Leaning back against the wall, Dick Turpin put his feet up on the corner of the table and cast a knowing eye over the pub. He always liked to sit with his back to the wall in strange places; experience had taught him it was the safest place to be since it meant no one could sneak up on him from behind. Satisfied that there was no one in sight that knew him, he turned his attention back to the nervous little man sitting across from him. The man was dapperly but not expensively dressed in black with what looked like a second hand wig sitting on his head. His fingers were busily knotting and unknotting themselves as he watched Turpin anxiously. An odd ring with an ornate symbol on it winked in the fire light on his finger. Joseph Spellman he called himself, although Dick could have thought of a few other names.

"So, why didn’t Jacob come himself?" Turpin asked again as he weighed the purse in his hand and eyed the stranger curiously. He set the purse down on the table between them and folded his arms, gazing at his visitor.

"He was busy," came the soft voiced reply.

Spellman reminded Dick of a mouse with his small bright eyes and twitchy manner. No, perhaps not a mouse, but a rat. "Hmmh..."

"He’s not a young man any more, you understand. He would prefer to keep his connection with you...discreet shall we say?"

Dick half shrugged and reached for his ale, noticing the way the man flinched away from the slightest possibility of being touched. Jacob had never sent him a messenger with money before, so why now? The gold ring he had taken the fence had been a beauty it was true; a wine red ruby of so deep a colour that it was almost the colour of blood, a stone that blazed like a fire in darkness. But it wasn't like Jacob to send him the payment for it when he knew Turpin had obtained the ring on commission in the first place. Jacob knew perfectly well what to do with any money he made for the highwayman and it wasn't sending it to him by an unknown courier.

Spellman reached for his wine, taking a small delicate sip and grimacing. "Vinegar," he muttered sourly.

"It’s a cheap inn, not suitable for gentlemen of your quality," Turpin responded sarcastically.

Spellman flashed a quick look at him, eyes sharp. "I have, I mean we have a small commission for you," he said carefully. "The money...."

"Is for a certain item I requested our mutual acquaintance to sell for me," Dick suggested quietly. "Or so you would have me believe...."

"I would like to know how you obtained it," Spellman pressed. "I need information..."

"I told Jacob. Ask him."

Spellman blinked once. "He said you robbed the man who owned it. That you took it from him at gun point as he travelled by coach."

Turpin pressed one hand to his chest, surprised Jacob would have told Spellman anything at all; unless it had been under duress.... "Such lies..." he exclaimed. "I am an honest man!"

"We both know you are not, sir," Spellman snapped then flinched as Dick’s feet hit the floor with a thud and he leaned forward across the table.

"I have a good mind to pay a little visit to my good friend Jacob and find out exactly how you obtained such information," Turpin growled. "There had better not be so much as a mark on him..."

Spellman paled and reached under his coat, then froze as he saw the pistol suddenly aimed at him.

"I wouldn't even think of reaching for a weapon if I was you," Turpin warned.

"I- I was reaching for a small packet...." Spellman protested weakly, holding the edge of his coat between a trembling finger and thumb.

"Were you now...." Dick nudged aside the lapels of Spellman’s coat, allowing him to take out the packet of manuscript that showed bulging in an inner pocket. Moving very cautiously, Spellman slid it across the table to him. Lowering the gun, Dick sat back and nodded to him to open it. He recognised Jacob’s handwriting on the top page and held out his hand for it.

"Jacob said you would be suspicious," Spellman murmured, swallowing to ease his dry mouth.

"I have good cause," Dick said sourly, rapidly skimming Jacob’s message. "Sod it..." he said softly at last. "You’re one of them."

"Sir?" Spellman said indignantly.

"Them, that bunch of demon hunters or whatever you call yourself. Those loons who collect supposedly magical artefacts. I know Jacob collects stuff for you. Told him it was a bloody dangerous thing to do."

"Demon cursed objects...."

"Demon cursed are they now? Used to be witches...." Turpin gave him a narrow eyed look. "Did Jacob send you to me because of the ring?"

"Yes, he, we believe you might be in danger...."

Dick looked at the ring Spellman wore and sighed again. "I knew it, I bloody knew it," he muttered sourly.

"Of course you would," Spellman said soothingly. "Jacob said you are fey...." He broke off, swallowing nervously as Turpin gave him a chilly look. "Allow me to explain..."

"I think you’d better...."

"The ring belonged to a man called the Duke of Rimini. He was an enemy of our Order. We reclaim such....cursed objects."

"You’re a monk?"

"Not a monk per se...."

Turpin snorted. "It would have explained so much. Go on."

"A black sorcerer, a man of great and terrible powers. Some called him an alchemist or vampire or worse..."

"Lovely..." Dick muttered, picking up his ale.

"The ring was found on his body, but vanished soon after. Now it is back...."

"So?"

"So someone is looking for...something valuable connected with it. You told Jacob someone hired you to take it?"

"I got talked into it," Dick said grimly, reminding himself to give Swiftnick a quick clip round the ear for that one. So she had been pretty and had told a neat story about the ring belonging to her father, of being seduced and losing the ring to an out and out villain of a nobleman and how she must get it back as it was the last thing she had of her father. Turpin hadn’t believed a word of it, but Swiftnick had.

"Who hired you?"

"What’s it got to do with you? She didn’t get the ring...."

"No," Spellman gave him a slow, thoughtful look that made the hairs on the back of Turpin’s neck prickle. "You told Jacob that you’d arranged to meet her and give her the ring..."

"Something like that," Dick agreed with a wolfish smile. Give hadn’t exactly been the way he’d phrased it.

"But she didn’t appear?"

"No...."

"Do you know why?"

Turpin shrugged, willing to let Spellman believe he was uninterested. "I assumed she changed her mind. Women do that. Especially pretty ones." The fact that she had arranged with Turpin to take the ring to Jacob if she didn't make the rendezvous had nothing to do with Spellman. If he knew Jacob then he should know that little detail already.

The tiniest of smiles crossed Spellman’s face. "The self styled Countess DiCaesare is a witch..."

"Most women are," Dick said dryly.

"Based on the information you gave Jacob my Order is looking for her. It’s important that we find her. If you know anything-?"

Turpin settled back against the wall and deliberately put his feet back up on the table corner. "If you already know who she is, why ask me?"

"She will probably be most annoyed that you sold her ring."

"Not her ring, mine," Dick replied easily. "I took it, remember? She can’t be that good a witch if she couldn’t get it back for herself."

Spellman gazed at him silently, his sharp little eyes glittering like needle-points. "What other information did she give you?" he asked flatly at last.

