The village of Mustow Green was tranquil, quaint, and rather quirky, on account of many of its residents being something other than human. One of those locals, Taro Yamada, sat warm beneath the blankets of his bed, knees lifted, his back against a duo of pillows propped against the headboard, gazing out the window. With his head still foggy from deep sleep, he smiled as he watched the day unfurl itself from the wrapping of night, spreading tendrils of soft golden light over the small back garden of the modest cottage he shared with his fellow. A man who, at that very moment, thought himself very stealthy as he moved about in the kitchen, setting water to boil for his beloved first cup of tea. They were, as always, among the first in the village to rise; Rhydian off to his work as Nora’s assistant at her bakery, and Taro to his office; should a client decide that dawn was a fitting time to seek his services.
Master Yamada’s Detective Agency was never truly closed. Taro made that known often; in the public house over an evening drink, and in the morning at the grocer’s shop when he went to collect his eggs and milk.
‘Come and see me, any time of day or night, if you have a mystery that needs solving, lost property that needs finding, or…’ he would lower his voice here, forcing those who listened to lean in, ‘other fouler jobs that might arise. I do not fear a trace of blood. If it is foul play that plagues you, I am your man.’
He did not know, of course, if he was their man at all. Perhaps he’d faint at the sight of his first dead body, but better he tested his mettle here, in Mustow Green, than embarrass himself in London, where he intended to work for Scotland Yard, and become one of the world’s greatest detectives.
A pity that a murder case was highly unlikely in Mustow Green; a sanctuary where Naturals and Purebreds — that is, supernatural creatures and humans — could live without many of the fears shared by those who lived beyond the preternatural boundaries of the village. Men and women mingled with those usually declared monsters by those outsiders who did not care to know better; and all lived in sanctuary thanks to Master Bess, Lord of nearby Harvington Hall; a powerful fae who kept the village safe and prosperous.
Detective work wasn’t so easy to come by in a place like Mustow Green; a village that had been banned from entering their vegetables and livestock into regional agricultural fairs because they won all competitions far too easily, such was the quality of animals and plants raised here. So far, in the few months since he’d opened his business, the greatest mystery Taro had solved had been the case of the missing brooch from Mrs Plunkett’s jewellery box (found beneath the seat of her phaeton carriage, along with a year old jar of blueberry jam and a wrinkled apple core). Aside from that, there’d been an issue with a murder of crows at Jo Smith’s farm; the old fool had sworn the birds had taken one of his calves, flying it through the air one night; a raven’s claws hooked into its shoulders.
But nothing so wonderful as a true murder had arisen to investigate. Taro might need to move to a bigger town for such a case; he’d need something substantial to convince Scotland Yard that they should call on his services for their investigations. As he had no desire to become a police officer and enter the Yard’s ranks that way, he’d decided that he simply must become the greatest detective in the British Isles to garner their attention.
He sighed. The clink of a cup came from the small kitchen that lay beyond the partly closed bedroom door. A soft cough followed. Taro glanced at the empty side of the bed, the sheet showing a hint of a stain upon its cream threads.
If he left Mustow Green, would Rhydian follow?
Taro groaned and rubbed his face, irritated by the predicament he’d landed in. He’d sought a lover but found love. Bloody inconvenient. He’d not intended to fall for anyone until he was a Detective Chief Superintendent, and even then he’d thought it unlikely he’d have time for such things as loving someone decently.
Tumbling head over heels for the baker boy could not have come at a worse time. A human, to make matters more perplexing, albeit one who had some talent for premonition and the reading of the tarot; on account of his ancestor being among those last witches hung at Pendle Hill some two hundred years ago. But Rhydian had always claimed the cards did not tell him if Taro would achieve his dream of detective brilliance.
‘I can smell bread on the wind, Nora is already baking the first batch,’ Taro called out. ‘Are you late again?’
‘If I am, it is entirely your fault. You had your wicked way with me all night. It was a dreadful ordeal. You kitsune are fiends.’
Taro curled his toes, his cheeks growing warm despite the chill of a room not yet heated by a crackling fire. ‘We also have supremely good hearing, and I distinctly heard you beg me not to stop.’
Ridiculous, how his belly flipped at the thought of their tangled night together; one of many they’d shared since Taro had assisted the bakery with a case of vanishing flour sacks last September. (Taken by a group of youngsters hoping to make themselves into ghosts for Hallowe’en.) Nora, the village baker, had only recently taken on an apprentice, so the handsome face across the counter had been unfamiliar to Taro when he entered the shop that fateful day. No part of that apprentice was unfamiliar to him now, though; every crack and crevice and hole had been explored thoroughly, and with great delight.
Rhydian laughed, pushing open the door and stepping back into the bedroom, holding a cup that steamed, and nothing to cover his modesty. ‘Did I wake you? I was so sure I’d managed to slip away this time.’
He’d made it his mission to outsmart his lover. A foolish quest, considering what small chance he had of being stealthy enough not to wake a slumbering fox.
‘You did a little better than last week, I suppose,’ Taro said absently, enjoying the view as Rhydian walked naked towards the bed. He was neither svelte nor thick, neither tall nor short, not muscled, but nor was he gangling. Rhydian might be considered plain, Taro supposed; an average human man with hair that tended towards unruly and brown eyes that rarely lost their hint of a smile. But just being near him had Taro’s stomach in knots, and his heart beating like a dog digging furiously for a bone. Looking at him, touching him, sent waves of happiness coursing through his supernatural blood. The gentle swing of Rhydian’s cock as he moved was hypnotising, and had Taro’s thoughts sliding into debauched territory. ‘You could always return to bed with me, and we try again?’
Rhydian laughed again, the small bulge of his belly jiggling in a way that sent a bolt of arousal straight to Taro’s nether. ‘I shall struggle to walk decently as it is. If you take me for another round I’ll be done for. Did I truly not manage to slip away unheard this time? You were still snoring when I left the room.’
‘Darling, I am kitsune.’ Taro folded his arms behind his head. ‘Big ears, wonderful hearing, and a gorgeous black nose that can smell you when you are still a mile away. The flutter of your eyelashes woke me.’
‘You say all this about yourself, the lovely black nose, the dashing ears, and yet refuse to let me see you as you truly are.’ He pouted and was far too adorable.
Taro smile but his heart clenched. In truth, he dared not show himself to this man, not yet. It was one thing to be open-minded about creatures that should only exist in myth, as Rhydian was, and indeed all the Purebreds who lived in Mustow Green, but it was another entirely to witness a man change into a fox. Taro’s heart would likely crack if he saw fear or repulsion in Rhydian’s eyes.
Besides, the change bloody hurt, and left Taro bedridden for days afterwards.
‘You seem quite fond of this body as it is.’ He winked. ‘Happy to do the most dreadful things to it.’
‘You can talk,’ Rhydian scoffed. ‘I am positively ruined. But don’t change the topic—’
Taro did just that and hit upon a sore spot he knew would rescue him from talk of foxes. ‘Ruined, and rather pungent, my dear. Did you fall asleep before you could clean yourself up?’
‘You know I didn’t, you bastard. You were there with the cloth.’ Rhydian shrugged into a linen shirt. ‘If I reek it is you who are to blame.’
‘Not entirely, though I will not claim innocence in this matter.’ He grinned, enjoying the show as his lover wriggled into his shirt. When it settled around his waist, Taro was pleased to note that it was not long enough to hide his assets, which now dangled freely as Rhydian leaned over the edge of the bed towards him. ‘Tell me I do not smell, and be honest now. I’d die if Nora were to wrinkle her nose at me.’
