Courier on microfilm and you're more than welcome to browse through. But without an index or a date, you'd be looking for a needle in a haystack. And besides, I'm an avid reader of the newspaper, and I'm certain that I would have spotted at least one mention of 'Foxholes'."

He'd asked a few passing locals and shop keepers if they'd heard of “Foxholes” and in each case, they had looked blank and suggested that if anyone knew, they would know at the library.

Hugo nodded. “Thank you, my dear. I'll take your sound advice and try another avenue.” Doffing his hat, he turned and left the building, lighting his pipe and taking a few puffs whilst he considered his next move.

If Foxholes hadn't appeared in the local press, then it was unlikely that the owner was a prominent local figure; and also unlikely that a commercial business should operate from the premises.

He thought for a time. Of course, it could have been an educational or charitable establishment. The conference that Missus Muller had attended might have had a related purpose. And yet what school or charity would not court coverage in the local press? Of course, there was an old saying contained in the pithy acronym POSIWID, which stood for 'The purpose of a system is what it does', meaning that in spite of appearances and public statements, if the actual effect of, for example, a trade organization was to make it more difficult for other agencies to compete, then it could be deduced that this was its unspoken purpose. At the end of the day, if Foxholes had wanted to be known publicly, then there were any number of ways in which that could have, indeed would have, been achieved. So perhaps this anonymity was intentional?

Hugo knocked out his pipe against a nearby wall and went back into the library to ask directions to the offices of the charity commission. If the place did have a charitable status then they were obliged by law to register with that agency.

They did indeed have records, that was not the issue, but the address on its own proved insufficient; the clerk told him that in order to retrieve the information, he'd have to know either the name of the charity or else its registration number. Well, it had been worth a try.

It was quite sunny that day and Hugo strolled back toward the city centre, through a delightful and serene park bordering a small lake, and sat for a time studying the letter that Gladys Hepplethwaite had originally sent him. It often paid to return to previous material and review it again. Of course, he had another name: that of Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen. Now that was the sort of name that you might not be able to pronounce but would stick in your head. Again, it was worth a try. So back to the library he went, dogged old gumshoe that he was.

Just on the off chance, Hugo riffled through the cards in the library's quaint filing system. It came as no great surprise to him to find that there was nothing in the filing cabinets under F for Foxholes; nor under Muller, R. But – lo! and behold! – after going through a few permutations of the double barrelled name, he found over a dozen entries for books by one Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen. So, he knew now that the guy Rosalie Muller had stood in for at the conference was a published writer. Unfortunately, though Gladys Hepplethwaite had thought to provide this information, she hadn't mentioned what the conference had been about and, to his own chagrin, he hadn't thought to enquire when he went to the country house at Grey Friars. Well, you live and learn, often the long, circuitous and hard way. So, the guy was an author of some sort.

Trusting that this Rinchen fellow's books would tell him more, he jotted down the titles and set off to see what he could find on the library shelves.

At first glance, Hugo thought Rinchen must be some kind of religious swat; then, reading in the blurb on the dust cover that he came from Narayana, Hugo thought perhaps he was a mystically-minded nut or some kind of guru. Give the man some credit, however, three pages of date stamps in the front of the book suggested that his works were a surprisingly popular read.

Anyway, taking several of the books from the shelves, he sat down in one of the cosy armchairs in a secluded corner of the library and began to read. The first thing to do was to find an address, and that was the easy part, the only snag being that instead of a full address, the books merely gave the number of a post office box in Sher Point. However, they did give the name: Narayana Publishing, which was an imprint of Norbu.

Hugo was the kind of man who liked to get inside the head of people he came across in his work, finding the criminal mind a never-ending source of albeit at times grim fascination; so although a part of him was straining at the leash, eager to be on the scent, another part of him told him to hold back, and at least make a cursory study of the man. And what better way than to read some of his work? Hugo picked the earliest of the man's works, The Way It Is, and returned the other books to the library shelves, and he began to read with patience and determination. Before he'd finished the first chapter, it was already becoming clear to him that this was no mystic basket case but a well educated, intelligent, perceptive and witty fellow. And the more he read, the more the detective work receded in his mind and the more he actually began to engage with the subject matter.

He was especially tickled by one of the many anecdotes punctuating the book:

Two children went to school one day. One was a Freelander, the other a Narayani. At the end of the day, their parents asked them what they had learnt.

The Freeland child replied that the cat chases the rat, whilst the Narayani replied that people were basically good.

Though this is something of a generalization or a caricature, this, then, highlights two predominant modes of learning and differences in approach of the western and eastern cultures; and of the divide between them.

Looking at the time, Hugo was surprised that the morning had flown by so fast and thought perhaps it was time he had some lunch and some liquid nutrient. Much of his best thinking was done whilst drinking. Haha! He was a poet and didn't know it, Hugo chortled to himself.

“Excuse me,” he enquired at the librarians' desk. “I'm not a member of this library, but I'm in Sher Point for a few days, is there any way that I can sign this book out for a day or two?”

Alas, the librarian could not help him there. He could join only if he could provide evidence, such as gas or electricity bills, that he was resident in Sher Point. “Oh and I was so looking forward to finishing the book,” he sighed; doubly so as he had no warrant card to wave in her face. The official badge worked wonders back home, though unlike some of the reprobates, he had never used it to jump the queue at a takeaway after a night on the town.

“I'm sure you'll be able to locate the book at Jennings' book store,” the lady offered and gave him directions at a slow enough pace for him to visualize the route: “Out of the main doors, turn right and it's about three blocks down the high street on this side. You can't miss it.”

Then he remembered another task. “Do you have on-line computer access here?” he enquired. “I need to see if I can find the author's web site.”

“Members only, I'm afraid,” the woman shrugged, echoing his own disappointment. “However, there is a café a little further down the street on the other side. I believe you can book time on a computer there.”

Hugo doffed his hat and, thanking the lady for her help, he left the library and headed off in search of the book.

Finding the book again proved a little more tedious than Hugo had expected. The young whippersnapper at Jennings told him that The Way It Is was on order and that they'd have fresh stock in within the next two weeks. The man appeared reluctant to offer further assistance, but with a little pressure he finally suggested that Hugo try Millards, an esoteric bookshop some way across town where they catered for such unorthodox tastes. An hour later, after twice getting lost in the labyrinth of side streets and alleyways, Hugo eventually found the shop, only to discover that they were closed for a late lunch. Fortunately, there was a cosy little café almost opposite, so he bought himself a large coffee and had lunch there, sitting in a window so that he would spot when the book shop reopened. Only then did he stop to question just why any of this was so important. Perhaps it was just the way he was made, or the way the job had made him; this attention to detail and the compulsion to ferret out information, which could come from all manner of different angles? Very often, he simply followed his nose to see where it led; sometimes leading him up the garden path, and sometimes bringing really useful results.

As fortune would have it, he was just downing the last of his coffee when he saw movement inside the shop opposite and an arm reached out to turn the closed sign around, so leaving a tip on the table for the waitress, he left the café and strolled across the road. And yes – lo! and behold! – there was even a copy of the book in the shop window, along with several later works.

“This Rinchen chap seems rather popular,” Hugo remarked as the sales assistant carefully placed the book in a small cardboard carrier bag and handed it over.

“Oh yes, indeed,” the assistant replied, his head bowed and not quite making eye contact. “Tenzing has a large and loyal following.”

“I gather he hails from Narayana, but the book gives a post office box in Sher Point ....” Hugo began, wondering if the lad might know more, especially since he talked in first name terms. “I'm anxious to contact him on an important matter, you see.” Having said that, the chap was probably inundated by people with an urgent need to contact him, if his book sales were anything to go by.

“All I can suggest is that you write care of the post office box,” the young man suggested, with a shrug. “Or if it's urgent, you could always email him via the web site.”

Hugo took out his note pad in anticipation.

The assistant slowly dictated the address: “Norbu dot CO dot SHP”.

“Thanks indeed, you've been most helpful,” replied Hugo, doffing his hat.

“You're most welcome,” the lad smiled, meeting eye to eye for the first time. “I'm sure you'll love the book. And do call again if there's anything we can help you with.”

Hugo paused in the doorway for a moment. “Tell me, you seem reliably informed, young man. Does the name Rosalie Muller mean anything to you?”

The lad paused for a moment as if unsure of how he might reply; almost as if waiting for instructions. “Yes,” he replied at length. “Missus Muller is a literary agent and she also works for Tenzing at Norbu. She often attends and acts as master of ceremonies when Tenzing gives public talks.”

Hugo smiled broadly, his hand on the door. Things had just moved up a gear. “Thank you so much. I'll be certain to recommend you to my friends.” And with that, he was off to find the café and see what further nuggets Rinchen's web site might have to offer; then straight back to the guest house to read more of the book.

He spent all afternoon in the visitors' lounge at the guest house, thoroughly engrossed in the book, taking time out when Miss Ornstein brought him a mid-afternoon cuppa, then again when the evening meal was served at six. The landlady had been baking that day and the aroma had given Hugo heartburn, so he'd had to briefly pop out to the local newsagent's to see if they had any indigestion tablets, but otherwise his reading had been unbroken.

Later he retired to a nearby hostelry to read, over a pint; and at gone two the following morning, with the thick book finally read from cover to cover and him still not changed for bed, he fell into a deep, relaxed sleep.

19. The game is afoot

As Hugo had thought might be the case, Rinchen's web site did give an address for Norbu's Sher Point offices on a contacts page, but it was just another post office box number like the one he'd come across earlier. One digit had been changed, and maybe the publisher used that in order to determine which enquiries came via their presence on the web and which via more traditional means. However, they did give a telephone number, and that was tempting. He really wanted to contact Rosalie Muller, but didn't want to give the game away, in case it turned out that she was involved with Grimshaw; though the more he had read of Rinchen's work the more he had come to feel that he was dealing with a sentient and benign human being. If Rinchen was in any way deluded, then he was clearly very sincerely deluded. And that also re-coloured Hugo's hypotheses about Rosalie Muller. Chances were, she was a purely innocent party in the affair. There was no evidence whatsoever that cast her in anything but a decent light. That she could be involved in some way was a big “if”. But Hugo knew full well that if he gave the game away and Grimshaw did happen to get wind of it, then he'd be off like a rabbit with a ferret on its tail. Could he afford to take that risk? That was the sixty four thousand Noble question.

If he were to meet with Rosalie Muller, then he would immediately lose his anonymity; and any notion he might have of pursuing the case further “undercover” would be lost. If he were to email her, then he would be unable to give a return email address care of the Newthorpe nick. And if he were to telephone her, again he would be unable to give her a Newthorpe number. Well he could, but alarm bells would ring if she were to reply.

The alternative, of course, which did not promise any results at the end of the day, was to simply watch and wait; and that rankled Hugo.

~~~O~~~

Hugo spent a whole week watching Foxholes from first thing in the morning, a little before Rosalie Muller arrived, until after she left in the late afternoon. And when that was done, he would watch her house in Sher Point into the late evening, with just a vacuum flask of soup, sandwiches, a book and his trusty flask of brandy to keep him warm and in good company. He'd been back to the esoteric bookshop twice now, buying another of Rinchen's books, intrigued to find out more about Muller's boss and to slowly build a bond with the shy lad at the shop whom he thought might know more about Rinchen than he was letting on.

Between bites on a bacon and tomato sauce sandwich, he watched as a large furniture delivery van turned off the road and down the driveway. Edging the car closer to the gates, he fished his old brass binoculars and a few leftover crisp packets out of the glove compartment and trained the glasses on the van. As the lorry drove up, an elderly gentleman came out of the main building with a couple of younger lads in-tow and approached the lorry. He stood there chatting for a moment, then the driver emerged. Going around the side of the lorry, the driver opened the back doors; clambered on board and re-emerged with some sticks of furniture. Handing over the furniture, the elderly gentleman appeared to be signing some papers, presumably as proof that the goods had been safely delivered.

And then, quite unexpectedly, on this eighth day of his silent vigil, Hugo's grim determination finally paid off. It had been doubly grim, for he was parked not far from a blocked drain and the stench was almost nauseating. Either that or a local farmer had been out muck spreading. He had looked away momentarily as a car approached and passed him. But what took his notice was that whilst one elderly gentleman and two young lads had emerged from the building; as the lorry began to turn around toward the exit, five figures, including what looked like a young couple, hurried inside ... suitcases in hand. Seeing the lorry turning toward him now, Hugo put the car in gear and drove some way off down the road; returning only when he could be sure that the coast was clear.

So that was their game. And it would account for Rosalie Muller's encounter with Grimshaw; and the low key profile at Foxholes. Hugo would bet his last Noble that Muller and Rinchen were in the people smuggling business. So that hunch he had had about not giving the game away had not been so ill-conceived after all.

Having seen all he needed to see for now, Hugo headed back to the city; glad not least to be away from the smell of sewage. This discovery did not exactly warrant a celebration, but it deserved to be washed down with a pint and a brandy chaser. And then back to the book store, perhaps, to see if there was any way of getting closer to this Mister Rinchen, now that he was beginning to understand some of the man's lingo?

Buying yet another of Rinchen's works, The Legends of Shu'la Beland, he struck up another conversation with Adam. He'd taken the lad to simply be a sales assistant, but it turned out that he owned the shop. Indeed, he'd spent some time at a study centre run by Rinchen, and the charitable trust which ran the centre had helped him out financially so that he could rent and stock the shop. Hugo was rather hoping that the lad would have mentioned the name Foxholes, but he was a little coy when it came to specifics.

“These talks that Mister Rinchen gives ....” Hugo began, treading warily. “I'd very much like to see the man in person. Do you know if any are planned in the near future?”

The lad fished under the counter and produced a sheet, studying it briefly. “There's a talk at the city library on Friday 9th. Miss Eade, the senior librarian organizes the library talks.”

“Five feet tall, blue-grey hair and silver rimmed spectacles; mid-fifties?”

“That's the lady,” Adam nodded.

Hugo smiled. “Yes, I was only talking to that dear lady a few days ago.” This was the lady who maintained that she knew nothing of Foxholes. Oh bother ... and who would be sure to remember his inquiry.

“Ah, but that's three or four weeks away.”

“Well, there is an open circle every Thursday evening,” the lad offered out of the blue.

Hugo rubbed his hands gleefully. “Now that sounds interesting. I'm rather taken by this talk 'of the Way' as Rinchen puts it and of studying 'in the Way' itself. So where is the meeting held?”

“We used to have the circles at the Friends' Meeting House, but that was demolished and they're still in the process of having new premises built. People around here tend to give you a funny look when you mention mystical circles, a throw back to the old days when witches were burnt, I guess, so they decided that this wasn't the sort of thing you could run in the library or in a pub meeting room. That being the case, Rosalie Muller has had her spare lounge converted and hosts the circle there.”

“And how would I go about joining the circle?” Hugo asked. “Neither time nor money are an issue.”

“You'd have to contact Missus Muller,” the lad told him, scribbling down a telephone number on the list of talks and passing it to Hugo. “If she accepts you, then you'll spend a few weeks on the outside of the circle, watching events and also hopefully taking away something of the energy of the occasion; and if all goes well, you'll then be asked if you would like to join the circle as a novice.”

“So how long does it take before initiation?” Hugo wanted to know.

“Traditionally, the study takes twelve years,” Adam informed him. “But such thought would be putting the cart before the horse ….”

“Ah yes, I see that now, my mistake,” Hugo had to admit.

He took the list, folded it up and put it in his jacket pocket. “Adam, you've been most helpful yet again. Thank you. And if all goes well, I hope to see you again, perhaps at the circle?”

“Yes, I'll be there ....”

“Ernest. Ernest Blake,” he lied.

The lad seemed genuinely pleased and a little less shy in his company by now. “Yes, I look forward to that, Ernest.”

Half way down the street, chuckling away to himself, Hugo punched the air. The game was indeed afoot.

20. First contact

The very next day, after rising as bright as a brass button, Hugo went along to the passport offices. Fortunately, having spun a fine yarn that would have tickled Grimshaw himself, he was able to have his visa generously extended for a further six months; and he only initially asking for three. They seemed relaxed enough about visas providing they were for the sole purpose of vacation, and providing one was willing to pay the obligatory fee; whereas it was said to be almost impossible to obtain a work permit: hence the burgeoning black market, trafficking illegal immigrants, no doubt.

That settled, he could now approach Missus Muller, if not with great confidence, at least with a plausible story. Were she to say no, of course, then he'd have to write off his losses and perhaps hand the matter over to the Serious Crimes Squad who could liaise with the Freeland authorities?

Oh well, here goes nothing …. “Hello, yes I'd like to speak to Missus Rosalie Muller, please.”

“Who's speaking?” For one awful moment, Hugo couldn't remember his own alias. Then it came back to him. “Ernest Blake. She won't know me, though.”

“The nature of the call? I'm very interested in the work of Mister Rinchen and in the Thursday evening gatherings.”

“Yes, I'll hold the line. Thank you.”

“Ah, yes, hello Missus Muller. Yes, that's right. Well, I've read a few of Mister Rinchen's books.”

“Oh, I see. Adam at the bookshop told me about the circle on a Thursday evening, and when he used the name Tenzing, I assumed, obviously incorrectly, that he was on first name terms with um ... Tenzing.”

“Yes, I'm free any time you care to mention, right through the week. Yes, today would be perfectly acceptable. Meet up for lunch. One o'clock? Yes that would be an excellent idea. Sykes' Café in Portland Square. Well, no, I don't know it, but don't worry, I'll find it. Yes, yes. I look forward to seeing you then. Yes, and to you.”

And with that, the phone went dead and Hugo could mop the beads of sweat from his brow. A chap could become quite paranoid thinking about what Rinchen – rather, what Tenzing – had to say about the mystic's insight, allegedly infallible intuition and not least, so it was said, the ability to delve deep inside another's mind. Now that was distinctly creepy.

Hugo arrived at the café early, since it would not be right to keep a lady waiting, and he chose a table for two quite close to the door so that he could be sure that they didn't miss each other. A young waiter in a smart white shirt and black waistcoat came over to take his order, but Hugo politely sent him away, saying that he was waiting for company to join him; and the man seemed happy enough. This was certainly a cut above the Greasy Diner back home; as were the prices, he noticed. Still, you pays your money and you takes your pick.

Five minutes later, a familiar brown estate came around the square, travelling slowly as the driver looked this way and that to find a parking spot. The old estate didn't appear to like being in first gear with no foot on the gas, and lurched forward slightly every now and again. Another car was just leaving, so the driver waited until it was clear and, in spite of the length of the estate, managed to squeeze her way into the vacant space.

And then Rosalie Muller was coming this way. Deep breaths, Hugo; slow deep breaths.

He rose from his seat as she entered the café. “Ernest Blake?” the lady asked, spotting him there. He waved to attract her attention and coming over, they shook hands. “Rosalie Muller.”

One of the first things Hugo noticed about Rosalie Muller was the delicate perfume she wore, and it spoke of class even before she had uttered a word.

Missus Muller glanced at her watch. It was still five minutes before one. “I thought I'd come early so that I didn't keep you waiting,” she laughed, “and I take it you had the same idea.”

“Indeed,” he smiled, blushing uncharacteristically. He couldn't recall the last time that had happened, but then it wasn't every day that he had a hot date with such a good-looking woman.

“What would you like?” he asked her, looking around and attracting the waiter's attention.

“No, no, Ernest. You sit yourself down. This is my call. What would you like? Green tea; tea with bergamot ...”

Hugo scanned through the menu anxiously, not only looking for something he recognized but also something that would not break the bank.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Ernest, take your time. I didn't mean to rush you. A regular coffee?” she suggested.

“Spot on,” he nodded eagerly, wondering why on earth they didn't simply have “regular coffee” at the top of the list.

“And what about something to fill a hole in your stomach? They have gorgeous toasted sandwiches and wonderful cream cake here. and don't worry yourself about the cost, this is my treat. So take your pick and eat your fill.”

With so much to choose from, the menu was just a blur to him. “Yes, the toasted sandwiches sound good, Rosalie. Let me see: the turkey, cheese and red current jelly sounds great, thank you.”

“Ah, my favourite,” the lady agreed, turning to the waiter who had taken a couple of paces back so as not to hover over them. “I'll have a pot of tea with bergamot, please; and a large regular coffee for my companion; and we'll have two turkey toasted sandwiches. Yes, with cheese and red current jelly. No, that will be all for now, thank you.”

“So, Ernest, are you here on holiday?” Rosalie asked him while they waited for their order to arrive.

Had he had a coffee in his hand at that moment, he might have involuntarily spluttered. “As a matter of fact I am, Rosalie,” he replied. “I've just managed to get my visa extended by another six months.” Did it show?

Rosalie spoke with soothing tones. “Oh, there's no need to be nervous, Ernest. First of all, I won't bite you; and secondly, in spite of what you may have read, I'm not delving into the depths of your mind.”

Now why did he not find those words reassuring, he pondered?

“It's just that you don't look like the typical Freelander, that's all,” she hastened to add. “If you'll forgive what is an observation and not a judgement, those hats went out of style some years ago, even with the more elderly. And baggy trousers, not tight fitting ones are now all the rage.”

“Ah, well I'm of the firm belief that at some point in time, these things will once again come back into fashion,” he laughed, and there was some truth in that. “Yes, having been introduced to Tenzing's books, I must say that I'm taken by what he's written. I was hoping to meet him, perhaps at the next talk at the library.”

“Actually we might have to bring another speaker in for that talk. Something has come up, so Tenzing may not be able to attend. Nevertheless, I'm sure we can provide an interesting substitute.”

“Ah, I see. And I was also interested to hear that you hold a circle on a Thursday evening. I thought it might complement what I've read so far.”

“We'll see, Ernest,” Rosalie replied. “First of all I'd like us to get to know one-another a little better.”

There was no sharp edge to the woman's voice, but she was being a little more assertive with him than he was comfortable with. But of course he could put that down to a lack of experience on his part.

“So tell me, Ernest, what brought you to Sher Point in the first place?”

“Well, I've lived in Gothgoria all my life and having recently retired, I thought it high time that I saw something of the world, Rosalie.”

He paused for a moment, as the waiter arrived with their order. “Perhaps you're thinking that I'm too old to embark on the Way?”

Rosalie broke off stirring her tea and gently patted his arm. “Not at all, Ernest. Believe me, it's not a case of old dogs and new tricks; I'm sure you bring with you a wealth of experience; a depth of maturity and are not hindered, as many are, by an inflated ego.”

“But I have acquired some bad habits through the years,” he had to confess.

“Nothing that we can't help straighten out, I'm certain, Ernest, though it will require real effort on your part.”

He nodded. “Of course. I'm pretty used to hard work.”

“I'm talking about appropriate effort, Ernest; and, at times, a steep learning curve; but all the same, I'm sure you'll rise to the challenge.”

“So how are you finding the Freelands?” Rosalie asked him, and having just taken too large a bite of his hot sandwich, he took a sip of coffee which was slightly cooler, and waited until he had emptied his mouth before replying. The coffee had that wonderful aroma of freshly ground beans, a far cry from the instant granules he made do with back home. And the sandwiches smelt and tasted even better than they looked to the eagerly anticipating eye

“It's a world away from Gothgoria,” he had to admit. “I don't know what it's like in the suburbs, but in the city it's as if the activity has been notched up a gear or two. They even talk like they're in the fast lane.” He looked around him at the crowds. “Where I come from, we'd call some of these people 'petrol heads' and that's when they're just dashing about, not when they're in their cars.”

Rosalie laughed and took a bite of her own sandwich. “It's somewhat quieter out of the city,” she reassured him. “And in the circle, you'll find us quite relaxed.”

“Have you thought of moving here permanently?” she enquired, taking another bite.

Now that did come just as he was taking a sip of his coffee, and he did his best not to react. “I did wonder about the possibility, yes, Rosalie. I have a pension which is just about sufficient for my needs, though the government has now slapped a ten percent Austerity Tax on it; and I have some savings, but from what I've learnt though the Freelanders might let me stay almost permanently as a visitor, paying money into the coffers, there's no way that they'd let me work and take any money out.”

The lady nodded seriously. “Yes, I'm sorry to say that it's just as you've said, Ernest.”

He didn't expect Rosalie to mention ways and means by which one might get around these harsh and unfair laws; and nor did she elaborate, but they were clearly on similar wavelengths, albeit for very different reasons.

“So tell me, Ernest, what did you work at before you retired? And what are your other interests?”

It was a damn good job he'd rehearsed that particular question, and still there was nothing he could do to stop his heart beating heavily in his chest. There was no point in lying to her. Having spent his life with such single-minded dedication to the job and with few outside interests, he knew that he couldn't come up with any alternative lifestyle that would come across convincingly.

“I was a police examiner,” he told her straight out. “I worked at Newthorpe and worked on cases that were serious by everyday standards, but not weighty enough for the Serious Crimes Squad.”

Rosalie momentarily raised her eyebrows, but didn't flinch in the slightest.

“The job was all-consuming and I was just one tiny cog in the machine,” he went on. “And I'm sorry to say that other than listening to classical music and being a little too fond of a tipple at the local, I had few interests. Yes, a sad case, really. That's one of the reasons that my wife left me. So, having no wife and no children, nor elderly relatives, there was no compelling reason why I shouldn't come here and see the world. And having done that, and stumbling across Tenzing's work, well, it feels like a whole new vista has opened up in front of me. For years I was consumed by the job. I can see that clearly now; and I'd like that – I'd like me – to change for the better whilst I still have time, all too aware that many of my former colleagues have unfortunately gone to an early grave not long after their retirement.”

Indicating to Rosalie that he was placing himself at her mercy in saying this, he looked the lady directly in the eyes, gauging her reaction and hoping to God that what he had said had not gone down like a lead balloon, but she merely smiled at him. And in that moment, he came to the realization that this was not a woman who would have knowingly assisted a murderer to cross the border into the Freelands. At least, not unless she was a first rate actress.

“Thank you so much for being frank and honest with me, Ernest; and I can see the relief written across your face; and the worry that preceded it. To tell the truth, I had you down as an ex-Army man; certainly a member of some regimented outfit, and had you told me some cock and bull story about running a candyfloss stand, like the last person I interviewed, I would have been disappointed. And I would have had to disappoint you, too.”

The lady thought for a few moments as she sipped her tea and poured another, and after exchanging words with him, she called the waiter over to order a second coffee for him, though he had decided that he'd make do with a small one this time. Everything was super sized in Sher Point. So chances were that small was the new medium.

“Ernest, I like what I've seen of you. I think you're a basically good man and that you have potential.”

At that moment, Hugo's coffee arrived, so she paused again until the waiter was out of earshot.

“So, Ernest, on the first count, yes I would be delighted if you'd join us at the circle. For the first three or four weeks, you can watch us from outside the circle; and if you like us and we get on, as I expect we shall, then you will be asked if you would like to join the circle.”

Hugo beamed at her, genuinely happy at the outcome. “You mentioned a first count,” he observed. “Is there a second?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, sipping her tea.

He was feeling in need of a pipe of tobacco, but he didn't like to light up in a confined space such as this, so he'd have to wait until they were outside.

“Ernest, I'm thinking that we possibly have six months together at most, and that we could make more of that time than you might imagine. Where are you staying right now?”

“A small guest house on Vine Street, in the east end,” he shrugged.

“And are you tied to the place?” came the next question.

“No, I just told the landlady that I'd be staying for anything between a few days and a month. That was before I had my visa extended. Why do you ask?”

“Well, as well as working for Tenzing's publishing company, I also work at a study centre run by a charitable trust he set up.”

That had to be Foxholes.

“I'll make you a deal which I hope will suit us both. You appreciate that I'm taking a risk with you here, Ernest, but it's a calculated risk, and I'm sure that you won't let me down.”

“Thank you. Please go on ….” he nodded encouragingly.

“We run a foundation course there, to help people acclimatize and become better versed in the ways of the Freelands. I know that you can't stay here for long, but you may be surprised by what you 'pick up' by following the course. On a Thursday afternoon, Mister Flint also runs a development class, and this does overtly concern the Way; and then on a Thursday evening we run a circle there, too, in this case for the residents rather than for the city folk. Simply spending time at the centre will place you in contact with adepts and masters of the mystical Tradition which we represent. How does that sound to you?”

“Far more than I could have hoped for, Rosalie. Yes, that would be spot on. I hesitate to ask, but what would be the cost?”

“Well, for the most part, students at Foxholes pay nothing, though basic chores are allocated and actually form a part of the training – or rather the induction process. Those who can afford it might make a donation. The centre is not run for profit but out of love and service to the greater good.”

“It would be only right for me to pay something,” Hugo replied, objecting mildly to the idea of a free ride. “I like to pay my way in life.”

Again Rosalie thought for a moment. “Very well. How much are you paying for your digs right now, if I might ask?”

“Six Nobles,” he told her: “and I gather that that is quite cheap as guest houses go.”

“Then let's settle on two Nobles a week,” she suggested.

“Any less than four and I would be robbing you, Rosalie.”

She shook her head. “Since you clearly pride yourself on paying your way in life, Ernest, and most likely on earning your keep, perhaps we might meet half way and settle on three Nobles per week? That will also take some pressure off your pension. The last thing I want is you to go back to Gothgoria with no money set aside for a rainy day.”

Hugo held out his arm and they shook hands. “It's a deal,” he concurred.

“Right, logistics. How long will it take you to be out of the guest house. What about first thing tomorrow?”

“My belongings are still in my carryall, Rosalie, and I have my car. I could be out of there by three this afternoon, for that matter.”

Rosalie waved her hands in the air. “Then three it is; let's strike whilst the iron is hot. I'll bring the car round to Vine Street – it's the brown estate car parked opposite – and you can follow me out of the city to the study centre.”

The lady rose to her feet and called the waiter over to collect her bill and pay him, while Hugo left a tip on the table and took a stroll outside to fill his pipe. It was a disgusting habit, of course, but he could at least console himself that it was one of his few and moderate vices.

Only when Rosalie Muller had gone on her way and Hugo had re-lit his pipe did it occur to him that he seemed somehow to have been carried away by events. He had fully intended catching up with Grimshaw and yet he's somehow managed to get himself enrolled in a study centre. As he puffed on his pipe, he smiled to himself, suddenly realizing that he had hoodwinked himself. For the first time in his life he had perhaps allowed himself to follow his heart rather than be strictly governed by his head, and that was an altogether novel and strangely delightful experience.

