Named of the Dragon (5 page)

I turned to look down at the long, unbroken building with its dun-coloured pebble-dash walls. "So the part that we're in is the oldest, then."

"Yes. No one knows how old, exactly, though we know there was an inn here in Elizabethan times."

Squinting a little, I studied the westernmost end of the house, comparing the heavy stone walls to the shape of the tower. "The tower's much older than that, surely?"

"Norman," he said with a nod. "There's an old legend goes with the tower, you know, that says in those days there were three sisters, all of whom inherited their father's estate, but none of whom wanted to live with the others. So one built a house where the Hall now stands, one built the castle—that's the castle there," he put in, pointing back again towards the village, ' 'or at least the ruins of it, behind the post office, there isn't much left. And the third sister built this square tower, to live in."

"But nobody knows who the sisters were?"

"I doubt they ever existed, myself. I should think it more likely the tower belonged to some great Norman nobleman. Ordinary people," he said, with authority, "didn't have dovecotes."

We were standing by the dovecote, now, not more than ten yards distant from the grey stone dome-capped turret with its wooden door ajar. The sheep grazed round it, unimpressed by its obvious age, and the tabby cat dozed in the doorway. I smiled. "I'll have to take a picture of this, for a friend of ours—Bridget's former illustrator, actually. She has a thing for dovecotes."

"So does Christopher," said James. "My brother, if he could, would make it a hanging offence to tear down any building that pre-dates the war. Still, he does come by it honestly, I suppose. Our mother loves old things."

He straightened away from the fence, and tearing myself from the dull-eyed ewes I turned to follow him, back along the curving drive that ran alongside the house. We'd come full circle round the property, and the tower, at the bottom of the drive, seemed to be waiting for us.

I felt small in its shadow. Even in its ruined state, the stone walls rose some thirty feet straight up, to scrape the sky with jagged fingers darkly stained with moss. It was a narrow structure, hard and angular, save for the turret-like curve at one corner that probably sheltered a stairwell inside.

Reaching out, I ran my hand caressingly over the cold stones as we walked past. "Is it safe to go up?" I asked, always keen to explore a ruin.

"Yes, I think so. Uncle Ralph should have a key somewhere, I'll take a look tomorrow."

It was too late to go up the tower anyway. The light had nearly gone. My trailing fingers snagged on something sharp, and I pulled my hand back, breaking contact with the tower wall.

"Come on," said James, "it's getting cold. Let's go and have a drink."

VI

In faith he is a worthy gentleman;

Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments.,.

William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part One

We went in through the front door, through the white-painted porch with the chequerboard floor. It smelted sharply of cut wood and coal dust and damp quarry tile.

"If you're ever in the mood to light a fire, you'll find the things you need in here," said James, lifting the hinged lid of a long wooden box fitted snugly underneath the porch's window. "There's a shovel there, for the coal— every room has its own scuttle, which you need to heft about, I'm afraid—and that little box holds sticks for kindling. Firelighters and newspapers are in the hall cupboard. Only don't burn the local papers," he warned me. "I save those, for research."

I nodded, shrugged my jacket off, and waited a decent interval before following up on his last comment. "Is your new book set in Angle, then?"

"Not Angle, specifically—I couldn't stand the lawsuits. No, I've taken the rather more cowardly path of inventing my own coastal village." Moving into the hall, he pushed open the nearest door and stood aside to let me enter first.

"I've been thinking that I ought to go one better, and invent my own damn county. The Thomas Hardy touch, you know. Though anyone with half a brain will recognize the Milford Haven references, no matter what I do."

This room, I thought as I went in, was clearly where he did his writing. In the centre of the carpet, a rosewood table, spindle-legged, strained to support a tilting stack of books and magazines at one end, and a slick laptop computer at the other. An elegant mantelpiece on the wall behind had also been converted to a temporary bookshelf, and the fireplace grate was mounded high with cinders, as though someone had set light to it and then become distracted, leaving the coals to slowly choke on their own ashes.

My own bedroom, I judged, must be directly overhead, and the windows here offered the same sort of views, of the fields to the west, and the walled lawn and drive to the front. And the tower. It looked quite forlorn in the fast-fading light.

James crossed to draw the wine-red velvet curtains. "It always makes me think of old detective novels, this room does. A murderer could hide behind these curtains and you'd never see him."

I saw what he meant. The walls were built so thickly that the windows cut deep wells into the plastered stone, and the front window formed a bay in which a man could easily have stood. He could easily have
sat
there, I amended the thought, in an overstuffed armchair, and still have stayed hidden.