Taro moved, quick as the fox he was, sliding himself beneath Rhydian’s body, turning in a tangle of blankets to where he lay beneath dangling flesh. He opened his mouth and slipped his lips over his lover’s limp cock.
‘No! Fiend!’ Rhydian cried, laughing and protesting in equal measure. ‘Get off. I am late.’
But he was not so late that he fought hard to disengage himself from Taro’s attentions. They played with each other roughly, as both enjoyed, and it was not long before Taro tasted victory and Rhydian cried out to one of the gods the humans imagined real.
‘No, you do not smell,’ Taro said with a smirk, wiping at his lips. He rolled from beneath his panting baker boy. ‘Now stop bothering me. I need to open the agency.’
‘Why do you insist on opening at dawn, you silly creature.’ Rhydian’s face was flushed and eyes bright as he wiped himself down. ‘You could sleep until midday and not miss a client,’ he laughed.
Taro laughed too, though not so loudly. Rhydian, being more observant than most humans, cast him a sorrowful look. ‘Blast it, I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. You know I mean nothing by it. One day you shall leave us all to find a town truly deserving of your skills, for they are wasted here.’ The smile vanished from his eyes.
They stared at one another; Rhydian magnificently naked, and Taro feeling horribly so. With the taste of his lover upon his tongue, Taro ached to speak aloud the question that had plagued him for weeks now. When I leave, will you come with me?
A knock on wood had Rhydian leaping for his trousers, and Taro fighting with the blankets to free himself.
‘That’s the shop door,’ he said, rather pointlessly. ‘Someone’s at the door.’
‘Christ, I hope that’s not Nora come to fetch me.’ Rhydian wobbled from foot to foot, dressing himself with feverish panic. ‘Is it her? Taro? Is it her?’
‘Aren’t you the one with talent for premonition? You tell me?’
‘Don’t be so mean,’ he retorted, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his sock. ‘You know full well I don’t simply know things. Insight is fickle. It doesn’t come to me at will.’
Taro tumbled over the side of the bed, too caught up in his fight with a stubborn blanket to realise he’d been close to the edge. ‘Bloody hell,’ he cried, his arse hitting the floorboards hard. ‘Why do you insist on a hundred blankets on our bed?’
‘Because you steal the vast number of them, and I would freeze otherwise. You insist on bundling yourself up in a ridiculous cocoon.’
‘Not a cocoon,’ Taro was indignant. ‘A burrow. And it is instinctual, don’t begrudge me for it. It is entirely normal for my kind.’ He actually had no idea about that. Taro could have asked his great-uncle Mr Ahari about his desire to be virtually buried whilst slumbering, but the leader of the Order of the Golden Dawn in London — a clandestine organisation who dealt with the true monsters of the land — was intimidating, and mind-bogglingly powerful. Rumour had it his true fox form rivalled the size of an elephant. Taro would not embarrass himself with a question about sleeping blankets.
‘Is it Nora, Taro?’
‘No, its not Nora. Calm down, you’ll give yourself another of your headaches, and its not yet daybreak.’
‘Who is it then?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t recognise the scent.’ His ears pricked to the clearing of a throat; a subtle sound that revealed something of their visitor. ‘It’s a woman.’
‘Oh God, don’t say it's Nora. She promised me she’d teach me her apple pie recipe this week. I can’t risk losing that chance. Those pies are legendary.’
‘It’s not bloody Nora.’
‘Have you had one of those apple pies, Taro? They are heaven in a mouthful. I need that recipe.’ Rhydian snatched up his coat, causing the already wobbly stand to rock on its base. ‘That’s twice this month you’ve made me late.’
‘You could always say no to my charms.’
Rhydian’s sigh fell heavy and theatrical. ‘You know that is almost impossible, not with the tricks your tongue can perform.’
They reached the doorway at that moment, and Taro gave him a gentle punch to the shoulder. ‘What do you mean, almost? My tongue is superb. Now kiss me, and be off.’
Rhydian obliged him with a hard press to the lips, and a pat to his arse. ‘Perhaps the lady would prefer you put your trousers on first, darling.’
‘Shit.’
Another knock came from down the hall, where a closed door marked the boundary between cottage and shopfront. As Taro turned to gather his clothes, Rhydian waved at him, traipsing towards the kitchen and the entranceway there that would take him into the back garden and the laneway beyond to make his way to the bakery on the other side of the village. ‘Good luck, I hope its an intriguing case. If she is beautiful, I shall be madly jealous, just so you know.’ He blew Taro a noisy kiss.
‘Fool,’ Taro tutted, blushing madly. He dashed back into the room to retrieve his clothes. After the quickest change he’d ever executed, he hurried into his shopfront; or rather, his office; simple as it was, with just a desk, a worn but exquisitely comfortable chair for himself, and less cushioned wooden chairs for his clients. A wag-on-the-wall clock swung its pendulum, ticking down the moments, and a small wood-stove stood sentinel in the corner, waiting to be lit; with any luck, the day was mild enough he’d not have to bother.
He hurried to the door, the blind still down and covering the glass, and unlocked it, swinging it open with a smile.
‘Good morning, good morning, Mr Taro Yamada at your service. My apologies, I was…tending to some matters of great urgency. Do come in.’
The woman was already halfway across the threshold before he could step out of her way.
‘Close the door, quickly,’ she hissed.
She wore a hooded cloak and was a tall woman, a head above Taro’s rather mediocre height. Aside from that, he could see little of her features.
Startled, Taro did as she bid, clicking the door shut. Habit saw him move to draw up the blind that covered the door’s pane of glass, but once again he was ordered about.
‘Leave it. I’d rather no one saw I was here.’
Though mildly irritated with being hissed at, a thrill pulsed through him. This was all deliciously clandestine and mysterious. ‘How can I help you, Miss…?’
‘Don’t need no names. Miss Winter will suffice.’
Taro smoothed down his vest, fixing the last button in place. ‘Very well. I understand.’ He gestured to one of the wooden chairs. ‘Would you like to take a —’
‘Not here long enough for sitting. You’re a detective, ain’t you?’
Taro nodded, trying discreetly to glimpse some features beneath the hood. He made his way to his chair behind the desk. ‘I am indeed. An able one at that, though I suppose you’ve heard that already if you are here.’
‘Haven’t heard nothing of the sort. Wasn’t my idea to come, just doing what I was told. Can’t say I like it. Don’t like it at all, but something has to be done, I’ll agree with that much. Still think I was set up to draw that short straw to come here…’ She hissed again, though this time at herself. ‘Never mind all that.’ She bustled about beneath the layer of her cloak. Taro glimpsed an unremarkable hand, one with wrinkles enough to suggest she was not young, but neither terribly old. Her skin was patched with red marks, and her knuckles were rather dry. With the manner in which she spoke, Taro decided her to be a laundress, or kitchenmaid perhaps. ‘Here, will this do?’
She tossed a small leather pouch onto the table between them, coins jingling within. Taro frowned at the offering. ‘Well, that depends what it is you wish me to do. Perhaps you’d like to explain the case you wish to employ me on?’
His curiosity was well and truly piqued; his blood humming with an excitement he kept concealed beneath a smooth, serious expression.
She edged back her hood, revealing grey hair, strands awry, and wind-reddened cheeks. She glanced back towards the door, then towards the other entrance that led to the cottage interior, and pointed a finger. ‘No one back there? We’re alone?’
‘We are.’ He nodded. ‘My companion has already left for work. My fellow is a baker, you see. Very early starts.’