~~~O~~~

True to her word, as Hugo was putting the carryalls in the boot of his car, having said his farewells to the sweet landlady, Rosalie drove past in her car and waved. She drove on a short way, then did a three point turn – well, a five point turn, actually, since the side road was somewhat narrow. That accomplished, she pulled up close-by to wait for him.

Climbing in the car, he turned the key in the ignition and was pleasantly surprised to find that the engine started first time; then with a flash of his headlights and a wave, they were off.

It took them just under twenty minutes to get clear of the city and not least the noxious stench and soot of exhaust fumes. After a day out walking in the city, when you blew your nose you could see the black fallout in the snot on your handkerchief, and you could feel the stuff on your chest, which just had to be unhealthy. But people were so wedded to their cars these days, that it seemed unlikely that anything would change for the better in the foreseeable future. There were too many vested interests involved.

There were a lot of vehicles on the road, even though the rush hour would not begin for another couple of hours, but Rosalie clearly knew how best to avoid the traffic, weaving this way and that through the streets. Without her guiding him, Hugo would have been hopelessly lost, so he kept close on her tail. At one point, she was through a set of traffic lights when they turned to amber for him, and as he pulled up to let the cross traffic flow, he could see her disappearing down the street, and by the time the lights changed, there must have been six or seven other vehicles between them. However, she must have noticed what had happened and fortunately he found that she'd pulled over a couple of blocks further on, patiently waiting for him to catch up. He flashed his lights and slowed the car to make a space for Rosalie; she gratefully pulled out, and they were on their way again.

Once they were back on the main road and heading for the bridge across the river, Hugo again got his bearings, and could afford to relax a little and enjoy the lush scenery as they headed into the suburbs. In Newthorpe, the roads were littered with more discarded takeaways than there were garden plants; indeed the nearest they got to greenery was the odd hanging basket. But here, though some of the houses looked a bit homogeneous and box-like, folk had neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds outside their windows, and lovely little cherry trees lined the road verge. They must look wonderful when they all broke out in pink and white blossom.

They drove for another twenty minutes or so, then Rosalie slowed the car, thoughtfully indicating that they should go right, then turned off the road to slowly scrunch up the gravelled driveway toward Foxholes. From a distance it had appeared to be one large country house, but as they drove around the side to find spaces in a car park, he could see that there were a couple of extensions and also a large, two storey annex with a roofed thoroughfare between that and the main building. The study centre was far bigger than he had imagined.

“May I help you with your belongings, Ernest?” Rosalie asked once they'd parked.

“That's gracious of you, Rosalie,” he replied, “but they're not heavy and I'm better balanced carrying two.”

“Good man.”

Following Rosalie across the car park, they entered the thoroughfare through a door, then turned off to the right toward the main building. A little further down the corridor, which was lined throughout with artwork presumably painted by the students, Rosalie guided him down another short corridor and into an office. Here and there on the window sills were dotted little potted plants, giving the office a homely and lived-in touch and putting her mark on it.

“Right then, Ernest. First things first, let's put the kettle on. One regular coffee? Then we'll begin in earnest … Oh dear, if you'll forgive the unintentional pun.”

“Missus Muller, that would suit me fine, thanks. And if I had a penny for every time I've heard that one, I'd be a rich man,” he laughed.

“Plain Rosalie will do. Milk and two sugars?”

“You have a good memory,” he smiled. “Yes please.”

They sat and chatted informally as they sipped their drinks, then Rosalie fished around in the neatly labelled rows of drawers which lined one wall of her office and brought out several forms.

“Now, Ernest, down to business. I just want to take down a few details, and I'll leave you with a form, telling us a bit more about yourself, so that we can best cater for you. Fill it in at your leisure and just drop it off here on my desk in the course of the next week.

“And when I've got you sorted out here, I'll find one of the mature students to sort you out with items like bedding and show you to your room. Then, when you're settled in there, come and find me again and I'll arrange for someone to give you the guided tour.

“All right so far?”

He indicated that he was with her so far.

“If that is over before five o'clock, then you can make yourself comfortable in the students' common room; if not, then the student will take you through to the cafeteria. Don't worry, we won't leave you sitting on your own; almost without exception, everybody feels a little out of place for the first day or so. But you'll soon make friends here and learn the ropes.”

“Thank you,” he smiled in appreciation.

“Right then, let's take down a few details, Ernest. Just simple things; we're not after state secrets.”

~~~O~~~

With his place at Foxholes now secure, Hugo made the necessary arrangements to have his pension transferred to a branch of the Freelands Bank in the suburbs, rather than sent to his empty flat as a cheque. And he contacted the café owner to let him know that he'd be away for some time. He got hold of the man's bank account details so that he could continue to pay the rent whilst he was away. It looked like he would be in Sher Point for some time and he wanted all these details sorted out so that the ragged ends wouldn't play on his mind.

21. Freshers' week

For the first week at the study centre, Hugo found himself inundated with new things to learn and new ways of doing things to take on-board. He could see now why Tenzing should write in one of his books that the task he was engaged in actually required more “unlearning” than what was traditionally known as learning; and for Hugo this was a minor revelation.

At times he felt quite down in the dumps, wondering if all this change that was being thrust upon him was too much for someone of his age and with so many old, deeply ingrained habits and other impediments. But then he'd make some new breakthrough or someone would simply show kindness towards him, and these thoughts would for a time evaporate.

That he should have these lows and highs, this in itself was proof enough to him that he was still a thousand miles away from what Tenzing had written about achieving a stable, balanced and unified consciousness. In his first development class with Mister Flint, they'd been talking about a progression one made through what might be termed several states of selfhood. At the foot of the ladder stood the animal self, too raw and corrupt to be considered anything but sub-human. Having spent so many years in the job, he knew the type well of course, and dealt with such depraved, criminal elements day in and day out. But as Mister Flint had noted, we all had an element of depravity or egotism in us. Sometimes it showed itself openly; but largely it was hidden from us beneath a thin veneer or civilization and appearances. Flint did offer this warning: that involvement in the work would bring such tendencies to the surface and into the light and magnify these characteristics to a point where they could no longer be denied. So for a time, we might become worse than we were before we came upon the Way.

However, bringing these things into the light, and beginning to tackle them through moderate rather than obsessive or overly-strict self-accusation would eventually move us on. This, then, was the second stage of selfhood: the activation of conscience, a word which meant “with knowledge”. So we would begin to act with knowledge rather than through ignorance. And this stage in turn would lead us on yet further to a stage where we might find inspiration, at first sporadic, then with increasing and more useful expression. There were several stages after that, too, from serenity, through fulfilment and to eventual completion, but Hugo knew all too well that these higher stages were as yet beyond even mere dots on the distant horizon; and that he had a long journey to make before he could even begin to think of such possibilities.

With so much going on about him and not least inside him, Hugo had temporarily filed away thoughts of Grimshaw in the archives of his mind; though having said that, he did go around the college with his eyes open and had Grimshaw been around, he would have spotted him in an instant. Fortunately for him, though he had a vivid picture of the man in his mind, Grimshaw would not know him from Joe Bloggs.

And then, out of the blue, an opportunity arose. It was one of his free periods and Rosalie Muller was heading his way with a whole heap of manilla folders in her arms and a satchel dangling from a spare finger, her shoes squeaking on the freshly polished parquet floor. Seeing her struggling, Hugo relieved her of some of her burden and followed her down the corridor to her office.

Rosalie glanced anxiously at her dainty watch and had a thought. “I'll be away from a couple of days, Ernest, and I'm already running late. Before I go, I should really file away these folders. I'd hate to have the staff rummaging around in messy heaps.”

“I'd be only too happy to file them away for you, Rosalie. It's something that occupied a great deal of my time in the job.”

“Oh would you? You're such a dear. That would help me enormously, Ernest.”

Again she glanced at her watch. “Forgive me, but I must fly. I'll see you on my return.”

And with that, Rosalie Muller was trotting off down the corridor, bag in hand, heading for the foyer.

One by one he returned the beige manilla wallets to their appropriate locations in the filing cabinet and whilst doing so, he flicked through the other folders. There was a name on the front of each folder in bold black marker pen, and a colour passport-sized photograph, glued in place beneath the name. He was interested in the photos, of course. The names were inconsequential. He'd quickly riffled through the whole cabinet, returning one of the folders in the pile every now and again so that if anyone happened to pass by, they'd see that he was engaged in this task. By now there were only three folders left and he was pretty much resigned to the fact that Grimshaw had not been brought to the study centre.

But then he made a major breakthrough. Whose mugshot should he see on the front of the penultimate folder but that of the devil incarnate. So he had been at the study centre, in class five, under the assumed name of Mackenzie Centhorn. That was some concoction. Taking out his notepad and pen, he jotted down the name and hastily flicked through the contents of the folder, looking for a current address. Owner of a milk processing plant and a meteoric descent from riches to rags, indeed. Grimshaw had spun them a wizardly yarn.

At that moment, Hugo heard footsteps coming down the corridor towards him and he hastily pulled out two or three more folders so that it didn't look as if he were merely rummaging through the filing cabinet. Drawing a deep breath, he turned slowly round as a man entered the office. It was Harold Grainger, Tenzing's number two.

“Oh, hello,” the man greeted him. “When I saw the light on, I thought Rosalie must be here.”

“She left a few minutes ago, Mister Grainger,” Hugo replied. “She's away for two days and had to dash. So I offered to file these records for her.”

Harold Grainger clapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “Of course, silly me. Rosalie did tell me yesterday evening, but I'd quite forgotten. Well, no matter. Keep up the good work.”

When Harold Grainger had left, Hugo quickly finished off the filing, and hunted around, looking for a copy of the timetable for class five. That found, more thanks to Rosalie's organizational skills than his own luck, he turned off the light and left the office. He'd have liked to have taken Grimshaw's records with him, to study them in greater depth, but decided that would be altogether too risky, but he'd learnt sufficient to be going on with. He knew one thing for certain: that Grimshaw was still at the college in class five; and armed with that knowledge and the lithographed timetable, he could follow the man's every move.

But first, a coffee in the cafeteria and then off to computing with Mister Flint in the annex, above the new gym and library.

The very next period after that, class five were due for computing in that very room, so Hugo took his time collecting his things together as a disorderly queue formed outside the door. They'd arrived at the class early, having a free period beforehand. Hugo walked slowly down the line, taking in each face as he approached, without attracting undue attention. But he got to the end of the line without spotting Grimshaw. One thing he had noticed, however, was the familiar face of Rachel, the lady who'd given him the guided tour when he had first arrived at Foxholes. They weren't friends, but they did pass the time of day whenever they saw one-another, so perhaps he might be able to enquire about this Mackenzie Centhorn in passing whenever he next saw the woman?

But if he did that, she'd be sure to mention the matter to Grimshaw, saying something like “Oh, by the way, do you know a guy called Ernest Blake? He thought he recognized your name and was asking me about you.” Now that would be a real show stopper. And it wasn't as if he could confide in Rachel and ask her to keep the matter sub rosa.

In the end, however, when he serendipitously found himself sitting next to Rachel in the cafeteria and with the adjacent tables fortunately vacated, he tentatively broached the subject. When Rachel did indeed come to the bit where she said “Mac's in my class, so I'll let him know you were asking after him,” he suggested she not mention it, since if it was the Mackenzie Centhorn he was thinking of, who went to school with him at Newthorpe, the lad had been something of a bully and had made his life a misery for three years.

Easy going, optimistic and charitable as ever, perhaps not having had the life experiences Hugo had gone through at the sharp end, Rachel did suggest that Mac appeared to be quite a decent chap, really, and that he'd probably changed. Then she happened to remark that he hadn't been in class for over a week now. Rumour had it that Mair Freida, a healer at the mountain retreat, had been taken seriously ill and that Mac had gone off with one of the ex-students in search of some herb they needed to help Mair Freida. The teachers were worried that the old lady might die. Unfortunately, that's all Rachel knew. However, she'd told him enough to be going on with. With a deft sleight of hand, as it were, he could use this rumour and concern to question the staff and hopefully they would mention this Mackenzie Centhorn in passing, without their suspicions being aroused.

~~~O~~~

As it happened, the most that Hugo was able to tease out of Mister Flint was that the old lady Mair Freida had caught influenza and that this had settled on her chest and, being already weakened, she had developed pneumonia. Hugo's initial reaction was to enquire why they had not simply had her taken to hospital where she could receive expert medical care, but of course they were a few steps ahead of him as Mister Flint explained: she was at their retreat high in the mountains of Narayana and was too unwell to be moved; and furthermore, Mister Flint gently nudged Hugo, pointing out that he was basing his assessment on assumptions when the matter was already in expert hands.

Ouch, Hugo felt that; and this was clearly all part and parcel of the “constellation of impacts” one was subjected to along the way. “Point taken, Mister Flint. Thank you.”

Hugo was intrigued by this repeated mention of a retreat in the mountains of Narayana, but the students appeared to know nothing more about the place other than that it existed; and as for the staff, they appeared decidedly reticent about discussing the place at all.

One thing Hugo was able to discover, however, was that Mair Freida had need of some rare herbal remedy that was to be found in abundance only in Erigwid. Consequently an expedition was being sent there. “Mackenzie Centhorn” had been taken along, since he was apparently fluent in the native language; and this would of course explain his absence.

Amidst a dream in the depths of the night, Hugo was suddenly hit by a thought. He awoke with a start. In the dream, he saw a tall gentleman in a long, flowing blue robe with a yellow braided sash. Blue symbolized the Ocean, yellow the flames of Love, gold and the sun, according to Tenzing. As soon as Hugo saw the figure standing before him, he recognized the man from the back cover of one of his books: it was Tenzing himself.

Tenzing stood at the front of the class by a blackboard with a length of white chalk in his hand. The director was tapping the chalk against the blackboard repeatedly, attracting Hugo's attention, which had already begun to wander.

Letter by letter, the director was spelling out a word, though not in a straight line, rather in a circle, with each letter standing upright.

M, MA, MAC .... It did not surprise Hugo when he saw the word being spelt out, and when he signalled his understanding, Tenzing motioned toward him and held out the piece of chalk. Grasping Tenzing's meaning, even though no words had been spoken, he completed the circle. Then he stood back, not knowing quite what to make of this, nor what to do next.

Tenzing beckoned and took the chalk from him, then going back to the blackboard, the teacher crossed out certain letters, leaving only the MAC in the word Mackenzie. So what he was left with were the words “Mac Centhorn”. Tenzing then quickly erased the letters and draw a tighter circle containing only those remaining letters.

Still not quite getting what Tenzing was pointing to, he studied the circle of words for some time. Then Tenzing took his board rubber, again erased the letters and for a third time he wrote them on the board. And then Hugo realized that this time, Tenzing had rearranged the letters to form alternative words. And it was this sudden realization that woke Hugo.

Hugo clicked the switch on his bedside lamp and fumbled for the notepad and pen which he always kept close-by. He wrote out the words “mac centhorn”, crossing them out one by one just to be certain, whilst he re-arranged the letters below. They spelt out two new words and, tellingly, those were: “con merchant”. So it was, as he had initially thought, a concocted name.

Hugo glanced at his watch, noting that it was already six in the morning and though it was rather early to be getting up, he knew that whilst he felt quite awake at that moment, if he were to go back to sleep for a short time, he'd most likely re-awaken quite bleary-eyed.

After showering, he went downstairs, hoping to get a coffee at the cafeteria, to find the room and the kitchens at the back shrouded in darkness.

“Ah, I thought I saw you there,” chirped a familiar voice behind him, that unmistakable delicate scent gently wafting his way. It was Rosalie.

“Hello there, Rosalie, I didn't expect you back so soon.”

She smiled. “I just kept on driving last night and arrived back at just gone five this morning. The cafeteria won't be open for another hour yet; but if you're in need of a strong, regular coffee, then we can have one in my office.”

“You mean you haven't slept?” he asked as they headed back down the corridor.

“No,” she replied, with a shake of her head. “Something was nagging me to get back to Foxholes, and I've learnt over the years to trust these intuitive hunches.”

Hugo would have dearly loved to have told her about the dream he'd had.

So, they had coffee and spent a few minutes idly chatting about life in general and about whether Hugo was settling in and how he was finding the course. Then, as they drained their cups, Rosalie went over to her desk and produced a small flask and two small glasses and poured a little amber liquid in each, before handing one to him.

“Have a drink of that and tell me what you think,” she suggested, with a twinkle in her eye.

Hugo had a sniff of the liquid; then took a sip. It was rich, with a slight taste of honey rather than being sugary-sweet, and it also had a fair bite, so it was almost certainly alcofrolic.

“It's like nectar,” he remarked, smacking his lips. “And my, you can feel it going down.”

“Yes, this will certainly warm the cockles of your heart,” she agreed.

“What is it?”

“We call it chungari, after the mountain herb of the same name. It means 'herb of enlightenment'. As well as being a rather pleasant drink, it's also therapeutic and furthermore, we find that it helps facilitate certain growth.”

“Thank you, I am indeed privileged.”

Rosalie noted that it was still early in the morning, and wandered if he might fancy a short walk in the grounds. That sounded good to Hugo, so he hurried along to the students' cloakroom to retrieve his coat, meeting up with Rosalie just outside the side entrance leading to the college grounds.

They walked some way in silence, across the lawn and through the rose garden, where many of the flowers were still in bloom, though some were looking the worse for wear, then on across the newly-mown football pitch to the far side of the grounds. Then clambering over a wooden stile set in the fence, behind an old crab apple tree, they slowly climbed up a hill, following a beaten track through the grass and into the mixed woodland.

“I'll let you into a secret,” Rosalie laughed with a mischievous grin. “At the top of the hill there's a pub, the Wayfarer's Rest. If you fancy the odd pint any time, or a change from the menu in the cafeteria, and you don't start talking to outsiders about Foxholes, you'll find a number of your fellow students and sometimes staff there. It's a good way of making new friends. Carole and Wayne who run the inn are old students of ours and they can be trusted. Joe Public, however, often cannot; so as I say, without becoming paranoid and uptight, be moderately discreet.”

They went a little further up the hill on a narrow path through the trees and thick undergrowth, then Rosalie abruptly disappeared from sight. One moment she was there, and in the next she was gone. Hugo walked on and caught sight of her again, standing by a large granite boulder to which was attached a rusty old wrought iron gate.

“Welcome to our secret garden,” she said, inviting him to enter. “Tenzing often comes here and sometimes brings others here, just as his own master Sonam had in his day. Sometimes he sits here and meditates or plays the flute that Sonam gave him, as it reminds Tenzing of his master, and renews their bond.”

In the centre of the garden, surrounded by a plethora of fragrant wild flowers, stood a tranquil lily pond, overhung by the pendulous branches of a weeping willow. Every now and again there'd be a “plop” as one of the small fish came up to catch a fly or a frog hopped around the leaves.

“It's said that a willow wards off evil spirits,” Rosalie mentioned, noticing his interest. She cleared the stray leaves from a wooden bench looking out onto the garden, and they sat in silence and peace for a time. It was a distinctly welcoming place.

“So Tenzing and ....”

“Sonam.”

“So they're still connected in some way?” Hugo queried at length.

“Indeed, Ernest. All the elders and masters are, across space and time. And in a sense you could say that they are one.”

“I see,” he replied, though of course he didn't.

“You will, one day,” she replied gently, adding: “And there's no rush. We're not in a race; we're here to help one-another along.”

Something had been playing on Hugo's mind for some time now, and he decided that if ever there was a good time to come clean with her, it was now.

“Rosalie, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

She nodded slowly, but said nothing.

“I'm reminded of you saying that you were taking a calculated risk, letting me come to Foxholes, and mindful of your trust that I wouldn't let you down.”

“Go on,” she said, and you could almost see the lump in her throat.

“First of all, I need you to know that I don't mean you, nor Tenzing, any harm; and I won't let anything jeopardize what I can now see is the excellent work that you are engaged in at Foxholes and elsewhere. So, I say that to put your mind at ease.”

“You said you were in the police,” Rosalie prompted him after a few moments' silence. “Does this concern your work?”

“What I told you is the truth, Rosalie. I retired two years ago. Yes, this concerns my former work, but as I said it doesn't concern the work you do. I have nothing but the utmost admiration toward you, and also gratitude for your allowing me to study with you. Whatever the outcome of all this, I'm sincerely interested in continuing those studies.”

“I see,” Rosalie replied, still with a frog in her throat. This had clearly caught her by surprise.

“I think perhaps you had better explain things in detail, Ernest.” She said this, but there was no sharp edge to her voice; if anything it sounded to Hugo as if she was feeling that she'd made some big mistakes.

“Don't blame yourself, whatever you do, Rosalie. I think if Tenzing were here that he might point out that certain things are destined to happen; that there is some strange kind of rhyme and reason behind what some might take to be chance events; or perhaps the design of some unseen hand.”

Rosalie both laughed and sighed at the same time. “Oh, Ernest, I was just thinking that this is what I should be saying to you and yet just now it's the other way about.”

“Okay, first things first. One thing that I told you was a fabrication, and that is my name. I'm not Ernest Blake, but one Hugo Foss. All the other details were the truth ... including the fact that I was and am increasingly interested in studying 'in the Way'.”

“Shortly before I retired, I was working on a case which initially involved fraud and deception. However, the case took a darker turn with the discovery of several bodies in the chief suspect's garden; and with the chief suspect, Frederick Grimshaw, on the run.”

Hugo brought the notebook out of his jacket pocket and riffled through the pages until he came across the newspaper clipping, which had already turned brown and a little fragile with age.

“Oh, dear Alicia,” Rosalie sighed as she scanned the headline and read slowly through the grim details. She suddenly let out a gasp, as her eyes alighted on the photograph.

“I think I know what happened, Rosalie,” he soothed her, gently massaging her arm through her coat. “And, as I said, or if not I meant to say, this man is a highly accomplished confidence trickster. He must have fooled countless others through the years, and appeared to be a paragon of the community prior to the fraud being discovered quite by chance. I know that you are a good woman and an innocent party in all this, Rosalie, and I continue to have every confidence in you.”