The curtains drawn, James switched on a pair of chair-side lamps, and in the wanner light I felt a tug of recognition. "You've written about this room, surely? In
The Leaden Sky.
It's Bernard's study."

His startled upwards glance told me I'd scored full points. "How the devil did you spot that?"

' 'You did a brilliant job describing it. Right down to the one missing brick on the hearth, and the chair where the dog always slept." I pointed to the armchair in the comer, and he smiled.

"Do you always remember books in such detail?"

"Normally, I don't remember them at all—not even ones by my own authors. I've read so many books, published and otherwise, that I almost never can recall the plots and characters, only how the story made me feel when I was reading. Some people, you know, can write beautiful prose, but they never do touch your emotions."

He came round to stand behind his desk, his expression intrigued. "And how do my books make you feel?"

"Uncomfortable." I tipped my head and thought a moment, seeking to explain. "Not in a bad way, but... it's rather like reading Marx, if you know what I mean. You're raised to see the world one way, and then Marx comes along and says: 'No, that's all wrong. You must look at it
this
way,' and you suddenly feel quite off balance. Uncomfortable."

"Yes." His eyes wanned.

"I still forget your plots, though," I confessed, with a smile. "And your characters."

"You remembered Bernard."

"I remembered Bernard's study. Not at all the same thing. It's only that your descriptions are so very visual, I tend to store them up like snapshots. I couldn't tell you what Bernard was doing, for example—only that this was his room."

"How curious." He looked at me. "I, on the other hand, remember everything I've ever read. And the more appalling the writing, the more it seems to stick in my memory."

"Yes, well, that would be deadly for an agent," I said. "With all the typescripts that I have to read each week, it's sometimes better to forget."

He agreed it must be trying. "Have a seat, wherever you can find one, won't you? I'm afraid I'm rather messy when I'm writing."

I felt more privileged to be in the midst of James Swift's mess than in the spotless sitting-room of someone with less talent. Just the thought that I was actually here now, in his writing-room, and talking to him, gave me a secretive thrill. Shifting a slippery pile of newspapers from a comfortable-looking wing chair I sat, while James turned with a frown to the drinks cabinet. "Would you like a glass of sherry? I'm afraid we've only got Amontillado, nothing sweet."

"That's fine. I prefer a dry sherry."

He poured one for himself, as well, and settled himself at his writing table, angling his chair round to face me. "So tell me, Miss Ravenshaw ..."

"Lyn."

"Lyn. Are there ethical restrictions on an author asking questions of an agent?"

I smiled. "I'm not aware of any."

"Good. Then may I ask how long you've worked for Simon Holland?"

"Four years." Like an angler who feels the first tug on his line, I leaned back in my wing chair and waited.

"And how many authors do you represent?"

I made a mental count. "Twelve."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Well, there's Bridget, of course, and Edgar Salazar, and Dorian Peake, and ..."

He raised his eyebrows, interrupting. "Christ, I can't imagine those three sharing a cab, let alone an agent. You must have eclectic tastes."

I lifted a shoulder. "I like what I like."

"And you've been Bridget's agent how long?"

"Four years, also. Since I came to Simon Holland."

"Ah." He raised his glass in a mock salute. "So you have stamina, as well. She's quite a handful, isn't she? Though, to be fair," he said, "I imagine Ivor would say the same of me."

That set me thinking. "May I ask
you
a question?"

"Certainly."

"Why don't you want to stay with Ivor?"

"Because he wants to interfere."

"In what way?"

James sat back, one elbow resting on the table's polished edge. "It bothers him that my books aren't successful, in commercial terms. Not that he doesn't like my writing style—he does. But lately he's begun to make suggestions. What I ought to write, you know, and where it should be set, that sort of thing. No one," he said, "tells me what to write."

I recognized the stubborn tone, the stamp of a true writer. And I took his side wholeheartedly. Originality was not a team pursuit, and any story worth the telling grew in solitude.

Above us, the floor creaked and James, glancing up, drained his sherry glass, ending our interview. Not that I minded. The bait was still there at the end of my line and I knew that he'd come back to take it again.

He smiled. "I'd best go change my clothes," he said. "That's Bridget waking up, and you know what she's like if she's not fed on schedule."

*-*-*-*-*

"A pint of prawns," read Bridget from the menu, relishing the words. "That does sound heavenly. Or should I have the breaded mushrooms?"

James, returning from the cigarette machine with a packet of Silk Cut, lit one and stretched himself back in his chair. "Have them both," he suggested. "I've seen you eat, darling. I'm sure you can do it."