He bit his lip, realising he’d been too forward. This woman was likely not from Mustow Green, on account of Taro knowing most residents well and not recognising her. She’d likely take much deeper offence to a man declaring another man his ‘fellow’ than any resident of the village. Sure enough, she gave him that look; the up-and-down, narrowed consideration of those who frowned upon such intimacies.
But she quickly sighed, waving her hand as though to bat away such bothersome thoughts.
‘You are needed at the manor house at Brockhampton, and not for what our master thinks, mind.’ Her work-worn hands clenched. ‘Argh, this is a terrible idea.’
To Taro, it already sounded like the most exciting idea he’d heard since he’d opened his office. Brockhampton was about twenty-five miles southwest of the sanctum of Mustow Green. It was an impressive 14th Century estate with a manor house and apple orchards that the baker Nora declared she would sell her soul to own. As it was, Rhydian said she refused to make her pies with any other apples.
‘Are you sure you won’t sit down? Perhaps it would soothe you.’
This time, when he gestured at the chair, she heaved a grand sigh and sat down heavily. ‘Fine,’ she huffed. ‘It’s been a long day already and the sun’s not yet up. I need to get back before first service though, so listen carefully.’
Taro seated himself, his toes wriggling with anticipation inside his shoes. He grabbed at his quill and smoothed out a page in his notebook before dipping the tip in ink and nodding. ‘Go on.’
Grim-faced, she began. ‘We’re worried about our master. He’s not himself since that fellow came to Brockhampton. Been there a few weeks now and nothing seems normal in the place.’
‘Fellow? Do you have a name?’
‘Lance Corporal Badh. Strange fellow, and not in a good way. Shifty, we all say. Gives us the shivers. But our master don’t seem to see it. This fellow claims to be an acquaintance from the military. Met in Hong Kong, when they served together in the Second Opium War. True enough our master was there, but we all agree this Badh chap hasn’t held a rifle a day in his life. Doubt he could find China on a map, much less Hong Kong.’
Taro made a note, brow furrowed. ‘So you think he’s an impostor?’
‘We don’t know what he is, and that’s what has us all so worried. He’s up to no good, we’re certain of it, but no one can get close enough to find out why. Refuses a valet, and keeps his rooms locked…’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Here’s where it gets mighty curious. Mr Rumney, the head butler, has keys for all the rooms including that one, but since the corporal moved in, not a single key will open that door. In fact, Rumney was sneaking about just yesterday, for the sake of the master you see, after they’d gone out for a shoot. Tried the key and it slipped, sliced his thumb open somehow. And that’s not all, we’ve lost a least a dozen pigeons from the aviary in the past couple of weeks, and one of cows birthed her calf four nights ago, and it was gone the next morning. Not a trace.’
Taro bit the inside of his lip. How bloody marvellous! He wanted to whoop with excitement.
‘How unfortunate for poor Mr Rumney,’ he said solemnly. ‘And the animals. So, do you wish for me to investigate the background of this fellow? See what I can find?’
‘No.’ Another anxious glance was thrown over her shoulder; the woman growing restless upon hearing the passing of a cart outside. ‘You’re to come to Brockhampton on the pretence of investigating some missing silver. Nothing’s been stolen of course but Mr Rumney told our master otherwise, and got his approval to bring in a detective to discreetly look into the situation.’ Her shoulders slumped, and she picked at her fingertips. ‘Though I don’t know Master Lutley would even recall the conversation. He walks about as though he’s in a trance half the time of late. Barely remembers to eat.’ She looked up, eyes sharp upon Taro. ‘You’ll be there to see what you can find out about what this fellow is up to. This here is a strange place, you’re an odd lot in Mustow Green, all the more reason we thought that you’d be best for an odd job like this. Perhaps not a job at all….but I feel it in my bones, I do.’ She fiddled with the hem of her cape, falling silent.
For want of anything else to say, Taro said, ‘I’m certain I can get to the bottom of this. How did you hear about me?’
‘Your farrier tends to Master Lutley’s horses, and he told a stable-boy about your agency…laughed about it, if I’m honest, but said you were decent enough. And maybe that’s all we need. Maybe we’ve got the wrong idea about things, getting ourselves spooked when there is no need. Would be embarrassing to waste the time of some grand detective from London, even if we could afford to pay him enough to keep his mouth shut about the truth of his visit. And it wouldn’t do to stain the reputation of our master that way either.’ She nodded at the pouch of coins. ‘Gathered as much as we could from the household. Will it convince you not to say a word about the true reason for your visit?’
Despite her insulting insinuation that he was no grand detective, Taro set down his quill with trembling fingers. ‘It will suffice. When would you like me to ride out?’
The woman lifted the hood of her cape and rose to her feet. ‘They’ll be expecting you this afternoon, just after tea. Master and Lance Corporal Badh like to ride out to the woods afterwards. That will give Mr Rumney time to fill you in.’ She smoothed her cape and hid herself in the folds of the hood once more. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Yamada, and good luck.’
The door clicked shut behind her, and at long last Taro let out the whoop of sheer delight that had been strangling him with every tantalisingly curious word she spoke.
Brockhampton Estate was an easy ride from Mustow Green, just over an hour on horseback, give or take an extra quarter hour thanks to Taro’s horse, Frederick, who was not the speediest of beasts. He could have asked Rhydian to borrow the baker boy’s much faster animal, Hercules, but that would involve a lecture, perhaps even a frown and a stern, ‘This sounds like it might be dangerous, Taro. Sniffing about in a nobleman’s business.’
Perhaps it was, but only the devil himself could have prevented Taro from sticking his nose in now that his fever for the mystery had taken hold. So he’d scribbled a note, a lie about being summoned to Harvington Hall. It wouldn’t be unusual, for Taro had begun his life in Mustow Green working for Master Bess, their lord of the manor. Taro’s Great Uncle Mr Ahari, had secured him a position as a footman there. Occasionally Master Bess still requested his services when a staff member was unwell, or the event was so large as to require extra attendants.
After making his way through the grounds of Brockhampton, and passing by the much-fettered apple orchards, Taro arrived at the manor house; with its dark wooden frame and whitewashed walls, tottering chimneys and high peaked roofs with lead-latticed windows. Taro’s deception was forgotten as he marvelled at the impressive home.
A stable-hand rushed to take his horse, not a word uttered by the lad, nor even a glance, just a mumbled, ‘They’re waiting on you.’ Before he hurried Frederick away.
‘How very odd,’ Taro tutted, whilst at the same time absolutely adoring the drama of such an unusual greeting.
He adjusted his collar for the umpteenth time and raised his hand to lift the heavy brass knocker. The door swung open before he could touch it. A round-faced man, cheeks flushed and eyes a little wild, stood there; his prim uniform with its black tailcoat and grey striped trousers declared him the butler.
‘Good Afternoon,’ Taro tilted his head. ‘I am Detective Yamada —’
‘Get in,’ the butler snapped. ‘Before the ravens sight you.’
Frowning, Taro turned to look beyond the roof of the landing that offered visitors shelter at the door. ‘Whatever do you — Ah!’
He was pulled bodily into the house, his toes clipping the threshold and leaving him flailing to keep his balance. A powerful scent struck his nostrils; a sickly perfume that made his empty stomach lurch. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’
‘I told you,’ the man said tightly, closing the door with a thump behind them, pushing aside the covering of lace that hung over the glass panels to peer outside. He had a slim white bandage wrapped around his thumb. ‘I know there’ll be one about somewhere, no matter if most follow him. Can’t have them sending word.’
Resettling his coat with a tug of annoyance, Taro glared at the man’s back. ‘Best you start speaking some sense, or I’ll no be able to solve any mysteries for you. Why are you so bothered about ravens, and who will they send word to?’