Words failed Rosalie for some time, then she finally found her voice. “I'd been to a conference in Gothgoria and I was on my way back when I got a puncture. The nuts holding the wheel had rusted solid and I couldn't budge them. Then along came a man and he got me out of a jam. Since we were both heading for the Freelands, I offered him a lift. And the long and the short of it is that I was taken in by his sob story, arranged for him to be smuggled across the border, and brought him here to Foxholes. Looking back, especially in the light of this new information, I can see just how foolish I have been. And yet at the time, I was convinced that it was somehow the right thing to do. Now whether that was his subtle influence or part of the Design with a capital D, I really don't know right now. And I simply don't know what to do about this to rectify the situation. I wish the ground would swallow me up. One thing I think I do understand now, and that is the urge I got to return to Foxholes as soon as I could.”

“I had a dream last night,” Hugo informed her, and he went on to explain what Tenzing had shown him on the blackboard.

“Con merchant,” she nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes that is most appropriate. You know when I first heard that name – Mackenzie Centhorn – I did find it a little odd, but thought no more of the matter. Now, this dream of yours – meeting Tenzing – is something that happens surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, often. It all seems extraordinary at first, but later one comes to expect the unexpected, if you know what I mean.”

“Is it a good thing, then, or an omen?” Hugo wanted to know.

“Ernest, I mean Hugo – this is going to take some getting used to – I'm sure it's a very good sign; both for you personally and also, if I'm not mistaken, I think we can say that it validates your being here to help with this Grimshaw.”

Rosalie glanced at her petite dress watch. “It's time we were getting back.”

They rose to their feet, bidding a fond farewell for now to the secret garden, and walked quickly back down the hill toward the college.

“Rosalie, I gather that Grimshaw has gone off to Erigwid with one of your ex-students to find this herbal remedy?”

The lady gritted her teeth. “Yes, he's gone with Randal Smith, Helen Wiggins husband.”

“And what happens when they've got hold of the remedy?”

“The plan is that they meet another student, Conrad Harper half way to the mountain retreat.”

“And then?”

“They hand over the plants and while Conrad rushes them to the mountain retreat at babs chu, Randal and Grimshaw make their way back here.”

“Well, Rosalie, something tells me that Randal will be safe enough. Were Grimshaw to cause him harm, then he wouldn't profit in any way, and he would cut himself off from possibilities here at Foxholes.”

“Yes Hugo, looking back I can see how he's gone out of his way to make himself useful here.” She clapped her hand to her forehead and muttered something about being able to see things in hindsight.

“Then all we can do is wait until he returns, Rosalie. We'd be sure to miss him if we went after him now. Very well, he doesn't know my face from that of Fred Bloggs, but he would remember a name like Hugo Foss, so I think it best that for now I stay as Ernest Blake.”

“Right you are, Ernest,” Rosalie concurred. “Anyway, the cafeteria should be open soon, so let's go and grab a table before the mad rush. I'll have to brief Harold Grainger, since he's Tenzing's number two, so if it's all right with you, I'll hang onto the press clipping to show him. And we'll keep this matter between just the three of us for now. Perhaps we might meet up at noon and take a hike up to the Wayfarer's Rest and I'll buy you lunch? I feel I owe you a large debt.”

“Splendid,” he agreed. “And you owe me nothing, Rosalie: you've been most generous. It's a pleasure to be of service in some small way.”

22. Incommunicado

They had a long, tense wait. Not until almost a week later did they hear from Randal.

“Hello there, Rosalie,” he chirped over a crackling phone line. The lines down south had still not as yet been upgraded and it really did sound as if one were having a distant conversation with the person at the other end.

“Randal! How good to hear from you, and you sound distinctly upbeat,” she replied, mentally giving him the thumbs up.

“Yes, it's good news, Rosalie. I shan't go into the details now, except to say 'mission accomplished' on our part at least. One slight change of plan ....”

Rosalie was just about to congratulate him when they were abruptly cut off. She waited two or three minutes to see if Randal would phone her back, since she of course didn't have his number, but the phone did not ring. She checked the receiver and there was a dialling tone, and she phoned the speaking clock successfully, so there must have been some kind of fault at Randal's end. No matter, she'd no doubt hear from Conrad once he reached Shakra, and if not, she could ring Wilbur herself. They always checked in with Wilbur at his radio shack when they were travelling.

A couple of days later, as Rosalie was walking along the thoroughfare from the annex, heading for the main building, she saw Randal's car pulling into the car park, and she backtracked and went to meet them. They'd clearly heeded her advice and taken their time driving back.

“Hi there, Rosalie,” Randal greeted her. “Sorry we were cut off the other day: the phone line went dead.”

Rosalie peered into the car. “Where's Mac?” she enquired, a little concerned.

“It's a long story,” said Randal and she was unable to tell from his tone whether this was a good thing, a bad thing or simply middling; so she plumped for a simple “don't as yet know.”

“In that case, you can tell me all about it later. First things first, or as Tenzing would say 'first eat, then talk' – come inside and I'll arrange for us to take lunch in my office.”

By the time their drinks had been poured, one of the kitchen staff arrived with their food on a trolley and they engaged in light conversation until they'd eaten.

“So, Randal, down to business,” she requested, guiding him to the sofa.

He shrugged. “Where would you like me to begin?”

“Where else?” she enquired. “Unless you're in a rush, I have nothing that requires my urgent attention this afternoon. Start at the beginning and go on until you reach the end, perhaps?”

So Randal spoke at length about their trek through the foothills skirting the mountains; the trials and tribulations they'd met with, not least that getting hold of the plants had cost them a good few Nobles. He was concerned that Rosalie might be displeased, but she took it in her stride.

“That's immaterial, Randal, and it would take a good deal more than that to break the bank.”

“So, you met up with Conrad presumably?”

“The plan had been to meet up with him in the south, but he'd had a bit of a mishap ....”

Rosalie was concerned. “A mishap?”

“Painful and awkward but nothing major, thankfully,” Randal hastened to add. “He'd slipped on some ice, fallen badly and fractured his shoulder. Anyhow, Conrad was still in Shakra. So we had to drive all the way up there to meet him.”

“Badly fractured?” she wanted to know, chewing at her finger end.

“Well, though painful, it was just a hairline crack. He'd been to the local hospital and rather than put his arm in a cast, they gave him a sling.”

“That would make the journey back to babs chu rather difficult for him, wouldn't it?”

“Well, Conrad was adamant that he'd make the trip. I did suggest that I go with him, but Mac persuaded me that it would make more sense for me to drive back and he'd make sure that Conrad got there safely with the plants.”

Rosalie was aghast. “Oh lord, and you let him?”

Randal was rather taken aback by Rosalie's reaction. “I'm sorry, under the circumstances it seemed like the sensible thing to do, Rosalie. I take it I've blundered.”

She smiled at him and held his arm. “Forgive me, Randal. It's not that. It's just that there are things about Mac that you don't as yet know, and about which I have myself only recently been informed. How are you for time?”

Randal shrugged. “I'm in no rush; though I am a little bemused.”

“Good. Stay here,” she requested: “I need to find Harold Grainger, and there's somebody else I'd like you to meet.”

Ten minutes later and she returned, with a slightly flustered looking Harold Grainger and Ernest Blake in-tow. “Sorry to have kept you, Randal. Sit back while we bring you up to speed about troubling developments at Foxholes whilst you've been away, and then it will all make sense ....”

Randal had gone a whiter shade of pale as he read through the press clipping that Rosalie had handed to him, but he waited in silence until Ernest Blake had finished his briefing.

“This man could wreak havoc at babs chu,” Randal gasped. “We have to warn Tenzing.”

Rosalie immediately went to pick up the phone. “I'll get in touch with Wilbur and arrange to speak with Tenzing later today.”

She dialled Wilbur's number and the phone appeared to connect momentarily, but then all she got was an engaged tone, and she tried again with the same result. “Damnation, I can't get through,” she cursed, uncharacteristically, and went to make a fresh brew of tea before trying again, giving up in the end.

“Well, there's not much we can do right now. I'll try again at six,” she shrugged.

Harold Grainger looked at his antique pocket watch. A gift from Tenzing, it had once belonged to his own master, Sonam. “Okay, I'd better get back to my classes. I left one of the mature students in charge. Let me know how you get on, Rosalie. And if you don't get through, then we'll have to come up with a plan B.”

Come six o'clock, Rosalie tried again, and again she was unable to get through. She rang the phone company and they reported that all lines to Narayana were down; and that the fault was on the Narayani side of the border.

“Well,” Harold Grainger concluded, when she'd informed him and brought the four of them together again in Harold's office. “The last time this happened, the lines were down for weeks and, as you're aware, this caused us no end of headaches. So in view of the urgency of the matter, we'd better send someone off to Narayana. If we're lucky, the fault will be in the south and they'll be able to contact Wilbur and get him to relay messages. Failing that, they should head for Shakra and see Wilbur themselves. And if all else fails, go all the way to babs chu.”

Rosalie scanned their faces. “Who would you suggest, Harold? Ideas anyone?”

“I feel I should go,” replied Randal. “I know that we were all duped, but I take responsibility for allowing Grimshaw to go off with Conrad to babs chu.”

“Not nearly as duped as I was,” she chipped in.

She turned to Hugo.

“In answer to the unspoken question on your lips, Rosalie, yes I would like to go with Randal. I've been after Grimshaw for years, and I intend to see this through to the bitter end ....”

“Harold?” she prompted.

Harold Grainger thought for a moment, not least, no doubt, because they'd be sending yet another non-initiate to babs chu. “Well, these are exceptional circumstances, friends ....”

Rosalie was looking for a speedy decision. “Are we agreed that Randal and Hugo should go, then?”

There were nods all round. “Then I'll make arrangements for you to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I'd rather we went tonight,” Randal objected. “Grimshaw already has a long lead on us.”

“But you've been on the road for weeks now, Randal,” she countered.

Hugo was on his feet already. “Randal can sleep in the back if you have a spare mattress. He should be able to stretch out full length in the estate car with the back seat down. And I'll drive the first leg. All I need is a map to point me in the direction of Lilith.”

They both seemed quite adamant and Harold Grainger gave them the nod. While they were getting ready, Rosalie dashed around college sorting out a few things they'd need for the long journey.

“Do you have a gun?” asked Harold, out of the blue. He was looking at Hugo.

“No, but I've used one on the job.”

“Then borrow mine,” Harold advised him, reaching inside one of the drawers in his desk and producing an old pistol and a handful of cartridges. It was the sort of hand gun that officers had worn, on the end of a cord attached to their belt, so that it would not be lost in the heat of combat. “And if you need to use it on Grimshaw, use it. No court in Narayana would dispute the matter, especially with Tenzing on your side.”

Hugo took the pistol and checked the cylinders and the safety catch. He thrust the gun into his jacket pocket and gathered up the ammunition from the desk. “Thank you, Mister Grainger,” he nodded. “I won't let you down.”

23. Heading south

Within minutes of their departure from Foxholes, Mac was already beginning to irritate Randal. Randal enjoyed travelling, especially with his better half, Helen. She was so easy going and it was a joy to be in her company, as it was with Rosalie. And he enjoyed travelling with Tenzing, though such opportunities were less common, as Tenzing and Rosalie were both light and witty and also custodians of an immense wealth of practical wisdom. With these and other odd exceptions, Randal was most comfortable keeping himself company, and enjoyed this freedom which allowed his thoughts free-rein and also the chance to relax.

Mac was an altogether different kettle of fish, however. Though he had only recently arrived at Foxholes, Mac did appear to have built up a wide repertoire of skills over the years and from what little briefing Rosalie had given Randal, Mac had made himself useful from the outset, not least in the kitchens with Missus Morgan off work ill. The trouble was that Mac was good, knew it, and was rather too fond of self-promotion, and that grated on Randal no matter how deserving of praise he might be. In more general terms, Mac was what some called an alpha male, all up front; whilst Randal preferred to work quietly in the background or the shadows. So Randal could at least put some of this down to a mismatch of personalities.

All morning long as they drove south through the vast Vale of Moran and on across the rolling chalk hills and glacial lakes of the downs, Mac sat in the passenger seat going yap, yap, yap about the life he'd led before his meteoric descent from riches to rags. And all afternoon long he was yapping on about his five year plan to pull himself up out of the gutter; replete with any amount of advice about how Foxholes might be more profitably or efficiently run.

As evening drew in, they drove slowly through Wiches Hill, a town named not for any pagan roots but rather for its vast opencast salt workings. They were on the look out for a place to stop for a meal; and eventually settled on an inn overlooking a slowly meandering river on the far side of town. Mac quietened down somewhat as he tucked into his shepherd's pie with some gusto; and the ale probably helped, though it was disappointingly warm and a little too bitter for Randal's taste. Had he thought, he could have cadged a flask of chungari from Rosalie before they'd left. If that had not settled Mac for a time, then nothing would.

After the meal they drove on and Randal was pleased to see Mac fall silent, and after a time the man dozed off. Despite the fact that he sat there, mouth agape, snoring and occasionally drooling, this was a blessed relief as far as Randal was concerned. It was at this point that it occurred to Randal that it wasn't a simple matter of not liking what he considered arrogance, it was the way this grated against his own fragile self-esteem; at the end of the day, it seemed to force him to concede that more than having an inferiority complex as the head shrinks might aver, that he really was inferior. And this in turn brought the realization that he spent a good deal of his own energy propping up his self-esteem to avoid that sinking feeling. So looking at this in the way Tenzing might, in stepping on his corns, the man had allowed him to see himself in a new light. Seeing himself in that new light might further enable him to do something about his condition. It was, then, perhaps a blessing in disguise, for which he should be to an extent thankful.

As night drew in, Randal was feeling more and more tired, and he wound the window down a bit to let in the cold air, so that he didn't inadvertently fall asleep at the wheel.

“You look half knackered, Randal,” Mac observed, pulling himself up in his seat. “What do you want to do?”

“Welcome back, Mac. I was just wondering that myself. In view of the urgency, I don't think we can afford the luxury of sleeping the night at an inn. We could pull over and snatch an hour's sleep, if you like?” Randal suggested.

“No, we can't have that, my friend.” Mac was already taking off his seat belt. “Pull into the side of the road and we'll change places.”

The man looked at his ostentatious gold wristwatch as Randal brought the car to a halt and clambered out; the watch perhaps a reminder of less austere times and now appearing somewhat incongruous. “Just tell me where we're heading and I'll drive through 'til six while you get some shut eye.”

Randal was too tired to argue and settled down in the passenger seat to get some much-needed sleep. They'd put the back seats down and brought a single mattress, but he couldn't be bothered to clamber in the back. What he hadn't counted on was that Mac not only lived and talked in the fast lane, he drove with equal speed and assertion of his manhood, too; so Randal sat there, joggling this way and that and afraid to close his eyes, until at length he began to slip away and fell into a deep sleep. And though by now as stiff as a board, Randal was pleasantly surprised to wake again at six thirty the next morning as Mac coasted the car toward a roadside café for a well-earned fry up. Even at this ungodly hour, the place was already open for early morning truckers.

“Oh, I'm sorry Mac. You should have woken me for my shift,” he apologized.

“No problem, Randal,” Mac responded affably, “though I'm sure that I too will be away with the fairies for most of the morning.”

“Where are we?” Randal needed to know as they stepped out of the car and he attempted to walk some of the stiffness out of his legs.

“About a mile back there was a sign that said 'Tiverton',” Mac told him.

Randal wasn't quite awake yet and for a few moments, he couldn't think where on earth that might be. Finally it came to him. “Oh wow, you've made great progress, Mac. By mid-day today we'll be at Borrowdale, just this side of the border. Rosalie has arranged for us to pick up horses and a pack mule there to take us into the foothills.”

If Mac had shown a voracious appetite the day before, he outdid himself that morning; downing the fry-up and returning to the counter to see if they had any dessert on the menu. Unfortunately, there'd be no spotted dick and custard until lunchtime, the woman informed him, a cigarette bobbing up and down in her mouth as she spoke and occasionally flicking ash on the floor, but they did have some cold apple pie.

The morning actually passed quite pleasantly. Unable to sleep in the passenger seat, Mac had taken to the rear, with a blanket wrapped around him and he was sleeping like a babe and occasionally snoring like a pig with its nose in a trough. Randal drove on past mid-day, arriving in Borrowdale not long after noon and the border town of Chippenwich around twenty minutes later.

“Rise and shine, sleepy head,” he chirped, glancing at Mac through the rear view mirror as he struggled to sit up.

“Are we here already?” the man asked, clearly still half dazed.

“We most certainly are, Mac. I suggest we have some lunch first, then we'll go see about the horses and a place where we can leave the car. Oh, and I'd make the best of your lunch. From the next couple of weeks we'll be under canvas and eating either rehydrated food or fry-ups in a billy can over a paraffin stove.”

“Ah, reminds me of my army days,” Mac began as he clambered stiffly out of the car and staggered onto the dusty pavement, and he began a series of epic tales. The saga did not end until they got back to the car after lunch, having collected their tent and provisions on the way back, and had set off once more to find the farm where they were to pick up the horses. Rosalie's directions were as impeccable as ever, and yet he still managed to get himself temporarily lost on two occasions.

The local farmer must have been out spreading slurry across his fields recently and Mac was not at all happy with this acrid assault on his olfactory receptors. “How anyone can live with this stench day in and day out is beyond me,” Mac grumbled, asking him to wind up his window.

The old man at the farm was out to meet them even before they'd parked the car in the yard. “Good day to you,” he greeted them, doffing his cap. His face was ruddy and weather worn from a long and active outdoor life. “The wife's just putting the kettle on, so come on inside. We were going to look out for you, but you must have made good time and beat us to it.”

“Oh I'm sorry, I hope we haven't come at an inconvenient time,” Randal apologized.

“No problem. Now's as good a time as any as far as we're concerned. That's it, mind you don't step in a cow pat. Come on in.”

“Hello there,” smiled the old lady as they checked their shoes and wiped them carefully on the door mat. Her husband introduced them as Ben and Dorothy Barnes and they shook hands before taking a seat on a settee in the living room.

“I don't suppose you'll say no to a cup of tea?” the old lady enquired. “I'm sorry, we don't have any coffee in, though I gather that's more in favour amongst you modern city folk?”

“Tea would be wonderful, thank you Missus Barnes.”

She stood there for a moment with her tiny hands clasped. “And have you eaten?”

“Yes, we had lunch in town, thanks.”

“Still, you won't say no to a biscuit or a slice of cake, two big growing lads like yourselves?” she lilted, bringing a tray through from the farmhouse kitchen.

Mac didn't need any second prompting, tucking into a slice of date and walnut cake; and since it looked so good and freshly baked, Randal thought he might just try a slice himself.

“Oh that is so good,” he nodded.

“So, are you going far?” Mister Barnes enquired. They were involved with the Network so there were no secrets between them.

“You know about the retreat in Narayana?” Randal asked.

“We've heard of it, but we've not been there, no.”

Randal explained that the elder healer had been taken ill with pneumonia and, being too ill to travel, they had to fetch a remedy for her.

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about that, poor dear,” the old lady commiserated. “Well, be sure to send her our best wishes.”

“Surely, you'd have been better picking up horses at Lilith,” the old man queried.

“Here comes the tricky part,” Randal explained. “To get hold of the plant we're after, we're going to have to travel to Erigwid.”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “Ooh ah. They won't let you cross Gothgoria, you know, not since those Collectivists invaded. And even if they did, well you know what I mean. You wouldn't be safe. And as for Erigwid ....”

Randal nodded. “Yes, we figured that, but we have no choice. So we're going to have to skirt around Gothgoria in the foothills.”

“Well, I raise my hat to you, gentlemen. I really do.”

They chatted for a few minutes, then rose to their feet as the old lady cleared away the pots. Arranging to leave the car in safe keeping in a nearby barn, they went to sort out the horses and then they were on their way, anxious to make some headway before nightfall. They'd have to make camp for the night, and Randal would prefer to make camp while there was still sufficient light to see.

It was a long, long ride to Erigwid; like one of those childhood hikes when the kids keep asking if they're there yet and father keeps telling them, “oh, it's just around the next corner”, or the next, or the one after that. Randal had expected boredom and frustration to set in, since their progress would be all-too slow. And yet being out here in the wilds, with the cold wind in your face, cooking and warming your hands over a wood fire or a paraffin stove; doing a little reading by the light of a storm lantern; and not least bathing in the shockingly cold water of a mountain stream ... tiring; challenging, at times frightening; bracing; invigorating; energizing; character building – this was true adventure. Living with an edge and on the edge, Randal felt a real pioneer. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself: out here in the wilds, which only the hardiest grasses and trees could bear, second thoughts were a luxury one could not afford, if one wished to survive. All this adventure cleared Randal's head and made him feel so very glad to be alive and a part of nature. Sure, they were dog tired at times and had to egg each other on, but there was something deeply satisfying about having made this effort, and when they did sit down and eat at the end of each gruelling day, and slept like logs, they felt so good deep inside.

Way down below them they could make out a valley. Compared to the vast undulations of the foothills, this valley looked little more than a ripple, with smudges here and there that might have been fields or perhaps even clusters of houses. They were too distant for Randal to make out.

They went on for a few more miles, crunching through the deep ferns that blanketed the ground; then lining up his compass and consulting the map, Mac signalled that they should follow the banks of a stream rushing down from the hills, confident that they were now past Gothgoria and due west of the northern tip of Erigwid.

Randal was spurred on by this news and presumed that meant that they'd soon be there, but the overview of the plains they had from the foothills was deceptive and as the hours passed it was clear that they were mere dots in the vast landscape, travelling at a snail's pace, and that they would still be in the hills come dusk that day.

This part of Erigwid was sparsely populated and it wasn't until half way through the next day, when they were finally out of the foothills and into the hills which skirted the great plains, that they came across another human soul. It was a lone herdsman, tending his goats. Was it a flock or a herd of goats, he wondered to himself?

“A flock, a herd or a tribe,” Mac reliably informed him. For a moment Randal was quite taken aback by this, as he hadn't been aware that he'd spoken out loud; but then it had been a long journey and he often chattered away to himself. Helen had grown used to this, of course, not least the conversations he had with his computer, but those who didn't know him so well thought this a little strange, to say the least.

Mac waved at the herdsman who was so bundled up in thick brown furs that he looked like some newly discovered and as yet unclassified primate, but for the fact that the man carried an intricately carved wooden crook in one hand and an ancient rifle strung across his broad shoulder. Mac called out to the man in a friendly tone and dismounted, slowly leading his horse closer so as not to spook the animals or their keeper. Quite what Mac was saying to the man, Randal had no idea, since it was in some foreign, guttural tongue, but the man seemed pleased enough to see them. Mac was again coming into his own.

“What's he say?” Randal wanted to know.

“We're just exchanging best wishes,” Mac interpreted. “It's really quite an elaborate process and they use a lot of superlatives and honorifics in these parts.”

Shortly after this, the herdsman caught up with one of his nanny goats and spent some time milking it, half filling an old tin cup with the milk that he collected, then he came across and offered the cup to Mac. He took a few sips of the warm liquid, making appreciative noises, before passing the cup to Randal to drink his fill. Randal was hesitant for a moment, having heard about the dangers of drinking unpasteurized milk (to which the herdsman had probably grown immune), but accepted nonetheless. He smiled in gratitude and asked Mac to thank the man on his behalf. For all Randal knew, Mac might have been telling the man not to mind his friend who was an imbecile, for shortly afterwards they broke into laughter and looked his way.

At length, Mac rummaged in his pocket and pressed a few coppers into the man's hand. Then finally bowing to one-another, the herdsman went back to his flock and they were again on their way, riding through the long, coarse grass and scrub which only the hardy goats were equipped to tackle.

“Did you find out anything useful?” Randal enquired, acutely aware that this was all beyond him.

“Yes indeed,” Mac informed him as they moved on. “The goatherd offered to take us to his hut to share a cup of beer he'd recently brewed. But I politely declined on our behalf when he informed me that this patent brew was partially the product of his own urine.”

Randal screwed up his face in disgust.

“Precisely. Anyhow, on a more serious note, the man said that if we head off in the direction of that outcrop yonder for six hours, we'll come to a river. Another day's ride south along the river bank and we'll come to a town called Julaika. At Julaika is a café owned by a distant cousin of our goatherd friend, Rosul. If we pass on his regards to this cousin and his family, and ask where we may buy khalon daat plants, he is sure to be able to help us.”

“However,” Mac continued, pausing to emphasize some as yet unspoken point, “he warned us to be wary of the Hujardi. Though drinking khalon daat tea is permitted, they frown upon such stimulants and all intoxicants; and they would most likely frown even more upon its use as a herbal remedy; this being the sort of nefarious activity that unbelievers, old hags and witches get up to.”

“So what do they do when they get ill?” Randal wanted to know.

“They pray,” Mac replied, again punctuating his speech with a pause. “And then the less devout sneak off to the unbelievers, the old hags and the witches.”

Now that was ironic. “And if they're not cured?”

“You can probably guess that for yourself, Randal,” Mac replied, looking him in the eye.

“They denounce them?”

“Yes, you've got the picture. Anyhow let's press on, Randal. If we keep up the pace, we'll be at the river by six o'clock. We can camp there by the banks, then maybe we can reach town before tomorrow evening and even get a decent meal for a change, and a good night's rest. I know you seem to thrive on the outdoor life, and you're welcome to it. Personally I've had more than my fill.”

“Mac, we've got a good few days ride ahead of us before we meet up with Conrad,” he pointed out.

“Oh please, spare me the gruesome details, Randal,” Mac groaned. “Whoever invented hard leather saddles wants stringing up. I'm already walking round with my legs apart like I've been blasted in the backside with buckshot.”

Randal laughed. “Yes, I know that feeling well.”

“And yet you're still so damn cheerful and indomitable, Randal. That really rubs salt in the wounds.”