"Nothing. She said the ring would be on the coach and she was right. She didn't show up for our little rendezvous, which I was most disappointed about. Being forgotten by a beautiful woman and all after all I’d been through was the last straw, so I sold it." Dick put a sulky note in his voice, wanting Spellman to believe him petulant and bitter after hoping to get more than money from the Countess. He didn’t trust the man, whether Jacob’s papers vouched for him or not. Turpin had noted one very important thing about the introduction from the fence; Jacob’s identifying mark hadn’t been on it.

"I see," Spellman said disapprovingly. "So, she made no other arrangement to meet with you?"

"No."

"Did she ever mention a certain...manuscript?"

"No." Turpin studied his boot tips and yawned deliberately. "What exactly is it you want, Spellman? I'm a busy man and you mentioned a commission."

Spellman sniffed. "We want the woman found. She approached you once. She may still believe you have the ring and contact you again to get it back."

"Sounds to me like you think this ring is a pretty valuable little item...." Turpin mused lazily.

"More so than you could ever imagine," Spellman retorted primly. "You will be well rewarded for capturing her and perhaps...." He raised an eyebrow and gave Turpin a meaningful look, his eyes glinting strangely as they caught the candlelight. "We could come to a mutually satisfying arrangement for both of us," he continued politely.

Dick casually picked up his ale and supped. That settled it. He knew perfectly well what Spellman was hinting at; he wanted the Countess eliminated and was suggesting that Turpin could do it. And that fair and square put him out of Jacob’s Order. There was no way in the world Jacob would ever think Turpin capable of murder. The old rogue knew him too well. "I don’t do murder," he said grimly.

Spellman raised an eyebrow. "Do I detect a moral?" he said sarcastically.

Turpin’s eyes glinted like obsidian. He suspected that Spellman knew he had made a mistake with the suggestion. "I don’t fall for traps either. What about this manuscript?" he said coolly.

"Manuscript?" a flash of alarm entered Spellman’s eyes.

"Aye, the one you mentioned," Dick said, eyeing him almost drowsily.

"Oh that. It’s supposed to be a magical; the key to the philosopher’s stone."

"Alchemy, hmmh?" Spellman gave him a quick sharp look and Dick gave him a vague smile, mindful that he was supposed to be lulling him. "Be worth something that philosopher’s stone thing, if this Rimini really managed to do it..."

"I doubt if it’s possible but the manuscript is valuable in the right hands. If it was found and returned to my Order, there would be a substantial reward," Spellman eyed him calculatingly, all his hints of his nervousness gone now as he leaned forward. "It’s worth nothing except to us...."

"And maybe the Countess?" Dick suggested sarcastically, with a faint drunken slur into his voice. "Maybe she’d pay me more, huh?"

"Don’t be a fool, man! The witch would kill you...."

Turpin snorted and waved his flagon at him. "Don’t believe in witches," he told him. "Or magic pebbles. You leave me word where I can find you and I’ll consider it."

Spellman eyed him narrowly. "Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll contact you..."

Dick gazed back mildly. "No chance of that. What if the witch gets you first, hmmh?"

"I’ll be staying here, sir," Spellman said frostily. "Like you...."

Turpin cocked his head to one side. "Now what makes you think that?" he drawled.

"It grows late, sir, and you are in your cups...."

"Not so deep I can’t ride a straight line," Dick snorted. For the last few minutes an uncomfortable feeling had been growing on him, an urge to get away from Spellman and back to Swiftnick. He couldn’t fault the lad for bravery, but Swiftnick wouldn't be happy in a strange house in bad weather. "Besides, my horse knows her way home..."

Spellman sighed. "Let me buy you dinner and we’ll talk further..."

"I think not." Leaning forward, Dick settled his chair back to the floor and rose lightly to his feet. Striding around the end of the table, he swept up the purse of gold coins with an extravagant gesture and stumbled, falling on top of Spellman and knocking the man from his chair. "My apologies, sir, my apologies," Dick exclaimed in embarrassment as he untangled himself, driving his elbow into Spellman’s stomach and knocking the breath out of him; his foot coming down heavily on the man’s ankle as he struggled to his feet and caught his balance. Bending over, Dick picked up Spellman’s wig and gently placed it back on his head, gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder, grabbed up Spellman’s papers and then weaved off towards the door amid general laughter.

The second he was outside the door in the wind and the rain, Dick looked down at the results of his deft trawling of Spellman’s pockets, scowled, and took to his heels in the direction of the stables...

Swiftnick twitched in the big solid armchair he was curled up in, staring uneasily towards the diamond paned windows as the rose bushes outside scratched along the glass. A rumble of thunder pounded heavily overhead, followed a flash of lightning that lit the windows and revealed for a split second the overgrown shape of a tree outside.

The huge old Tudor house had been empty for a long time, its furniture dusty and swathed in old covers that had collected layers of fluff and cobwebs in their deep folds. The remaining portraits hung here and there on the walls stared down from behind grime and cracks, leaving the young highwayman with the feeling he was being constantly watched.

Resolutely ignoring the eerie whining of the rising wind outside, Swiftnick turned his attention back to the book he was reading by a combination of firelight and candle. It was an old handwritten journal he had found on the study table, full of wonderful descriptions of foreign places and strange and mysterious happenings.

Swiftnick looked up sharply, certain he had heard a footstep from the hall. Setting the journal down, he slipped to his feet and picked up the pistol that was never far from the young highwayman’s side. Telling himself firmly not to be silly, he paced over to the door and pulled it open so he could peek out into the cavernous maw of the hall with its rusting suits of armour.

"Hello?" Swiftnick called softly, unsure whether he wanted to be heard or not.

Surely Turpin would be back soon? He had ordered his apprentice to stay put and see if the Countess showed up while he rode to the inn where she had been staying to see if she was there. Swiftnick was worried about her. When she hadn’t shown up to collect her ring, Turpin had been all too willing to deliver the ring into Jacob’s hands as requested and forget all about it. Swiftnick had been hard pressed to persuade him to agree to Jacob’s request to find her. He knew Dick knew something he didn’t. The way he and Jacob had talked had gone right over his head, talk about witches and spells and artefacts...

Turpin hadn’t wanted to get involved in whatever the Countess was up to. It was Jacob who had sent them to the house, based on his knowledge that it had recently been purchased by the Order and that as a member the Countess might well think to meet him there. Dick hadn’t taken that little snippet of information well either. Swiftnick had no idea what the Order was or why even mentioning it annoyed his partner, but he was determined to find out....

If Dick ever came back that was....

Frowning, Swiftnick started to withdraw into the warmth of the study again. When he had cautiously inspected the hall earlier it had been so cold his breath had misted in the air and the dismal atmosphere of the house had felt worse there than anywhere else.