Taro knew the black birds had an unsettling intelligence. He knew the Purebreds, with their superstitious nature, had built a vast library of spooky tales around them; humans were odd with their fears like that. Ultimately, though, ravens were not preternatural creatures; just very smart animals who chose allegiances that would best benefit them.
‘Come with me.’ The butler pushed past him, not a word of apology for causing Taro to have to jump out of the way. ‘We’ll meet with the others in the kitchen.’
Gritting his teeth, Taro did as he was bid and travelled with the man — remarkably nimble — down the length of the hallway that was flanked by a double staircase; a wooden structure polished till it gleamed. The pungent scent had dissipated, though it was still present enough to make Taro wrinkle his nose. He couldn’t quite place the sickly sweet smell with its hint of something bitter or burnt beneath. They reached the far end, but did not use the obvious door there, rather one that was near-hidden in the wood-panelled wall. The butler barely slowed to press at the wood and release the lock that unfastened with a sharp click. A panel swung inwards into a brightly lit walkway, where the muttering of voices and the metallic clank of pots and pans reached him well before they arrived in the house’s main kitchen.
A small group awaited him. He recognised the woman who had been sent to hire him; chewing at her nail vigorously and refusing to make eye contact with him. There was a younger woman, her hair in a superbly tight and tidy bun, her uniform starched and pressed to perfection, and a gentleman who peered down his rather bulbous nose at Taro, hands folded behind his back, his hair slicked heavily with oil; a housemaid and footman, respectively, Taro decided.
‘Good afternoon,’ he began, nodding his head. ‘My name is Detective Taro Ya—’
‘No time for all that,’ said the woman, Mrs Winter, who’d come to Mustow Green. ‘I’ve told them your name.’ She glanced at the butler. ‘Get him up to the room now, Rumney. They’ve already been out a half hour.’
‘But they were headed to the pond on the southern side of the woods, Mrs Carlton,’ the young woman said, in the breathless manner of someone fearful. ‘They’d barely have made it there by now…’
The butler, Rumney, clicked his tongue. ‘And who’s to say that sorcerer hasn’t heard from his birds that someone new has arrived, and he’s riding back here as we speak. But I thought we should give Detective…’ He glanced at Taro, whose name had apparently already been forgotten, but Taro was too excited at being called a detective to be offended.
‘Detective Yamada,’ he replied. ‘Might I ask —’
‘You may ask as you move,’ said the woman from Mustow Green, who was not Mrs Winter at all, but Mrs Carlton, evidently. ‘Quickly now, Rumney. We’ll all keep watch best we can.’
‘I’ll go to the attic and keep watch from there.’ The first words from the appraising man with the large nose; his narrow face grim with seriousness. ‘And Bobby will set up watch as soon as the detective’s horse is away. Leave nothing moved about, touch nothing, don’t—.’
‘That’s quite enough, Matthews. This was my idea after all,’ Mr Rumney sniffed. ‘Come along, Detective Yamada.’
Chest puffed with foolish pride, Taro followed along, but could not deny that the entire situation was extremely odd. ‘Mr Rumney, I was told by Mrs Carlton that you’ve been unable to get into this fellow’s room. Your thumb was cut, was it not?’ He gestured at the man’s bandaged thumb. Rumney would not have seen the move, for he was too busy storming ahead, out a side door of the kitchen, to where a narrow circular staircase led them upstairs.
‘I was getting most frustrated with trying to open the door so it could well have been my impatience that cut me, not an enchanted lock. The key will go in the lock, but it refuses to turn, no matter how I jiggled it about. Tried all the keys twice, and no luck there either. All I could do was peer through the blasted key hole.’
‘And what did you see?’
Rumney glanced over his shoulder. ‘I am not one to normally pry, you understand.’
‘Of course, of course. But it is for the sake of your master.’ Taro buttered the man. ‘You are merely doing what any professional ought.’
‘Exactly.’ He turned back as they reached the last step. ‘But I’ve not much to report. The curtains are always pulled, no matter the time of day, and candles are burning, many many candles actually, and not one of them come from our stores. Don’t like it, don’t like it at all. Waste of wax and wick, firstly, and a dreadful fire hazard secondly.’ He stopped at the door at the top of the small landing. ‘I’m always very careful on both counts. So take note, Detective Yamada, if you intend to burn the midnight oil do it with an oil lamp. I’m happy to provide—’
‘What else did you see in the room, Mr Rumney?’ Taro turned the course of the conversation back to more important things.
Rumney scowled. ‘A book, old I would gather, and thick with pages that look well worn. Gold cover fancy enough to be from an abbey. Has it sitting on a stand, like a priest would to read his sermon to the congregation. All manner of things strewn around on top of one of Sir Lutley’s most prized writing desks too. Papers and sprigs of dried plants. He claims to be some kind of amateur botanist. But all I see is perfect fodder for the flames.’
He pushed open the door and stepped out into the main upstairs corridor, muttering about his nemesis candles. The air from the passageway swept into the stairwell.
Taro was smacked in the senses by an acrid stench. He coughed, his throat tightening, his nostrils tingling, and eyes prickling with tears.
‘Detective?’ Rumney was a blurry blob in the dim light. ‘Everything all right?’
Taro covered his nose. ‘What is that smell?’
The butler sniffed several times before gasping. ‘Good gracious, that’s not smoke is it? Those damned candles!’ The black blob dashed off, oblivious to Taro’s protests.
‘No, not smoke….it’s…’ A coughing fit took hold. By the time Taro had gotten himself settled, Rumney was at the far end of the corridor, in front of one of several identical mahogany wood doors along the hallway. Wiping at his tears, he hurried after him. ‘Mr Rumney, hold on a moment.’ The odour was hard to pin down, but certainly not borne from fire. To his mind, it reeked of decay…and cigar smoke; a choking, vile mix that had his inner nature rousing; that niggle beneath his skin that became a painful pinch if he allowed the transformation. ‘Let me try the door. I think it best you don’t go in there.’
Rumney’s eyes widened. ‘What makes you say that, Detective?’
Taro could hardly admit the truth, so he went with a convenient lie. ‘A gut instinct, fashioned after many years in this business.’ Barely six months of sleuthing, but a lifetime of sniffing out curiosities. ‘Might I try that key?’
With a feverish nod, Rumney handed over a small bunch of keys, dangling them by one key. ‘Here, this is it. Should open all the doors on the second floor. But I challenge you to get this one open.’
‘Challenge accepted,’ Taro positioned himself in front of the door, blocking the man’s view of the keyhole. ‘Best you stand back a little, perhaps you could keep watch at the window there?’ He gestured to where a latticed window at the hall’s end looked out over a wide expanse of lawn; woodlands with towering oak trees visible beyond. ‘Is that the woods where they’ve taken a ride?’
‘It is. An enormous expanse it is too, and that dastardly fellow seems keen to have my master traipse around every inch. They’ve been out almost every day for the past ten days, and for hours on end.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘As I said, the Lance Corporal thinks himself a botanist, or at least, a collector of specimens. He claims he wishes to find specimens for those in London’s finest houses who are looking to expand their greenhouses and the likes. He’s got a couple of Wardian cases in the room for transporting them, but I’ve not been able to see what’s been collected.’
Taro hummed. ‘Is the woodlands here known for any specimen or delicacy?’