“There's an old saying, you know, Mac. It is this, that pain is inevitable; suffering is optional. Make your choice,” he offered. “I figure that good humour, as well as helping to sort out the seekers from the constipated clerics, is a useful survival strategy.”

~~~O~~~

At length, they slowly rode their horses into town. There had been a chill wind high in the hills, but down in the valley, even on a cloudy day like today, it was pleasantly warm. Gritting his teeth and unable to sit on the saddle a moment longer, Mac struggled to get down from his mount and walked the horse on down the road.

There were quite a few women in the street, wearing those grotesque, anonymous and emotionless white plastic masks. They were possibly buying some last minute shopping before the markets closed for the day, and they gave him and Mac a wide berth. Mac warned him to steer clear and made no move to approach them, even for the most innocuous purpose of asking the way to the café. As it happened, a young lad dashed up, eager to be of service, and for a small copper he willingly pointed out an old drystone building further along the dusty street, and led their horses toward it. Though Randal only understood one word of their conversation – Rosul, which was the name of the goatherd's distant cousin – he got the picture.

“Ah, we're in luck. The café is still open and serves an evening meal. There's just the one item on the menu: a spiced mutton stew, but I'm sure we'll benefit from the high fat content, with all this travelling, and it will go down a treat. And if we are spending the night here, there is a guest house opposite.”

Randal clambered out of the saddle and as Mac headed for the guest house to book rooms, the lad took the horses through the poop-stained courtyard to the stables where they, too, could rest and feed to their hearts' content. If anyone had been uncomplaining about the rigours of the trek, then it was the horses and pack mule that had been the quiet, unassuming and unsung heroes.

Once they'd had a wash and spruced themselves up, they left the guest house and crossed the road to the café, taking a small round table by the fireside and waiting patiently until the waiter came their way. Randal marvelled at the intricate and multicoloured, ceramic mosaic designs that covered the café walls. They were both a work of art and no doubt of exceedingly patient and masterly craftsmanship. Mac exchanged words with the waiter and shortly afterwards a tray of drinks arrived. It looked like tea, served in squat glasses, with a spoon and twists of sugar but without milk. Randal added the sugar and stirred the drink, then had a sip of it. Yes, it was some kind of tea, and it was actually rather pleasant and refreshing.

Shortly afterwards, a dapper looking gentleman about their own age arrived at their table. Mac got to his feet and Randal followed, and Mac and the man exchanged pleasantries.

“This is Rosul, the owner,” Mac informed him and he shook hands with the man.

Rosul made a gesture and the three of them sat down at the table; then Mac and Rosul spent a good few minutes talking. Randal could only assume that they were discussing how they might acquire the plants they needed. The pair of them seemed to be getting on all right, but every now and again Mac would screw his face up. Whether it was a groan, a grimace or disgust, Randal did not know. Finally, some money exchanged hands and they all got to their feet again. After another arcane ritual, and an exchange of bows, the man disappeared into a back room, and a little later the waiter arrived with their stew in a large stoneware tureen.

“Did you make any progress?” prompted Randal as Mac began to ladle the stew into their bowls.

“Well, the good news is that we don't have to go hunting the khalon daat, it will be brought to us,” Mac told him.

“They do realize that we're interested in the bulbous roots; or better still the whole plant, don't they?” he enquired, anxious not to overlook the details.

“Fear not, my friend,” Mac nodded, passing one of the bowls to Randal.

“Thank you. And the bad news?” he asked, thinking that every silver lining has its cloud.

“The bad news is that the Hujardi are already aware of our presence. Apparently one of them spotted our camp by the river. He's gone off to a town further down the river to report the matter to one of the Hujardi warlords. But the soonest they'd arrive would be mid-morning tomorrow.”

“How big a deal is that? Can we be out of here by then?”

“Not so long ago, we'd have been more than welcome here, Randal. But Rosul tells me that the Hujardi are becoming more intolerant of foreigners on their patch, and the more extreme elements have embarked on a campaign to purge the country of foreigners, and especially unbelievers; all the more so following the Nur Galanese invasion of Gilgamar which saw the ranks of the Hujardi decimated and the survivors thoroughly routed. You might say that it's pay back time for the former imperialist colonials.”

“But we're not unbelievers; and nor are we colonialists,” Randal countered.

Mac shrugged his shoulders and offered his hands, palm up. “Like us, they have their stereotypes, Randal. You know the sayings: we're all tarred with the same brush, and we all look the same to them.”

“So what do we do?” he asked, taking a spoonful of the stew and making sure it was not too hot to scald his tongue. As Mac had mentioned, the dish was indeed richly spiced.

“We quietly book out of the guest house and when Rosul shuts up shop later this evening, he's going to take us to his house. One of the regulars at the café has a large plantation, and Rosul has already sent one of his sons to negotiate on our behalf. I gave Rosul ten Nobles as a goodwill deposit to pass on to the farmer. If the deal doesn't come to fruition and the farmer is an honourable man, we'll get the money back; if not, we'll simply have to write off the money and try again elsewhere ... if we get the chance. Rosul did give me one or two other names, so all would not be lost.”

~~~O~~~

Rosul and his family treated then like royalty that night; offering them supper, late as it was by then. And they insisted that Randal and Mac had the best bedroom in the house, whilst their sons more than willingly gave up their own room for the night. “What's mine is yours,” Rosul generously offered, though this actually made Randal rather careful and self-conscious, having been forewarned by Mac not to show a great interest or delight in any of the man's possessions, lest the man feel compelled to gift these things to him, however precious they might be.

The following morning they were woken early. Rosul sent his sons off to open up the café whilst they awaited the arrival of the farmer, and sure enough at just gone eight o'clock they heard a horse and cart clattering up the road in their direction. It was the farmer, Rosul informed them.

Rosul went out to meet the man and they exchanged ritual greetings, then he brought the man inside the house where the process was repeated, this time with Mac and Randal. They waited until Rosul's wife had served tea and only then did they get down to business. The farmer had brought one of the plants in with him, so that they could see what they would be paying for. Randal was glad to see that the plants were quite squat, the bulbous roots making up most of their bulk, so transporting them would not be a problem.

Mac explained that the farmer, whose name was Hiyan, was asking three Nobles for each of the thirty plants; which, he confided, he thought excessive.

“Don't worry about that: let's give the man whatever he's asking.”

Mac smiled and shook his head gently. He felt sure that this was deliberately inflated so that with a bit of haggling, they would still go away feeling satisfied. More than that, custom dictated that he should haggle. Not to do so might actually be perceived as a slight or an affront.

Randal shrugged. “Okay, you know better than I do, Mac. But don't push too hard a bargain.”

Five minutes later, the deal was done and after handing over fifty Nobles and a further five to Rosul for facilitating the deal, Rosul's wife returned with fresh tea and hot buttered scones.

Randal and Mac were just helping to transfer the plants to the pack mule when they heard hooves clattering up the cobbled street, and they could do nothing but stand there as six heavily armed riders entered the courtyard of the house. The horses were steaming, and snorting, after what must have been an arduous ride.

“Let us handle this,” Mac whispered insistently. Randal didn't need telling.

Rosul was the first to go forward, offering the riders hospitality, but their leader, a hulk of a guy on a tall black mount, and a bandoleer slung from each shoulder, declined the invitation. That much was obvious to Randal; and it was also obvious that they earned their crust as fighting men.

The leader impatiently snapped his fingers and beckoned Randal and Mac over to stand before him.

Mac went through the ritual greetings, but the leader harshly brushed his words aside. Unbuttoning the holster at his hip, he pulled out what looked like an old army pistol and waved it menacingly in Mac's face. Randal's immediate reaction was that he was going to shoot them on the spot.

Mac said something suitably deferential to the man and gingerly turned to Randal. “I need your money belt.”

Randal didn't ask questions, he very tentatively raised the front of his tunic to show that he was not reaching for a weapon of his own; undid the belt and passed it to Mac. The leader snatched the belt from Mac and examined it closely, almost salivating at the sight of so much gold, before fastening it around his own rather bloated waist for all to see and marvel at.

“So, what are they going to do after they've robbed us? Kill us?” Randal hissed in Mac's ear whilst the leader was distracted.

“Neither. The Hujardi warlord proposed that his men provide us with safe passage to the border.”

“So they're fleecing us instead?”

“Not in so many words, but yes,” Mac nodded and turned back to the leader. The man growled again and waved his pistol menacingly. Only when Mac, too, had been relieved of his money belt did he replace the pistol and re-button the holster. Then he wheeled his horse about, commanding two of the other riders to follow him and he was off, perhaps to spend or gloat over his ill-gotten gains.

One of the three remaining riders motioned with his rifle.

Briefly turning to Rosul and the farmer, who stood there quaking with fear, Mac thanked them for their generosity, apologizing profusely for bringing this misfortune upon them, then clambered onto his horse, signalling to Randal that it was time to leave.

As for safe passage to the border, what a laugh: that wasn't going to happen. The three riders escorted them to the north across the plains and then, without warning, they turned their horses round and trotted back toward the town, leaving Randal and Mac alone once more.

“Thank Alicia for that,” Randal whistled with relief when the riders were out of sight.

“Hey, give me some credit,” Mac replied. “The ape was going to shoot us on the spot until I quoted scripture back at him; showing him and his men that I was a fellow believer. There was no way he could really get around that without committing a grave sin and inviting divine retribution, but he had to come out of it without losing face. So we came to an arrangement by which we might both profit: him with the gold in return for providing us with safe passage, and us with our lives and the plants. I must say, however, that I'm more than a little disappointed that the ape's men did not keep to their leader's word. Once upon a time in this land, one's word truly was one's bond.”

Randal whistled. “Thank you, Mac. Looks like I owe you big time.”

“I'll tell you one thing, though, my friend. That warlord may be full of glee that he's fleeced us, but he won't live long enough to spend the gold.”

“Come again?” Randal could make no sense of what Mac had said.

“Just that when people cross me, bad things seem to happen,” Mac added cryptically.

No further explanation was forthcoming.

At that very moment, as the warlord was riding out of town with his escort, his horse suddenly bolted, heading for the trees. As the horse dodged to one side to avoid a tree, to his horror, the warlord saw himself heading for a large branch that had broken away from the tree. The branch struck him in the centre of his chest, halting him in his tracks whilst the horse ran on, before bursting out through his back. He was left there, hanging in mid air, impaled on the branch, with his men looking on, themselves frozen in terror and unable to intervene. The meaning of the scripture that Mackenzie Centhorn had quoted suddenly hit home and the implications had not been lost on them.

~~~O~~~

“You seem to have lost the spring in your step, Randal,” Mac observed as they made camp late that afternoon. They were still within the borders of Erigwid and had thought it wiser to camp by the river than to venture into the nearby town, even though it was still before dusk.

Randal sighed. “Yes, I must say that I'm peeved. It's not the money so much: I'd have willingly paid that much to the farmer in exchange for the plants.”

“In effect, we gave it in exchange for Mair Freida's life, Randal. So how is that different from exchanging it for your own life?”

Randal had to admit that Mac had a valid point there. “I guess it is that I detest being fleeced.”

“Be patient, my friend, and I'll light the stove to warm some soup for us.”

As they sat there sipping their soup and dunking their flat bread, Randal spotted a dot further down the river. Slowly but surely, the dot increased in size until he could make out a horse and rider.

“Could be company,” he whispered, nudging Mac.

Mac didn't turn round. Fishing in his pocket he brought out a small silver object and held it in his palm.

“If it's the Hujardi again, it'll take more than a piece of silver to satisfy them,” Randal noted. He'd been hoping for a knife or a pocket pistol.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Mac smiled. “Just be patient.”

Not only had the tables been turned on them by the Hujardi, Randal mused, things seem to have been reversed between him and Mac, at least as far as patience and trust went.

At length they could hear the dull sound of horses hooves striking the ground but slightly muffled by the long grass, and Mac cautiously rose to his feet and turned to face the approaching rider.

It was one of the Hujardi who had accosted them earlier, though fortunately he was on his own. The rider tied his horse on the low branch of a nearby tree and unslung his rifle.

Randal tensed up, but Mac, sensing his anxiety merely smiled and remained motionless facing the militant. The man leant the rifle against the tree trunk and slowly approached them, and now Randal could see the fear etched across the man's face. Sweat was oozing from his hairline and trickling down his face.

In his hands, the man held the two money belts and he came toward them muttering words and shaking his head. When he got closer, he dropped to his knees and placed the money belts before him, as if in offering.

“What's he on about?” Randal wanted to know, finding his voice once more.

Still smiling at the man, Mac interpreted for Randal. “Our friend wants to be rid of the gold and silver. He begs forgiveness and asks that I lift the curse; if not for him, then for his poor wife, three daughters and invalid mother.”

Mac nodded to the man and appeared to be speaking words of reassurance. As the man rose to his feet, Mac tossed the silver coin to him. The man caught it and, carefully walking backwards and bowing all the way, he picked up his rifle, unhitched his horse and galloped off toward the nearby town. It was coming in dark now, so presumably he was going to spend the night there rather than risk the ride back south.

Randal was still bemused. “So what just happened?” he enquired as Mac picked up the money belts and tossed one in his direction.

“Apparently the warlord met with an unfortunate accident after leaving us. His horse bolted and he was impaled on a broken branch. And being the superstitious people they are, they decided that it was as a result of doing me a wrong. So they drew lots and that poor soul was given the task of returning their ill-gotten gains to me; and above all to have the curse lifted.”

Randal could not help but remember the words Mac had spoken earlier: that “when people cross me, bad things seem to happen.”

Mac shrugged his shoulders and went back to his soup. “It is not my doing, Randal, but that of my Lord and Master. I am but a lowly vassal without a say in the matter; putty moulded by His hands; a mere puppet whose strings He pulls.”

Up until that moment, Randal had not for once taken Mac to be the religious type. Clearly, he hid his light under a proverbial bushel.

Not far from town, the rider was admiring the large silver coin he held in his hand and looking forward to having a celebratory feast, pleased with himself for having obtained the traveller's forgiveness and the lifting of the curse.

He felt something wriggling in his palm and when he looked, he was horrified to see that he was not clutching a silver coin but a small red scorpion. Even before he'd had a chance to flick the devilish thing away, it struck. He snatched his knife and immediately sliced his palm, in an urgent bid to suck out the poison before it coursed through his veins, but his efforts came too late. The juveniles were the most deadly, for they had not yet learnt to control the release of their venom. Writhing in agony, he slipped from the saddle and, with his foot caught in one of the stirrups, his horse dragged him along the ground, face down. By the time the man reached town, his features were unrecognizable.

24. Another mishap

Conrad was on his way down through the mountains from babs chu to the vast central plains of Narayana. There was no real need for the students who accompanied him to travel with him the whole way, now that they were on safe ground, without threat of falling into a deep and hidden crevasse; so he spurred himself on and left them to mosey on down at their own pace, only briefly stopping at an inn in Renchok, a hamlet in the foothills, before swapping his horse for a six hour, bone-jerking journey on the old charabanc to Shakra.

He stepped off the bus without a care in the world, at least for that moment, having cast his worries aside and contented himself with idly observing the stark yet beautiful scenery on his trip down from the foothills and across the plains.

But in that moment, with one foot still on the bus and the other on the ground, Conrad suddenly found himself falling. Having stepped onto a patch of black ice, his foot slipped from under him and he fell backwards, banging his shoulder heavily against the metal-edged bottom step of the bus.

In a bit of a daze and still racked with pain, Conrad staggered to his feet as concerned passers-by gingerly came to his aid on the slippery ground. It was all a bit of a blur, really, and he found himself being guided down the road, through the town and finally to the little cottage hospital by the lake. Once the doctor came to examine him, and his guide had explained what had happened, on Conrad's behalf, the man went about his business with Conrad's thanks.

The doctor had him move his arm this way and that, as best he could with gritted teeth; whilst the doctor poked and prodded him. Finally satisfied, the man called one of the nurses and explained how he wanted the shoulder dressing.

“Nothing major, you'll be pleased to hear, Mister Harper. It's definitely not broken. Most likely a hairline fracture which will mend of its own accord. There's no movement, so rather than go the whole hog and put your arm in plaster, I've suggested to the nurse that she simply put your arm in a sling. I would urge you to avoid using the arm for the next two weeks. Clearly you're in some pain, so I'll sort you out with some tablets. I doubt very much you'll need them after the first couple of days, with your arm pretty much immobile in a sling, but I'll give you a few extra to be on the safe side. Take two now and another two whenever the pain gets too much, though at least three hours apart, and on no account more than eight in twenty four hours.

“And if there's no improvement in a week, come back and see me and we'll have another look; though I expect a full and speedy recover without complications.”

That done and two of the tablets down his throat, Conrad headed for the desk to pay the clerk and was once again – and this time rather gingerly – on his way.

His arm still giving him some gyp and being already so late in the day, Conrad abandoned thoughts of taking the spare car and driving south, deciding instead to stay the night in town and see whether he was actually up to driving early the next day. Even cutting up his meat required him to use his bad arm, and in the end he had to call the waitress and have her cut his meat up for him, with his apologies. She was only too happy to oblige. And as for answering the call of nature; well, we'd best not go there.

After a hearty breakfast, Conrad still being hungry after the trek down through the mountains, the next thing to do that morning was to go to see Wilbur and have him send a message to babs chu to let them know that he had arrived safely at Shakra. By now the pain in his shoulder had subsided and he'd decided that the only thing to do was to attempt the drive. Fortunately, the gear stick was on the left hand side and he could handle the steering wheel with one hand most of the time, providing that he drove carefully. There was very little other traffic on the roads, at least to the north of Narayana, so that would not pose any problems.

He managed to get ten miles down the dirt road that day before finally and agonizingly coming to the conclusion that he'd been mistaken. There was simply no way that he could drive with his arm in the state it was in. So he turned the car round and slowly headed back toward Shakra. Randal and this Mackenzie Centichorn chap [sic] would simply have to drive further north to meet him at Shakra, rather than in Lilith. It had already been arranged that they phone Wilbur to get the latest news, so though an inconvenience, that wouldn't severely disrupt their plans. There was no other option, really.

Of course word eventually got to babs chu that there'd been a mishap, but he was able to play down the affair and convince Tenzing that there was no need to send anyone else down to relieve him. By the time Randal and Mackenzie arrived, providing that Alicia smiled on him, then he'd be on the mend.

25. No word as yet

Finally Randal and Mac had made it to Lilith, and by now even Randal's enthusiasm was beginning to flag. If anything, it was Mac who was the more upbeat of the two. Randal had been expecting Conrad to be already there and anxiously awaiting their arrival, but the landlord at the inn, though also expecting the visitor, had as yet heard no news. However, arrangements had of necessity been flexible, with so many intangibles to juggle, and this was not a cause of great concern.

First things first, however. Randal and Mac's most pressing need was to take a long, hot bath; not only to get themselves clean after their travels, and to change out of the rancid clothes they travelled in for all-too long, but also to sooth their aching limbs. Rosalie had thoughtfully added bath salts to their provisions, which had seemed a strange thing at the time, but now it made perfect sense. Second on their list of priorities was to get some decent food down them; then phone Shakra to get the latest news; and finally to enjoy a good night's sleep. Nothing was going to happen before the morning, or until Conrad arrived, so they decided that they might as well make the most of this brief lull.

Once his dinner had begun to settle, Randal found a handful of change and phoned Wilbur. It was a bit late, but Wilbur was one of those folk who worked almost around the clock. Selling, mending and manning radios was his job, but it was also his hobby and a source of joy, so the distinction between work and play for him was virtually non-existent and one day blurred into the next.

For a moment, Randal was quite taken aback to hear that Conrad had had an accident, but Wilbur hurriedly explained that it was nothing major. However, Conrad would not be able to drive down to Lilith to pick up the plants; instead they would have to borrow one of the Network cars and drive up to Shakra. Randal had Wilbur hang on for a moment while he wrote down the details of where to retrieve the car from storage. It was kept at a nearby garage and the mechanic there turned the engine over now and again and kept the battery charged.

When Randal returned to tell Mac the news, he had expected moans and groans, since this would entail yet more travelling before they could get back home to Foxholes, but he seemed quite chipper at the news, and more interested in “seeing how the other half live” in Narayana than in Conrad's misfortune. That man spent far too much time with his head up his own ass, being under the mistaken impression that “there's gold in them there hills”. Having said that, however, Narayana was an undeniably exotic and alluring place, which most folk could only dream of visiting in their lifetime.

26. Decision time

One look at Conrad pretty much told Randal all he needed to know, and immediately questions sprang to mind. Conrad was smiling and clearly glad to see them, but beneath the smile, he was clearly still in pain and his arm, which was quite swollen around the shoulder and was still in a sling.

“Conrad, you're in no fit state to make the log trek up to babs chu on your own,” he confided as Mac was just returning after answering the call of nature.

Conrad was adamant that he could. Renchok was only a bus ride away and it had been arranged that two of the students be there to help.

“If you don't mind me adding my two pennyworth, Conrad,” chipped in Mac as Randal returned from the bar with three mugs of creamy mushroom, onion and garlic soup, “you look all washed out or 'like shit warmed up', if you'll forgive the language. In your state you won't even be able to carry the plants. Do us all a favour and let us travel with you, at least as far as – what's it's name?”

“Renchok,” Randal told him. Though he'd personally have put his thoughts on the matter in more gentle terms, he was pretty much in agreement with Mac. “It's in the foothills and as far as you can go into the mountains. From there on in, it's horses and pack mules. And higher up, in the deep snow, it's one long, hard slog on foot. I can think of several points on the trek where you either need two good arms free or the help of others.”

Conrad nodded. “Yes, I'm sure you're quite right.” He looked at his watch, though perhaps more out of habit than anything. “It's getting late and if we get up early tomorrow morning, we can catch the seven o'clock bus. That will see us in Renchok by one in the afternoon. If we push on, we should make base camp, as it were, before the sun goes down.”

“Good,” Randal agreed, draining his mug and wiping the inside with the remainder of his crusty bread. “Then let's get some shut eye. I'll have the landlord wake us at six. Or is that early enough?”

“Well, we'll have to get a move on over breakfast ....” Conrad replied. “And there's only the one bathroom on each floor. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not get up before six.”

Mac was with him on that one.

“Okay,” Randal decided. “I'll see if the landlord will make us a packed meal. If we skip breakfast and eat on the bus, then that issue is solved.”

As a computer programmer, he tended not to see problems as problems but as containing the germ of potential solutions; solutions that had simply not as yet been found.

~~~O~~~

By the time they reached the steep-roofed houses of Renchok the next afternoon, having polished off his own packed lunch and cadged Randal's leftovers, Mac was looking distinctly green about the gills. The old bus had very sloppy suspension and whilst this slightly mitigated against the bumps in the road, it did mean that the bus swayed all over the place on the winding and undulating journey. It was not at all uncommon for the driver to stop on the way whilst one of the passengers disappeared into the bushes, what few there were, to either answer the call of nature or, more frequently, to throw their guts up. Randal had Mac sit on a newspaper, an old folk remedy for motion sickness. Whether this had a real or a placebo effect he did not know, but either way Mac didn't throw up all over him.

As they climbed higher and higher in so short a space in time, the more rarefied atmosphere had an increasing physiological effect on many of the lowlanders. As for Conrad, he spent most of the journey dozing, having had a disturbed sleep the night before; and Randal watched the scenery out of the window with his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, so as to reduce the risk of nausea.

When they arrived at Renchok and went to the inn where they usually met up with their guides, Randal was dismayed to find that there was nobody there to meet them, and they now had no means of contacting babs chu to find out what was going on. They checked with the landlord and he reported that there had been no visitors from the north since Conrad and the students had made their descent.

“What do we do now?” he asked Conrad who was more familiar with the logistics.

“Well we can't wait on the off-chance that someone will come,” he replied. “We'll simply have to go on ourselves. We always keep a spare tent and climbing gear in safe-keeping here, and we can easily borrow a couple of horses and rustle up provisions. I'm sure that between you, me and the horses we could manage, Randal.”

Mac had been listening in on the conversation and when Conrad uttered these words, he looked crestfallen, which gave Randal pause for thought.

“We can't leave Mac here,” he protested mildly. “And I've brought him too far from home for him to make it back to Foxholes on his own.”

Conrad didn't sound enthusiastic about the alternative, which would be to take Mac with them; though he was careful not to spell out his reticence. “I'm sure our people would look after him at Shakra until you return. It's a simple enough matter to get there. And you know the rules as well as I do.”

The rule was that only the most trustworthy were to go anywhere near babs chu.

“Conrad, and so do you. The minimum number of able-bodied folk required to make the trek to babs chu is two on their own, or three if they're in company; and even with me and Mac, we're pushing it. If either of us fell down a crevasse, we'd be finished; and I'd say that this is the over-riding consideration. So, remembering that for Mair Freida the clock is ticking, please take your pick.”

“Forgive me butting in, my friends, but I seem to recall Tenzing writing that 'circumstances alter cases'.”

“He's right you know,” Randal concurred.

“Okay then,” Conrad agreed finally. “On our heads be it. I'll go round up some provisions at the store, if you and Mackenzie wouldn't mind taking care of the heavier stuff and the horses. Are you all right for cash?”

“Well, we have more gold and silver than we know what to do with, but we didn't plan on coming up to Narayana ....”

Conrad had Randal fish in his coat pockets and sorted them out with some bank notes and small change. “I'll meet you back here in half an hour, then we'd best be off.”

“Right you are.”

Their minds made up, and their provisions collected, they were just about to set off when Conrad spotted one of the students heading their way. He was on horseback and he had a pack mule in-tow.

“We thought you weren't coming,” Conrad observed.

The lad waved his arms apologetically. “I know, I'm sorry. Yedi came with me but he went down with a stomach bug. So I had to take him most of the way back.”

“Tarquin, you shouldn't have made the journey alone,” Conrad replied, shaking his head. Then his tone softened. “Still, it's good to see you here.”

“Okay, change of plan,” Conrad decided, turning to Randal. “I'll tell you what, though, I'm not happy with all these mishaps. Something is seriously out of kilter with the Necessity.”

Yes, there was that.

Randal thought for a moment. “We can't both go back.”

Mac spoke up. “Well, how's about I go with Conrad and Yedi to help out? That way you can make your way back to your wife and work? Next time Tenzing makes the return trip, he can take me back to Foxholes. And that would also give me a chance to meet him.”

Randal would have liked to go on to babs chu, but he did want to get back to Helen; and work was pressing, too. He didn't really have to toss a coin; it was obvious what he should do, though he was a little disappointed. Besides, the stay at babs chu would mean all the more to Mac for whom it was a chance in a lifetime affair.

