Authors: Andre Norton
Red Hart Magic (15 page)
Hawkins raised a finger and scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Sounds like a man with a strong temper, this Mallory.”
“He's not even gentry,” Chris burst out. “Just some cit who made a purseful and bought out Lady Mary when the old Squire took and died and left her with nothing. He wants to lord it over all of us.”
“There are that kind,” Hawkins remarked. “And powerful enemies they can make themselves, too, lad. Well, we'll see what we can discover as will stop his mouth when it comes to calling the law over you.”
What Hawkins proceeded to do, Chris was not sure. He seemed to do nothing but sit in the taproom, listening to any who found their way up from the village for a pint. Being
shut in by the snow had made men restless, and now that they could get around, they came into the inn for a bit of company.
But in midafternoon, there was a stir in the courtyard and a thundering knock at the door. Chris was taking a tray of newly washed tankards to the taproom when the door itself was flung open and Squire Mallory strode in, several men at his back, among them Nevison and his two sons.
The Squire pointed with his whip at Chris. “There's the rogue, right to hand. Lay him by the heels, now!”
Chris retreated until his back was against the wood of the hall paneling. But Dolph Nevison and Hal came at him, and before he could defend himself, they had caught his arms. The tray with the tankards crashed to the floor.
What followed was like the wildest of his nightmares. For the sound of the falling tankards brought out his father, and behind him Hawkins and the rest of those in the taproom. The Squire had a pistol, and he shouted that no one was going to rescue this rogue, that if any moved they could be lawfully taken as accomplices.
“Now that"—Hawkins did not raise his voice unduly, but the very force of it overrode the Squire's—"ain't exactly legal, sir. You ain't taking one as was caught in the act, you might say. So where is the warrant whereby you've entered this house?”
“Warrant!” Squire Mallory looked as if he would try either his pistol or his whip on the other. “We've had testimony sworn as to the nature of this gallows-meat and what he did.”
From under his arm Hawkins produced a short baton,
which glinted in the light from the open door behind. There was a gilt crown on the tip, and this he pushed toward the Squire for the latter's better seeing.
“I am the King's Man, out of Bow Street, called here to clear up this same case.”
“Then why isn't this rogue under irons?”
“ ‘Cause it ain't been established yet as how he's guilty, sir. Now was you to give me your evidence as you say you have—”
Mallory nodded to the door, and Nevison reached behind him dragging into the light the cowering Tim.
“An eyewitness,” Mallory said. “Which is as good as any warrant.”
“Well enough, sir, but let us all just have it out together—and not in this hall, if you please.”
There was something about Hawkins that carried authority, sweeping even the unwilling Squire behind him on into the taproom. They had already lashed Chris's wrists together behind his back, and now the older of the Nevisons took him roughly by the shoulder and shoved him along.
If the Squire had thought to command the action within, he was mistaken, for Hawkins took control as if this sort of proceeding were common and he had done so many times before.
Chris was pushed down on a bench, the younger Nevison on guard, while the Squire took up position with his back to the fireplace, his eyes ever on the move between Ira Fitton and the Bow Street runner, as if he classed them both as his
enemies in some duel now to begin. But Hawkins turned to Tim Dykes and in his rumble of a voice began slowly to ask questions as if it did not matter too much. Tim's name, his age, did he have a brother, and finally one which sent Tim silent. What was
he
doing abroad in the woods that night?
After a short pause Tim answered, “I heard all the ado and came runnin'—”
“Now, let's think on that.” Hawkins caught him up. “As I have seen it, and I did me a bit of looking around earlier today, this here"—he dipped the end of his baton in the nearest tankard of ale and drew a square to one side—"is the farm where the burning was. And here"—he drew another line—"is the lane what comes up from the village. Do I have it right?”
A chorus of those leaning forward to see the better assured him he did.
“Then here's the place where at young Chris was.” He made a spot with a big ale drop. “Now you tell me where
you
were!” He swung suddenly on Tim.
Tim stared down at the table and then looked for a second at Hawkins before dropping his eyes. “I was comin’ up from the village like everyone else,” he said shrilly.
“But that you couldn't have been. Not if you saw Chris. There is a stand of orchard right here.” Once more Hawkins printed a series of dots. “And you couldn't have seen him—not at night. Now could you, lad? Unless you was some-where's else than that lane—and maybe with someone else—”
“No! I ain't—I weren't—I never was—” Tim looked from one face to another. “All right. Maybe I weren't in the lane, but I saw Chris! Want me to swear it certain, do you, that I do?”
“I'm not denying you might have seen Chris. And he ain't denied to me where he was. Also he heard you—You called his name out, didn't you?”