‘Not that I know of, Detective. But they are known for being ancient grounds. There’s a yew tree in there rumoured to be a thousand years old, plus rowan and blackthorn. We thought perhaps those fancy folk in London, with spiritualism being all the rage right now, might fancy themselves as witches…or rather, seek to keep witches off their doorsteps, depending which of those trees the corporal is intent on, if any. Maybe he’s after the faeries supposedly in there.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Or the wood nymphs. I’ve even heard stories claiming that the Green Man himself lives at the heart of those woods. We had a gardener once who swore he’d seen him more than once.’ Romney laughed; a shrill hiccup of nervous sound. ‘Silly nonsense all of it, wouldn’t you say?’
Taro jiggled the key in the lock; there was no turning it, no matter how he tried. ‘More likely a wanted man seeking a hideout, or a vagabond ensuring people are too fearful to enter the woods and chase him out, than a god of the forest.’ He pressed his lips, straining to turn the key. ‘Damn it, this truly won’t budge, will it? Perhaps it needs oil in the mechanism?’
‘Tried that already. Can you pick it open? You detectives are specialists in that field, surely.’
Despite the unsettling stench, rising trepidation, and the suggestion that he was an efficient thief, Taro delighted at hearing himself so readily included in the esteemed world of investigators. ‘We certainly are, and I am one of the best. Keep a close eye at that window. I’d hate to be disturbed.’
He edged himself so that Romney had no view of the lock. Taro breathed into his true self and opened the way for the slide of an onyx claw from his forefinger. It always stung a little, like lemon juice in a cut, but he was far too excited about opening this door to fuss. Taro sent the tip of his claw into the keyhole.
A jolt ran through him, and he recoiled, gasping.
‘What is it? Do you have it open?’
‘Stay there, Mr Romney, let me work.’ Taro sought to calm his beating heart. His fingers trembled, and the hairs on his arms stood on end; it was as though a tiny bolt of lightning had run through him when he his claw touched the metal.
But he was not one to scare easily. He was not human after all. Taro tried again, gritting his teeth against the return of the prickling sensation. He worked the curved tip of his claw into the mechanism. ‘Nearly there,’ he muttered. ‘Nearly there.’
The prickling intensified into something akin to burning. Any moment now he’d be forced to retreat. Taro let out a growl; one far too close to the sound of a true fox.
‘Gracious! What was that? Does he have a dog in there?’
Taro didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he tried to speak, there’d be no hiding the pain. A pain that was fast becoming too searing to bear. If he had smelled burning hairs, Taro would not have been surprised. His arm felt as if it were on fire; the skin on his fingers sure to peel away soon. But in fact, there was not even a blush upon his skin.
The click of the locking mechanism was more beautiful than a songbird’s cry. The door sprang open, and he snatched his hand away, the black claw sinking back beneath his nail. He pushed up his sleeve; scanning his arm quickly to ensure no burn marks were evident. He was unharmed.
‘Well done, Detective.’ The butler dashed towards the open door, but Taro blocked his way.
‘You’re not to go in, Mr Rumney. Not until I have investigated and deemed it safe.’ Instinct told Taro loud and pungent that there was nothing safe about this room. ‘Please remain at the window. It is vital I am not discovered in the corporal’s room.’
Danger, danger, danger. His true self whispered. But how fantastically exciting, his head returned.
Taro stepped into the room. The foul odour had lessened, but was enough to make his stomach flip. And now he frowned at a fresh scent; a tinge of copper that made Taro’s pulse quicken, for all animals knew blood when they smelled it. ‘Great gods, what does he have in here?’ He turned back to push the door partly closed. Etchings along the upper frame of the doorway caught Taro’s eye.
He took a step back, giving himself a wider view. Deliberate carvings marked the wood, but none seemed made by a skilled carpenter. These designs — most circular, a gathering of swirls, like a swathe of tiny whirlpools — were messily done, carving through the lacquer on the wood to expose the lighter shades beneath. Scant scatterings of shavings littered the floor; where they’d evidently fluttered into small piles as the corporal entered and exited the room.
But most curious of all was the fact that the designs were not restricted to the doorway. Taro followed the trail of markings that flowed out from those around the doorway, right across the expanse of the roof, reaching all the way across the room to the windows that looked directly out onto the woodlands. A desk sat in front of those windows. Taro swallowed hard, his stomach lurching unkindly; his true nature wild beneath his skin. There was no doubt now where the scent of blood arose from. An owl, young and small, lay dead; its head severed from its body, wings spread open and pinned to the desktop, its belly cut open and the entrails fashioned in a way that left Taro no doubt they had been purposely arranged.
‘It seems Lance Corporal Badh thinks himself a sorcerer,’ he said beneath his breath, unable to bring himself to take a step closer to the desk; his true nature flatly refusing to be an inch closer to the dark heart of this awful room. ‘But it is not possible, Taro. You know that. There is no magick left in humankind. We are safe enough.’ His quiet speech was supposed to calm his instinct, and loosen his legs enough to move forward; for what sort of detective would he be if he ran from this room in terror?
A terrible one.
Leave. Leave.
Taro clenched his fists; fighting his true self.
‘What do you see, Detective?’ Rumney hissed from his place out in the hallway; loud enough that someone a floor down could have heard him.
Taro cleared his throat and hoped he’d not sound as wobbly as he felt. ‘A messy room, little else. He’s not a tidy guest, this chap.’
Taro had never understated a situation so drastically in his life. He swallowed, taking in the strange sigils written into the blood that pooled around the owl, the arrangement of the entrails, and the copious number of little glass bottles lined up on the desk; each filled with ingredients Taro feared learning more of. One bottle was certainly filled with tiny bones; stark white as snow.
This was more torture chamber than guest’s boudoir.
‘Do you see the grimoire?’ Rumney called out.
Taro startled at the sudden sound. He turned, scowling at the partly closed door that separated him from the other man. ‘A grimoire?’
‘It’s a book — ’
‘I’m well aware of what a grimoire is, Mr Rumney. But that is not what you spoke of earlier. It was just a book.’
‘Because we feared you’d think us superstitious fools if we talked of witchcraft and spells,’ Romney said impatiently. ‘But any fool can feel the evil coming from that room. Do you not, Detective?’
Footsteps followed, marking the butler’s approach. ‘Stay away, Mr Rumney,’ Taro said sternly. ‘Do not enter this room.’
‘You feel it, don’t you?’ There was more than a little relief in the butler’s tone. ‘That’s black magick in there, and he has our master under some kind of a spell. There, I’ve said it.’
His exhale was audible, but his relief only fortified Taro’s trepidation. Perhaps he should just do as his kitsune soul bid…and turn tail at once.
He cleared his throat. Scotland Yard would certainly never employ a coward. And besides, humankind held no magick. Or at least, they didn’t anymore. They just enjoyed pretending they did.
‘Now calm yourself, Mr Rumey. Talk of witchcraft is certainly foolish.’
Not to mention impossible.
Centuries ago, there was a Purebred bloodline capable of magick; humans able to create enchantments and curses, and hexes. In their hands it had become dangerous, unpredictable, and dark. Too dark even for the true witches and sorcerers themselves. Those that were not destroyed by their own blood were hunted down and killed by those of their own kind who feared them greatly. The last of the bloodline, and by then it was pathetically weak, died out when the Pendle Hill Witches were hanged. Over two hundred years ago. None of them had anything close to the magickal talents of their ancestors, with more than a few being completely innocent of any hint of witchcraft at all. Rhydian’s great-great-great grandmother had been among those unfortunates hanged. All he’d inherited was an extremely vague and unreliable talent for useless premonitions.
Besides, Taro would certainly have heard from his Great-Uncle Mr Ahari if the Order of the Golden Dawn believed humankind had regained their magick.