“Okay, that makes sense,” he nodded as he dismounted. “As soon as I get back to Shakra I'll let Tenzing know that you're on your way. Best of luck to you, and make the most of it, Mac. It really is a golden opportunity and I'm sure you'll shine.”

27. The mountain trek

Though he could see the sense in Randal heading off back to Foxholes and Mac making up the numbers, and he went along with the arrangements, all the same, Conrad had his reservations.

Part of that he could put down to an outsider being given access to babs chu. Just one indiscreet word in the wrong ear, that's all it would take to make international headlines and have all manner of undesirables and their dog hassling his people, scouring the mountains and – heaven help them – perhaps even descending on babs chu itself. The impact of such a thing would be catastrophic. And yet having said that, Conrad was immensely grateful for the help Randal and Mac had given in obtaining the remedy. Going into Erigwid and emerging intact had required bravery in the face of untold dangers.

But this alone did not explain Conrad's disquiet. When they were working and in tune with the Design, doorways were often opened for them, often in inexplicable ways, and things went swimmingly well, like a well oiled machine. No, machine was the wrong word for what was an organic process. But there had been a number of mishaps now, and to him this meant only one thing. As he had said to Randal, not that it had made much of an impression on the lad: something was seriously out of kilter; and what made this all the worse was that he did not know what was out of kilter, nor the whys and wherefores, nor how the situation might be rectified. This was something that he'd perhaps need to talk to Tenzing or Mair Freida about, when she was well enough and got her mojo back. If anyone could get a handle on such ephemeral or ethereal issues, then it was Mair Freida. With Mair Freida, it wasn't merely a matter of her being so near-indispensable; she was such a wonderful lady and a joy to have around, and though Mair Freida didn't play favourites, she and Dzoldzaya had a particularly close bond.

As they climbed higher and higher into the snow blanketed mountains and past the dangers of the glacier, the time came to blindfold Mackenzie. Conrad didn't like doing this, but it was one of the rules for which no exception had been granted in living memory.

Mackenzie did not take kindly to this treatment and he voiced his objections in no uncertain terms.

“Mackenzie, I'm not singling you out,” Conrad reasoned with the man, plumes of instantly condensing breath billowing from his mouth as he spoke in the crisp mountain air. “This is something that everyone is subjected to on their first visit to babs chu, and it has been this way since the original community was established several hundred years ago. Think of it not as being personally slighted or disadvantaged but as part of an important and privileged rite of passage.

“If you can see this in more abstract terms, Mac, as a template or a pattern which 'clicks into place' when realization dawns, I'm reminded of the old adage that whilst 'pain is inevitable, suffering is optional'.”

“So make the best of it, that's what you're saying, Conrad?” Mac retorted, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Yes, something along those lines.”

With these words, Mackenzie reluctantly agreed, but it was some time before his huff receded and he regained his emotional equilibrium. To Conrad, that in itself was a sure sign that the man had a good deal of self-work to do, and the best place for this preparatory work was at Foxholes, not babs chu where these raw edges would be even more exaggerated and appear so flagrant. It was akin to a dog pissing in rosewater, as the masters might say.

“Mackenzie, I think one of the things that studying Tenzing's works helps with is the gradual development of, and increase in, capacity.

“A camel has capacity, we hear in the saying that it was the last straw that broke the camel's back. And a bridge requires capacity if it is to safely convey people, livestock or goods. This, I guess, is the capacity to bear a load. And there is the capacity to simply and perhaps patiently contain, as we hear in the traditional tale of the pot with a hole in its base.

“There is also a more dynamic kind of capacity and that is the capacity to not only conduct or convey, as with a bridge, but to bear impacts, ups and downs and more generally, change. Just as a capacitor stores electrical charge and decouples supply from demand, so too a reservoir acts in a similar way. A reservoir has a capacity and a smoothing, integrating, effect. The greater the amount of water it contains, the more it is able to maintain a steady and sufficient flow, or maintain a dynamic equilibrium, when there are differentiated, sudden and perhaps fickle fluctuations in either supply or demand.

“This is, of course, far more easily said than done, as I have found to my cost on a good few occasions. It is not always easy to be patient or to have patience with patience. But nonetheless, it is a quality that gradual develops, given the right orientation.

“The self, of itself, is differentiated and has little capacity. One nudge from another or from the cosmos and it's all over the shop. But imagine when you close your eyes at night that you really are like a dot swimming in a vast ocean; that it not only surrounds you but permeates you and that you are a part of it and it a part of you. When you truly realize that condition, rather than merely think it or feel it; when you truly see the elephant in the dark and become integrated and in harmony, the practically limitless capacity, energy, love and wisdom of the cosmos is available and may work through you, in accordance with the Design and of Necessity.”

“And you think that I lack this capacity?” Mac challenged him.

“I'm sorry to have to say this, Mac; but yes, that's precisely what I'm saying. It's written all over you.”

28. A welcome return

Dzoldzaya was there to meet them before they'd handed their horses over to the handlers. They had stables, but most of the time the horses roamed free in the paddocks when the weather was warm enough, and they were always frisky and darted this way and that, clearly glad to be unsaddled.

There was a sense of urgency in Dzoldzaya's eyes, and she stopped only momentarily to give Conrad a hug, a warm kiss and gently stroke his face with her woollen mitten, before grabbing one of the panniers containing some of the plants. Conrad was feeling pretty rough after the journey, so he followed slowly and stiffly on behind. He'd have to have a word with one of the student healers about the pain in his shoulder, which had returned with a vengeance in the cold mountain air, since Dzoldzaya had an infinitely more important task. He left Mac to round up the rest of the plants and get someone to help him take them to the medical rooms at his leisure. Only when they'd discharged their duty would they be able to take time out; and not until Mair Freida was on the mend would he be able to truly relax.

It didn't take long for the healer to sort him out: Mair Freida was a great tutor and mentor. She took away the tablets that the doctor had prescribed and gave him a large bottle containing the most vile tasting brown medicine. The first time he tasted it, being given a double dose there and then, he thought perhaps someone had been sick in the bottle. Nonetheless the stuff was potent. Within minutes, the pain had receded to a far more tolerable level and he went off to see how Dzoldzaya was getting on. She was hard at work with a mortar and pestle, preparing the remedy for Mair Freida, but she found a few moments for him, and then he left her to her task and went off to take a shower; change into a fresh set of clothing, and then find Mackenzie to make sure he was being properly looked after. Rampant ego or not, Mac had been a great help to them and deserved to be offered hospitality and a little pampering after the ordeal.

29. A worrying time

If anything, Mair Freida's condition appeared to deteriorate during the next two days, and by the third day they were mounting a constant vigil. Mair Freida spent most of the time sleeping; perhaps hovering between this world and the next. Dzoldzaya and the student healers had taken it in turns to stay by her bedside and Dzoldzaya had been there for most of the night. There was little more they could do now other than hope that the herbal remedy took hold, to make her more comfortable; not least, to pray; and, if necessary, to ease her passage into the next world.

Something startled Dzoldzaya that night and she was awake in a flash, only then realizing that she must have dozed off. It wasn't a noise that she'd heard; rather it was the silence. Mair Freida had been wheezing and coughing and snoring loudly all night long; but now there was an eerie silence; and Dzoldzaya flushed crimson, as it struck her what this must mean.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” croaked a friendly voice. It was Mair Freida, and she was awake.

“You look so worried, child. Please don't.” The old lady paused for a few moments to cough and to catch her breath.

Dzoldzaya breathed a long, deep sigh of relief. “Mair Freida, you're awake. How are you feeling feeling?”

“Rest easy, Dzoldzaya,” the old lady advised her in soothing tones. “Though I do feel like I've been pooped on by an elephant from a great height, I'm over the worst now, thanks to you.”

Dzoldzaya was up on her feet, her heart still thumping. “I played a small part, but you're welcome. Now, is there anything I can get you?”

“Well, if you wouldn't mind passing me that glass of water, I'd be grateful.”

“No, no.” Dzoldzaya waved her hand from side to side. “Hang on a minute and I'll get you some fresh.”

“Dzoldzaya, that will do me just fine.”

“If you insist. Then is there anything else I could get you?”

“If it's not asking too much, I feel like I haven't eaten in days.”

“You haven't, Mair Freida, though we managed to get some fluids down you.”

“Then can you do me a big favour?” the old lady looked, raising her eyebrows hopefully.

“Anything, just name it.”

“I would love some soup. Just make it in a mug; my hands are shaking and I'm not sure I could raise a spoon to my mouth without spilling it.”

“I'll sort that out straight away, Mair Freida,” she replied, already turning to leave. “Give me ten minutes while I go to the cafeteria. It's too early in the morning for Missus Morgan, so I'll warm some soup myself. And I'll have one of the others sit with you while I'm away.”

“Oh, no, no. I don't want you to go waking the others at this ungodly hour.”

“That's what we're here for, Mair Freida,” she insisted, “and it's really no trouble at all. Everyone will be over the moon to see you awake and alert.”

Mair Freida continued to make progress that week, though she was clearly still very weak; and they were pleased to see that she gradually got her appetite back, though they fed her quite bland and easily digested foods like fish and white meat for the first few days. Of course everyone was anxious to see the lady, and Dzoldzaya had to put her foot down to limit the number of visitors and the length they could stay. Within a week of Conrad's return, however, she was out of bed for the first time; at first in short bursts so that she could wash, eat or answer the call of nature; and becoming increasingly mobile as the days went by. And a week later, having got herself dressed, Mair Freida discharged herself and went back to her own chalet to fully recuperate.

She was anxious to get back to work, but Matron insisted that she have another couple of weeks' rest; indeed, either braver or perhaps a little more brash than the others, Matron did speak with Mair Freida about the possibility of her retirement, and of who might succeed her as elder healer to the community. Mair Freida had reportedly taken this suggestion well and accepted it in good faith. Of course, neither Matron nor Dzoldzaya were aware that Mair Freida had already discussed this very topic with Tenzing, at her own suggestion.

Not long after this exchange, Mair Freida invited Dzoldzaya and Conrad to have lunch and spend the afternoon with her in her chalet. Mair Freida had been baking and had prepared them a wonderful buffet, and that mouth-watering aroma was the first thing that Dzoldzaya noticed when she entered the room.

It turned out that Tenzing and two others had been invited, as well. They were Fletch and Morag, mature students who'd been at babs chu for over two decades now. Fletch was in charge of maintenance and Morag, his wife, was heavily involved with the art and craft workshops. Conrad spent half of his time in the workshops, that being his contribution to the community's creative output and income, and Morag had proved an invaluable tutor.

Though the conversation and hospitality started off on a light note, talking informally whilst they ate, it soon became clear to Dzoldzaya that the question of Mair Freida's succession was high on her agenda, and she was anxious that no detail should be neglected.

It came as no great surprise when Mair Freida turned to Dzoldzaya. “I'm getting old, child, and I can hear Shu'la beland more and more these days, calling me to move on from babs chu. It may appear at times that our life here is a relatively permanent thing, and the fact that there has been a community here for centuries now appears to add credence to this belief. But in reality, our life here is fleeting and this place nothing more than a transit camp.

“Tenzing and I have talked over the matter at length. Yes, the time has come for me to retire. And as a consequence, the community will be in need of a new elder healer. We have produced a list of a number of candidates, Dzoldzaya, and both Tenzing and I and the elder council were unanimous that you would be our number one choice to take on the role with its often demanding duties and responsibilities. However, it is entirely up to you to accept or to decline. Rest assured that whatever your decision, we will support you; and should you decline, we will not think any the worse of you. You don't have to answer now; if you need the space, please go away and think about the matter and we will ask you for your decision in a week's time.”

Dzoldzaya smiled. “That's very kind and thoughtful of you all.”

“But?” Fletch queried, mistaking a thoughtful pause for hesitation.

“No, I have no buts, Fletch. I can tell you now that I would feel privileged to accept your invitation. I won't say honoured, since this is more a matter of being of good service than of being handed a robe of honour,” she added, hoping that they didn't misunderstand her nuance.

“You've more than earned that privilege, Dzoldzaya,” Mair Freida replied gently. “As have Conrad, Morag and Fletch in other ways; which serendipitously brings us to the next and equally important item of business: that of maintaining the numbers in the ranks of the elders ....”

Conrad exchanged glances with her and she noticed that his face was quite flushed at hearing his own name being called and perhaps not sure what Mair Freida had in mind.

30. The Evening of the Arrival

The Evening of the Arrival was all but upon them. In one way, Dzoldzaya had had an interminable wait; and yet in another, the days has seemed to fly by, if you could get your head around that apparent paradox. There was her personal time and then there was work time, and they often went at different paces.

The full moon was rising in the clear azure sky even before the sun had gone down in a blaze of glory behind the mountains. It symbolized the Illumination of the Heart in the Light of the Divine; and this event in the macrocosm was linked with events in the microcosm: as above, so below; and also as within, so without. And not least, the staff in the kitchens had been hard at work all day, filling the corridors with the rich aroma of spicy dishes and fresh baking; which excited them all.

Though Tenzing had decided to weave into the proceedings Mair Freida's handover to her, it was really Conrad, Morag and Fletch's night tonight. She had been inducted into the elders some years previously, and the induction of the others was the main focus of the evening. It was a huge step forward for them; made all the more poignant by the fact that once they took that step, there was no possibility of later retreat. The corollary of that, of course, that they would reach a new plateau and should harm befall them, they would fall no further down. So there were elements both of danger and also a degree of safety from that danger.

Not least, these dear friends stood on the threshold of eternity and the sphere of influence of the Call. In some, as was indeed the case of Mair Freida, the Call might come after “having played a good innings” as she herself would say, at the end of a long and fruitful life of loving service; and for some, the Call was almost immediate. For some, it was like having an angel whispering of love in one's ear; for others a strident trumpeting. There was no way of knowing beforehand. Not only that, until the Call came, there was no way of knowing how it would be answered. People had a free choice in the matter, of course, just as there was no compulsion in true religion; but in some it was something they simply could not deny, overarching all other considerations. On occasion overarching relationships with others; even deep and lifelong relationships with others. So there was also that possibility in the back of her mind: it was possible that she might lose Conrad as a result of his being inducted into the ranks of the elders that night. But then, she being an elder herself, this is something that she'd lived with since romance had first blossomed between her and Conrad, and it was something they had only recently discussed. The difference was that now, for the first time, he knew this, too. And yes, it was at times a scary prospect.

There was hardly a cloud in the sky that evening as the full moon rose toward its zenith. Tenzing, who was an amateur astronomer and knew his way through the zodiacal almanacs (though he had no faith in astrology), had planned the event with precision. With no cloud cover, it was cold outside, and they had to wear their ceremonial outfits, but fortunately there was little wind. Stores had thoughtfully ordered in and supplied them with thermal long johns and an exception had been made to allow them to wear cloaks over their robes. As for their heads, that was not an issue, since the robes were hooded and lined with fur.

With a shot of warm chungari down their throats, they walked out from the main building, down the marble steps and on toward the square, their route lined on both sides with eager onlookers, each carrying a flickering torch and the distinct smell of resinous wood wafting in the air. They came to the square and took their places to one side while the others slowly filed along behind them to line the square. There were flaming braziers dotted around the square and this, combined with the nervous energy that Dzoldzaya was generating internally, took the edge off the chill night.

The others were to be inducted first, one by one, and then Mair Freida would hand over to her. There had been no rehearsals, though they'd witnessed one or two others being inducted. Actually taking part in the proceedings and being party to the process, however, was an altogether different experience than merely observing it or experiencing it vicariously.

It was Conrad's turn first and unlike their initiation into the Order in which they had been blindfold and later brought into and exposed to the light, which was a symbolic part of the rite of passage, on this occasion they were fully sighted, entering the process with their eyes open, as it were.

Conrad slowly and solemnly crossed to the centre of the stage and stood before Tenzing and Mair Freida who was acting as his consort and co-host for the occasion. He was allowed to go so far and then he was halted. Another hooded figure stepped in his path; a sharp, twelve inch dagger in his hand. The figure challenged him to halt and pressed the blade of his knife to Conrad's chest. They weren't playing about here: the knife was very real and you could feel the point dig in.

At this point, the challenger began to speak, though in a quiet voice that only Conrad would have been able to hear. What he said was in no way planned; he simply uttered whatever words sprang into his mind, and without necessarily knowing what significance these might have to the prospect. But rest assured, these words would have a great and powerful significance to that prospect. They concerned things that had happened in the past, perhaps, things that had not as yet been properly “put to bed”, and were directed at his conscience.

Dzoldzaya could see Conrad suddenly stiffen; his face growing crimson in the light of the torches and braziers. It was as if he'd suddenly awoken to the reality of his situation for the first time and all those “ifs and buts” and other excuses were taken away, just as a rug might be suddenly pulled from under one's feet. They called this, quite rightly, the Moment of Truth. For some, it was over in an instant. For others, it might last days, weeks, even months or years. It was also definitive proof that the aspirant was a sentient human being and not some pretender. Fail this test and that twelve inch blade would be used with lethal force. Make no mistake about that.

Conrad staggered a little and his legs gave way beneath him as if he'd suddenly become leaden or rubbery, and he fell to his knees. Conrad had just dumped a large load that he'd been carrying, a wardrobe full of skeletons that until this moment he had not been aware of or had thrust from his mind.

At this point the challenger retired, bowing his way to one side of the square, and Conrad pushed himself to his feet. Right now, if her own experience were anything to go by, he would be feeling quite light and filled with gratitude that this great burden of guilt and shame had been lifted from him. This was far more than mere forgiveness. This is one of the reasons that they called this a forceful occasion. But the “purging of the house” which occurred was only the first half of the story, of course. Suffice it to say that like nature, the Divine abhors a vacuum and will fill a vacancy. Not for nothing was this known as the Evening of the Arrival; however, it is not permissible to expand on the matter, other than to say that this considerably changed one's outlook on life. Read into that what thou wilt.

Mair Freida called Conrad forward and stood before him, anointing him with oils as she spoke words, and Tenzing came forward to take the old patchwork cloak from his shoulders and to replace it with the robe of honour that the elders wore. And then Mair Freida presented Conrad with a key. This was partly symbolic, of course, and only later would he be told that this key would allow him access to both the treasury and the labyrinth.

More words were spoken and then Conrad was directed to one side, not far from where Tenzing and Mair Freida stood, whilst the next prospect, Morag, was called forward. Conrad would be in a bit of a daze still, yet feeling good inside. That feeling would carry him for days, indeed it would never wholly leave him.

Morag wavered when challenged, but she remained standing; and again there was that unforgettable momentary look of horror in her eyes; the moment when one realizes that the man could plunge the dagger into one's chest for having "missed the mark" (some would say sinned) so many times over the years. One slightly reassuring aspect of this ritual was the realization that one is not alone in this: as the saying so rightly has it: “We are all in the same boat.” If we were wholly innocent, we would not have ended up here; that was it, pure and simple. And we were to blame for so many of our own misfortunes, though theirs was not a path of blame.

When Fletch's time came, he keeled over almost as soon as he saw the dagger. and the two elders who followed them to the centre of the square for this very reason, caught him before he landed and gently lowered him to the ground. One of them knelt beside Fletch and wafted a small phial of smelling salts under his nose, and he came round and struggled to his feet, clearly anxious to go on.

In that awful moment, prospects often saw the challenger's features change. He might appear as some familiar and benevolent figure; and then as someone who had committed the most despicable crimes and inspired an almost primordial fear in one. This was all part and parcel of the realization that we play many parts in our lives; roles that are even in some way pre-ordained; emphasizing, as she'd said, that we are all in the same boat.

After that, since she'd already been through that gut-wrenching experience on several occasions, perhaps the others would see her part in events as a bit of an anticlimax. It was simply a matter of walking across the square, not that this itself did not make her feel a little self-conscious, and meeting with Tenzing and Mair Freida. And yet for her, the event had a capital E. It was altogether magical and beautiful and full of unspoken subtleties. Words were spoken; then as she took off her robe as elder, Mair Freida took off her own robe, since this belonged not to her but to the office; came forward and helped her into these new robes, as elder healer. The elders wore the familiar blue robes with a yellow sash, whereas the elder healer wore a green robe, the significance of which Mair Freida explained to her as she was helping with the robe. And that accomplished, Tenzing who'd been holding Dzoldzaya's robe gave it back to her, quietly requesting that she give it to Mair Freida. So the robes, and their roles, were thus exchanged.

Dzoldzaya noticed a hint of sadness in Mair Freida's eyes, amidst the joy of the occasion, and she realized that it must have felt a bit of a loss, and a note of finality, though tempered by the possibility of a new beginning not only for Dzoldzaya but also for herself.

Only now, at Tenzing's signal, did the onlookers show their appreciation; cheering and clapping as the others were brought back to the centre of the square, with Dzoldzaya still wiping the tears from her eyes. And after more blessings were bestowed upon them, and thanks given, Tenzing brought an end to the ceremony and went off to help with the feast and the festivities that followed, which would go on well into the night. This occasion was the only occasion on which they poured chungari like water and actually got pleasantly tipsy on the heaven-sent nectar; and on the baraka, or divine grace, which subtly infused and filled babs chu that day. You could actually taste it in the air and feel it in one's heart.

31. The chapel

The next morning, Dzoldzaya rose early, leaving Conrad to enjoy a well-deserved lie-in, and after breakfast she headed off toward the medical rooms, anxious to make a good impression on her first day. Fortunately, she wasn't thrown in at the deep end: the most challenging case she had to deal with that morning was one of the farm hands with a horse tick burrowing its way into his backside.

Having been round the ward with a cloth and disinfectant, and again with mop and bucket, Dzoldzaya was now reading up on a particular condition that one of their regular patients suffered from: a problematic parasitic worm that would lay dormant and then become resurgent. She happened to look out of the window which overlooked the square, to see Mair Freida heading across the snow-spattered paving toward the old chapel. The lady was still quite weak and walking was difficult for her at the best of times, so her progress, though clearly determined, was slow.

At first Dzoldzaya thought nothing of it, returning to her textbooks, and then she was hit by a wave of anxiety that nearly bowled her over. Leaving the book open on her desk, she pushed the swivel chair back, snatched her coat from the peg and dashed outside, buttoning her coat as she ran.

There were two main reasons that people went to the old chapel; one was to pray in solitude, though Mair Freida's philosophy being that nature itself was Alicia's greatest church and work a form of prayer, this seemed unlikely or at least uncharacteristic of her. And then there was the crypt. That could mean only one thing. And that in turn was the cause of some concern.

When Dzoldzaya arrived at the old chapel, she opened the sun-bleached oak door and looked around the musty interior. Shafts of coloured light came in through the narrow stained-glass windows, but other than that, the interior was quite dim. There was no sign of Mair Freida. Closing the door quietly behind her, she dashed through the chapel, going behind the dais and opening the gate in the safety rails that surrounded the stone steps. Clattering down the steps to the dank crypt below, she peered around in the gloom. There was a lamp in the ceiling, but it cast little light on the scene.

There was Mair Freida at the door. She had a key in her hand and she was fumbling about, trying to find the keyhole. Beyond that door lay the labyrinth.

“Mair Freida!” Dzoldzaya called out and the old lady immediately swung round to face her.

“Oh Dzoldzaya, it's you, you gave me such a fright,” Mair Freida gasped.

“I'm sorry, I wanted to catch you. Surely you're not leaving?”

The old lady nodded.

What could she say? “I guess I thought you might say goodbye to me; to Tenzing.”

“And have some kind of official send off?” Mair Freida replied, screwing her face up. “That's not my cup of tea, so I thought it best that I pass away unnoticed. I left an explanatory note in the chalet.”

“Such occasions are perhaps more for those you leave behind, Mair Freida,” she pointed out.

“Yes, that's a valid point,” the old lady agreed, though Dzoldzaya sensed that this would not change her mind. “I've thought this over long and hard. After I am gone, don't mourn my going, but celebrate and offer thanks, as I have indeed indicated in my note.”

“But you're still so weak, Mair Freida, and you are embarking on a dangerous journey through the labyrinth.”

“I shan't get much stronger if I stay, Dzoldzaya; and I shall have to face the danger at some point. So why postpone the inevitable?”

“Once you step through that door and it closes behind you, you're committed ....”

Again the lady nodded. “Yes Dzoldzaya, I understand; but the decision has been made, and is now out of my hands.”

“You can change your mind at any time, as I'm sure you know, Mair Freida.”

The old lady smiled at her patiently. “It's not a matter of making up my mind, child, but of the whisperings of love in my Heart. As I say, I did think long and hard, but that did not sway my fundamental decision.”

Dzoldzaya nodded slowly. “Then how can I help?”

“There is one thing you can do for me. My eyesight is not so good and I'm all fingers and thumbs. If you could locate the key in the keyhole for me, that would help immensely.”

Dzoldzaya stepped forward and took Mair Freida's key. She inserted the ornate key in the lock and, giving the lady a lingering hug, she turned and walked back up the steep flight of stone steps to give her some peace in this final moment.

Down below, Mair Freida drew a deep breath and turned the key in the lock. Slowly the door opened before her and she waited for it to come to a halt before removing the key and pocketing it, not knowing whether or not she'd need it again. Seeing that the door had already begun to slowly close, Mair Freida hobbled as quickly as she could into the entrance of the labyrinth and the door firmly closed behind her.

Out of curiosity, she tried her ornate key in the lock on the inside of the door and it came as no great surprise to her to find that the key would not turn. No matter. What did somewhat surprise her was to find that though there were no lamps, the walls of the tunnel themselves gave off a silvery light. There wasn't much, but there was enough for her to see the way ahead as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom. Gloom didn't seem to be the right word for it; for what she saw was not gloom, but joy.

32. After the departure

The first thing Dzoldzaya did when she'd recovered her composure was to go back to the medical rooms, check that nothing urgent had come up and let them know that she was heading off to see Tenzing about an important issue, in case the student healer who was on duty that morning needed to get hold of her. She went to Mair Freida's chalet to look for the note. There was an envelope on the dining table, and since the envelope was sealed and addressed to Tenzing, she left it unopened and headed toward the main building, on the way to Tenzing's office.

