Chapter twenty-two

Kinspit

 

John collapsed into his most comfortable chair. It had been another trying day. He needed a drink. He just didn’t yet have the energy to get up and fetch it.

Hardacre strode into the room. John could tell immediately that something was worrying him. John’s heart sank; he really didn’t need any more problems.

‘How are the preparations, sir?’

John pointed at the whiskey decanter. Hardacre nodded gravely.

‘That is bad, sir’

Hardacre took two steps to the decanter, poured a stiff but not excessive glass of whiskey, placed it on a coaster on a small tray, pivoted and stepped back to give it to his master. He looked away as John gulped it down. John began speaking exactly as the empty glass went back on the tray.

‘They need to chew over everything a hundred times: who’ll be there; who’ll be permitted to speak; what we’ll talk about; where everyone should sit; who should sit next to whom; when we should eat; what we should eat; who should serve us...’

Hardacre blinked. .

‘They all sound like reasonable preparations to me, sir...’

John glared at him.

‘I refuse to talk about it any longer – I just want a break from it’

‘Is there someone who you could delegate to do it for you, sir?’

John shook his head.

‘Negotiating that would take another three weeks’

Hardacre took the tray away from John’s table. He placed it at the far side of the drinks cabinet, ready to be taken to the kitchen. John knew that he wasn’t getting another drink quite yet. That was another worrying sign. It was time to find out what was going on.

‘Are you concerned about something, Laurence?’ he asked

There was a beat.

‘Well, sir, given that you ask, and I hate to worry you further, but I was wondering if you’d seen Dr Fielding recently?’

John tried to remember when he had seen her – a day ago, perhaps, two days...

‘Why?’ he asked, scared to hear the answer.

‘I think she may have gone missing...’

John bounded up from the chair. He made for the empty glass on the tray.

‘Missing? Surely not... all she’s done is potter around here and visit the University Library’

‘She wasn’t here last night and I haven’t seen her all day. I think that gives grounds for concern...’

John’s startled mind began to jump to conclusions.

‘Has she been kidnapped, or... murdered?’

Hardacre frowned.

‘Let’s not be hasty, sir – Kinspit is about the safest place I can think of. There hasn’t been any CRS activity here since the arson of the Magic School eighteen months ago. Security has been tightened considerably since then, as you know. And we have our own agents everywhere – so it seems unlikely.’

‘I think that you underestimate the CRS, Laurence, but I take your point. It would be hard to kidnap anyone in broad daylight here... and politically very dangerous. The CRS only act here if they think it’s essential – like destroying the Dwarven Magic rod’

‘Exactly, sir’

‘Did our agents see anything?’

‘No. Perhaps I should have been more explicit about keeping her safe...’

John shook his head. He had found his way back to the whiskey decanter and poured himself a small one – just enough to steady his nerves.

‘We forget that we’re always on the cusp of danger, Laurence’

‘Assuredly so, sir’

John sipped the whiskey this time, savouring its flavour and thinking aloud.

‘But we have no evidence that she’s been kidnapped or assaulted. The only thing that we know is that she’d disappeared. We need to look everywhere where we know she’s been recently’

‘This is my fault, sir’

John scowled at Hardacre over his glass.

‘Of course it’s not... She’s the one who’s just wandered off. And we can’t afford for her to fall into the hands of the CRS’

Laurence straightened, as if standing to attention.

‘With your permission, sir, I will go and try to find her’

‘Of course’ said John, ‘find out what you can. I’ll be fine on my own...’

Hardacre looked surprised.

‘Not on your own sir – you have Bentley... and... well...’ His voice dropped to a whisper, ‘...Simkins’

John smiled bravely. He wasn’t at all sure how this would work out.

‘That’s fine, Laurence – absolutely fine – you go.’

Laurence slipped out of the room leaving John feeling glum and apprehensive. He needed to concentrate on the mage-witch meeting, but there were so many things to distract him. All he wanted to do was help Laurence search for Kath, but he couldn’t, he was locked into these meetings for as long as it took – they needed the mages’ knowledge and all their skills.  He would have to press on.

***

He sat as his desk in his study and stared at the fifty odd sheets of draft agenda that the mage ‘pre-meeting negotiating team’ had drawn up. There were page after page of formulae and punctilio – but most of it seemed to boil down to who would be at the meeting and what they were permitted to talk about. John had seen this before – the Old Elves were always ready to drag things out if they really didn’t want to talk about them, but this wouldn’t do here, as this was potentially an existential threat to the whole world. Didn’t they care? John seriously wondered if they did.