Taro spied a stand near the cold hearth that looked suspiciously like the book stand Mr Romney had described; its top covered with a shroud of crimson satin under which lay a suspiciously book-shaped lump. He made his way over to it; the floor creaking beneath his boots. His knees felt like jelly, his skin tingling.
Taro hooked a finger beneath the cloth; he held his breath and lifted the fabric.
A small book, something a church-goer might carry to Sunday service, but beautifully decorated; a leather stained to a golden colour, with more of the swirling designs that covered the ceiling, and a clasp that held a tiny key hole at its centre. Taro reached out; his earlier trepidation lost beneath a sudden, undeniable curiosity..
A horrendous screech rang out, in tandem with a violent crash against the window that shattered glass. He dove for the floor, still gripping the satin cloth, dragging it with him. The fabric snagged on the book, pulling the stand with it. The heavy wood toppled towards him, and Taro rolled desperately out of the way to avoid being struck. It crashed against the floorboards, sending the book skidding across the floor.
Taro had no time to observe where it finished its slide. A black shape screamed as it bore down on him. The unmistakable cry of a raven echoed against the wooden walls, joined with the cries of the butler out in the hallway.
‘Bring the gun, Mrs Carlton, bring the gun!’
The raven dove at Taro; its claws found the crown of his head, and sharp pain followed. Gusts of air, heavy with the petrichor of damp forest floors and rotting leaves, struck at Taro’s nostrils as the bird itself struck out with the tips of its wings, and beak and claws.
Taro flailed blindly, keeping his face lowered for fear of a claw in the eye, and tried desperately to make his way to meagre safety beneath the writing desk. But the raven knew his mind, flying into his path. The waft of copper stifled him; the waft of his own blood where it ran down the side of his face.
With a cry of his own, Taro allowed a hint of his true self to the fore. The onyx claw returned, joined by four others; each finger now tipped with a curve of black that rivalled the raven’s own talons. Thick hairs covered Taro’s hand and wrist; fur dark as night. He listened carefully, focusing in on the wind gusts, the slide of air through black feathers, the nearness of the raven’s cry; until instinct bid him strike.
Taro lashed out. He caught the raven at its belly, claws snagging momentarily in the ribs before shattering the thin bones and opening the chest cavity. Blood spurted, coating Taro in a thin sheen of crimson; with its coppery tang came a sickly undercurrent of curdled milk. The bird made no sound as it dropped from the air. Dead before it hit the floorboards.
Taro rocked back on his heels, panting hard. Mrs Carlton stood a few feet away, holding the rifle by the muzzle as though it were a tennis racquet and she sought to strike out at the ball.
Her eyes were frightfully wide and fixed on Taro. ‘Was going to shoot…the bird I mean…but…thought I might hurt you.’ She flipped the gun easily, suggesting she knew just how to use it, and slid her finger against the trigger. The muzzle was lowered, but would aim directly at Taro if raised. ‘But that doesn’t seem to be a concern now, does it detective…or whatever you are…’
‘Mrs Carlton—’ Taro began, raising his hands; both of which were completely as they should be, devoid of fur and claws.
‘They’re coming back!’ Feet pounded down the hallway in unison with the cry, and suddenly Mr Rumney and the stable-boy who had taken care of Taro’s horse, were both at the doorway, each one as eager as the other to impart the news. ‘They’re coming!’
‘The master returns,’ Romney blustered. ‘You must get out.’
Taro leapt to his feet, one cautious eye on the gun. ‘How close are they?’
He wiped at the reeking blood on his cheek. The odour was decrepit; the raven’s blood holding a scent like nothing he recognised.
‘Just through the west gates now.’ The stable-boy was breathless, face bright as a beet. ‘Both of them, headed in at a gallop. They’ll be here before ten minutes have passed.’
‘Look at this place.’ Mr Rumney cried, fear etching his wrinkles deeper. ‘How do we explain this? We’ll all lose our positions, I know it— ’
‘The least of our worries,’ Mrs Carlton snapped. ‘Do you not see you were right? Black magick is being made here. Bobby, get rid of that carcass. Rumney, help me straighten things up. We’ll tell him the bird flew straight into the window, wouldn’t be the first time it has happened.’
‘But its the first flippin’ time one has had its guts ripped out in the bleedin’ process,’ the stable-boy, Bobby, cried. ‘How did that happen? That don’t look like a gun shot to me.’
Mr Rumney saved Taro from learning if Mrs Carlton would declare him a monster.
‘Don’t you see? He knows…he knows we’re here.’ Mr Rumney’s voice strangled with fear. ‘The birds have told him. Those raven are his creatures.’
Taro’s heart, already pounding behind his ribs, lurched at the words. The butler was right.
‘All of you, out of this room,’ he ordered. ‘Let me deal with this.’
How he would do that, he had no clue, because he did not know exactly what he was dealing with.
A shadow from beyond the shattered window dimmed the room.
‘Do you see that?’ Bobby squealed.
Taro cursed beneath his breath. An entire murder of ravens flew as one great mass; a dark cloud that headed directly for the house.
For the window.
‘Get back,’ Mrs Carlton screamed, rushing past Taro, raising the gun. The shot rang out, but she’d rushed, and only made matters a little worse; blasting a hole in the wooden window frame, and shattering the one jagged piece of glass that had still been stuck fast. Now the birds had an unencumbered entrance to narrow in on.
‘Get out!’ Taro roared. ‘All of you get out of here.’ He grabbed a handful of Mrs Carlton’s dress, wrenching her backwards, shoving her towards the door where Bobby and Rumney nearly stampeded over one another in their haste to leave.
‘Take the gun,’ she cried, tossing the weapon towards him. Taro reached for it, just as the first of the birds poured into the room; a stream of onyx feathers, catching the light of a dying afternoon sun. The gun dropped to the floor as Taro threw up his hands to protect himself from the onslaught of wings and beaks and talons that came at him.
‘Shit! Ouch! Curse you!’
His true nature shivered beneath his skin, mad for release. But indecision gripped him. Taro had finished one raven off easily, but could he do so well with this many?
He raised his head, just an inch, searching for the gun. Would a man with a weapon or a fox with sharp teeth be best against this onslaught?
The room was a whirling storm of black; the air through silken feathers like the hush of a stream over rocks. Taro spied the gun on the floor, not two feet away. But another sight stole his attention.
Not all the murder focused their attention on him.
Several birds were busy at the writing desk; claws and beaks clutching the small bottles and vials that littered the surface. One bird even held a quill and inkpot.
Claws bared, Taro swiped at the creatures that dove at him. They must have learned from their downed friend the dangers of getting too close to Taro, for they were more ready than that other bird to evade him and darted back and forth as he moved.
When his actions opened a momentary gap in the flock, Taro spotted more birds high against the ceiling; scratching and pecking at the patterns etched into the woodwork.
Stealing away evidence of a sorcerer’s presence in a shower of wood shavings.
‘Damn you!’ Taro shouted, aiming at the bird who’d darted in whilst he was distracted and left a deep cut across his arm. ‘You are stealing evidence!’
The corporal was not riding back at a gallop to confront them; he was coming to gather his nefarious tools of trade.
‘Oh Christ.’ Taro spun on his heels; blood ran from his plethora of wounds in warm rivulets. ‘The grimoire.’
A detective was nothing without proof to give weight to his accusations.
‘Away from there!’ He charged forward, blinded by the bluster of avian limbs that came at him, but on track regardless. Taro had not lied to Rhydian when he’d touted the virtues of his excellent kitsune nose. He could have smelled that grimoire if it were buried ten feet beneath the cellar. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Taro lunged towards the scent of leather and ink, only to find it lifting above him, headed back in the direction from which he’d just come. He turned quickly, slashing his claws into the darkness that surrounded him, evading the attacking ravens just long enough to glimpse the grimoire. A raven, larger than the rest, held it gripped in her talons as she flew towards the window.