Conrad was up and about now and she met him coming the other way, no doubt heading for the craft workshops with Mac in tow. She had a discreet word with Conrad, telling him that Mair Freida had left; not realizing that Mac had overheard her every word. One phrase had struck him in particular, and that was the reference to her using her key to enter the labyrinth. So this was the key to something he'd overheard recently about heeding the Call and making a departure.

Before the day was out, word of Mair Freida's departure had spread like wildfire around the community. Somebody had clearly been indiscreet, but by that time any number of people who'd had to be informed about the departure might be to blame. What she didn't know was that Mac himself had orchestrated the leak, hoping that with everyone talking about the matter, he would be able to question them further and gradually build up the complete picture. And that is precisely what he did.

33. The Wake

It was the day of the Wake, the celebration of Mair Freida's departure from babs chu. All non-essential work stopped at the moment when the tenor bell struck not twelve but thirteen at midday. This number was symbolic of a number of things, speaking of unity and purpose through continuing evolution. For Mair Freida, her entry into the labyrinth was a departure and a death, and at the same time but from another perspective, it heralded a step into the unknown, and the prospect of a birth, a new arrival, a new beginning in a more evolved realm.

For them, though they they had their moments of personal sadness – what sentient being would not, having been so well nurtured and entertained by the dear lady over so many years? – in spite of this, today was a day to eat, drink and make merry, and more importantly, to offer their heartfelt thanks for the wondrous bounty with which they had been bestowed.

Mackenzie had gone about for the first few days clutching hold of Conrad's shirt tails, but he seemed to have settled in now and made a surprising number of friends in the short space in time that he'd been at babs chu; though he did keep making faux pas and the odd cringingly uncouth gaff. Still, it was early days for him and there wasn't one amongst them who had been any less raw in one way or another when they'd first set out on the Way. He'd helped prepare the generous buffet earlier and right now he was manning the bar. And inevitably he'd be regaling the ladies with talk of his army days and elaborately embroidered tales of daring-do. “Now, when I was in the war, things were different ….” appeared to be the man's favourite signature tune.

Conrad noticed, however, that out of all of them, Dzoldzaya was uncharacteristically edgy that day. She was not “in a mood” with him, but she did appear distracted; and not distracted by what was going on around her, but rather by something that appeared to be going on inside her. Perhaps the handover between her and Mair Freida was not something that only occurred at the ceremony but also something that passed between them around the time of departure?

“Can we go for a walk for a few minutes, Conrad?” she whispered in his ear at length. He took her arm and they left the hall. Dzoldzaya gently guided him to the cloakroom and they put on their hats and coats and headed outside into the crisp afternoon air.

Once outside and across the square, Dzoldzaya gently steered him toward the tiny chapel. Their going to the chapel that day did not come as any great surprise to Conrad: for all that she appeared to be relaxed, he had detected a purposefulness in her steps. He'd been there a couple of times before and he hadn't been particularly impressed, to be honest. It was cold, dank, empty and quite devoid of life. Of course, the meticulously crafted stained glass windows were a noteworthy exception: these were the cracks in the unyielding granite exterior that truly spoke of higher things, and let the light in.

They went inside and, taking his hand, she guided him down the aisle past the pews and round the back of the dais to a set of stone steps leading down into the bowels of the chapel. The steps were cordoned off and she unlatched a low wooden gate and led him on down the echoing steps. They were in some kind of vaulted crypt. The walls were damp and the air musty, and every now and again a drip of water would splash in a puddle on the bare floor, so it would be foolhardy to use the place for storage. He had expected that there might be one or two stone sarcophagi perhaps containing the remains of former elders, but no, the room was entirely empty, and appeared to serve no purpose.

And then in the gloom, as Dzoldzaya led him on, he saw the door, and it clicked.

“This is the entrance to be the labyrinth,” she told him, confirming what had just occurred to him. And he could see that there was a keyhole in the door, which would explain the key they'd each been handed at the ceremony.

“I don't think you came here just to give me a guided tour, Dee,” he offered.

“You're right. I can't help thinking of the danger that Mair Freida is in. She's still so weak and slow on her feet.”

“You say 'is', Dzoldzaya. She's either made it through the labyrinth by now, or she hasn't. And sad as that might be, there's absolutely nothing we can do to help out.”

Dee shook her head briskly. “Actually, if you don't mind me saying so, Conrad, that's wrong on two counts. The first is that the labyrinth is far more complex than you perhaps envisage. It's not a mere maze of tunnels or a five minute trip through a fairground house of horrors. Mair Freida could be in there for many days.”

Well, that was him told. “Right. And the second thing?”

“The second thing is that there is nothing in the rules and regulations that says that someone need face the labyrinth alone.”

Something that came across in the gaps between Dzoldzaya's words struck Conrad forcibly. “So what are you saying?”

“That we could go after her and make sure that she makes it through.”

Conrad felt he had to raise an objection. “For a start off, we'd have to let Tenzing and the others know. We couldn't just go waltzing off toward the horizon. And besides that, Dzoldzaya, we need you at babs chu. It takes years to train a healer; still more for someone to become elder healer. That is simply not an option.”

Dzoldzaya sighed deeply, noting that he was also as yet blissfully unaware of the fact that they'd be buying a one way ticket. “Yes, that is what my head is telling me, Conrad; but as for my heart, that is pleading with me to offer help.”

“But how?”

“If we're not to follow Mair Freida, then I don't know, Conrad. But one way or another, I do know that we have to do something.”

“Perhaps you should talk over the matter with Tenzing and see what he has to say?” he offered.

That seemed to suit her. “Yes, I'm sure you're right, Conrad. But not now. This evening, perhaps, when the celebrations are over?”

With those words still echoing around the crypt, he and Dzoldzaya headed back up the stone steps, leaving the chapel and heading back to the festivities. Though clearly she had a deep yearning inside her, she managed to put it to one side for the time being.

