The Thief on the Winged Horse Read online

  Also by Kate Mascarenhas

  The Psychology of Time Travel

  KATE

  MASCARENHAS

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Kate Mascarenhas, 2020

  The moral right of Kate Mascarenhas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781789543810

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781789543827

  ISBN (E): 9781789543803

  Author photo by Matt Murtagh

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Dedicated to Peter Flynn

  Contents

  Also by Kate Mascarenhas

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Since 1820, Kendricks Workshop has made and sold magic dolls. The firm was founded by four sisters:

  Lucy Kendrick, née Peyton (1798–1898)

  Rebecca Jackson, née Peyton (1800–1864)

  Sally Botham, née Peyton (1804–1884)

  Jemima Ramsay, née Peyton (1802–1821)

  In 2019 the workshop continues to trade as a family business. It is staffed by:

  Fifty-one descendants of Lucy Kendrick, including:

  Conrad Kendrick (1955–),

  current owner of Kendricks Workshop

  His twin brother Briar (1955–),

  retired dolls’ house maker

  Briar’s daughter Persephone (1998–),

  the workshop sales assistant

  Seventeen descendants of Rebecca Jackson, including:

  Alastair Jackson (1984–),

  Head Sorcerer at the workshop, and husband to

  Rieko Kitegawa (1980–), furnisher of dolls’ houses

  Eighty descendants of Sally Botham, including:

  Hedwig Mayhew (2000–),

  housekeeper to Conrad Kendrick

  Her mother Margot (1981–),

  landlady of the workers’ pub

  Their cousin Dennis Botham (1946–),

  Deputy Sorcerer

  And no descendants of Jemima Ramsay.

  1

  In Oxford there lies a small river island called Paxton’s Eyot. It is secluded from the nearby colleges, partly because of the dense trees growing at the perimeter. The Thames flows to the west, the Cherwell to the north, and a narrow ditch curves round the south-easterly side. It was here that, last September, a young stranger crossed the footbridge. He had paint-flecked fingers, and dark hair that fell into his eyes no matter how frequently he pushed it back. His name was Larkin. Larkin had come to the eyot in search of two things. The first was Magic. The second was A Job.

  Almost as soon as he stepped onto the eyot he lost his mobile signal. But he had no desire to phone, or be phoned by, anyone he knew. The sun was low and bright in the sky and starlings were weaving in a murmuration above the trees. Larkin explored an orchard. The bark of one tree was engraved with the image of a man on a winged horse, and beneath it, a single word: THIEF. Undeterred, Larkin scrumped four quince and hid them in his bag.

  Shortly the orchard gave way to a row of cottages. The eyot was less than a mile long, but that was sufficient to house a hundred families. And there, at the end of the terrace, Larkin came to his destination: the Kendricks’ famous workrooms, the only source of magic dolls in this country or any other.

  The stone façade resembled the Euston Arch, for the building was Roman in style, with tall pillars upholding a portico. The great doors to the shop were arsenic green and topped with a leaded fanlight. Larkin skipped up the central steps and lightly pushed the door open, into a compact hallway. On the walls were three wooden plaques painted with two centuries of names: the descendants of Kendrick, of Botham and of Jackson, together with relations by marriage. A fourth plaque was headed Ramsay, but was otherwise blank. Larkin spent some time reading the lists and of course he recognised the names. They were the same names available in the public records; the same lineage that Larkin had traced, in his teens, after his mother had disclosed that their own, official, family tree contained a falsehood.

  Larkin stepped through the second set of doors, to where the Kendricks’ dolls were on sale.

  A young woman stood behind the counter, next to a brass till. She didn’t acknowledge Larkin’s entrance, apparently because she was engrossed in a ledger. Her black hair was artfully piled upon her head, Gibson-girl style. She was somewhat fat, had a complexion like bisque, and was scowling deeply – from concentration or bad mood Larkin couldn’t yet say.

  He turned his attention to the wares. The magic dolls lined every wall. They were shielded by iron bars. Each doll extended her right hand between the rails, as though beseeching the customer. Larkin placed his finger on the nearest tiny palm. Instantly he felt a rush of Heady Optimism. He removed his finger, and the Heady Optimism vanished as quickly. The doll was dimpled; she wore a taffeta dress and white lace cap. Her neighbour was dressed as a shepherdess, complete with crook, and stiff bow beneath her bonnet. At the touch of her hand, Bucolic Bliss swirled through Larkin with sweetness and intensity. He let her go, bringing the Bliss to an end.