Taro let out a holler and dove towards her, executing a move that would have made his rugby-mad lover proud. He stretched, muscles aching, torn skin pinching like hot pokers as it broke open. He let out a whoop as his fingers took hold of the golden leather. The raven squawked and raged, and those of her murder who remained in the room regrouped and descended on Taro.
He brought forth his claws, sinking them into the leather for better purchase, and the raven, astonishingly strong, dragged him bodily across the floor, her wings beating frantically. Sharp pricks of pain covered his back, his arse cheeks and his calves. A heartbeat later, Taro felt his body lifted from the ground.
‘Get off me you bastards!’
The wall loomed closer, and suddenly he was drawn up higher, level with the broken window; all but a couple of shards of glass remaining at the edges of the frame. He was dragged forward and saw at once what the crazed birds intended.
They were going to drag him out the window; and with no claws to use to defend himself, how long before they slashed him into such agony he must let go?
But no detective worth a damn would dream of letting go of his most precious evidence. Certainly not the first great kitsune detective; one who’d not yet shown how great he could be.
The ravens rushed him forward, up and over the window ledge where his jacket snagged on the wood splintered by the gunshot. The birds were brutal in tearing him free, their talons like a hundred knives piercing his body.
‘Now or never, Taro,’ he hissed, knowing what must be done.
The murder of ravens drew him higher; flying to where the house’s chimney tops poked at the sky.
Taro brought forth his true self.
The transformation from man to fox was brutal; rushed too quickly by panic and necessity. And sheer terror. Taro’s clothes tore away, falling like autumn leaves towards the ground far below, whilst his blood burned in his veins and his bones cracked and reshaped themselves into a sleeker, smaller, far more useful form.
Around him the ravens screamed their discontent. Taro’s sharpened hearing caught other cries on the wind: shouts of protest and angry hollers from somewhere down below. He thought one voice sounded more familiar than the others; its tone sending a pulse of confusion through him. It had sounded like Rhydian. An impossibility.
Taro sank into his true nature: that of the hunter, the clever beast, the sly fox.
The ravens’ talons slid from body parts no longer solid enough to hold; Taro’s body shivering, stretching, and shrinking as it re-birthed. His claws drove deep into the grimoire, and his lighter weight granted him a secure hold he could not have dreamed of before. The large raven holding the book let loose with a caw of deep-throated fury, and slashed her wings at Taro; striking his quivering nose and sleek pointed ears. He thrashed his tail the moment it was formed, the long black length cutting at open air; daring any of the other ravens to return to torment him.
They kept their distance. Leaving only the stubborn bird whose legs stretched with the effort of holding a fox and her prize, both.
Taro snapped at her wings, white fangs bared; narrowly missing. Another strike of a midnight-black wing was met with a snap of frightening teeth.
This time Taro did not miss. He clamped down on the raven’s wing; fragile bones shattered between his jaws.
The raven released the grimoire.
The sudden downshift tore his teeth free of her wing; his weight, though much less than in his human form, was not so light as to be immune to Newton’s gravity.
Taro fell. His claws were embedded in the grimoire, leaving only his back legs to flail about, along with his tail; swishing madly in the hope it might somehow, unreasonably, slow his fall.
A fall from a great height. But one that quickly ended.
He struck the eaves of the roof first, and pain bloomed through his right shoulder, nearly jolting the grimoire free of his hold.
The ground rushed up next, smashing the air from his small lungs, pummelling a wheezy grunt from between clenched jaws.
Taro gurgled, desperate to work air into his chest. He lay there, beyond bruised and his senses ringing; vision hazy and his body drenched in the scent of his own blood.
Voices drew near, but if it were the corporal, Taro had no more fight to give. At least the sorcerer would have to pry the grimoire from Taro’s hands if he sought to take it. He’d likely broken ribs, but he’d not let go of the book. The evidence, for now, was still his. He gasped, his lungs finally recalling how to drag in air.
A rustle of silk preceded a touch at his neck. Taro growled; though it sounded uncomfortably like a gurgle to hi buzzing ears.
‘Easy now, young kitsune. Be still now, it’s alright. I am Bess, from Harvington Hall.’
Taro whimpered and blinked through the haziness of his vision. He caught a glimpse of the person who was leaning over him. Sure enough, the lord of the manor, Old Bess as the fae liked to be known, knelt beside him. His bearded face was wrinkled with concern, his gown of grey sitting like a cloud around him. Old Bess dressed to please himself; and dresses intended for women pleased him most. All in the village knew it, and not a single one cared.
Taro could have kissed him; such was the relief of finding an ally and not a sorcerer at his side.
‘You have been terribly brave,’ Old Bess said. The dangling diamond earrings he wore caught the burnt-orange light of the afternoon. ‘You have been terribly brave.’
‘Book,’ Taro slurred. ‘Bad book…’
But he was kitsune and foxes did not speak. All that came from him were a few punitive sounds; tiny grunts of pain and exhaustion.
‘Hush now, you are hurt. Tell me all when you are safely tucked up in the Hall, hmm? I’ll take care of that book for you. Don’t worry, its owner has abandoned it. The good woman Mrs Carlton chased him off, with half the household behind her. He’ll not bother you again.’
Taro whimpered and laid his head back down. Even his whiskers pained him. He put up no protest as Old Bess gently pulled his claws from the thickness of leather and paper, but even that simple movement sent darts of discomfort along his legs and into his chest, and he moaned softly.
‘Be careful.’
Taro’s ears pricked; he knew that voice.
‘I promise you, I’m being very careful. I’ll give him something for the pain once we have him in the carriage.’ Old Bess winked down at Taro, who watched through a heavy-lidded amber eye. ‘Your fellow equals you in bravery, my friend. I thought I’d have to let him search all of Harvington Hall before he was convinced you weren’t there.’ The last of Taro’s claws slipped from the grimoire. Old Bess shuffled on his feet, hands raised as he prepared to scoop them beneath Taro and lift him. ‘I’ll do this as well as I can, but I cannot promise it won’t hurt. Soon as we get you to Harvington we can set you right.’
‘Let me do that…please.’ Rhydian’s sharpness tapered into an apology. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so rude…but will you let me…carry him.’
Old Bess raised a neatly manicured eyebrow, looking to Taro. ‘What do you say?’
Taro could only manage a slow, deliberate blink and a wriggle of his nose. To his relief, Old Bess understood perfectly. He pushed to his feet, dusting off his gown. ‘Very well, Rhydian. Go ahead. But watch that shoulder; it’s dislocated. Some ribs cracked too, I’d say, and his blood might make him a little slippery.’
Rhydian truly was here. Taro was not simply delusional with injuries.
He settled in against his lover’s chest, trying very hard not to groan or show how much it hurt to be there. Did Rhydian really believe he now carried the same man he’d bedded this morning? His baker boy was open to the strangeness of the world; he lived in Mustow Green after all, but it was one thing to believe, another entirely to witness.
Did Taro’s truth repel him? Or frighten him, now that it was not simply a possibility, but a furry, broken fact.
Taro tried to tilt his head to look up at Rhydian, but the muscles in his neck were angry and he whimpered yet again.