As they'd disappeared up the aisle to leave the chapel, what Conrad and Dzoldzaya had not noticed was the figure crouching low behind the far side of the dais, listening intently to their every word as they echoed around the tiny chapel.

~~~O~~~

That evening, just as Conrad was returning from the wash room and out of idle habit, he felt in his coat pocket for the wonderful new key Mair Freedman had presented to him. With the exception of the medicine cabinets at the medical rooms, the treasury and the labyrinth, no door was ever locked at babs chu.

At that moment, his face instantly flushing, he realized that the key was missing. Heart thumping, he retraced his steps and when that failed to turn up the key, he made a mental list of all the places he'd been to that day and checked his every step; all to no avail. He also checked at lost property. The key wasn't there, but one thing he could at least be certain of was that if and when somebody found the key, they would hand it in there, and that was some consolation. However, for some reason, Conrad felt distinctly uncomfortable, realizing too late just how heedless and foolish he had been to walk around with the precious key in his coat pocket in the first place. He should perhaps have secured it on a ring clipped to his belt, perhaps, as Dzoldzaya did with hers; or even worn it on a chain around his neck?

The first thing to do was to go and find Dzoldzaya, and see what she had to say.

To say that Dzoldzaya raised her eyebrows when she heard what he had to say would have been an understatement, and stepping out of her usual easy-going personality, she was wide eyed and chided him for his carelessness.

“I'll give you until ten o'clock tomorrow morning to find the key, Conrad,” she scolded him. “And if the key hasn't turned up by then, then you'll have to go and tell Tenzing with your tail between your legs.”

Conrad explained that he'd already searched high and low for the key and checked at lost property. “Anyhow, I know the key is valuable but everyone here can be trusted, without exception. I mean, that's the nature of the folk at babs chu. If someone finds the key, they're sure to hand it in.”

Dzoldzaya did not appear convinced, so Conrad had to backtrack. He shrugged his shoulders. “Forgive me, I know I've done wrong, but I do think that you're being a little harsh with me.”

Dzoldzaya peered deeply into his bright hazel eyes and reached out to stroke his raven black hair. “Okay, I'm sorry, Conrad. It's just that something about this affair – and still about Mair Freida – has my heart thumping. That I can't deny, though it's not something that I can put into words.”

34. The long trail north

Randal and Hugo had a devil of a job getting to Shakra. They'd left the car parked behind a roadside caravanserai whilst they went in to eat. Narayani hospitality, renowned the world over, was an absolute joy.

And when they returned, having eaten their fill, they found to their dismay that the car had been jacked up on bricks and all four wheels removed. The thieves had, however, thoughtfully left the wheel nuts. With no garage in miles, and no telephone at the caravanserai, Randal had to hike for more than an hour to the nearest town whilst Hugo minded what remained of the car. He returned in the garage's pickup truck with a fresh set of wheels. The garage did not have any new tyres, but they did have rather a lot of used ones, and the possibility that they and the thieves had some kind of trade going on did not escape Randal, though at least the garage owner has not rubbed salt in the wounds by demanding an inflated price for the wheels, so this was a minor blessing.

Then, as Randal went to turn the engine over, he discovered that the car would not start, which had him foxed for a few moments until he happened to glance at the fuel gauge. Not only had the thieves stolen the wheels; they had also drained his tank. Strange as it certainly did not seem, the oily mechanic had not yet left, having gone into the caravanserai for a tea. Randal went in and enquired whether the mechanic might be able to siphon off enough from his own tank to get them to town. Yes, the mechanic had tubing, but alas whilst they were in a petrol-driven car, his truck took diesel or leftover cooking oil. However, for a fee he was willing to tow them into town. There was no point in making a scene, for no doubt the man was also friends of or some distant relative of the local police.

When Conrad had said that something was seriously out of kilter with the Design, he was not half wrong; and this was further confirmed when they got to Shakra and went to see Wilbur, the amateur radio operator. For the first time in living memory, his radio transceiver had failed on him and he, too, was having a devil of a job tracing the fault. So, there was only one thing for it: to leave the car and catch the next bus going north. It came as no great surprise to Randal to find that they'd just missed the last bus of the day; and by now he was absolutely fuming. They couldn't afford to wait that long; so, abandoning good sense, he decided that they'd make the gruelling journey in the foothills by car; hoping and praying that Tenzing's old jalopy would be up to the task. In the event, they made it, but only after they'd stopped three times to let the car's overheating radiator cool down. They didn't dare pour cold water in for fear that something might crack with the thermal shock.

The next stumbling block they had to overcome was the fact that since Wilbur's radio had been on the blink, there was no guide waiting for them when they got to Renchok. They had a word with the owner of the general stores in town, hoping that he'd be able to help with supplies at least, and it turned out that he had been taken into the Network's confidence and kept a spare tent; climbing ropes and other equipment, and of course there would be no problem with supplies such as food. The major hurdle, however, was that though Randal had been to babs chu three times now, he could not be sure of the exact route they needed to take. And here, alas, the shopkeeper could not help them.

Fortune eventually shone on them that day, however, for as they were just about to order food at the inn where they were staying, who should walk in but two of the students from babs chu. No, they hadn't received word from Wilbur, they were there on an entirely unrelated matter, to pick up a few essential supplies that had been transported to Renchok by bus; the bus driver doubling up as a postman in these remote parts. So, staying the night in town, they and the students finally set out for babs chu early the next morning.

35. An urgent meeting

At that very moment, one of the students dashed inside Dzoldzaya's office, leaving the door swinging open on its hinges and skidding to a halt on the linoleum floor.

She pushed the reading glasses down her nose and gazed at him over the top. “Hey steady on, son. I thought the Next Great War had broken out.”

The youth fought to catch his breath. “Sorry, Tenzing told me to run like the wind and fetch you quick.”

Dzoldzaya was already on her feet and reaching for her coat and hat. “Did he say why?”

The youth shook his head.

“Where is he now?”

“He was in the corridor, but he said to drop everything and meet him in his study.”

“Thanks.”

“Shall I tell him you're on your way?”

“No, that's fine. We'll be along straight away.” Then, she added: “Oh, one thing you might do, however, and that's have a word with Belieze about that flaky scalp.”

My, that lady sure had her eye on the ball.

Conrad grabbed his own coat and headed after Dzoldzaya who was trotting along in the snow, zigzagging every now and again to miss the icy patches.

When they arrived, the first thing that Conrad noticed when he walked in was that Randal was there, and he had another man with him. Conrad didn't recognize the face, but expected he must have come with Randal from Foxholes.

“Ah good. Come in and sit down, you two,” Tenzing greeted them, motioning toward one of the sofas. The director did not offer them refreshments, which in itself spoke volumes.

“Why the long faces?” Conrad wanted to know as he took his place beside Dzoldzaya.

“It's about Mackenzie Centhorn,” Tenzing informed him. “Anyhow, it's a long story, and I don't as yet have all the details, so I'll let Hugo here introduce himself and fill you in.”

Hugo was about to get to his feet, but Tenzing signalled that he could remain seated.

“I'm Hugo Foss,” the man told them, “and I'm a retired policeman from Newthorpe, in the east of Gothgoria. I've spent some time at Foxholes and the Work interests me increasingly.”

You could almost hear Conrad's jaw drop at that moment.

“I want you to know from the outset that though I was in the job and that my interest is in apprehending a criminal, this will in no way affect the good work that you and the Network do.”

Well, thank heavens for that.

Hugo went over to Tenzing's desk and retrieved an old news clipping and he passed it to Dzoldzaya. “The man you know as Mackenzie Centhorn and who has already managed to worm his way into your very heart, is not who he says he is, nor what he claims to be. Mac Centhorn is itself a cynical anagram which, when unravelled, spells out the words 'con merchant'. His real name is Frederick Grimshaw.”

So his early qualms had not been groundless, Conrad realized, growing red faced as his folly finally dawned on him.

“However, as you'll see from the news clipping, he is not only wanted for deception and fraud but also for a series of brutal murders. He is a callous psychopath and will stop at nothing, even killing his elderly aunt, as you can see, in order to get his way.”

“Tenzing, I and two of the other male elders have searched the settlement high and low this afternoon. All Grimshaw's belongings are still in his chalet, but we can find no signs of him, nor reports of him at the festivities after three this afternoon. Grimshaw wouldn't know me, since I've never interviewed him, though of course it's possible that he got wind of Randal's arrival.”

“Forgive me breaking in,” said Dzoldzaya, but I think I may know where he is,” and she went on to explain about Conrad's key going missing. At this point, Conrad was beginning to wish that the ground would open up and swallow him.

Tenzing thought for a moment. “Well, with all the gossip flying about, given that Grimshaw is a somewhat resourceful individual, he may well have been able to cobble together sufficient snippets of information to lead him to the key and from there to the labyrinth. The same key opens the door to the treasury, but that is something that is known to only a privileged few.”

Tenzing went back to his desk and produced a revolver from the drawer and a handful of ammunition. Flicking open the cylinders, he loaded five bullets, then turned it so that the first cylinder was empty and made doubly sure that the safety catch was on before closing the cylinders and pocketing the gun.

They were all on their feet by now.

“Right then,” said Tenzing. “I think our first port of call is the chapel. I just pray that we're not too late. If he's not there, then I suggest that everyone should be assembled for safety in the student common room while we go through the settlement. And if he's still not been located, then we shall have to comb the fields and the woods.”

“What about the tunnel?” Randal wondered.

“On his own in the mountains and ill-equipped, with winter fast approaching?” pondered Tenzing. “If that is the case, then I think we might safely allow Mother Nature to take care of the matter on our behalf.”

Had Grimshaw been in the crypt, he'd have heard them coming as soon as they set foot in the chapel, but when Tenzing led them down the stairs, his revolver drawn and the safety catch off, they found the room empty and the door closed.

“Do you have your key, Dzoldzaya?” he asked. “Mine's safely locked away.”

A sudden thought occurred to Conrad and he spoke up. “Tenzing, you and Dzoldzaya cannot think of entering the labyrinth: you're so needed here. If anyone is to go, then it should be me. I'm the one who brought Grimshaw here, and I'm the one who allowed him to find my key. So I should bear the burden of responsibility ….”

He went forward and took the key which was in Dzoldzaya's outstretched hand, and he fumbled to fit it in the keyhole before the others could change his mind.

Tenzing managed a smile, despite the seriousness of the situation. “That's brave and gallant of you, Conrad, but there's one important factor about which you will not have yet been informed.”

Try as he might, Conrad could not get the key to fit in the lock and turn. Dzoldzaya took the key from him and gently guided him away from the door.

Tenzing continued. “Once you set foot inside the labyrinth, Conrad, there is no turning back. If you do not make it through the labyrinth, then there is no possibility of coming back. You may still have the key, but it will avail you naught. The only way to return is to complete the journey, which is fraught with a great many dangers; and even then, only a very few of the Few ever return.”

“For some reason, the key won't fit anyway,” Conrad happened to mention, “thought it could simply be that I've got eight left fingers.”

Tenzing took the key from Dzoldzaya and poked around. “Confound the man, he must have jammed something in the lock, or maybe broke the head off the key.”

“Well, that scuppers that idea,” Conrad sighed. “It's possible that we could retrieve whatever's stuck inside the lock, but that might take time.”

“Fletch could have a look, he's an elder,” Dzoldzaya offered. “Shall I fetch him?”

“Later,” Tenzing replied. “And on no account are you or Fletch to set foot on the other side of that door. Anyhow, there is another way into the labyrinth and that is through the treasury.”

Dzoldzaya's eyes lit up. Tenzing and Mair Freida were the only people who knew the whereabouts of the treasury. It was nothing more than a legend to the others.

“And in any case,” Tenzing continued, “this would depend on whether anyone is willing or able to enter the labyrinth.”

Conrad was adamant that he should go; Hugo, too, perhaps not having taken on-board what they'd said about the perilous nature of the labyrinth. In spite of the fact that he was still very much a novice, he was equally adamant that he should go along, too. Grimshaw was a dangerous man.

The director led them back to his study and took a few moments whilst he poured out chungari and passed glasses round.

“I would willingly go myself,” said Tenzing at length. “However, trying to be objective, Conrad is right when he suggests that I am needed here, though I wouldn't go quite so far as to suggest that I am indispensable: any vacancy would be filled in due course. And I also agree with him that you, Dzoldzaya, are needed here. If anyone is indispensable, after your many years of specialized training, then it is you.”

“I earned my bread and butter chasing criminals like Grimshaw,” Hugo pointed out. “I have a pistol and I'm not afraid to use it. Whoever goes, Tenzing, I would be grateful if you'd let me go along and see this thing through to the end; and I shan't let you down.”

Together they began to go through the list of elders at babs chu. Finally Conrad spoke up again. “This is academic really. Once you start looking at the others, you're going to be into the realm of asking for volunteers, and vetting applications, and committee meetings .… This calls for swift and decisive action.”

Tenzing nodded. “Yes, you're quite right of course.”

“Hang the consequences,” Conrad pleaded. “Look, let's drink up. Just point me in the right direction.”

Tenzing looked at Hugo and was lost in thought for a few moments, then he stood up. “Very well. Conrad, if you're intent on going, then you may go. And take good care of our new friend Hugo.”

The director turned his back to them and went over to the book shelf to the right of the hearth and mantel shelf. “Dzoldzaya, you may wish to watch closely. Needless to say, what I am about to show you now is not to leave this room. Heaven only knows what would befall us if word of this got out.

“Here, Dzoldzaya, take out this book, feel around for a keyhole, insert your key and turn it.”

Dzoldzaya pulled out a large volume of poetry, bound in dark green leather, making a careful note of the title for future reference, and fumbled around to find the keyhole. Eventually she located it and turned the key in the lock.

“Yes, that's right. Excellent. Now feel around for a catch. Pull on the catch.”

Her fingers found the catch and gave it a tug. Nothing happened, so she tugged harder and heard a distinct click.

“Now, reach around the right hand side of the bookshelf and pull. Not too hard, though, or we'll have a heap of books on the floor.”

She pulled and the whole bookshelf swung out silently on concealed hinges, revealing a dark tunnel inside, lined with stone.

“Have you a storm lantern?” she enquired, peering into the dark.

Tenzing laughed. “You'll find a light switch by your right hand, Dzoldzaya. Though built many centuries ago, the treasury is not without the odd mod con.”

“What about in the labyrinth?” Conrad enquired.

“There are no lights there, Conrad; but you'll find a remarkable thing: the walls of the passages actually glow and emit sufficient light for you to see, once your eyes have adjusted.”

“Right, friends. In you go and I'll make sure the door is firmly closed behind us. There's a catch here, Dzoldzaya. Can you see? That will release the bookshelf from the inside.”

They slowly made their way down the long tunnel and saw that the walls further in had been hewn by hand from the rock.

“The main building backs onto the cliffs,” Tenzing explained, “and we are now inside the mountain.”

At the end of the tunnel they entered a wide cavern which was clearly a natural feature. Tenzing took a small flash light from his coat pocket and shone it in the air. Dzoldzaya peered upward, but though she could see the shaft of light from the torch, she could not see the roof.

“This cavern is over fifty feet high,” he reliably informed them, his words echoing around the chamber, and the interval between the echoes giving a clear indication of its immensity. “Fifty feet high. That's higher than a two storey house.”

He guided Dzoldzaya to another light switch at the end of the tunnel and she clicked it on. Instantly the floor of the cavern was lit up and she gasped. There was no mistaking the glint of the dozens of gold and silver artefacts spread out across the floor of the cavern. She went forward, following Tenzing, and watched in wonderment as he went from one chest to the next, lifting their lids to reveal heaps of silver and gold coins; precious diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds and pearls.

“Heavens above,” Hugo gasped. “This is like something out of a fairytale.”

Tenzing laughed. “My friend, you should know that some of the best fairytales really are true. And, as it is said amongst our people: counterfeit gold exists only because there is such a thing as real gold. Many people contribute to our work, of course; we have many businesses and also investments to generate income; but from time to time we have to delve into the treasury to fund or extend our charitable operations. As for many of the artefacts, these were once used in our rituals and ceremonies, or else used to store certain energies, but have since been deconsecrated.”

“Anyhow, remember – as I'm sure you will – don't speak a word of this outside our present company; and only then with the utmost care.”

That said, Tenzing led them through row upon row of such artefacts and treasures until they came to the far wall of cavern. In this wall was set another door.

He turned to the others. “Well, this is it, fellows. If you are to have a last minute change of heart, then this is the time to have it. Rest assured that nobody will think any the less of you.”

Conrad exchanged glances with Hugo, trying not to appear unduly anxious. As for Hugo, he appeared quite relaxed. “No, I think we're good to go, Tenzing.”

Tenzing came forward and hugged them both, then he stepped away with a little bow. “Hugo, I think perhaps you and I might allow Dzoldzaya and Conrad a few moments together ….”

Conrad and Dzoldzaya stood there for some time, hugging one another.

“Well, I think it's time for me to go, Dzoldzaya,” he said at length. He gently lifted Dzoldzaya's head, which was buried in his chest, and he could see now the tears that welled up in her eyes.

“Go get 'em, tiger,” she replied, making a brave face. And then, unable to take any more, she dashed off to where Tenzing and Hugo stood. Hugo met her half way, and they paused briefly to wish each other luck; then, not waiting for Tenzing, she headed for the tunnel out of the cavern, her sharp footfall disappearing into the distance.

36. The first test

Mair Freida drew a series of deep breaths, turned away from the door and slowly but resolutely hobbled down the short stone passageway leading into the labyrinth. Well, the passage was cool, but at least it was dry. She had no idea what she might face around the next corner, other than that it would doubtless prove challenging.

As Mair Freida walked on, the passage did indeed turn a corner to the right and not far ahead she saw another stout, iron-studded door. The door was not locked, but it was heavy, so she had to push with all her might to open it.

Staggered into the room beyond as the door suddenly swung wide open, she caught her foot on something and she instantly froze as she glimpsed the body laid out before her on the floor. The clothes were still intact, and she recognized the robes of an elder, but what shocked her more were the skeletal remains, jaw agape and staring up at her through vacant sockets.

Well, this was a fine welcome, she thought as the door closed firmly behind her.

Thrusting her fear and trepidation aside, and casting her eyes around the room to make sure she herself was in no immediate danger, Mair Freida knelt down to examine the body, but she could see no signs of trauma, concluding that whoever it was had perhaps died of natural causes.

The room was largely empty, with just a table and chair against one wall and another door at the far end. So what had happened to this unfortunate friend, Mair Freida pondered? Had she been assaulted in some way, or had she simply been unable to go any further and died, perhaps, of thirst or starvation?

After saying a prayer, Mair Freida stepped around the body and approached the table. She was on tenterhooks; not knowing what to expect nor when, except that if something did happen, it might well be unpleasant; and aware for the first time that the situation she now faced was, at least potentially, life threatening. Still in a heightened state of trepidation, she crossed the cell to try the door at the far end, to find it firmly locked.

On the table before her, there was a pewter jug of water, a beaker and a single bread bun. She prodded the bread and it appeared springy and fresh.

This meant, of course, that she was not alone, though at that moment this was more a source of worry than comfort; and the meagre nature of the food, which was reminiscent of imprisonment, did nothing to alleviate her fears. This forcibly brought back to her memories which she'd buried many years ago, in her youth; memories of the First Great War. She'd volunteered to be a nurse and when the army was routed at Magedd, she'd been captured and, in violation of her immunity as a medical non-combatant, had been sent to a camp. Had she been with others, had it even been a forced labour camp, perhaps she'd have fared better; but no, they had cast her into a cold, damp cell on her own and she had languished from neglect and a gradual, gnawing sense of hopelessness.

On the wall above the table, there was a large framed watercolour painting. It was a strange composition, showing two men in adjacent cells looking out through iron bars. On the left, the scene that the man looked out upon was brown and looked like muddy earth, whilst on the right the man looked out upon a whole constellation of bright stars.

This motif was undoubtedly derived from the well known lines:

Two men look out through prison bars;

One sees mud, the other stars.

This was also perhaps an indication, amongst other things, that as the saying went: pain is inevitable; suffering is optional. It did not escape Mair Freida's attention that unbeknownst to the prisoner on the left, there was actually a key on the floor behind him. In one corner, too, she saw that there on the wall there was a tiny representation of that very painting; though for some reason on the right hand side, there was just what looked like a tack and a faint impression where the painting had once hung.

And yet there was something amiss about the painting. The key itself appeared to have been an afterthought and stood out like a sore thumb, not least because whilst the rest of the painting was in deep perspective, the key was flat against the canvas; on the canvas rather than in it, if you like. It might perhaps have been the artist's trademark signature, but then she'd have expected the key to be closer to one corner of the canvas and not almost right beneath the character's feet.

So here, if nothing else, there would be something for her to contemplate, to perhaps while away long hours of confinement?

Not knowing how long she might be in that cold room, Mair Freida picked up the jug, poured out some water into the enamelled tin beaker and had a sip. She had expected the water to be tainted, but it was clear and fresh, slightly sparkling like spa water; so she drank more and, tearing off a piece of bread, she ate it. It was pleasant enough but not something to particularly relish. Of course those many years ago when she'd been imprisoned, she remembered how she'd been fed just enough to keep her alive and insatiably hungry, and a little too much to allow her the freedom to simply fade away and find blessed release in death.

Struggling to rise from the table, Mair Freida noticed for the first time the thin mattress and single pillow in the corner of the room, just by the far door. Feeling strangely tired, she hobbled across the bleak cell and laid down for a time while she calmed herself and gathered her thoughts and sought to make sense of the situation in which she found herself. Was this a test, she wondered, or a cryptic puzzle, or simply something playing on her mind?

Within minutes, in spite of the physical discomfort, she fell asleep and not unnaturally she found her sleep full of dreams; the kind of dreams that had frustrating outcomes, so she tossed and turned throughout.

Mair Freida awoke with a start, groaning at finding herself back in the awful cell and not in the comfort of her warm bed at babs chu. She pushed herself up onto her elbow. As the anxiety receded, she became aware of just how stiff her neck was. It was cold enough in the cell, but the chill draught that came in under the door made things all the worse, so the first thing she did when she'd managed to struggle to her feet, was to pick up the mattress by one end and drag it further down the cell away from the draught.

Spotting something on the ground, she painfully bent down and picked it up. It was an artist's paintbrush, though why such a thing might have been left there, Mair Freida did not know. Even if its end was sharpened, it was far too fragile to make any kind of useful weapon. So she returned to sit at the table, tossing the paintbrush on the surface and again filling her beaker and finishing off the bread bun.

Her mind made up, Mair Freida started at one end of the cell and methodically worked her easy to the other looking for anything that might be of use in an escape. She wasn't at all hopeful, but at least it would bring some purpose to her captivity and help keep her mobile.

The door through which she had entered was locked and there was no keyhole on the inside of the door, and hence no means of picking the lock. Besides, it was a deadlock, so there would be no budging that. Of course, the hinges on the door were very often the weak point. So rather than tackle a heavy lock, professional burglars would often simply jemmy a door off its hinges. Even if by some miracle she was handed a crowbar, however, Mair Freida knew full well that she wouldn't have had the strength to effectively use it. No, approaches that required brute force were out of the question; what was required was a more subtle or lateral approach.

Mair Freida came to the friend's prone body, still dressed in the elders' robes. Though she had qualms, the lady no longer required the robe, she decided. It would keep her a little warmer when she slept and the hat might bolster the thin pillow a little. So she gently removed the coat. Needless to say, however, there was no way she could do this without reducing the corpse to a heap of disjointed bones, and this did cause her regret. Mair Freida checked the pockets of the robes to find them empty, and she carefully searched through the bones. All she found was the lady's key and not knowing what she should do, she decided to leave it next to the body. Of course one of the large thigh bones would make an effective club in the right hands, but she could not bring herself to an act of such irreverence or savagery. Well, never say never: not yet at least. Who knows how far she might have to grow or equally stoop before she finally escaped this rat hole?

Leaving the body, Mair Freida next came to the flimsy mattress and she quickly checked it top, bottom and around the seams, prodding it thoroughly in case, by chance or design, there was something concealed within it, perhaps left by some previous inmate.

This brought her back to the table. To the pewter jug; the enamelled beaker; a few breadcrumbs; the discarded paintbrush; no doubt, a great many dust mites feeding on the organic detritus; and last but by no means least, the elaborate and deeply symbolic painting. Now, whoever had painted that picture had known a thing or two. Who knows, it might have been painted by a previous inmate. This was a big “if” of course, but it might have contained some clue. That was always a possibility, but for now its significance eluded her.

And finally, leaving the table, this brought her to the far door. She could see light through the gap under the door, as well as feel a cold draught; but given her age and infirmity, there was no way she could get her head and eye line low enough to see what lay beyond. Yes, there was a lock, but she only had to glance at it to realize that the keyhole was too small for her key to fit; besides, that would have been altogether too easy. All the same, she did kneel down by the door and go through the motions of inserting the key; and she braced herself against the door and put her eye to the keyhole to see if she might glimpse anything of what lay beyond. All she could see was darkness, so she grasped the brass door handle, pushed herself up to a standing position and went back to the table to sit there and cogitate. What else could she do with her time?

All day long, Mair Freida sat there, her empty stomach by now groaning at the lack of food. Then, just as she was beginning to nod off, with her elbows on the table, she heard a sharp sound like the sound of a bolt being drawn. Mar Freida looked across the cell sharply to see that a tin plate had been thrust through a little hatch in the bottom of the far door. But just as quickly, glimpsing a pair of what looked like men's hands in the light at the far side of the door, the hatch had been closed and the bolt was drawn back, with not a word having been spoken. That hurt. I mean, what did it cost to say a simple “hello”, or even to merely grunt?

She hurried to the door, as best she was able, banged on it and called out in a loud voice, but there was no reply. Putting her ear to the door, all she hear was a faint footfall receding into the distance.

By now quite ravenous, she poured out some more water and, dividing the bread roll in two, she quickly devoured one half. Sorely tempted as she was, she would have to leave the other half for later … assuming, that was, that there would be a later.

Feeling quite weak, even having eaten the bread, Mair Freida went back to the mattress, placing the lady's thick furry hat beneath the thin pillow, and lay down once more. She pulled the borrowed robe over her legs and waist, closed her eyes and soon fell asleep once more.

Again she seemed to spend the night dreaming, beset by all manner of frustrations. Or perhaps it was day not night? She had no way of telling without a watch, having lost track of time by now, and without even stout iron bars through which she might glimpse the outside world.

Fortunately these disturbing dreams subsided after a time and Mair Freida found herself back at babs chu. She was standing before a wooden easel in a class with several other students and for some reason Tenzing was taking the lesson and not the gentleman who usually took art, Roland Fairbanks.

Everybody else was busy painting, and every now and again Tenzing would go from one to the next, commenting on their work and making suggestions, even adding a few deft touches of his own.

“That's very nice, Mair Freida, What would you call that?” Tenzing remarked as he came her way. At least it was Tenzing in the flesh, but he was clearly channelling someone else: most likely the elder abbot, Banu Zadar.

“A Dearth of Ideas,” she replied without thinking.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he responded. “Quite the contrary.”

“Tenzing, I cannot for one minute believe that you are being sarcastic, but see for yourself.”

She drew him round to stand beside her and see the blank canvas for himself.

“Well, on the face of it, from your standpoint, I can see why you should speak of a dearth of ideas, Mair Freida. But turn the picture over.”

That remark didn't make sense to Mair Freida, as all she had before her was a blank white canvas. “One way up is as blank as another,” she replied.

“No, no, that's not what I mean, Mair Freida,” Tenzing replied. “Here, allow me.”

Tenzing took the large canvas in both hands and carefully flipped it over to reveal the back of the canvas.

Only then did Mair Freida see. It was just like the scene in the watercolour hanging on the wall of her cell.

“You certainly have an eye for detail, though there's just one minor detail that we might perhaps add, Mair Freida,” Tenzing added after spending some time marvelling at the work.

He reached in his trouser pocket and brought out a small gilded key.

“May I borrow your brush?” he enquired and he took the brush, dipped it in the water, then began to apply the paint not to the canvas but to the key itself. Then, satisfied that it was thoroughly coated, he gently pressed the key to the canvas, so that an impression was left at the man's feet behind him.

This done, Tenzing dipped the key in the water and shook it to wash off the paint, dried the key on her rag and pocketed it.

There was one thing that rather niggled her about the key in the painting, however: just like the painting in her cell, it was anomalous, being flat against the canvas rather than being drawn in perspective.

“Excellent, Mair Freida. Keep up the good work,” the director smiled as he went on his way. But as he was walking away, a draught caught the flimsy canvas and the painting wafted to the ground before she could reach out and catch it. Fortunately, the painting landed the right side up, rather than in the dust, but the sudden shock awoke Mair Freida from her dream, and she hurriedly tried to remember the details before they slipped from her mind. It certainly meant something, and had made an impression on her, but quite how the dream was connected with her current plight still eluded her.

Certainly her captivity and the key were central to the dream; and the key was contained in the painting. And the paint brush, too, was connected with the painting.

For want of any better ideas, she reached up and took the painting down from the wall. She spent some time studying its face and then turned the frame over to examine the back of the painting. All she could see was a thin sheet of wood which served to hold the painting flat. Pulling out the clips around the edge of the frame, she took out the wooden back panel so that she could examine the other side of the canvas. Unsurprisingly, it was blank, though from time to time artists might paint on the other side of a canvas, or even paint over a previous work. Well, you might be able to do that in a thick and opaque medium, but surely not in watercolours.

Finally, she took the canvas out of the frame and held it up to the light, on the off chance that this would reveal some hidden pattern; but no, that was not the case.

There was no glass in the front of the frame; presumably because this was a cell, and a shard of broken glass would make an offensive weapon or might be used to inflict self harm. Even the light bulb overhead was behind a heavy safety mesh.

At length, she put the canvas down on the table and paced the cell for a few minutes. Being effectively immobile for some time now, she was anxious not to have her legs seize up on her through lack of exercise; remembering how weak and wobbly she had been when she was finally freed from her wartime cell. Hospitable wards so often also tended to have this debilitating effect, with physiotherapy being tagged on almost as an afterthought at the time patients were due for discharge and after the damage was done.

That day, she again went methodically through the cell, for by now she was convinced that this must be some kind of test. Certainly it was a test of her patience and equilibrium, but that was one of the first things they worked on after entering the Way. Failing that, the only plausible thing that she could think of was that it might be a test of her ingenuity or perhaps of receptivity and inspiration.

This routine went on for days and by now she was growing so weary and fatigued with thinking and through lack of food that she could hardly drag herself out of bed.

And then, out of the blue, she awoke from yet another frustrating dream with a minor realization, or at least the germ of an idea in her mind. It had finally dawned on her that there was a minor discrepancy in what she'd observed. Under the door she could see light; and whenever the warder brought her meagre food, she could see his hands in the light. And yet when she'd peered through the keyhole in the far door, she had seen only darkness.

She could think of two reasons that might be. The first was that sometimes keyholes had swivelling shutters, to prevent someone from peering through; and the second was that there might actually be a key in the lock.

Mair Freida crouched down once more in front of the door, with her hand on the brass handle to keep her from losing her balance. As expected, all she saw through the keyhole was darkness.

And then she had it, though of course what she had in mind might be thwarted if there were a key turned in the lock. She hobbled over to the table and picked up the artist's paintbrush and went back to the door, slowly getting to her knees so that the lock was at eye level, and she carefully inserted the point of the brush into the keyhole, though careful not to disturb whatever was in the lock. Yes, the brush went in just so far and then she could feel the resistance. She placed her finger and thumb on the brush and withdrew it, so that she could get a measure of how far in the brush had gone. If it was an inch and a half or more, then that would most likely mean that it had reached the other side of the door and hit a shutter. Any less than that and it had almost certainly hit the end of a key. And yes, the distance between her finger and thumb was no more than three quarters of an inch.

Going back to the table, Mair Freida took a few moments out to have a drink of the water, before picking up the canvas and taking it across to the door. Again she bent down and she slid the canvas under the door. Then, clutching hold of the door handle, she reinserted the paintbrush and gently pushed. Beyond the door, she heard a tinkle as the key, which had thankfully not been turned in the lock, popped out of the keyhole and hit the ground. Now all she could do was hope that it hadn't bounced away.

Reaching down, she slowly and carefully pulled the canvas back under the door and she paused triumphantly for a moment when she saw the slender gilded key sitting atop the canvas.

“Yes,” she beamed radiantly, punching the air like one of her young students. She could see now what might drive them to such an outpouring of emotion. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” and she gave thanks to Alicia, to the elder abbots and not least to the artist for inspiring her.

Wasting no further time, Mair Freida fumbled to fit the key in the lock, turned it and, drawing another deep breath, she stepped to one side as the door swung open, and gladly left that dreadful cell.

37. A vexing problem

Having turned the stolen key in the lock, the heavy door began to swing out into the crypt. Grimshaw thought for a moment about retrieving the key, but his Master had decided the matter for him and snapped it off in the lock. Already the door was swinging-to, so he hurriedly entered before he was locked out.

Ahead of him, clearly visible in the light of a strange glow coming from the walls and roof, he saw a long bare corridor. He was very unsure of what might lay ahead of him and he hesitated at the entrance, but again his Master took matters into his own hands and Grimshaw found himself being frogmarched down the corridor without a say in the matter. He went on, passing a door about half of the way down on the right, until he came to the end, to discover that the corridor was a cul-de-sac. Hearing the scraping of stone behind him, he swung round and retraced his steps until he came to the place where the doorway had been, only moments before, to be mysteriously confronted by a blank stone wall.

Already, it seemed, the labyrinth was playing tricks on him, for he noticed another doorway now, further down the passage from where he'd just come, and on the left.

No sooner had Grimshaw set out for that door, than again there came the grinding of stone and the squeak perhaps of metal that set his teeth on edge. Again he found the doorway gone, with stone blocks in its place, and another opened up, somewhere else out of his reach.

It was as if the place were alive and taunting him. And yet …. Grimshaw could feel the stone slabs shifting almost imperceptibly whenever he applied his weight to them, and thought perhaps there must be some kind of ingenious and finely balanced mechanism behind it all.

He'd crept along at a snail's pace; made a mad dash, and tried randomly and methodically hopping between paving stones; he'd even attempted, with great effort and expenditure of energy, to slowly shuffle down the passage with his feet off the ground and his back braced against the opposite wall, all to no avail.

This went on for several minutes until Grimshaw blew his top and started bellowing obscenities, not that there was anybody there to take heed, other than his Master or himself.

“Yes, all right; all right, Master. They are sorely testing my patience. Me testing your patience? With respect, Master: you are the one who wanted me to enter the labyrinth in the first place, so don't go blami ...”

He was cut off half way through voicing his objections; a vice-like grip on his shoulders forcing him to the stone floor on his knees. Even then, the pain and the colossal weight did not relent. Only when he had offered a thousand apologies for his gross insubordination and was screaming out for mercy was the iron grip released and he slumped to the ground, clutching his head in his hands.

As he did so, the scraping and squeaking started up again, driving him beyond the point of distraction, and another doorway opened up at the far end of the corridor. Not that there was any point in carrying on in this way, he staggered to his feet and charged down the passage in a vain attempt to throw himself through the doorway before it closed on him, but before he was half way there, the door began to close in his face.

He dropped to his knees, pounding the stone slabs with his fists until he brought blood and his knuckles began to swell in injury. Another doorway had opened up behind him, but he simply got to his feet pleading to be released from this torture. And as he stood up, in spite of the fact that he had not shifted his weight to another block, that door began to close and another began to open behind him. He slowly ducked down again, then gradually stood up, careful not to shift his weight and again the doorways switched.

Finally, Grimshaw prostrated himself on the cold stone floor and waited until the door ahead of him had opened fully. Then, still laid out on the ground, he slowly wormed his way along the corridor, pushing with his feet and dragging with his hands. Slowly but surely, he edged closer and closer, and still the doorway remained open. He was within six feet of the door now and feeling certain that at last he'd got the better of this labyrinthine challenge when the door began to close on him, and by the time he reached it, the gap was too narrow and he dare not go on for fear that he would be crushed as the stone jaws finally snapped shut.

Yes, either by virtue of his keeping low or perhaps by virtue of his weight being distributed across two or more of the slabs, he was able to defeat the instantaneous action of the mechanism. Yet still the open doorway eventually shut, so perhaps there was a limit on the time that it remained open?

For over an hour, he attempted to repeat his progress and to move more quickly, trying to beat the time-out, but in the end he was forced to admit defeat and lay there on his back, chilled to the bone by the cold stone and thoroughly exhausted.

After a few minutes he dozed off for a time, but it was so cold that he could not sleep and he staggered to his feet. A thought had also occurred to him. He didn't have to explain about his earlier tactics, for his Master was privy to his every thought. Indeed, he didn't have to speak out loud to address his Master, but merely preferred to do so. “Master, a thought occurs to me. The key to solving this problem may be to apply weight to more than one slab at a time.”

So? came the impatient reply.

“So if you were to leave me and exert your weight at one end of the tunnel, then I could wait for a door to open at the other. That way one of us should be able to get through an open door.”

For a few moments there was silence and then that nauseating scrunching feeling as Master pushed himself out of Grimshaw's body. First came the head, then the chest and finally as Grimshaw fainted on the floor and lay unconscious, the Dread Lord Develin pulled his legs free and stood there, hovering impatiently until Grimshaw finally began to come round.

At length, shaking off the lingering nausea, and quaking at the knees at the sight of the Dread Lord Develin, Grimshaw pushed himself to his feet. “You know, my Lord,” he observed, bowing before Develin's presence, “you don't need me to get out of here. I'll only hamper your progress ….”

“I have my reasons, Grimshaw. You have your uses,” Develin replied, standing there unmoved. “For now at least.”

Those words sent the shivers through him. “And when you are done with me, my Lord – what then? Am I to stand by your left side as you indicated in the past?”

Develin did not reply, turning and walking away up the corridor toward the entrance to the labyrinth. Then he turned. As he did so, a door nearby slowly closed and another, not far from Grimshaw, began to open. He darted through at the last second, just before the jaws slammed shut, leaving Develin still in the passage.

Grimshaw fell to his knees and bowed his head, giving thanks that in spite of his many transgressions, not least his dabbling in the Black Arts which had first brought about Develin's latest incarnation, he had finally been released from the demon's enthralment.

Still on his knees, with his arms prostrated before him, Grimshaw heard a faint sound behind him and stiffened. Before he had the chance to get to his feet, he felt that awful sickening sensation again as the Dread Lord Develin passed through the stone wall and re-entered his body, head first. It was like giving birth in reverse; a most unnerving process. This time, though he fainted, he did not slip to the floor, for Develin held him up.

“You needn't think that you can get away from me that easily,” the fiend laughed, leaping to his feet and striding down the corridor to the next door. “I am disappointed by this betrayal, Grimshaw, and you may rest assured that when I am done with you, I will be done with you.”

38. The guests

As Mair Freida entered the room and the door closed firmly behind her, she stood agog for a moment. Far removed from the bleak cell that she'd been imprisoned in for many days, she was looking out over a distinctly warm and spacious room. And there was the delicate and yet enthralling fragrance of rose blossoms, too. To one side there was a hearth containing a gently flickering log fire, with two comfortable armchairs pulled up to either side of the fire. And in front of her was a long oval table with a rosewood surface. There was a padded chair and a place setting at the end nearest her and she noticed another chair and setting some feet distant at the other end, though looking around she could see that she was the only one in the room. And across the stone flags of the floor lay a richly decorated woven rug.

So weary after her escapade, Mair Freida went over to the fire and flopped down in one of the armchairs. After the primitive facilities of the cell, this was the height of luxury, she thought, though her empty, gurgling stomach had still to be convinced.

Those words were hardly off her lips when one of the double doors at the end of the room opened and in walked what looked like a servant, in a formal black tailed suit, a white shirt and gaudy saffron and maroon bow tie. Carrying a silver tray in his hand, he put the tray down for a moment while he fetched an occasional table from an alcove and placed it beside Mair Freida's chair, then returning from the dining table, he placed a plate and a glass on the occasional table. Seeing her hat and coat on the floor beside her chair, he carefully picked them up, presumably for safe keeping. And finally, still without saying a word but giving a slight bow when she thanked him, the man again left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Mair Freida turned her attention to the things he had brought, delighted to find that on the plate were several toast soldiers bedecked with thin strips of what looked like – ah yes, and distinctly tasted of – smoked salmon, and a segment of lemon to squeeze over the fish. And when she sipped the wine in her glass, she was delighted to find that it had the distinctive aroma, taste and warm afterglow of chungari. Presumably this was an aperitif and the main meal, perhaps even company, was to arrive in due course? And this occasion? Perhaps it was some minor reward for having passed the first test? Or perhaps another test that had not as yet been revealed?

Just as she was finishing off the third toast soldier, a door opened and a man stood there on the threshold for some time as he, too, scanned the room. He came through another door, in the wall opposite the hearth.

She put down her plate and pushed herself up to stand by the chair and await his arrival.

“No, no, please don't get up on my account,” the man replied politely, heading in her direction. She returned to her seat and he held out his hand. “Mackenzie Centhorn at your service,” he said, holding her hand before him, clicking his heels together and giving a short bow.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mackenzie,” Mair Freida smiled as the man took a seat in the other chair.

“Call me Mac,” he suggested.

“Tell me,” he asked, gesturing toward her aperitif, “is there a bell to call for service?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I thought perhaps you might be the host,” she apologized.

“Me, hell no, I'm just a guest here, like your good self,” he replied, looking about him for signs of a waiter. “Unless of course you are the hostess?”

That was a superfluous question. She shook her head.

At that moment, the servant returned to serve the gentleman and answer his question and they sat in silence for a minute or two until he'd polished off his appetizer. “Well, that's filled a little hole; roll on the main course, that's all I can say.”

“Tell me, Mac, what brings you to the labyrinth?” One of the first things she'd noticed was that he wasn't wearing robes.

“Oh, I've been at babs chu a while now. Tenzing gave me a special dispensation to make sure you made it through the labyrinth in one piece.”

She was not at all convinced by this answer, but said nothing, thinking that it might perhaps be a part of the test.

“Tenzing said that 'circumstances alter cases',” the man added, perhaps sensing what was on her mind.

At that moment, the servant once again entered the room. He pulled one of the dining chairs out a short way and, looking in her direction, he motioned toward the seat, so she struggled up from the armchair and went to sit at the table. As for Mac, he didn't wait and had already taken his seat, making a play of rolling up his sleeves and rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation. Even the newest students at babs chu had better table manners than that, she mused, but still she maintained her restraint and said nothing.

As the servant left, two others – girls this time – briefly entered with silver trays bearing the entrée; serving them with bowls of creamed tomato and chicken soup, a small platter containing flat bread and a crystal jug of fresh water, then they too left. The soup was quite rich and subtly flavoured with marjoram, tarragon and thyme. Judging by the way Mac wolfed down his soup, however, such subtleties were perhaps lost on the man. She was quite surprised that he didn't simply pick up the bowl and drink the soup from its lip.

At the end of that course, Mac let out a large burp, explaining to her, as if she did not know, that a good belch or a resounding fart was considered a compliment in some cultures, and that not to burp was considered an insult.

Mair Freida smiled. “That reminds me of a story I heard at babs chu, though I forget who related the tale. It was their first time in such-and-such a land, and thinking it good manners, they ate everything on their plate. Whereupon their host had the plate filled once more. And this went on for some time until a friend, who knew this all along but was going along with the mischief, advised them that in this culture, one signalled that one had been adequately filled by actually leaving a little of the food on the side of one's plate.”

“Aha!” Mac laughed. “Thank you; that's a new one on me.”

What she hadn't said was that it was a common practice in Narayana and one of Tenzing's favourite anecdotes. Anyone close to Tenzing, spending any length of time with him or reading his first book, The Way It Is, would surely have heard of or actually experienced this first hand. Not that this really proved much.

After the entrée came a second light course or relevés, which consisted of a portion of stuffed fish and a small quantity of fresh vegetables. Realizing by now that they must still have the main course to come, she was glad that she had not eaten the whole of her flat bread and decided it prudent to take only the one potato; though Mac was not in the least daunted by the quantity of food available and ate with great relish.

By the time she'd finished the main course, which consisted of roast beef, all the trimmings and good thick gravy, Mair Freida was approaching her limit and again cut back on the roast potatoes, exceptional as they were, though she did not stint on her favourite vegetables, sprouts and sweet parsnips. The fish course and the beef both came with a glass of wine and by that time, she was feeling ever so slightly tipsy, and this allowed her to let her guard down for a time.

Finally, abandoning good sense when the dessert course came, Mair Freida did manage to squeeze in a slice of apple pie and cream. She had to pass on the cheese and biscuits which they were served in their armchairs by the log fire, but gladly accepted a second glass of chungari.

They must have been sitting there for a couple of hours as their dinner settled when the servant arrived once more to offer them tea or coffee and later returned to show them to their rooms for the night. Though she could hear Mac snoring in the room next door, Mair Freida soon slipped into a long, deeply relaxed sleep and did not awaken again until the morning.

39. The morning after the night before

When Mair Freida did awake and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes, she was for some time completely disorientated. She clearly remembered being in the cosy dining room and eating her fill, and then being guided by the servant to a comfortable and warm four poster bed. But now, she found herself in another bleak room in the labyrinth, comfortable enough but laying not in bed but on a thick pile of hay, covered only by the robe she'd borrowed earlier.

Some distance from her, also stretched out in the hay, she saw her fellow guest, Mackenzie Centhorn, so surely this could not have been but a dream or a flight of fancy.

Mair Freida pushed herself up onto her feet, and when she'd managed to get her circulation going, she ventured out of the room through the half-open door. Along a passageway to the right stood a set of large double doors and she pushed one open with a squeak of unoiled and rusty hinges. There indeed was the dining room in which they'd been entertained the very night before. And yet, such a thing could not be possible, for the enchanting room was festooned with large cobwebs – the product of many, many hours of patient arachnoid toil – and, going over to the polished rosewood table, she discovered it thick with dust. Out of idleness, she wrote her name in the dust, then turned and went back to rouse her new companion.

She finally managed to awaken Mac and when he did so, he woke with a start, his eyes darting this way and that as he fought to make sense of his surroundings. Mair Freida explained what she'd discovered, but this was something that he had to see with his own eyes.

As they re-entered the dining room, it was indeed still festooned with cobwebs. And again, as they walked through the room, kicking up dust, fear rose in her chest as she noticed the skeletal corpse still sitting in one of the armchairs by the empty hearth, with the robe of the elders wrapped over his legs and waist. Where there had been a welcoming warmth, indeed there was now a distinct chill in the air.

They tried the doors by which they had entered, as Mair Freida still had the gilded key in her possession, but though the key did indeed fit the lock, neither door would open. She was in two minds about the key: whether to slip it under the door or leave it dangling and unturned in the lock, as she had herself found it; and in the end she settled for the latter.

There was no other visible means of egress from the dining room, so they left and went back to the passage leading to their beds, if such they might be termed; and they noted that there was another door at the far end of that passage. First, however, they checked the bedroom, noting that there was no other way out; moving the hay aside and sifting through it for some clue or implement, without success. So they left the room and turned to the left this time, to explore what lay beyond this as yet unopened door.

As fortune or design would have it, the door was unlocked and in spite of her mild protestations that she did not require nannying, Mac gallantly opened the door and took a tentative step across the threshold.

For a brief moment as Mac had lain there between sleep and waking, she thought she got a glimpse of something; but then it was as if he'd blanked her or slammed a door in her face. Mac was a strange cove and a little too full of himself, not for her own liking but rather for his own good, since there was no room for anything more subtle in a full pot. Usually, she'd find herself quite effortlessly able to scry a person, though only where this coincided with necessity and the design, rather than entertainment or personal advantage; but for some as yet unexplained reason, she was not able to penetrate far into Mac's thick skin, other than to note that he indeed had rather thick skin. Perhaps even “hidebound” might be the operative expression? The man was like the proverbial closed book to her. As to whether this was a side effect of being in the labyrinth or a facet of its design; intention on his part or something beyond him, as yet she did not know, though she aimed to find out.

Of one thing, however, she was certain, and that was that they had been brought together not by mere happenstance but with some purpose in mind beyond the superficial gloss of “making sure Mair Freida made it through the labyrinth in one piece.”

Mac strutted into the next room with his chest out and his shoulders back, as if ready for anything the labyrinth might throw at them, whilst Mair Freida followed cautiously on close behind.

They stopped for a time near the doorway, eyes darting around the room to see if there were any dangers lurking; then as their fear subsided, they again scanned the room, this time looking for clues that might give some hint of what lay in store for them.

Mair Freida felt a slight scrunching underfoot and when she looked down she saw that the stone paving slabs had a light and random sprinkling of what looked like sand on them, and it slightly glistened in the ethereal silver light that gently illuminated the room. The source was not hard to locate, for there in one corner of the room was what looked like a child's sandpit, contained within a simple structure of four short wooden planks, and replete with a bright red bucket and a tiny blue spade.

Mac was over there now and in a nervous attempt to lighten the mood, he filled the bucket with sand. My, how that took her back to her own childhood days. There was a hole in the bottom of the bucket and Mac had to clasp his hand over the base to prevent the tiny grains of sand from trickling out. Then he turned the bucket over and gently patted it with his spade, so that the sand would be freed from the edges of the mould. The intention, of course, was to build a sand castle, but as any child soon learns, the sand was altogether too dry and the construction simply collapsed under its own weight. Too wet, too, and the same thing happened. The sand had to be of a damp and firm consistency for best results.

They left the sand pit, unable to decide what practical use it might have, and went to the door which stood at the far end of the small room, directly opposite the door through which they had entered. If it were locked, then heaven only knows how they would get out of this latest jam.

Mac turned the handle of the door and, finding the door opening, he let out an unrestrained “yahoo!” and beamed at Mair Freida. He was just about to boldly enter, his confidence once again returning and getting the better of him, and had taken his first step when she felt a sudden compulsion to stop him. Reaching forward, she clasped her hand on his upper arm and tried to pull him back.

Pride comes before a fall, a voice urgently whispered inside her head.

As Mac stepped into the room, and put his weight on his leading foot, he suddenly plunged into a hole in the floor. With lightning reflexes, his hands went out and he managed to cling onto the edge of the floor and stop his abrupt fall. He was a stocky chap and quite muscular, but it required a great deal of effort on his part to hold himself there, and she could be of no assistance to him, of course, in her frail condition.

Finally, with an almost superhuman effort, driven no doubt by adrenaline and sheer terror, Mac managed to pull himself up on his arms and get more and more of his weight onto the safe ground at the edge of the doorway, until he was laid out, sweating from head to toe, in the room from which they were emerging.

When Mac had risen to his feet and recovered his composure, thanking Mair Freida profusely for her timely intervention, they stood for a time in the doorway, casting their eyes around the room beyond.

What they couldn't help but notice was that in spite of the fact that Mac had fallen through the floor as soon as he set foot inside the room, the floor was perfectly intact, comprised of stout looking, polished black granite blocks.

Bracing himself with a hand on each side of the door frame, Mac tentatively reached his foot out to tap the block that stood just over the threshold, expecting perhaps that there might be some hidden mechanism that responded to the application of weight.

Instead, however, they noticed a bizarre phenomenon, for instead of tapping against the paving slab, his toes passed straight through it, as if there were actually a void beneath his foot. The block looked solid enough, but this must have been some kind of optical illusion.

At the far end of the room beyond, they could see another door, but if there were an unseen chasm between them and that door, Mair Freida was at a loss as to how they could possibly cross that chasm.

Mac pushed himself back inside the room and stood there for a minute with his hand to his chin, lost in thought; then he turned his attention to the room they were attempting to leave.

“There must be something in this room that will help us cross the room,” he decided, but casting his eyes around the nearly empty room, the means eluded him for the time being.

In the end, he went over to the sandpit. “It simply has to be something to do with the sand,” he concluded. “And yet, in what way?”

Again, as she went to stand by Mac, Mair Freida's attention was drawn to the slight crunch of the sand that had been scattered across the floor from the sand pit.

She stooped down and filled the child's bucket with the sand; then, holding it so that the sand would not be lost through the hole in the base of the bucket, she took the bucket and hobbled back to stand in the doorway.

“Mac,” she requested as he followed her, no doubt wondering what on earth she had in mind. “I don't have the strength, but what I want you to do is to take this bucket and cast the sand as far and wide as you can over the floor of the room beyond.”

For a moment, as he took the bucket from her, he didn't appear to have registered what she had in mind; but he swung himself round and, hanging onto the bucket, he flung the sand through the doorway. And then, Mair Freida's reasoning suddenly dawned on him.

Most of the sand immediately passed through the phantom paving stones, but some remained, and they could see it glinting in the light to form a path zigzagging its way across the room.

“Some of the paving stones are real, and the others only imaginary,” he concluded, patting Mair Freida gently on the shoulder. “Mair Freida, you are a wonder to behold.”

She thanked him for the compliment, but played it down, lest she become big headed rather than simply as pleased as Punch.

Mair Freida thought for a moment and sighed. “I hate to put the dampers on your celebrations, Mac, but it strikes me the major obstacle I now face may well be an inability to negotiate the path. As you can see, there are gaps in the path which I'm sure you can easily hop over, but they look too much of a stretch for my little, arthritic legs.”

“So, we know now how we can cross the chasm,” Mair Freida nodded with consideration. “But I notice that the sand only goes so far. I suggest we re-fill the bucket and repeat the process once we've negotiated the path as far as we can.”

Mac was already away to do just that, once again in high spirits at this latest success. But it wasn't just the sand he was interested in. He put his foot against the planks that held in the sand. They were held together only nominally with short nails, and it took little effort on his part to prise them apart.

Returning from the sandpit, he handed the bucket of sand to Mair Freida and got down on his hands and knees to bridge the gap in the doorway with the short planks. “Well, that's you sorted, Mair Freida.”

Mac held out his hands. She could see that they were trembling almost uncontrollably and asked why this should be.

“I'm scared stiff of heights,” he told her. “I mean scared stiff. I'm petrified that I might freak out and lose control. And there's not a thing in this room that can help me with that.”

“Fear; and fear of fear itself,” she nodded seriously, and then: “You forget one thing, perhaps, Mac? And that is that I am a healer.”

For a moment, Mac looked genuinely relieved at hearing her offer, and then he abruptly seemed to change his mind. “No, I'll see how I go, Mair Freida – though thanking you kindly.”

“Well, if you feel the need, just let me know,” she suggested calmly, not wanting to let it show that she had her own doubts and fears.

“I'll go first,” Mac offered. “And when I have my feet on solid ground, carefully step onto the planks.” Then he laughed nervously. “By that time, we'll both know if they're strong enough to take our weight. Yes, yes, you don't have to say it: I am indeed a barrel of laughs.”

Soon enough they were across that first hurdle, only to face the next. There was insufficient room on the path for him to go around Mair Freida to retrieve the planks, so there was only one thing she could do and that was turn around, struggle to her knees and retrieve the planks for him, passing them to him one by one. Mac had a good hold of her around her waist, however, so he was able to help her get to her knees and stand up again.

They'd just managed to get over the second gap and Mair Freida was reaching down to retrieve the last plank when she slipped slightly and lost her grip on the plank. It was immediately lost in the void. If there was a bottom to the chasm, then the plank must have hit the bottom, but if it did, they did not hear it.

“Oh, Mac, I am so sorry, I ...” she began, apologizing profusely.

“No matter,” Mac reassured her. “We can manage with three. The bridge will be a little narrower, but I'm sure this will not be a problem if we are careful.”

Their progress was of necessity slow and it must have taken them a good ten minutes to make it across to the centre of the room. By now the sand was beginning to run out and it was difficult to see the path ahead. Not only that, though they'd started out with a full bucket of sand, by this time, with having to take their hand off the hole in the base of the bucket from time to time, there was barely enough sand left to mark out the remainder of the path.

But for Mac there came the most serious hurdle yet. Up until now, at least he was shielded from the prospect of a fall from a great height by the fact that even where the phantom slabs lay, they were opaque, giving a sense of there being solid ground beneath them. But ahead of them, all Mac could see between them and the door was a dark and yawning chasm, and that greatly unnerved him. There was a part of him that baulked at the notion that beneath a few tiny grains of sand suspended in the air, with no visible means of support, could lay solid ground.

“Look on the bright side, Mac, the path appears complete. I can see no further gaps ahead,” Mair Freida advised him with as calm as she could muster. “And remember, my offer as a healer still stands.”

They made a little further progress and, overcome by vertigo, Mac finally decided that the next way forward for him would be to crawl along on his hands and knees, so that he could feel the grains of sand beneath him. But he realized that if he did this, he would not be able to look after Mair Freida. If she fell, it would be game over for him. The old lady was his ticket to Shu'la beland and it was imperative that she make it safely through the labyrinth.

In the end, clutching tight hold of one-another and shuffling round in a tight circle, he managed to get behind Mair Freida, so that should she slip, he would see in an instant and would be able to help her.

“Have faith,” Mair Freida happened to remark to him as they moved on. “You know the old saying? Faith is belief with no visible means of support.”

Mac didn't say anything, of course, since the last thing he wanted would be to rock Mair Freida's boat – at least not at this point – but he could find little comfort in those empty words. For all practical purposes, his god had died to him a long time ago.

At that moment, Mair Freida went over on her ankle and staggered to one side, her arms flailing as she fought to regain her balance.

Develin was already on the move before Mac had taken in what was happening; grasping Mair Freida's arm as her feet fell from under her, and – with a truly superhuman effort – heaving her back onto safe ground. At that moment, Mair Freida's only concern was her dire scrape with death, but what had happened in those moments would later abruptly return to haunt her.

The woman was clearly dazed by what had happened and sat there for some time clutching her heaving chest and fighting to calm herself. But finally she recovered her composure and they went on, carefully feeling their way, inch by inch, until finally they came to the far door and dare breath a sigh of relief.

They stood side by side, still trembling with anxiety, and then Mac slowly turned the handle of the door, pushed it open, and led Mair Freida inside the next room.

40. A shocking realization

In that moment, as they entered the room, Mair Freida saw right through Mac. His features appeared to briefly change and instead of him looking out her, it was as if there were another, behind his blue eyes. A wave of primordial fear engulfed her, wreaking of bleach or vinegar, and she had to clutch tight hold of the table that stood before her, to keep her balance.

“Mac, you're possessed,” she gasped.

There was only one thing in all creation that had ever inspired such fear in Mair Freida and that was when she last came face to face with the Dread Lord Develin.

She fell to her knees, not in submission, but at the sudden, gut retching thought that she had been duped and that she had brought Develin through the labyrinth. If he were to reach Shu'la beland and draw upon the almost boundless energy there, then all hell would, quite literally, break loose.

When she heard Mac laughing at her with such contempt, Mair Freida found new resolve, however. She had to stand up for herself and teach him a sound lesson. Calling on the names of the Elder Abbots and summoning up her last vestige of strength, Mair Freida pushed herself to her feet and stood facing the abomination.

Mair Freida cast a withering glare in Mac's direction and such was the force behind her gaze that his face flushed crimson and he took an involuntary step backward.

41. Subdued

Just then, the door slammed open and several guards ran in. They wore body armour bearing the distinctive saffron and maroon colours of Shu'la beland.

“It's Develin,” Mair Freida called out in warning to them, drench in perspiration and trembling with the effort. “Take him quickly; I can't hold him for much longer.”

Taking her eyes off Mac for an instant, he broke free and made a dash for the door, but one of the guards raised his wooden staff, stopping the man dead in his tracks. He was forced to his knees, then collapsed in a heap on the floor, and the other guards came forward to shackle his arms and legs and drag him from the chamber.

“Take him to the tower,” the first guard commanded.

Turning back to her, the man lowered his staff and bowed to her. “Welcome to Shu'la beland, Mair Freida. We have long expected your arrival and are glad to see that you made it here safely.”

He came forward and offered Mair Freida his arm for support and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to mop the sweat that dripped from her face.

“Come,” the man said gently. “Let's leave the labyrinth and its cares behind us and you can rest for a time while you regain your strength.”

42. The cavalry arrives

Conrad and Hugo were almost at the end of their tether by the time they'd completed their last challenge. They fully expected to be facing yet another test as they emerged into the next room; there seemed no end to the labyrinth, nor to the ways in which it seemed to mess with one's mind. It was as if there were an intelligence behind it that chose the most taxing of challenges for them, somehow tailored to their individual weaknesses or fears.

They left the dim, stone tunnel and emerged into a spacious room. From floor to vaulted ceiling, the room was made of shiny marble, and it did make them squint for a time, though it was not so light in colour or illumination that it blinded them.

A man in an orange and maroon robe came toward them, bearing a stout wooden staff perhaps four or five feet in length and they stood there as he approached, not sure of his disposition and thus ready for anything.

“Welcome,” the man greeted them, bowing to each in turn.

Hugo began to explain what they'd come for, and Conrad asked where they were, but the man merely waited patiently and smiled, then spoke once more.

“Welcome to Shu'la beland, friends. There's no need to explain. Put the trials of the labyrinth behind you now and come with me.”

“Has Mair Freida made it through, okay?” Conrad wanted to know.

“Yes, your friend is here.”

“And Grimshaw: the man who was with her. He has to be stopped.”

“That matter has been taken care of,” the man told them calmly, ushering them across the room toward another open doorway. “And once you have bathed and are rested, you can see your friend again.”

“Come, come whoever you are,

This caravan is not of despair.

Even though you have broken your vow,

Perhaps ten thousand times. Come!”

43. Shu'la beland

What was immediately apparent to Conrad and Hugo as they entered the room was that this was the same dining room in which they'd been fed after completing the first challenge they'd faced in the labyrinth. And once again the dust had been swept and the cobwebs gone … or the room had been in some mysterious way transformed.

The first thing Conrad did, as soon as he saw Mair Freida's happy smiling face, was go across to her to and give her a big hug. “Oh, Mair Freida, it's so good to see you again.”

She was clearly surprised to see them there and so he and Hugo had quite a bit of explaining to do as they shared a glass of chungari.

“My, you're cold, Mair Freida,” he remarked as he clutched the old lady's hands. “Here, come closer to the fire. You must tell us all about your own adventure.”

“I'm an old lady and my circulation isn't what it once was,” she told them.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mair Freida. But surely there must be something they can do here to help you?”

“Oh, don't worry yourself unnecessarily, Conrad. I'm reliably informed that this will sort itself out in time. Shu'la beland is so full of healing and rejuvenating energy, you see.”

There were six places set at the table that day and it did not escape Conrad's attention that there were only the four of them present as yet. No sooner had these thoughts formed in his mind than the door opened at the end of the dining room and a lady and gentleman approached, arm in arm and wearing the orange and maroon robes of Shu'la beland. Mair Freida, too, was now wearing the same robes, whilst he and Hugo still wore the clothes in which they'd been dressed when they first entered the labyrinth. They stood up to greet the newcomers and behind them came two servants, who fetched chairs from the far side of the room.

“Welcome! Please, sit yourselves down, and accept our apologies for neglecting you, dear friends,” the lady spoke as they took their own seats. “I am Bayarmaa, which means joyful mother, and this is Samdhup, meaning fulfilment. A great many years ago, like you I was an elder at babs chu.”

They talked for some time, with topics ranging far and wide; briefly adjourning their talk whilst dinner was being served. And finally, when they had finished eating and returned to fireside, Samdhup turned to Conrad and Hugo.

“Mair Freida has already indicated that she would like to stay with us in Shu'la beland,” he began, “but what about you? Are your minds already made up, or would you rather defer your decision until later?”

Conrad stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I wasn't aware that we had a choice, Samdhup. I thought that the moment we entered the labyrinth, the matter was out of our hands?”

“There's much I still have to learn,” Hugo chipped in. “So, if the option is open to me, then with the greatest respect, I feel that I should return. And besides, there's the matter of Grimshaw. I'd like to take him back to face justice for his crimes.”

Samdhup did not reply immediately, it was as if he was himself awaiting information or instructions. “Grimshaw is far, far more dangerous than you might imagine, Hugo,” the man told him, and he went on to tell them about the Dread Lord Develin.

Bayarmaa sought to reassure him: “This is a place of power and we have Develin safely contained. He will no longer trouble you. Presumably that changes matters for you, Hugo? Conrad?”

“Thanking you kindly, Ma'am,” replied Hugo, bowing his head. “This does come as a great relief to me. And, again with the greatest respect, yes, I still feel I should return to the Freelands. I'm far too rough around the edges as yet for Shu'la beland, or even the half way house at babs chu, for that matter.”

Bayarmaa turned to Conrad. “And what about you, Conrad?” she asked and his immediate thought was for his beloved Dzoldzaya. Bayarmaa merely smiled and nodded, as if she'd read his mind.

“I'll be honest with you, Conrad and Hugo,” Mair Freida spoke at length. “It's been a joy to be with you, Conrad, and to get to know a little about you, Hugo. And Hugo, you have a lot of potential and I'm sure you will positively thrive at babs chu. Whatever you decide, I'll remember this day and especially I will remember and pray for you.”

She spoke those words, but that's not what Conrad heard. What he heard was a whisper and it said help me.

Trying to avoid attention, he peered deeply into Mair Freida's eyes and for the briefest moment he saw a hint of what looked like anguish or pleading.

Bayarmaa went over to the table and, noticing that the bottle of chungari was nearly empty, she remarked, returning to her seat: “Well, I was going to top up your glasses, but I'll have to get Wangdu to bring us a fresh bottle. Chances are he already knows. That's something you'll find at Shu'la beland: that assistance arrives before you even consciously register the need.”

Samdhup looked a little bemused by this remark, but he nodded. “Right you are.”

Bayarmaa reliably informed Conrad that Wangdu meant conqueror or subduer, even before he'd asked the question, and even though her own lips did not move.

As Wangdu entered the room, with a fresh bottle in his hand, Bayarmaa got to her feet as if to greet him, and as she did, Mair Freida got to her own feet with surprising agility and backed away. She had smelt a rat and turned to Conrad, a snarl creasing her face.

The bottle in Wangdu's hand was gone, and in its place he held a mighty wooden staff, with a design in gold wound around it, topped by a pointed crown.

Without warning, Mair Freida went into convulsions. She fell to the ground, motionless; and in her place stood the Dread Lord Develin.

Words were not exchanged, but in that moment Conrad understood that it was Grimshaw who had first been possessed and mistakenly imprisoned when Develin had instead chosen to possess Mair Freida, knowing that she would be allowed into Shu'la beland but not Grimshaw. Yes, this would account for the man's protests of innocence, Bayarmaa silently informed him.

Swinging round on Bayarmaa, Develin clenched his fist and punched the air and sent an almighty bolt of fiery light at her. She saw the bolt coming at her and tried to duck out of the way, but too late. It caught her in the ribs, sending her flying across the room.

Samdhup summoned up his energy and sent a bright white bolt toward Develin whilst his attention was diverted, but Develin merely held up his hand, halting the bolt mid-flight, and it exploded harmlessly; then he held out both hands in the air and pushed down heavily and Samdhup, though several feet away, was forced to his knees.

Wangdu was approaching at a trot now, and Develin turned to face him, sending bolt after bolt of fire at him. They exploded on his body, but this giant of a man did not flinch in the slightest, and he just kept coming.

Develin held out his hands and tried to force Wangdu to his knees, to no avail; and then Wangdu landed an almighty blow on Develin's head with his staff. So sudden and great was the force that the demon's skull immediately shattered and was split in two, and Develin dropped to the floor, utterly poleaxed. Then, as they stood and watched in horror, his body seemed to dissolve before their eyes, and he was gone.

More help had arrived by this time and they hurried over to Bayarmaa and Mair Freida and laid on their hands. Though Bayarmaa was feeling rather bruised and Mair Freida in something of a daze, Samdhup assured them that they would soon recover.

A few minutes later, one of the servants came into the room, with Grimshaw in tow. He was still loudly protesting his innocence.

Bayarmaa sought to calm the man, offering him a glass of chungari and sitting him by the fireside.

“You're surely not letting that fiend go after all he's done,” Hugo replied indignantly, rising to his feet.

“Patience, friends. Patience,” Bayarmaa repeated in soothing tones, and she went on to explain what had happened.

“Yes, I know,” sobbed Grimshaw. “It's all my fault, really. You see, as a youth I dabbled in the Black Arts, and I came across a powerful ritual by which one might summon up a demon. In my foolishness, I thought that I had the power to control and direct it; but alas I found to my cost that it was He who increasingly came to control and direct me. Finally it came to possess me, and I was utterly unable to break free, though this is what I came to long for.

“When the guards came to arrest and contain me, thinking that I was Develin incarnate, Develin had already decided that I was of no further use to him. So instead he possessed Mair Freida and sealed my lips for a time while he, acting through her, denounced me.

“Lord knows, I am sorry for all the heinous crimes that I've committed over the years. And I shall be eternally grateful to you for securing my release.”

“So what's to become of Grimshaw?” Hugo wanted to know, not having quite taken in what had happened.

“Mister Grimshaw ….” Bayarmaa corrected him.

“Frederick,” the man offered.

“Frederick is not responsible for his actions, Hugo,” replied Conrad. “Yes, I have decided that I should go back to my beloved Dzoldzaya and to babs chu. So I suggest that we take Frederick with us. Perhaps you might stay a while back at Foxholes, Frederick, and then decide for yourself whether you want to start a new life or continue your studies there? I can assure you that the Way has infinitely better things to offer than the Black Arts, and it will afford you the opportunity to finally redeem yourself.”

44. The return

As Conrad spoke those words, a doorway opened up in the alcove to one side of the hearth and Bayarmaa, Samdhup and Mair Freida rose to their feet and offered their hands. It was time to leave.

Conrad, Hugo and Frederic Grimshaw went to the doorway and with one last exchange of farewells, they stepped into the darkness beyond. As that door closed behind them, another opened before them and they found themselves back inside the crypt where their journey had begun.

As they emerged into the light of day outside the chapel, Dzoldzaya happened to look up from her study at the window of the medical centre and before they'd crossed the square, she was rushing across to meet them. She swung around in Conrad's arms for an age.

“Oh, I'm so glad that you decided to turn back,” Dzoldzaya cried. “I thought I was going to lose you for good.”

“Turn back?” he queried. “No, we made it all the way to Shu'la beland, and you can rest easy: Mair Freida is safe.”

Dzoldzaya looked at him quizzically. “You're kidding me surely? You haven't been away five minutes. Well, that's just a figure of speech, of course: but an an hour at most.”

“Five minutes? We've been away for weeks.”

Dzoldzaya held her watch up to his face. It still read the 21st, and just a few minutes after his departure with Hugo, and he stood there in a state of bemusement for some time, until Dzoldzaya broke the spell.

“It really isn't important either way, Conrad. You're back and that's all that matters.”

Then Dzoldzaya noticed that they had Frederic Grimshaw with them, and that had her doubly confused.

“It's a long story,” Conrad shrugged.

“I'll have to take your word for it, Connie. Anyhow, let's go and see Uncle Tenzing and you can tell us all about your adventures.”