  There were many dozens more dolls. He caressed all of them, drawing a new feeling from each one. A china doll, with a cracked face, was the last of them. Despite the fracture her powers were intact. Her cold touch left him Gloriously Exultant. The sentiment thrashed inside him, against his ribs, in every
pulse, and he savoured its depth and novelty. The doll watched him with blue glass eyes. Damaged, yet inspiring Exultation; how could Larkin resist purchasing her? He hadn’t come to buy, but he now had no intention of leaving without the doll.

  He approached the sales assistant. A name tag was pinned to her dress. Persephone. Romantic parents, seemingly.

  “Yes?” she said. Her tone was so surly Larkin laughed. She made a poor ambassador.

  “I’d like to buy the broken doll,” he answered.

  Persephone raised an eyebrow. Clearly, his laughter hadn’t endeared her. But she said: “Good. I’ll be glad to see the back of that one.”

  Larkin took a fat roll of bank notes from his inner pocket, in accordance with the price, and placed them on the table. Persephone gave them a perfunctory rifle, which showed either surprising faith in his honesty, or a disregard for Kendricks’ bottom line. A trill marked the stowing of his cash in the till.

  Persephone then slipped from behind the counter. She heaved back the iron railings and picked up the doll with the cracked face. She shoved the railings back into place with a clang.

  “What caused the crack?” Larkin asked, when she’d returned to her station.

  “I don’t know.” She placed the doll in a silk-lined box, which she slid across the counter before returning to her ledger. Larkin watched her write several entries in precise, lower case letters.

  Evidently she thought their business was complete. But Larkin made no move to leave.

  “I also wish to speak to Conrad Kendrick,” he said, smiling.

  “Why?” She didn’t lift her head.

  “I want to work here.”

  “Are you descended from Sally Botham?” she asked. “Or Rebecca Jackson?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t be a Kendrick!” Incredulous, she met his eye at last.

  “No, I’m—”

  “This is a family business. You must be descended from Botham, Jackson, or Kendrick to work here – or marry in. Conrad Kendrick won’t consider anybody else.”

  “What if I said I’m descended from Jemima Ramsay?”

  “I’d call you a liar.” She spoke coolly, without condemnation, as if he bored her. “Jemima Ramsay died with her unborn child, in 1821, and left no other offspring.”

  “The child didn’t die. Jemima Ramsay ran away with a French man, and her husband announced her death to avert gossip.”

  “That’s not true.” Persephone narrowed her gaze at him, perhaps weighing whether he was deluded or deceitful. “Jemima Ramsay is buried in St Ignatius’s church.”

  “Will you allow Conrad Kendrick to judge the story for himself?” Larkin asked.

  “I’d be in trouble if I allowed any Tom, Dick, or Harry to see him.”

  “What would make it worth your while?” Once more Larkin took a roll of money from his pocket, and she shook her head.

  “Not that.”

  “Then what?” There must be something.

  Her cheeks flushed. It was rather becoming. He waited.

  Almost crossly, she demanded: “Give me your buttons.”

  “My buttons?” he repeated, sure he must have misheard.

  “That’s what would make it worth my while. Or don’t bother, if you value your buttons more than meeting Conrad. Leave without seeing him, it makes no difference to me.”

  Larkin looked down at his coat buttons. They comprised half a dozen ebony ovals, and were of good vintage quality, but were otherwise unremarkable. Each was secured via two central holes apiece, which flanked a shallow ridge – as though someone had pinched the button between thumb and forefinger, and the wood had unexpectedly yielded.

  “Very well,” Larkin agreed, the buttons holding no particular value for him.

  Persephone beckoned him, peremptorily. He crossed the boundary that separated customer from worker. She reached beneath the counter for a pair of gold scissors – they were around three inches long, and shaped like a stork. For the time it took to sever the buttons they stood toe to toe, close enough for him to detect the scent of apple soap on her person. He listened to the croak of scissors cutting thread, and felt a thrill of nerves, that a stranger held a blade to his chest. Particularly a stranger who demonstrated, in their short acquaintance, eccentricity and ill-temper.

  “When will Conrad Kendrick expect me?” Larkin checked.

  “Not till tomorrow morning. He accepts selected visitors between half eleven and half twelve, at his house. I’ll tell him you requested an audience. He might even let you in, for a laugh. But he won’t give you a job. Jemima Ramsay had no offspring. And Conrad will never hire an outsider.”

  “Too set in his ways?”

  “If you like. He’s nearly sixty-five.” She bowed her head to cut the last button. Larkin observed a bee alight in the whorl of her hair. He was about to alert her, but it looked so at home there he said nothing.

  When he left the shop he was satisfied. The meeting with Conrad Kendrick would take place; despite Persephone’s warnings, Larkin was still sure that, face-to-face, he could secure himself an apprenticeship. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Larkin daydreamed? To sculpt those dolls? To command the emotion of whoever touched them? He deserved that chance, and it was in his grasp.