Swiftnick hesitated, surprised by his own despondency. Turpin had given him no indication that he had any intention of leaving his partner. It had been a settled thing between them that Swiftnick was a permanent fixture in Turpin’s life now for some time. Oh, the older man might moan and complain and threaten, but Swiftnick was long past the stage when he feared that Dick might actually dump him.

"Stop it," Swiftnick scolded himself impatiently. There were any number of reasons Dick could be late. The weather was worsening so he might have taken shelter to wait for the rain to blow over. Or the Countess could have turned up at the inn.

Shaking his head in irritation at his doubts, Swiftnick turned away from the hall and froze as he clearly heard the soft sound of a footstep. Instantly alert, he swung back, hearing the soft swish of a skirt. "Hello? Who’s there?" he called sharply, venturing out into the hall and scanning the darkened corners.

His breath puffed in little white clouds as he stepped uncertainly across the cracked tiles of the floor, searching for the intruder. "Countess? Is that you?"

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, making Swiftnick shiver in alarm.

The distant sound of a step coming as if from far away, the squeak of a creaking stair....

Swiftnick turned towards the stair, lifting his pistol warily on the off chance it was someone who meant him harm. He could sense there was someone there, but he couldn’t see them...

The stair creaked again and suddenly there was something there, in the dim light from the study doorway, he could make out a faint shadowy shape halfway down the stair that was barely an outline on the air.

As Swiftnick watched in rising panic, the shape drifted downwards, the air seeming to thicken into a white mist that slowly coalesced into a recognisable shape; full skirts, a high ruffled neckline...

He could hear the swish, swish of a skirt...

And still he could see right through it...

Swiftnick’s feet felt frozen to the tiles as he stared at the approaching apparition, unable to move as it floated down the stairs; a ghostly feminine outline that lifted one hand to beckon to him.

Swiftnick jerked a step forward, compelled to respond to that gesture....

A chill so cold it felt like ice flooded over him like a bath of cold water and he felt an abrupt sharp pressure in his back below the ribs as if something had been shoved into him. Alarmed that someone had crept up on him, he whipped around to face his attacker....

Something flashed, an eye searing flash of lightning that lit the hallway and Swiftnick saw a disembodied face glaring at him from the shadows; narrow dark eyes in a lean swarthy face, thin lips, a neck surrounded by a white ruffle....

Panic stricken, Swiftnick backed away and the face followed after him, the figure of a man dressed in old fashioned clothes materialising from the shadows. Swiftnick stared at the dagger he brandished and levelled his pistol on him. His hand was shaking so much he could hardly hold his target....

"Stay away from me or I’ll s-shoot..." he stammered.

The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream and he lunged, dagger first....

Swiftnick yelled and pulled the trigger in sheer terror, frantically staggering backwards as the dagger point entered his chest. Dimly he was aware of a pressure in his ribs, of a woman screaming and the patter of running footsteps, of the leering man withdrawing his dagger to stab again...

Then his heel caught on the bottom stair and he tripped, his head hit the heavy wooden balustrade and sent him plunging headlong into darkness...

Muttering and swearing, Dick dumped his saddle bags on the kitchen table dragged off his rain soaked cloak and flung it over a chair. The boom of thunder made him scowl as he turned back to kick the door shut on the rain drenched night and slam the latch down. The wind was wild and the weather filthy, if he’d had any sense he would have stayed at the inn and collected Swiftnick in the morning. But something had driven Dick from the inn and it hadn’t been Spellman’s presence. For one thing, Swiftnick would fret and either convince himself he had been abandoned or that something had happened to his partner. Dick quailed at the thought of the trouble Swiftnick could get into if he thought Turpin was in hurt or in danger.

"Swiftnick!" Dick bellowed as he stomped over to the small fire laid in the hearth and warmed himself at the flames. There was no answer and Dick felt a chill that had nothing to do with his damp clothes tickle his nerves. True, it was a big house but Swiftnick had a liking for kitchens and he was surprised Nick wasn't waiting for him. On the other hand, the things Swiftnick liked most about kitchens was the warmth and the food, neither of which this kitchen had. The small fire wasn’t doing a lot to heat the big stone kitchen and the only food in the place was the provisions they had brought with them and what Dick had purchased from the pub and village before he came back.

Briskly crossing the kitchen, Dick bounded up the stone steps and emerged with a crash of the door into the dining hall at the back of the house. "Swiftnick?!" he bellowed again as he strode through the dusty room. Drat the boy, he wasn't deaf and he should have heard him by now. A passing thought made Dick wonder if Swiftnick had found himself a bed for the night. It was late after all.

Marching out of the dining hall, he made his way down the dark dusty corridor, aware of a rising sense of claustrophobia. There was an atmosphere in the house that made him itch...

Emerging into the back of the hall, Dick hesitated, sniffing the air as he smelt the acrid burnt smell of gunpowder. Someone had recently fired a pistol....

"Swiftnick? Where are you?" Uneasy now, Turpin moved more cautiously, drawing his pistol.

In the candlelight spilling through an open doorway, Dick caught a glimpse of metal shining and eased forward warily, eyeing the suit of armour leaning drunkenly against the wall. There was a large hole blasted through its metal chest plate...

A faint moan from Dick’s left made him whip sharply towards it, ready to shoot. A second later he loosened his grip on his gun and darted across the tiles to kneel next to his semi-conscious young partner as he sprawled at the foot of the stairs. It looked as if he had been going upstairs and somehow tripped and fallen...

His pistol lay a hand’s breadth from his fingers and Dick reached for him with a surge of panic, terrified that the youth might have somehow shot himself...

Common sense reminded him of the wounded suit of armour, but Turpin was alarmed as he ran his hands over him, searching anxiously for broken bones and, finding none, gingerly turning him over. There was a lovely bruise coming up on his pale temple, but Dick could find no other signs of damage. A little of his panic subsiding, Turpin settled his accomplice carefully against his shoulder and patted his face.

"Swiftnick? Swiftnick, wake up lad. Come on now..."

Swiftnick moaned, a whimper of pain then woke up, flailing in a wild panic. Startled, Turpin was quick to grab the youth as he flung himself away from the older man’s support. Turpin grabbed his hands as he swung at him. "Easy, Swiftnick, easy! It’s me..."

"D-dick?" Swiftnick quavered, focusing on him slowly.

"Aye...."

"Let me go...."

Turpin snorted but released his grip. Swiftnick promptly sank back against him, wrapping his fingers in Turpin’s coat and clinging to him. "Here now..." Dick protested but he put an arm around his quivering shoulders and gave him an awkward pat. "What’s the matter? What happened?"