There was something odd about his behaviour towards her this evening, or at least, it struck
me
as being odd, having seen them together earlier. Then, he'd been affectionate and plainly pleased to see her; now he seemed almost deliberately indifferent.

I shrugged it off as being none of my business, and studied the menu. I'd been tempted by the prawns as well, but a quick glance at the sweets list convinced me to trade off my starter for a sticky toffee pudding afterwards. Having settled on the breaded plaice with jacket potato for my main course, I set the menu down and turned my attention to the objects hanging round me on the warmly yellow walls of the Hibernia Inn's cosy lounge.

A long polished shotgun had been mounted over the entrance door in the corner, and a sabre hung above the door to the kitchen, just opposite where I was sitting. There were other trophies as well—a military helmet cased in glass and a ship's sextant, which were mounted proudly on either side of a full-colour aerial photograph of Angle, graced the wall across from me, as did a giant ship's wheel, gleaming brass on wood, ringed round by smaller photographs of what appeared to be lifeboats.

On the massive stone fireplace filling one end of the lounge another sword and scabbard hung beside a wood-and-lcather bellows, and two old framed parchment handbills exhorted me to rally round the "Royal Tars of Old England" and join the King's navy.

My favourite decorative touch, though, was without doubt the tidy collection of sailor's caps clinging like stem-less mushrooms to the ceiling, behind the bar, each one emblazoned with the name of its own ship. And under them, the landlord kept a friendly eye on all three rooms: the lounge, the public bar, and near the back, a smaller games room from which issued the faint repeated thunk-thunk-thunk of someone playing darts.

It was early yet, and our table of four was the only one waiting for service. The landlord had time to chat.

He reminded me a little of my father, with his dark moustache and laughing eyes. "Now, let me guess," he said to James. "The steak and chips."

"With salad."

"Four specials a night, we have," the landlord said, shaking his head as he noted the order, "and you never want to try them."

Christopher grinned. "He's a creature of habit, you know. Always has been. But
I'll
have the Tikka Masala."

He set the list of specials down, and nodded upwards, at the ceiling. "I like the decorations, by the way."

"Thanks. The girls did that." The landlord looked up, too, at the ropes of coloured tinsel looped along the wooden beams and spotlights. It glittered on the walls, as well, and ran along the valances above the curtained windows at our backs. And beside us in the corner by the fireplace a small tree, weighted down with fairy lights, twinkled cheerfully against the night outside. "They did a good job, didn't they?"

Christopher agreed they'd done a smashing job. "We aren't having a tree, this year. My brother Ebenezer, here, thinks it a waste of money."

"James!" Bridget turned on him, her eyes reproachful. "Of course we must have a tree. You can't have Christmas without a tree."

"We'll see," he said.

The landlord smiled. "Well, you've plenty of time yet, to talk him round."

He was quite right. Christmas wasn't until Friday next— a full week away. I revelled in the fact. I'd taken a lot of stick from my colleagues for being given such a long holiday, but Bridget was one of our agency's star clients, and when she'd told my boss she wanted me to spend the full fortnight in Angle, I'd known there wouldn't be an argument. Just as I knew now, from the look in her eyes, that we would have a Christmas tree at Castle Farm before the sun went down tomorrow.

James, who either hadn't noticed Bridget's look or didn't know its meaning, calmly hitched the ashtray closer and wished good bloody luck to anyone who tried to talk him round to doing something that he didn't want to do.

"He can always be bribed with-brandy," Christopher revealed. He glanced at the landlord. "Has Gareth been in?"

"Not yet. He'll be up at the Point, I'd imagine. They were having some sort of training exercises for the lifeboat today, and they usually go to the Point after that."

Bridget glanced over. "I didn't know Gareth had anything to do with the lifeboat."

"Yes, well," said James, "he's much more civic-minded than the rest of us." I caught the faintest edge in that before he turned to me, all charm. "Sorry, forgetting my manners. Of course you won't know what the Point is, will you?"

"Oh, she doesn't need to know that," said the landlord with a grin, but James told me anyway.

"It's the other village pub, the older pub, just up behind our house along the bay. Supposedly their fire was kept alight for ... what, three hundred years?"

The landlord nodded. "Shame they couldn't keep it going. But it's nice up there, you want to go and see it," he advised me, "for the atmosphere. But only for the atmosphere." He winked. "I don't want to give away all of my business."

Christopher reminded him the Point was only open at the weekend anyway, in winter. "Just let me know if Gareth does come in, though, won't you? I've a message to give him, from Elen."