  2

  Outside Conrad Kendrick’s house, the leaves were turning gold and russet. Hedwig Mayhew – tanned from summer, ochre plait twisted round her crown – was cutting yellow roses. She’d worked for Conrad since leaving school a year ago. Despite her youth she relished domestic management. The house – an early Georgian residence – had fallen into poor repair, so Hedwig had spent that year scheduling plasterers and chimney sweeps and plumbers. Builders fixed the failing lintels; masons repointed bricks. Then Hedwig paid them, as she was Conrad’s representative, from Kendricks’ bank account. Her favourite responsibility was settling bills, because she liked imagining that she, instead of Conrad, was immensely rich.

  Today, as roses fell in Hedwig’s creel, an ageing painter brushed the door with indigo gloss. Hedwig had just cut the final flower, when she saw a second man approach the gate. A young man, this time, smoking a cigarette. Presumably the stranger that Persephone, the Kendricks shop assistant, met the day before. He wore a faded t-shirt with Russian lettering, and black jeans. Though his coat was cut with expertise it was uncared for: all the buttons were missing, and the threads remained. His cheeks were hollow. Hedwig guessed he needed a good meal. And yet he was, to Hedwig’s thinking, pretty, albeit in a disreputable way. Byronic curls, and startling blue eyes… Some people liked that kind of thing.

  “My name’s Larkin,” he said. “Conrad Kendrick should be expecting me. I’m ten minutes early – they were cleaning my room at the Eyot Tavern, so I set out—”

  “It’s fine,” she reassured him, smiling. Margot Mayhew, Hedwig’s mother, ran the Tavern without much sensitivity for guests’ requirements. “Conrad won’t admit you yet… You’ll have to wait until he’s ready. I can take care of you till then.”

  She winked at him, cheerfully, and dropped her shears into the basket. Larkin followed her along the path. When they reached the door, the painter stood aside to let them pass and they crossed a crumpled stream of linen till their feet met chequered tile.

  She gestured at the wooden pew, positioned by a coat of armour. “Take a seat.”

  He didn’t move. She saw him looking at the marble stairs – or rather, looking at the spandrel, which had always been enclosed by iron bars. They caged the most important doll Conrad owned: the Paid Mourner.

  In 1821, to mark the passing of her sister Jemima, Lucy Kendrick had made the Paid Mourner. The head was carved from wax; the limbs and chest from elm. No ordinary elmwood, either. Lucy broke a single bough from a tree Jemima planted as a girl. The tree was felled a century later. Kendricks Workshop used pieces for parquet flooring.

  “That doll,” Larkin said. “I’ve read about her, many times. May I take a closer look?”

  “You can try.�
��

  He stepped towards the bars, and peered in. Hedwig joined him. By the half light, the doll was just discernible. Her face was painted cream and pink. A pair of crescents represented lowered eyes. She wore a feathered hat – the plumes as black as guillemots – which matched her velvet gown. The cage’s single door was fourteen inches high, at shoulder level. Sitting on the latch were two iron figures, guarding the Paid Mourner as if they were her jailers.

  “She’s beautiful,” Larkin whispered.

  Hedwig shrugged, because exquisite detail, the very craft of miniatures, did not seem wondrous to her. Only financial worth inspired her interest. Growing up on Paxton’s Eyot ensured her grasp of trade information. The most important thing about the Paid Mourner was the market value. Pride in Kendricks’ wealth made Hedwig boast; she whispered, gleefully: “She’s worth two million pounds.”

  Larkin’s eyes widened. “Two million?”

  Hedwig nodded.

  “But there’s no lock on the cage,” Larkin muttered.

  “Open it. I dare you.” Mischief lay ahead.

  The first step of lifting the latch on the cage door was gripping the iron jailers. No other way to move the latch was possible. With reverence, Larkin touched them both – and recoiled with a small cry.

  “What happened?” Hedwig queried.

  “The figures,” said Larkin. “They feel like Consuming Paranoia!”

  “Most effective, aren’t they? And gloves don’t protect you.”

  “But surely, if you were determined to—”

  “The only living people who’ve opened that door are Conrad, and his brother Briar. No one else. The Paranoia always proves too much to bear.”

  “We’ll see.” He gripped the iron guards again; again he let them go.

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” Hedwig said. “The sorcery’s very strong… As strong as sorcery gets. Efficacy depends on good materials. Any enchantment grows more potent if it’s laid on iron.”

  “I didn’t see any iron dolls in the shop.”

  “The Sorcerers usually make them on request, for connoisseurs. The average buyer likes more ornamental, mobile dolls, and finds iron enchantments too intense. In general, iron’s outsold by bisque and porcelain.”