~~~O~~~

The End

Other books by the same author

in the Shadowlands series,

awaiting publication on the Kindle

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time again.

7. The Gift.

8. The Host and the Guests.

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility.

Whisperings of Love

By Etienne de L'Amour

The wise healer Mair Freida is ill and her friends must embark on a long journey to bring back a cure. The old lady at length hears the whisperings of love, calling to her. It is time to move on from the hidden mountain sanctuary of babs chu to join the Elder Abbots on the next stage in her continuing evolution in the still more distant mystical realm of Shu'la beland.

But is Mair Freida strong enough to make that journey? And with a deranged killer on the loose, will he thwart the Network's plans and gain access to Shu'la beland?

Whisperings of Love is book 9 in the Shadowlands series.

Table of Contents

Dedication

1. Unhealthy relations

2. The conference

3. The Gilderdyke case

4. Foxholes

5. Spalding

6. The dig

7. The escape

8. A hitch

9. Caught hopping

10. Serial killer

11. Babs chu

12. Deterioration

13. The options

14. Easier said than done

15. An evil twist

16. A message from babs chu

17. A fresh lead

18. Enquire within

19. The game is afoot

20. First contact

21. Freshers' week

22. Incommunicado

23. Heading south

24. Another mishap

25. No word as yet

26. Decision time

27. The mountain trek

28. A welcome return

29. A worrying time

30. The Evening of the Arrival

31. The chapel

32. After the departure

33. The Wake

34. The long trail north

35. An urgent meeting

36. The first test

37. A vexing problem

38. The guests

40. A shocking realization

41. Subdued

42. The cavalry arrives

43. Shu'la beland

44. The return