Tim looked hunted, seemed to shrink smaller. Hawkins leaned farther across the table and pointed his baton at him. “You ain't no match for Harry Hawkins, boy. I've tumbled men as would make you screech your lungs out just to look on. You was there; you called out Chris's name. But there was someone else—now wasn't there? Someone as your calling out that there way hid, getting Chris's attention so that other could creep away all quiet like. There—was—someone—else!” Hawkins said those last four words solemnly, like someone pronouncing sentence.
“I ain't—I ain't going to say—” Tim put up a last defense.
But Hawkins was shaking his head back and forth slowly. “You'll say, lad. You're going to tell me who it was who crept away while you kept Chris Fitton's attention. Now was it your brother?”
“Sam"—Tim half spat the name. “He ain't got the stomach for anything. He's as soft as rabbit fur, he is.”
“And who might be hard where Sam is so soft? Might it be Jem Catsby now?”
Tim looked as if Hawkins had struck him across the face. “I ain't said it—I never did!” he half screamed.
“You just did, lad.” Hawkins straightened up. “You just
did, even if you didn't use the words yourself. You've been mighty close with Jem lately; there's plenty who marked that. And Jem, he takes off innocentlike, for London, he says. Then two nights later, there's a fire. Now who can suspect Jem, who has been hiding out nice and snug, with you to fetch and carry and play lookout for him? Then you come to lie away young Chris's life, and get you and Jem free—”
Tim's thin shoulders shook. “He told me—he said as how it would work fine. We'd get back at the Squire, and no one would know never—”
“There's always them as thinks they can outwit the law,” Hawkins said. “ ‘Course they don't in the end. Well, sir"—he spoke now to the Squire—"you has your man, this Catsby. Though where he may be now, since he probably took to his heels before the storm, is another matter.”
“You're Fitton's friend—” the Squire began. Hal Nevison reached down and sawed through the cords binding Chris. Hal's father looked at Ira Fitton. “Ira, I listened to—”
The innkeeper shook his head. “I know what moved you, Henry. Don't let it trouble you. It's all right now the truth is known. And it is known.” He stared straight at the Squire.
Mallory's thin mouth worked as if he were cursing silently. Then he flung out of the room, the Nevisons following.
Hawkins looked at Tim. “It seems that they forgot you, lad. Now before they remember too much and maybe come a-looking to make it hot for you, best get the law on your side. You tell me all you know about this Catsby, and we'll
see if we can't forget that you had too big a part in his Devil's work.”
Chris leaned back against the wall; he felt weak and tired and so thankful that he could not find the words he knew he owed Hawkins and his father. He only knew that he was free of a burden he had been carrying.
8
“Your Word Against Theirs”
Chris opened his eyes. This time he was not surprised to see overhead the ceiling of the room in Aunt Elizabeth's apartment instead of the years-darkened wood of the inn. He did not move at first, just lay thinking of the scene from which he had come by some means he could never understand. The fear which had held him so strongly as he sat with bound hands and listened to Hawkins' careful questioning of Tim was gone.
But he had been left with a want to know more. What had happened to Tim? And had they ever caught Catsby? He thought mostly about Hawkins and about his fatherâthe Ira Fitton of the inn, the father who had believed in him and had then moved to do the best he could for his son.
Chris could close his eyes and see that other's face as if Sergeant Major Fitton stood in this very room here and now. A queer sense of loss crept in to fill the emptiness which fear
had left. In spite of all that had happened to him, had threatened him this time within the walls of the Red Hart, he longed to be back there.
“Chris!”
There had come a cautious tap at the door; his name was called in a voice hardly above a whisper. He wriggled out of bed. What did Nan want? It was very early yet; the light was gray.
“What is it?” His answering whisper sounded like a hiss.
“Chrisâyou
are
here thenâ”
Now what in the world did
that
mean? Chris opened the door a crack. Nan pushed it farther open, enough for her to slip in.
“Youâyou're all right?”
“Why shouldn't I be?”
“I thoughtâthe Squireâhe was going to take you. I heard him talking to the Nevisons. I didn't know what was going to happen!”
“You were there then? But I didn't see you, not this time!”
She held her robe closer about her as if she were cold, though the bedroom was so warm after the remembered ever-present chill of the inn that Chris felt nearly too hot.
“I was a Nan again, too, a different one though. Sometimes I wonderâWas I once all those Nans? This time I went down to the inn. I told your father about Tim, about what the Squire might try to do. My father wanted Tim to change his story; he offered him the money to say he saw you actually setting fire to the rick. What happened, Chris? Did Tim lie?”
“He didn't get a chance.” Chris swept a pile of clothing off the chair and motioned Nan to sit down. “Hawkins fixed him, but good.”
Nan listened so eagerly that Chris found himself describing the scene at the inn with more detail than he planned. When he ended with the departure of the Squire, she looked disappointed. “That was all?”