Swiftnick shook his head mutely, gulping for breath. Dick could feel him shivering and was suddenly aware of how cold the hall was. "Was it you shooting the place up?" he asked lightly.

"There w-was something behind m’me...." Swiftnick stammered.

"Aye, a suit of armour bought it..."

"Huh?" Swiftnick lifted his head to give him a puzzled look.

"You killed a savage suit of armour, lad," Turpin told him lightly, gesturing towards the armour. "Attacked you did it?"

Swiftnick’s eyes were large and dark in the candlelight and Turpin could see his total bewilderment.

"High spirits?" he suggested.

Swiftnick’s round eyes came back to his face then darted past him to peer fearfully up at the flight of stairs. "There was some...one? On the stairs..."

"I thought you said they were behind you...."

"Yes....no....There was someone, something on the stairs...and behind me...He attacked me...." Swiftnick looked down at his chest, running his fingers across the cream cotton of his shirt and staring at his fingers. "He had a dagger....and I fired at him....but...." Frightened and badly confused, he looked up at Turpin for help.

"Come on, lad, you can’t spend all night here in the cold. Sitting in there, were you?" Dick gestured towards the open door of the study and hustled Swiftnick to his feet. Steering him into the study, he deposited him in the chair by the fire and then looked around him. "You need something hot to drink...." he mused. "I’ll see if I can whip up some tea...."

"Don’t leave me!" Swiftnick protested, scuttling out of his chair to grab his arm as Turpin made for the door.

"Don’t be daft. I'm only going to the kitchen...."

"I'm not staying here on my own! I'm not!" Swiftnick yelped and darted past him, running past Turpin and across the hall towards the main door.

"Swiftnick! Come back here...." Dick yelled in exasperation and strode after him, wondering what he thought he was doing. He caught up with Swiftnick as the youth wrestled the last bolt open and flung the heavy door wide to dart out into the huge vault of the porch. Rain and wind blasted in, nearly knocking him off his feet as he ran out onto the steps. Cursing, Dick stalked after him and grabbed him by the shoulder, giving him a rough shake. "What’s got into you?!" he bellowed over the howling of the wind.

Swiftnick fought him off. "We can’t stay here!" he screamed back at him.

"We can’t leave in this lot! Look at it...." Dick gestured into the rain lashed darkness. In the screaming wind, trees raked the sky and with a splintering crack one of the massive oaks near the driveway gave up the struggle to stay upright in the wind and started to topple.

Swiftnick recoiled in shock at the sight of the huge tree falling, hearing it scream as its roots were torn from the earth by the force of the wind and its trunk split asunder, exploding into shrapnel of splintered wood across the grounds.

Dick yanked Swiftnick behind the sheltering stone pillars of the porch as the wind tossed fragments of the fallen giant’s bones across the grass. "Be reasonable, lad, we can’t leave," he shouted into a blond curl covered ear. "The horses would never stay on their hooves." Swiftnick looked up at him in misery and Dick gave him a rare but fierce hug. "I know you’ve had a shock and you’re out of sorts, but I’m here now. Trust me, I won't let anything happen to you. Come on, come down to the kitchen with me...."

Shaking his head in confusion, Swiftnick found himself firmly pushed back into the house and the heavy door slammed shut on the vengeful wind. The drop in the noisy fury of sound made him catch his breath and he looked up at Turpin sheepishly.

"Tea," Dick said firmly and led the way across the hall with Swiftnick tagging close on his heels.

"Are you sure you didn't trip?" Dick suggested half an hour later in the kitchen. Swiftnick was sipping black sugar laced tea from a mug while Turpin bathed the bruise on his temple.

"No, yes, he was chasing me....I fired at it and that’s when I tripped. But I know what I saw...."

Dick frowned down at him from where he perched on the kitchen table beside him and dropped the cloth he was using back in the bowl of cold water drawn from the pump. "Do you think it was the Countess you saw?"

Swiftnick gulped. "No..." he said slowly.

Turpin eyed him for a moment, then slid off the table and went to turn the pies he had placed on the ledge by the fire. Ghosts? he wondered dubiously. He didn't believe in them, of course, but Swiftnick was of an age that was said to attract apparitions. The lad also had a lively imagination. He could have dreamed it all after he tripped and knocked himself out. But he did know he had fired his pistol and he must have been aiming at something. Dick had taught him to be too responsible to fire without need.

"I'm a highwayman not a ghost hunter for crying out loud," Turpin grumbled.

"I know that, Dick," Swiftnick murmured, eyeing him warily.

Dick glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled ruefully, realising he had spoken out loud. Ambling back to the table, he turned a chair around and sat down astride, resting his arms on the back. "Let’s see now, the Countess comes to us to get the ring for her. She then disappears, so we take the ring to Jacob who pays us for it and sends us back here to wait for her. I go to the inn to see if she’s turned up there only to be told she was lying to us about ever staying there in the first place. Then the innkeeper introduces me to a man called Spellman, whose been waiting for anyone looking for the Countess and who purports to be from some kind of Order dedicated to reclaiming cursed objects."

"Cursed?" Swiftnick squeaked, his eyes widening.

Dick waved his hand. "Scare-mongering, no such thing," he said firmly. "But Spellman is also claiming to have been sent by Jacob and has a bag full of money to pay for the ring."

Swiftnick frowned. "But Jacob already paid us for the ring," he protested.

"Aye," Dick agreed, glad to have distracted his young friend from his fright. "Spellman also suggests there might be a reward for finding and eliminating the Countess. So, what do you think? Who do we believe?"

"Jacob," Swiftnick said firmly.

"Oh?" Dick prompted.

"Jacob knew about the Countess, he admitted sending her to us and he paid us for the ring so he knew what was going on. This Spellman turns up out of nowhere...."

"So did the Countess..." Turpin argued lightly.

"Yes, but Jacob sent us a message to meet her and she knew how to find us, Spellman only hung around hoping we’d show up and he had to get the innkeeper to introduce you. He brought money to bribe you and he’s suggesting the Countess deceived us and Jacob. I wouldn't trust him..." Swiftnick paused suspiciously, realising that Turpin was grinning at him indulgently. "What?"

"You’re learning to think for yourself, lad," Dick told him, leaning across the table to pull his saddle bags towards him. He upended them on the table, spilling out the purse of gold coins he had taken from Spellman, along with the packet of papers and the ring.

Swiftnick stared at the ring in astonishment. "How-?"

"Spellman had it when I rifled his pockets. I can’t see there being two like that, can you?"

"No," Swiftnick admitted, making no move to touch it.

