“That never stopped you taking the rent.”
“I think you abandoned her and could never forgive yourself.” TK became condescending. “It’s stupid to waste your life trapped in self-recrimination, Nightminster. I forgave you long ago, even if I never said anything. Let it go.”
Nightminster’s shovel chin lifted, the thin eyes narrowed again, the mouth clamped lipless. TK marvelled at how easy it was to bait the man.
“It was not like that. It was as I described—complete confusion. We got separated. Had you ever been in such a riot, you would understand.” He took a glug of whisky and seemed to melt into the armchair. “She was irreplaceable, so I have passed the best years of my life alone.”
“What about Sarah-Kelly Newman?”
At this point even Nightminster must have cottoned on he was being needled. He set down his tumbler and stood, reaching for his cap.
“The Ultramarine Guild will contact Castle Krossington in due course.” At the door, he turned. “Allow me to leave you with a word of fair warning—do with it as you will. Concerning Donald Aldingford, he is a loose end I would not leave dangling if I were you. It is true that he does not possess the vicious will to freedom of his brother, but I rate him as well above the average domesticated rabbit of town society. He came out to North Kensington basin to find Sarah-Kelly Newman on his own initiative, and he went up to Brent Cross to see the destruction caused by the shells of Ladbroke fort. If you do nothing, I think he will reappear in very public view beside Madam Newman as a National Party fanatic.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Nightminster departed, closing the door gently behind him.
“What a pompous ass,” Wingfield said.
“He’s bulked himself up into a new animal too big to kill. Or so he believes. For my money, he’s deluded if he thinks the cats of the Ultramarine Guild will become a pack of dogs. They won’t. They’ll scatter like cats. That’s why they never gained power in the past.”
TK stared at the wall for a few moments, thinking. He knew he ought to get down to the armoured convoy and be gone from the Central Enclave. As head of clan, he must not risk being captured by the National Party. What held him back was the question of Donald Aldingford. He needed Donald in the bag to placate brother Marcus-John. That meant waiting for the team to get back from Donald’s house. To pass the time, he prompted Wingfield for an update on progress in tracing the true fate of Lawrence Aldingford.
“There is news. Just in at the dovecot.” Wingfield meant that a message had arrived by carrier pigeon in the dovecot of Wilson House. “My chaps have established contact with marsh people through some duck hunters in Peterborough. Apparently the marsh people crave gunpowder for their religious practices. They trade ducks and stuff for gunpowder via an elaborate ritual of meetings based on the state of the moon and the weather. The news is that the marsh people did indeed catch Pezzini half-drowned and sent the poor fellow to the Beyond in their own exquisite way. They also tracked and lost another fugitive. Then a few days later three of their own went missing on a hunting trip miles over to the west. They found the bodies on one side of a channel and the canoe hidden some distance away on the other. Their chaps had been killed in a fight—with a person or persons unknown. My chaps have also been lurking about in Peterborough without picking up so much as a hint of him, apart from Nightminster’s posters. It’s becoming rather a wild goose chase—risk and gold without return.”
“Where were the bodies found?”
“North of Peterborough, a few miles from a public drain.”
“Which bank was the canoe found on?” TK pressed.
“I don’t know.”
“Does the public drain lead to Peterborough?”
“Yes.”
“Well if Lawrence got that far, he got to Peterborough. Did he ever serve there?”
“Yes. He was based there five years ago when he hunted fenland bandits.”
“It’s possible he’s hiding there with old friends. It’s also possible he jumped on a train south. If he beat the marsh people and all those miles of mucky wilderness, he must be one fucking tough customer. As Nightminster just astutely pointed out, we can’t allow any leak from the Value System.”
A winded appearance came over Wingfield at the relentlessness of his master’s demands.
“It would not be possible for a vagrant to ride a glory train and get away with it, they’re very careful about that kind of thing. Nor do I believe any former acquaintance would risk sheltering an escapee from the Night and Fog. That’s the kind of risk only family will take, and in many cases even family won’t do it.”
“He can’t have just vanished into thin air.”
“I don’t believe he had anything to do with the killing of those marsh warriors. It’s far more likely they were attacked by rival tribesmen. For an exhausted fugitive to kill three marsh warriors is just not plausible.”
“Did you ever meet Lawrence Aldingford?”
“Yes, he took several of my courses at Camberley College.” Camberley Collage was the main staff college of the General Wardian glory trust. Wingfield gave courses on building spy networks within radical groups. “He was a big, glowering character; sceptical and suspicious. Not at easy person to teach. Clever and well read. I don’t think he was cut out to be a glory officer. The probing intellect does not fit into a hierarchy of what are essentially human guard dogs.”
“So you agree with Nightminster that Lawrence Aldingford is dead?”
“Yes. He couldn’t have got out of the marshes in winter. It’s a cold, sodden morass.”
“If he did get out, could he walk to London?”
“He could swim to London, if he was a good enough swimmer.”
“I don’t need the glibness,” TK said.
Wingfield rolled his eyes and sighed.
“I’ll have a watch put on the Great North Drain—there won’t be much traffic on it at this time