Bentley brought him a sandwich at his desk; he had to go out again soon. She seemed efficient, but she was very different from Laurence; and he was so used to him. Laurence had a presence that moved around with him – it wasn’t that he was noisy it was just that one knew when he walked into a room. John would sense he was there, look up and there he was. Bentley was the exact opposite – she moved around as silent as a cat, floating into the room unseen and suddenly appearing at his side. He found it unnerving, but he had no real grounds for complaint, she was as fastidious and efficient as Laurence. Her only fault was that she wasn’t him.

‘Thank you, Bentley’ he said as she handed him the chicken sandwiches.

She nodded

John was finding using her surname continuously unnerving. He needed to find an alternative.

‘I usually call Mr Hardacre “Laurence”’ he ventured, tentatively

‘Of course, sir’ – this was confirmation that she had understood, not any endorsement of the practice. John soldiered on, anyway.

‘So, umm, what’s your first name, Bentley?’

Bentley blinked, but showed no other sign of emotion.

‘Eloise, sir, but no one has called me that for about forty years’

John wasn’t sure whether this was said with pleasure or regret. He only knew that he’d never dare call her that, even though it was a good, strong, unusual name.

‘So, what name would you prefer me to use?’

Bentley thought about this for longer than seemed rational to John, but eventually she responded, clipped and formal.

‘You should call me ”Miss Bentley” sir, that would be the most propitious form of address...’

John’s heart sank – he was making things worse.

‘What did Horace call you?’ he asked, grasping at straws.

Bentley hesitated. John wondered if she’d seen her wince slightly. He waited, hoping that she wouldn’t lie – but, in fact, very much doubting that she would.

‘Ben’ she whispered

John could either laugh or blurt something out. He made the wrong decision.

‘Good grief! What a ridiculously inappropriate name! I’m sorry about Horace - he can be such a fool’

Bentley’s face fell briefly and then went blank. Whatever expression had started in her brain had been halted almost instantaneously. John was mortified. He sensed that he’d been rude, but he couldn’t tell exactly why. Was it his comments about the name or about Horace?

‘I’m so sorry, Miss Bentley – that was an unforgiveable outburst...’

Bentley thawed enough to raise her eyebrows.

‘Mr Hardacre told me to expect such things, sir. Mr Buxton was often equally...’

‘Erratic?’ ventured John with an involuntary grin. Bentley allowed herself a small smile in response.

‘Unusual, sir’ she corrected him, ‘that’s the accepted valet’s term’

John nodded. Now was the time to strike – the last thing he was willing to do was to spend several years called his under-valet “Miss Bentley”. He wondered what sort of compromise they might reach. He tried a different angle.

‘So, would you say that I am more or less “unusual” than Horace, from what you’ve seen so far?’

Her eyes narrowed. She looked like a clever school prefect doing mental arithmetic.

‘It’s far too earlier to tell, sir, but I’m imagining that you may prove more unusual in the longer term.’ She looked at him; her eyes were very bright. Something occurred to him – was he getting all of this the right way round?

‘Did you enjoy working for Horace, Miss Bentley?’

Her face froze again. John feared what she was going to say – if she couldn’t cope with Horace then what would she make of him?

She leant forward and answered him in a hushed whisper, as if she were revealing a big secret.

‘I found it very challenging and worryingly unorthodox... but nonetheless... extremely rewarding’

So he had got the wrong end of the stick. She hadn’t been embarrassed to work for Horace, she had clearly revelled in it, oddness and all. There was more to Miss Eloise Bentley than met the eye. John was once again astounded at Laurence perspicuity; he seemed to have made a brilliant staffing appointment.

‘Well, that’s good... ’ he said, still wary but growing in confidence, ‘...and did you mind that he called you Ben?’

Bentley shook her head and her face coloured a little. John realised that despite all of her training she had loved the nickname. It seemed that their problem was solved.

‘Then I shall call you that’ he said, airily ‘– it’s a single syllable, so it won’t waste as much time...’

She assumed her implacable mask.

‘If you insist, sir...’ she sighed, but John knew this was just a cover.

‘I do, Ben – I really do’