Dick picked it up, studying the gem and slipped it on his finger to admire. It was a remarkably fine ruby that was well suited to its heavy gold setting. Gazing into it was like staring into the depths of a fire, or a glass of rich wine...

"How’d he get it then?" Swiftnick wondered, tugging inquisitively at the purse and spilling the gold coins out on the table.

"Somehow he got it off Jacob. Or the Countess. She could have turned up to get it."

"Then why bring it back here? Why contact you? Dick, stop staring at that thing..."

"Hmmh?" Turpin frowned and reluctantly took the ring off to set aside as he reached for the papers. "What does it matter? It’s not our problem. We have the gold and a ring we can sell again. I suppose Spellman was lying about being from the Order. He’s probably their enemy and represents the owner of the ring. He could have convinced Jacob he was filling in for the Countess to get the ring then come down here to find her. He probably thought he could pay me to find and kill her."

"We should take the ring back to Jacob," Swiftnick said firmly.

"Why?" Dick looked up sharply, surprised by the pang of possessiveness that filled him at the thought of giving up the ring.

"Because there are too many people looking for it and it’s too easily traceable you said."

"I did?"

Swiftnick nodded firmly. "That’s why you insisted on taking it to Jacob instead of waiting for the Countess any longer. And it’s cursed."

"I never said it was cursed...."

"Stands to reason. Why else did the Countess want it?"

Turpin frowned at him, his fingers itching to pick up the ring again. "Oh, so you don’t believe the heirloom story any more?"

"You never did," Swiftnick pointed out tartly. "Seems strange to me that it keeps coming back to us."

"I wouldn't say keeps...." Dick said doubtfully.

"Why’d you go through his pockets? You didn’t know he had it..."

"I was suspicious. Maybe I'm meant to have it..." Dick followed Swiftnick’s gaze and was startled to find that he was absently rolling the ring between his fingers. With a quick scowl, Dick grabbed the coin purse and shoved the ring inside. He drew the strings tight and determinedly picked up the papers. "This looks like it’s from Jacob," he told Swiftnick, well aware of Swiftnick’s intent gaze. "It’s an introduction, but there’s no mark on it. Spellman showed it to me to prove he was from Jacob..."

"But Jacob would have put his mark on it so you’d know it was real," Swiftnick said quickly.

"Aye. So, most likely it’s a good forgery." Setting the message aside, Dick started to go through the other papers, turning over in his thoughts what Spellman had told him. "The manuscript...."

"You’re talking to yourself again..."

"No, you’re here, aren’t you? I was thinking aloud. Spellman mentioned the Duke of Rimini and a manuscript. It occurs to me that the reason he wants to find the Countess is that she knows where the manuscript is." Dick carefully unfolded a sheet of the papers, mindful of its fragile age. The heavy manuscript crackled in his fingers as he spread it out on the table. He was no alchemist but he knew some of the heavily inked symbols on it. Another sheet was an old star chart and filled with animals and linking lines. The writing on both was done in the same spiky and old fashioned hand. Dick glanced up at Swiftnick as he unfolded the other pages, noting the writing and the mystic designs. "Alchemy..." he told Swiftnick who had come around the table to peek over his shoulder. "Looks like Spellman’s been making quite a collection of Rimini’s manuscripts."

"How do you know they’re Rimini’s?"

Dick tapped a coat of arms roughly sketched in the corner of one of the pages with a flowing signature beneath. "This for a start. And Spellman’s handwriting, at least I assume it’s his, is different from that on these older pages. These look as if they were once bound in a book," he added. "See where the stitches have been broken...?"

"Oh...."

There was something in the way Swiftnick murmured that ‘oh’ that made Turpin look up at him sharply. "Oh? Oh what?"

"I found a book in the study. It’s got some pages missing..."

"What book? Where?"

"I told you, in the study..."

"Show me," Dick ordered, gathered up the pages again.

"I thought we were going to have the pies...." Swiftnick mumbled, reluctant to go back upstairs.

"They’re not ready yet." Turpin grabbed his apprentice briskly by one arm and hustled him towards the door. "Show me this book..."

"I thought it wasn't anything to do with us," Swiftnick protested.

"You want me to find it on my own while you stay here - alone?" Dick asked, lifting a casual eyebrow.

Swiftnick gave him a quick glare but hastened out of the door, unwilling to be left on his own again. He darted upstairs, leading the way back to the study and grateful for Turpin following close behind him as they crossed the hall.

The study was exactly as he had left it when he peeped nervously around the door. The fire had burned low, making the room darker. Dick eased past him, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder as he spotted the book where Swiftnick had abandoned it. Swiftnick scurried after him and grabbed the poker to stir up the fire, wanting more light. "It’s about foreign places," he explained. "Are there really places where they have rivers instead of roads?"

"That’d be Venice," Dick said absently. The book was a large tome with a beautifully gilded red leather cover. Each page was covered with the same spiky handwriting as the cut pages in Spellman’s collection and were illustrated here and there with neat little drawings. A whole section of pages were missing from the back where they had been neatly cut from the binding and Dick had little doubt that Spellman had somehow obtained the missing pages. So, what was so important about them that they had been cut from the rest...

"Venice. It sounded pretty..." Swiftnick said wistfully.

"It stinks," Dick told him. "And the place is full of debauchery and unnatural lusts...." He paused, suddenly remembering who he was talking to. Sure enough Swiftnick was gazing at him in wide eyed fascination when he looked round. Slamming the book shut, he tucked it under one arm. "Let’s go and have those pies."

An hour or so later after their makeshift supper, Swiftnick was curled up asleep on the floor by the fire in a nest of cushions. Food always tended to calm him down when he was upset.

Dick had his feet up on the hearth’s edge and was reading Spellman’s papers. On the table beside him, the ring had slipped from the coin purse and every now and then Turpin’s hand would absently stray to fondle it. The papers were proving to be far more informative than Rimini’s own journal and he had already learned enough to know that he wouldn’t have wanted to meet the Duke of Rimini in person.

A sorcerer and alchemist, Rimini had been a rich and powerful man, but he had not considered himself rich enough, hence his search for the philosopher’s stone. His activities in its pursuit had been considered evil and depraved even by the tolerant standards of Venice and he had been forced to flee the indulgent atmosphere of the city to take shelter in England. He had brought with him his wealth and his secretary, a handsome young man called Vincente.

Soon after his arrival in England, Rimini had brought a mansion and discreetly taken up his former activities, but the Upper Classes were even less tolerant of him and rumours were soon spreading about him and his catamite. To forestall the rumours, he married a wealthy young woman called Jane from a rich and noble lineage and for a while he was forgotten.