“Oh, Hawkins said something about Tim's helping with more facts and so making it easier for himself. Butâit all seemed so easy, Nan, when Hawkins laid it out so they could seeâdrawing up the plan which proved Tim couldn't have been where he said he was, and finding out about Tim and Catsby being so close. Easyâwhen you know how to do it.”
The happiness was gone from Chris's face now. He had that shut-in sullen look again.
“Chris,” she ventured, “what's the matter? It came right in the dream, didn't it?”
âThis isn't the dream,” he returned flatly.
“You
are
in trouble.”
At first he resented Nan's statement. It was no business of hers. Who was she? Then memory returned; there were a number of Nans now he could think of. There was the Nan who by a trick had helped him save Master Bowyer; there was the Nan who had led him to warn the dragoons; there was that last Nanâhe had no doubt that she had done exactly as she had just now told him, carried the news of Tim to his father so both Ira Fitton and Harry Hawkins had been forewarned as to what weapon the Squire held. Then there was
this
Nan. When he looked directly at her, one face seemed to fit over another until they became the one he knew best.
“I'm in trouble.” And because he could not see any way that he could fight this time, he told her of his attempt to outwit Canfield and what had come of it.
“So there are two questions which were the same.” She sat up very straight in the chair, her hands folded in her lap. “But, Chris, if you had been selling the whole exam, the way they said, then all the questions would be the same, wouldn't they?”
“They can say I was doing it for money,” he pointed out.
“There has to be some way you can prove it,” she said hotly. On her face was the same look of determination he had seen two of those other Nans wearing. Her chin was up and her eyes were bright with beginning anger. Not against him, Chris realized with a small odd shock, but
for
him! Nan was ready to help.
“I don't know how.”
“This Mr. Battersley, how well do you know him, Chris?”
“Not much better than I know any of them.” For the first time he allowed a crack to open in his shell against the world. “I hate the place! Battersley's tough, but he's fair. And he knows his stuff. I got pretty good marks on my papers so far this term.”
“And Canfield and the rest?”
“They aren't in my section. That's the point. I have that class before they do, so it'd be easy to slip along information about the exam.”
“Then why go to all the bother of making up questions,” Nan pointed out. “And the wrong questions?”
“They say it's for the money.”
Nan considered the point. There must be some chink in Canfield's argumentâthere had to be. But it was not going to be as easy to find as the weak point in the Squire's accusation had been. That had been built on a lie, and one easily overturned by a man used to questioning liars and ready to expect some sort of cover-up.
“Can they prove you need money?”
Chris looked thoughtful. “I don't see how they can, but, of course, one can always use money. I showed Aunt Elizabeth my wallet. I've two dollars left from my allowanceâthat's all. But they can say I hid it somewhere.”
“It's your word against theirs thenâ”
“That's just the point, you see. They're bigâor at least Canfield is. He's captain of the soccer team, and his gang will back up what he tells them. I'm a lonerâ”
“You are
you,”
Nan said quietly; and something in the way she looked at him made Chris feel queer, as if she believed he could do just about anything he wanted toâbeginning with taking on the whole Academy. Except that was impossible, of course.
“I'd go to Mr. Battersley,” she continued. “Your best argument is the fact that the exams don't agree. How many questions were there anyway, Chris?”
“Six. Butâ” He shook his head slowly. “I can't blab to the Batman that I was so afraid of being roughed up that I made
all this up. It's the disgusting truth"âhe made himself say thatâ"but it's one I'm not going to tell.”
“Has anyone ever done this beforeâsold exams, I mean?” Nan was off now on another tack.
Chris shrugged. “I don't know. At least no one ever told me about it. I've only been there this one term anyway.”
“It sounds to me,” Nan said slowly, “as if this Canfield had an answer ready because he expected some trouble. Just like Patâ”
“Pat who?”
Nan gave him a quick, uncomfortable glance. And then made up her mind swiftly. Maybe if she showed him he was not the only oneâShe told her story of the “shopping” trip in a few sentences which did not spare her own ignorance.
“But you did it!” Chris nodded. “You got them off your back! Only I can't use your gimmickâit wouldn't work. This is not the same thing at all.”
“I did it,” Nan remembered, “because I thought about Uncle Jasperâand how I was able to trick him. Chris, you did things which were brave. You went for the dragoons, and you told the truth to the Bow Street runner so he was able to save you. There's got to be a wayâ”
“ThoseâI was dreaming!”
“I wonder.” Nan got up from the chair and went to pick up the inn. For the first time she had no feeling of discomfort as she handled it. When she set it back on the night table, she brushed an envelope to the floor. Hurriedly she picked it up.
“That's mine!” Chris snatched it from her with some of his old hostility.
But Nan dared to answer him this time. “That's from your fatherâand you never even read it.”
Chris's scowl was blacker than she had ever seen it. He twisted the envelope between his fingers as if he would tear it apart unopened. Then, with a defiant glance at her, he ripped it open and spread out the typewritten sheet it contained.