‘Hold on now…’ Rhydian whispered, walking carefully to where twin bay horses waited with a black brougham carriage. ‘Quit moving about. You have never been a good patient, have you?’ His laugh was full of nerves, but warmth lay there too. ‘Never do something as foolish as this again. Hear me? Every detective needs a companion. Even Dickens gave one to his Inspector Bucket in Bleak House. His wife, you told me. So I shall be your,’ he swallowed so hard Taro heard his throat click. ‘I shall just have to be your wife in this matter. It seems my intuition has already decided on it. I’ve never had an inclination so strong as I did today. Find him, it said. Find him. He needs you,’ his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Did I find you, Taro? Is this miracle truly you?’
Though it was uncouth, and he’d likely regret it once he was back to rights, Taro ignored his protesting neck muscles and turned to where he could lick his rough, long pink tongue beneath Rhydian’s chin. The man’s surprised hiccough of laughter was a balm to Taro’s ears, causing him to grin; black lips pulling back to expose long and sharpened canines.
Rhydian mistook the expression for one of discontent. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you, I swear. Forgive me.’
There was nothing to forgive.
Taro was carefully bundled into the carriage. He lay with his head upon Rhydian’s lap, his battered body covered in a blanket of the softest weave, listening as they recounted the story of how the lord of the manor and the baker boy came to be at Brockhampton. Rhydian’s normally docile sense of premonition had set off like fireworks in his head earlier that afternoon, and after rushing home to find Taro’s note, he’d travelled to Harvington Hall.
‘Banged on the door so hard they’d have heard him in London I dare say,’ Old Bess recounted, sitting opposite with the grimoire wrapped in a piece of fabric that shimmered like moonlight on a pond’s surface. ‘Demanded to know where Detective Taro might be, in no uncertain terms.’
That detail warmed Taro’s heart.
After a few moments at Harvington Hall, Rhydian had been struck by a vision; one that had brought him to his knees with its ferocity.
‘My head still feels full of cotton, and the hearing is off in my right ear,’ Rhydian admitted, whilst he rubbed Taro’s head between the ears; soothing, slow strokes that were in danger of putting him to sleep now that Old Bess had given him a sip of an elixir to wipe away his pain. ‘Now I understand what my mother meant when she used to complain of being cloud-struck.’
Taro whined softly, nudging his damp nose against his fellow’s knee.
‘I’m alright,’ Rhydian soothed. ‘If that bothers you.’ It bothered Taro very much to think of his lover in any pain. ‘But I shall be even better when you come back to me.’
Taro wagged his tail; like the silly love-sick creature he was. That slight movement reminded him of every ache and pain, and he fell still again.
‘Best he doesn’t do any changing right now,’ Old Bess said. ‘The fox heals quicker than the man. Give me a few days with him at Harvington Hall, and you two shall play hide the pillar again before too long.’
Rhydian made a choked sound, and Taro had to fight very hard not to laugh and break another rib.
Old Bess winked again at Taro. The carriage set off, and the story of their arrival continued.
Rhydian’s vision had been of the orchards of Brockhampton, and his description so precise Old Bess had guessed the location immediately.
They’d arrived at the gates of the manor house just as Lance Corporal Badh and Sir Lutley galloped out of the woodlands. Sir Lutley could barely stay upright in his saddle, in danger of toppling off entirely.
‘He’d been given a draft, I’d wager. But I’ll know more when they collect his piss for me as I requested,’ Old Bess said.
The corporal had paid the gentleman no heed; his focus was upon the calamity unfolding above the house. But the moment Old Bess leaned from the window of the carriage and shouted for his attention, the corporal had reeled in his horse viciously. And let out a piercing whistle.
‘That’s when you fell,’ Old Bess detailed. ‘The bird let you go. You dropped like a stone, but didn’t let go of that blasted book.’
A decent detective never lets go of his most important evidence. But that stubbornness was mighty painful.
‘What shall you do with the book?’ Rhydian enquired. ‘Shall there be a search for that man? He must be punished for setting his birds on Taro.’
‘Of course he must. There is much we have to learn about this fellow. I shall be sending this book on to the Order of the Golden Dawn in London, they are best equipped to deal with mysteries of this nature. But I fear they are exceptionally busy, and light on decent detectives.’
Taro opened his eyes; he’d been near to completely asleep. Old Bess watched him; a gleam in his eyes.
Rhydian’s hand stilled on Taro’s back. ‘Golden Dawn? I’ve never heard of such an organisation. Who are they?’
‘A clandestine band of guardians. I suppose that is the best way to put things,’ Old Bess replied. ‘They keep a balance between your kind and ours. But they are kept busy with it. I’d say Mr Ahari could do with a stubborn kitsune who’d rather fall off a roof than let go of a lead.’
Taro’s fox heart sped up its beat.
‘Mr Ahari? That is Taro’s uncle is it not? He speaks fondly of him, but mentioned nothing of the Order.’
Taro lifted his head, his neck muscles burning. He whined, hoping it might urge Old Bess to speak further. A detective for the Order? He’d never dared to dream such a thing. It had seemed foolish to even ask if they required the aid of a sleuth. They dealt with monstrous folk who surely needed a warrior’s blade, or the skills of the fae, like Old Bess, to be defeated.
‘As well he should not have.’ Old Bess nodded at Taro, and he fancied it a nod of approval for keeping the secret from his human paramour. ‘But you are mixed up in this well and truly now, and have seen things you cannot unsee. And I dare say you’d not listen to me if I told you to stay in Mustow Green where it is safe.’
Rhydian’s fingers tensed against Taro’s fur. ‘No. I would not. If you intend to send Taro to London, then he will not go alone. I shall be with him.’
His reply set Taro’s soul alight with happiness, and an embarrassing little whine escaped him.
‘As I thought. And not a bad thing, either.’ Old Bess patted at the wrapped grimoire; causing a diamond bracelet at his wrist to sparkle. ‘Another person to keep watch over this will be useful. For all we know this could be pages of nonsense, and the man is merely a swindler who has trained a few ravens. He wouldn’t be the first human to pretend to be a master of witchcraft.’ Taro met the other man’s gaze; and knew by the look he was given that Old Bess held grave doubts. A shiver ran through him, despite the warmth of the carriage and the blanket. ‘If not, then we have quite a problem on our hands. Magick does not do well with the Purebreds. It corrupts them easily, and terrible choices are made.’
Taro heard Rhydian’s quick inhale of breath.
Old Bess’s gaze did not leave Taro. ‘So what say you, little fox? You have the scent of that man in your nostrils, the taste of his birds’ blood on your tongue. When I have you well, will you take on the case of the raven’s sorcerer?’
Taro wished he could have transformed there and then, for he’d have given the master of Harvington Hall the most resounding cry of ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
But with his body so tired and far from being repaired, he could only fix his eyes on the grimoire, allowing a low growl to come from the back of his throat.
Rhydian ran a soothing hand down the length of Taro’s coat. ‘He shall be the greatest detective your Order has ever known. Clever and cunning,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
He bent and placed a kiss atop Taro’s head, right between the peaks of his ears.
Taro’s healing began then, with his heart full of warmth, and his body pressed close to the man he loved more deeply today than yesterday. A man unflinching in his loyalty and belief.
Soon enough Taro would heal, and they would ride out from Harvington Hall, headed towards the adventurous life that awaited them.
Neither fox nor baker boy would regret the choice they made that day; but they would come to miss Mustow Green and the simplicity of their life there.
It would be a long, long time before they returned. And much heartache and sacrifice and joy and love would be shared throughout those years.
The truth of the grimoire would be discovered. The world would change.
But they would return to Mustow Green together and find their happy ending in that small village. Both a little battered, certainly a lot older, but never wavering in their devotion.
A marvellous detective, famed throughout the land, and his great love; a woeful soothsayer, but a most magnificent baker of apple pies.