It seemed however that Vincente was not content with his master’s bed and shared his favours with Rimini’s wife. Rimini found out...

Dick wasn't quite sure who the Duke had been most jealous of, his wife or his secretary but according to the carefully copied report from the time, Rimini had murdered both of them; apparently stabbing Vincente to death in the hall, then pursuing his wife and stabbing her repeatedly on the upper landing. Rimini had been found on the floor of the hall where he had apparently climbed over the landing rail and hurled himself to his death. The murder weapon had never been found...

Dick shivered. It wasn't possible, was it? Swiftnick couldn’t have seen....

Turning back to the papers, Dick skimmed through the pages again, searching for more information about Vincente. There was nothing; Spellman had had little interest in anyone beside Rimini.

There seemed little point in reading Rimini’s journal. There was unlikely to be anything in it concerning Vincente’s affair with Jane. A man who had committed tw murders and then killed himself was unlikely to have sat down between times and made notes on the subject.

Still, he needed to know more. It felt important...

Setting aside the papers, Turpin eased quietly to his feet and stepped over Swiftnick’s legs. The younger highwayman didn't stir as Turpin slipped out of the study into the hall and looked around him. The walls were dotted with old portraits and Turpin started to prowl, searching for the faces of Rimini’s companions. Power and riches were usually supported by arrogance and pride in Dick’s experience and that meant a desire to show off. He was sure there would be portraits.

He found them finally on the far side of the hall in an alcove, three portraits flanked by two suits of rusting armour.

Jane Rimini was a pretty but solemn faced young woman dressed in Elizabethan dress with her hair concealed by a headdress and her slender neck adorned by a dainty necklace.

Next to her was a portrait of a swarthy featured handsome man with a sneer in his dark eyes. Dick didn't need to read the small gold panel beneath to identify Rimini but he studied the background of the painting with interest, noting the small wooden coffer that Rimini rested a possessive hand on.

The third portrait was Vincente; young still but slightly older than Swiftnick, blue eyed and brown eyed, pretty rather than handsome and with an air about him that spoke of calculation. He was seated at a table, one elegant stockinged leg stretched out to display the bow at his knee.

"I wouldn’t have trusted you either," Turpin told the too guileless face, but he felt sorry for Jane. Married to a man who didn’t want her and who cared more for his secretary than he did for her, she would have felt and been trapped. Vincente’s affection whether real or feigned must have been a welcome diversion for her. She probably had no idea of how Rimini would react, come to that perhaps Vincente hadn’t either. The secretary might have been as jealous as his master.

"A wicked little triangle," Dick said, glancing at the portrait of Jane. Perhaps she wasn't as innocent as she looked after all. Perhaps they had both vied for Rimini’s attention and sought to punish him by turning to each other.

"Dick?" Swiftnick called uncertainly and Turpin looked round. The younger man was standing in the study doorway, peering anxiously around him.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Something woke me..."

"Probably the wind," Dick said easily as he ambled over to put his arm around Swiftnick’s shoulders. Come and look at this painting..."

"I’ve got bruises," Swiftnick complained. "Look...." He had tugged his shirt out of his breeches and peeled back the fabric to display a darkening bruise on his ribs. "My back hurts too...." Turpin frowned and turned him around, tugging up his waistcoat and shirt to examine his back. There was a dark black and purple bruise below his ribs that looked as if he had been punched by something. "I told you..."

"You probably fell on something."

"I saw...."

"Probably saw the portraits and got all mixed up..."

"Dick!" Swiftnick protested indignantly. "I did not imagine it!"

"You’d prefer to believe it was a ghost?" Dick asked.

Swiftnick drooped, a flicker of panic entering his eyes. "No..."

"Didn’t think so. Look, go back to sleep. As soon as the wind lets up we’re off."

"We’re not going to wait for the Countess?"

"No. Sod the lot of them. We’ll leave the ring and the papers here and send a message to Jacob. Let the Countess come and find them. It’s her problem. Not ours. Now come and look at this painting..."

Swiftnick gave him a dubious look but let Turpin tow him across the hall to the painting. He was unable to avoid a shudder as he passed the spot where he had been attacked and was grateful for the casual arm Dick draped across his shoulders.

"Right, my lad, here we have the ménage de trios..."

"The what?"

Dick’s mobile lips twitched in a smile. "We have the Lady Jane Rimini, Duke Rimini himself and Vincente. Rimini murdered Vincente and then the Lady Jane for having an affair under his nose. Then he chucked himself off the balcony. They never found the murder weapon."

Swiftnick blinked. "Why?"

"Why?" Dick echoed.

Swiftnick gestured at Rimini’s portrait. "Why’d he kill himself? He doesn’t look like the sort that’d care that much about anyone. And in his journal...."

"Aye, you’ve been reading that, haven’t you?" Dick observed darkly.

Swiftnick nodded. "He doesn’t read like a nice person. It’s all about magic and collecting things and he made it sound like he collected people too." He pointed at the secretary’s painting. "He more or less bought Vincente in Venice. He calls Lady Jane his latest acquisition."

"Probably pride. He looks like an arrogant bastard...." Turpin observed sourly. "But you’re right, why would he kill himself?" Thoughtfully, he narrowed his eyes. "I wonder...Maybe one of the lovers cut those pages from the book, to use against Rimini...."

"I thought they were charts or something. Why would they be valuable?"

"They could have been to Rimini." Turning his back on the paintings, Dick turned to gaze up into the shadowy vaults of the hall’s rafters. "Why go up there and jump when you’ve got a knife in your hand...?" he mused.

Swiftnick hugged himself. "I wish you wouldn’t talk like that," he grumbled.

Dick glanced at him in amusement. "Spellman was interested in a manuscript that belonged to Rimini. What if it was one of the pages torn from the journal?"

"So what if it was?" Swiftnick shrugged.

"If it’s important enough for Spellman to be looking for it now, presumably it would have been important to Rimini too. So, let’s suppose Vincente or Jane took it. The other pages Spellman had could have been simply proof to show Rimini they had them. The important ones could have been hidden...."

Swiftnick frowned at him for a long moment and then looked up at the balcony. "She was on the stairs...." he said slowly.

"And he killed her on the balcony," Dick agreed. "I wonder if they’d hidden the manuscript up there somewhere. Rimini could have been looking for it..."

"And he fell...." Swiftnick shuddered again.

"Or was pushed. She might have still been alive..."

"What about the dagger? You said it was missing..."

"I didn’t mention a dagger." Swiftnick gave him a mute look. Dick sighed heavily. "All right, so it was a dagger."