At least, thought Nan bleakly, he gets a letter; I get postcards. Just then she did not know whether she envied Chris or not.
“ChrisâNanâ”
Aunt Elizabeth! Nan hurried to the door and peeped through the crack she allowed to open there. Aunt Elizabeth must be calling from the kitchen. Without a backyard look she went across to her own room and started hurriedly to dress.
Chris read the letter. So
they
were coming homeâand Dad had a surprise he was sure would suit Chris. Well, Chris had had enough of Dad's surprises. He crumpled the page in one hand and glanced at the inn. For a moment he wished once more he was back thereâwith Sergeant Major Fitton, who perhaps did not go in for surprises but who was satisfyingly
there
when someone needed him.
He set about dressing. Nan had meant well, he would admit that, but nothing she had said was of very much help. He would have to go to the Academy with Aunt Elizabeth and
face them all with only his own word. And to Chris at that moment that seemed of very little worth indeed.
Aunt Elizabeth made a lot of cheerful talk which he did not listen to through breakfast nor even in the taxi she had ordered. They were both to be dropped off at the Academy, and Nan was then to go on to school alone. Chris, remembering Nan's story of how she had confronted Pat and Marve, wriggled on the seat. But she had had a good out. He wished for a moment or two he had Harry Hawkins instead of Aunt Elizabeth here beside him, the comfort of that deep rolling voice in his ears instead of the light chatter which was so disturbing.
As they went into the Academy, he caught sight of Canfield up ahead. There was a man with him. Canfield's father? Were they going to drag everyone's family into this? Chris did not let himself turn and run as he wanted to, but the hopeless depression within him grew darker and darker.
It was not the Headmaster who sat in the officeâthough it was his office. Mr. Battersley occupied the chair behind the desk there, rising to greet both Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Canfield, who wore an impatient expression.
Chris sat on the edge of the hard chair. He did not glance at Canfield. But he did meet the Batman's gaze and held it until the man looked over to where Canfield must be.
“I have been asked to conduct this meeting"âMr. Battersley's dry, emotionless tone could cover anything; it was well known that you could not shake the Batmanâ"since it is in
my class this matter began. I have had your story, Canfieldâ”
“It's perfectly plain what happened"âthat was Mr. Canfield cutting in.
A single lift of the Batman's eyebrows seemed enough to dry up that fuming voice. “Fitton"âChris looked stolidly back at the Batmanâ"I presume you have been told what this is all about.”
“They say I sold the copies of the test.”
“Not
the
testâa test,” Mr. Battersley corrected. “There are two similar questions. The restâI am interested by this, Fittonâwhere did you get the others? Oddly enough they are perfectly legitimate questions based on this semester's work. But they are not ones I considered using this time, nor have I used them in the past. I must believe that you yourself concocted them?” He made that a question instead of a statement.
“Yes,” Chris answered with the flat truth.
“Enterprising of you. Now"âthe Batman's gaze went to Canfieldâ"you have told me that Fitton approached you and offered to sell you a set of exam questions. Since your class record is anything but distinguished, you agreed to his proposition. He supplied you with a carbon which you proceeded to share with certain friends, until Mr. Powers saw what was going on and confiscated the papers and sent you to me. You then admitted what happened and said that the idea was Fitton's and you had each paid him five dollars for the use of the carbon. Am I correct in stating what you claim as facts?”
“The little double-crosser! He never meant to give us the real thingâhe was too yellow to get it!” Canfield was seething.
“Fitton?” Again Mr. Battersley swung back to him.
Canfield was no Tim Dykes confronted by the force of the law and fear of those questioning him. But the way Mr. Battersley had expressed that, his choice of wordsâ Dare Chris believe the Batman still had an open mind and he was not already convicted? He must do the best he couldâjust as Hawkins had done his best at the inn.
“I made up the questions,” he said. “That much is right. But I did not sell them.”
“Just what was your purpose, Fitton? To make trouble generally?”
“They said they wanted questionsâI went over what we'd had in class and gave them an exam. I wasn't going to take the real oneâ”
“Ah.” Mr. Battersley put the fingers of his hands together, erecting a “steeple.” “You interest me, Fitton. So it was suggested that you obtain the exam for the benefit of others?”
“That's a lie!” Canfield's voice was high and shrill. “He came to us. It was all his idea!”
“You made some very revealing remarks earlier, Canfield, when you referred to the fact that Fitton was “too yellow,” as you termed it, to get the real examination. If he approached you after he had supposedly stolen my papers, why would you have that vehement reaction?”
“Now look here,” Mr. Canfield cut in, “so the kid got suckered in by this Fitton. He'll admit he did that much, but
you have no right to imply that he put Fitton up to it in the first place.”