"And the man I didn’t see looked like him...." Swiftnick pointed grimly at the Duke’s painting.

Turpin frowned, running over the story Swiftnick had told him. The woman on the stairs, the man lunging at him with a dagger from the study doorway...

Could Swiftnick have been standing in Vincente’s place? But what had triggered the replay?

"Dick, you’re getting that funny look again," Swiftnick protested unhappily. "Can we go back to the study now? I'm getting cold...."

"Aye, in a minute..." Dick said absently, noting that the temperature was indeed dropping. "Swiftnick, have you ever seen that box before?"

"What box?"

Grabbing him before he could retreat, Dick pulled Swiftnick into the alcove and pointed at the coffer Rimini was touching so possessively. "That one..."

"No, but it looks something you’d keep valuables in," Swiftnick said with bright eyed interest. "You think it’s still here somewhere?"

"Avaricious little pest," Dick muttered under his breath despite his amusement.

The sudden gust of wind that blasted through the hall made them both jump in surprise and turn round, fully expecting the crash of the front door slamming open. Instead an eerie penetrating hush descended that was not so much silence as the absence of sound. With the strange quiet came an icy cold and Swiftnick moved uncertainly next to Turpin as the candles in the study guttered out, plunging them into utter darkness.

"Sod it," Dick hissed, hearing Swiftnick gulp beside him and move to bump into the older man. When the youth’s hand curled into his, Dick gripped it instinctively, needing the contact as much as to reassure his young partner.

The pale glow from the stairs drew Turpin’s attention first and he peered towards it, struggling to focus as it seemed to drift downwards to faintly illuminate the hall. His eyes adjusted, turning the blurred outline into the ethereal figure of a young woman standing on the steps, her head half turned towards the study.

"That’s her...." Swiftnick’s whisper was a far off thread of sound as he pressed closer to Turpin’s side.

Voices pressed in on Dick’s ear, sounding close by and yet as muffled as if they were underwater. He had to strain to hear them...

Turpin blinked with a strange sense of double vision as a ghostly study door was yanked violently open, crashing soundlessly against the wall and releasing a spill of candlelight into the hall. A pale man shaped figure ran through the doorway, hurrying towards the stairs where the ghostly outline of the woman waited. He stretched out a hand towards her, motioning urgently for her to go back...

A second figure burst through the doorway, hurling himself at the first man’s back and wielding a dagger with brutal force. The man went down, a scatter of papers bursting from his hand. The figure crouched over him, ransacking the body in furious haste and slicing at its clothes with the dagger. A scream sounded in the distance, ringing from the rafters as the ghostly woman took a step downwards and the killer looked up at her, turning a twisted parody of a human face up towards the stairs. She turned and ran upwards as the dagger armed man leaped over the body and raced in pursuit. He caught her at the top, clutching a fistful of skirts and dragging her down on the landing as he hurled himself after her and vanished into the darkness....

Dick shuddered, only distantly aware of Swiftnick’s painfully tight grip on his hand. His instincts urged him to go to the woman’s assistance but he couldn’t move...

The sounds of a struggle echoed around the hallway, then the meaty sounds of heavy blows and swearing stopped and there was the sound of a woman’s sobbing voice. Then there came a horrible, terrified scream that ripped the air and chilled the blood....

The screaming stopped as if sharply cut off and an ugly, breathless panting filled the air...

On the balcony rail the oddly ragged outline of Rimini appeared, brandishing the knife as he craned over the rail, reaching, reaching....

He overbalanced with shocking suddenness, tumbling gracelessly through the air to land with a silent smack and burst, evaporating across the tiles in a chilly mist that eddied around the highwaymen’s feet as they both instinctively stepped back into the alcove.

Dick collided with a suit of armour that tumbled from its precarious plinth with a clatter and a groan of wood that made him swing around to face the sound.

A crack had appeared in the panelling and a breath of musty air tainted with dust wafted past his nose and made him sneeze.

The very normality of the reaction brought a hiccup of nervous laughter from Swiftnick and Turpin glared at him before sweeping a glance across the hall.

It was once more quiet and empty, the study door standing open and the candles gleaming softly.

"All right," Dick said quietly, amazing himself by how steady his voice sounded. "So, do we check out the secret passage or the balcony?"

"Neither. It’s got nothing to do with us," Swiftnick said hastily.

"Who said that?"

"You did!"

"Aren’t you even a little bit curious?"

"No! He, it....whatever it was killed two people!"

"Two ghosts. Ghosts can’t hurt you. And maybe if we can find that manuscript, we can lay them to rest."

"I don’t care!" Swiftnick blurted and took an angry step across the hall, only to freeze as a gust of cold air wafted past him. Frightened, he shrank back to Turpin’s side.

"Draughts," Dick said firmly. "Why don’t we have a look in the secret passage first, hmmh? Who knows what valuable little bits and pieces we might find?" he reached briskly for the panel, sliding his fingertips into the narrow crack and heaving. The panel slid back with a rusty squeak revealing nothing but darkness beyond. With a shrug, Dick swung around and strode across the hall with Swiftnick at his heels.

"Can’t we at least wait until it gets light?" Swiftnick complained with an uneasy glance over his shoulder at the dark opening.

"Not going to make much difference in there," Turpin pointed out cheerfully as he picked up a candle and motioned his accomplice to get another. "You can wait outside if you want..."

Swiftnick gave him a dirty look but he followed as Dick marched back to the secret panel and hefted his candle to peer through. The flickering light revealed a narrow passageway ending in a stout door. "Got your lockpicks?" Dick asked easily as he stepped into the passage and advanced purposefully towards the door.

"Would it do any good if I said no?"

Dick chuckled and gripped the rusty handle, giving it a firm yank. To his surprise it opened stiffly and allowed him to push the creaking door open. A waft of stale air tainted with the acrid tang of chemicals made him flinch back.

"I wonder how long it’s been closed up," Swiftnick murmured, peeking curiously around Turpin into the dimly lit gloom of the room beyond. There was little to see but dust and cobwebbed old furniture.

"Probably since Rimini was killed," Dick answered, stepping over the threshold with a great deal more confidence than he was feeling. Swiftnick tiptoed after him with elaborate care. "Let’s see now, Vincente took copies of Rimini’s notes and some kind of map. The stuff Spellman had has to be the papers he had on him when he was killed. What does that tell you?"

"That you heard those whispers too?" Swiftnick suggested uneasily.

Dick gave him an exasperated look. "And?" he prompted impatiently.

"The charts Spellman had weren’t important. The map and some manuscript were. Vincente didn't have them on him when Rimini searched him so he must have hidden them somewhere."

Turpin inclined his head in agreement. "I think Jane hid them and she told Rimini where they were before he killed her."

Swiftnick looked up at him. "On the balcony?"

"Rimini was reaching for something when he overbalanced and fell. That manuscript must have been very, very important to him to go so far...." Absently, Dick moved further into the room, lifting his candle so he could get a better view.

Swiftnick shivered. "And to keep coming back," he whispered.

Dick glanced back at him. "Artefacts and immense power," he said softly. "Sounds to me like Rimini was dabbling in more than alchemy..." He paused, his eyes falling on the cupboard set into the wall. Curious, he lifted the latch and heaved the heavy door back.

Swiftnick had ventured as far as the long table down the middle of the room to sniff curiously at the empty pots and poke at the papers scattered across the dusty wood. Turpin’s startled gasp made him shy like a started fawn and instinctively turn towards the door. "What is it?" he quavered when Turpin made no move to flee. He took a tentative step towards him.

"Stay there, Swiftnick," Dick told him grimly. "You don’t need to see this...." He closed the door, snapping the latch down with a determined click. He looked faintly sick.

Swiftnick hovered uncertainly, torn between frustrated curiosity and wariness. "Dick...?"

"Rimini was into black magic as well...." Turpin told him as he circled the table. "Those papers anything?"

"I can’t read them," Swiftnick admitted.

Turpin frowned and glanced at the withering pages. "Italian..." he noted sourly. "Same handwriting at the journal though. So perhaps the journal held no secrets...Magical notes perhaps?"

"What’s in the cupboard?" Swiftnick wasn't interested in papers.

"Nothing you need to worry about...."

Swiftnick snorted and took a step full of bravado around his mentor.

Turpin grabbed his arm in a tight grip. "I said no...."

Swiftnick’s jaw set stubbornly. "I'm not afraid of some old curiosity cabinet..."

"I didn’t say you were, idiot," Turpin said gruffly. "Rimini had a ghoulish taste for collectibles. You want to look at a pickled severed head and a hand of glory? I don’t want to have to put up with your nightmares even if you do..."

Swiftnick’s eyes rounded in horror. "B-but..."

"There’s a jar of pickled eyeballs too...." Dick told him blandly. "Black magic stuff. Still want to look?"

"You’re making it up," Swiftnick said firmly, shrugging him off and taking another step towards the cupboard. There was something in the way Turpin looked at him however that made him hesitate. "A jar of pickled eyeballs?" he said uncertainly. "Why?"

"Well, I assume they were pickled to preserve them. I wasn’t going to take one out to make sure."

"And a severed head?"

"Looking rather startled. I wonder if it was the nobleman Vincente said Rimini murdered. And who knows where he got the hand of glory from."

"That’s it. I'm out of here!" Swiftnick marched back to the door and glared at Turpin. "You coming?"

Turpin hesitated, looking slowly around the room. There didn't seem to be much else to learn here, but there was a chill familiarity to the room that made him half want to linger.

"I'm going back to the study," Swiftnick said sulkily and stomped out.

Shadows rushed in as Swiftnick took his candle with him and Dick lifted his own, scanning the room as his senses prickled. The sound of heavy breathing suddenly filled his ears, the harsh rasp of someone struggling for breath. For a horrible second he thought he felt the brush of a cold hand on the back of his neck, felt fingers closing in a tight grip on his shoulder and a terrible sense of oppression settling over him...

A cold rush of fright filled the highwayman and he hurried to the doorway, yanking the door shut behind him with a crash. Swiftnick was waiting for him up ahead and jumped at the sound. A look of relief crossed his face as Turpin stalked after him and pushed him out into the hall. "Can we go now?" he asked hopefully as Turpin closed the panel.

Ignoring him, Dick headed for the front door and slid back the bolts to open it. The screaming wind outside nearly tore it from his grasp and he had to use his shoulder to slam it shut again. "I’d say no...." Turpin panted as he leaned on it.

Swiftnick reluctantly slid the bolts back into place. "Dick, this place scares me..."

"It’s not doing much for me," Turpin muttered under his breath, but aloud he said, "Nonsense, it’s all your imagination. What this place needs is some new drapes and a lick of paint; pink maybe...."

"Pink?!" Swiftnick echoed in astonishment; following the older man as he strode briskly back to the study.

"Very fashionable colour, don’tcha know," Turpin told him loftily. "Stir up that fire now..."

Swiftnick sighed in exasperation but obeyed, as eager as Turpin for the extra light and warmth of a blazing fire.

Dick watched him for a moment then turned his attention to the study. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt as if he was being watched. "I'm not interested," he muttered. "Go away...."

"Sorry?" Swiftnick glanced over his shoulder at him,

"Not you," Dick told him sourly, feeling a surge of unreasoning resentment for his accomplice. He flung himself back into the armchair where he had been sitting before, drumming his fingers on the table beside him. The ring was sitting there where he had left it and he picked up, sliding it onto his fingers. It was a fine bold ring, well suited to sit beside his own black and gold signet and he smiled at it admiringly.

Swiftnick gave him an uncertain look, unnerved by his calculating smile. "What is it?"

"Did I ask you to say anything?" Turpin snapped at him irritably, his eyes blazing ferociously. "Haven’t you finished with that fire yet, you good for nothing?"

Swiftnick recoiled slightly. "There’s no need to be like that," he snapped back indignantly in rising anger. "And if the fire’s not good enough for you, do it yourself! You don’t own me..."

Dick felt a stab of cold shock at Swiftnick’s heated response and sprang out of his chair as his apprentice stalked past him, heading for the hall. "Swiftnick!" Swiftnick spun to face him, lifting the poker he held like a weapon.

Instinct made Dick grab the youth’s wrist and a bolt of warmth spread through him as his fingers closed on bare skin. His angry resentment vanished as suddenly as it had risen at they touched. Swiftnick twitched at the same moment and the poker fell from his unresisting fingers. "Swiftnick, I'm sorry, lad...." Turpin repeated more gently, seeing the confusion that reflected his own in Swiftnick’s blue eyes.

"I....d-don’t understand...." Bewildered and frightened, Swiftnick moved closer and Turpin put his arm around his shoulders.

"It’s this house...They want something from us..."

"Why don’t they leave us alone?!"

Turpin shook his head, his thoughts buzzing as he struggled to remember what scraps of information he knew about ghosts. "They all ended violently with something left unfinished," he said slowly. "Rimini wanted that manuscript back so much he was willing to kill for it. Perhaps he hasn’t let go yet, perhaps it’s his possessiveness that holding the three of them here."

"I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts," Swiftnick said, eyeing him narrow eyed with suspicion.

Dick smiled ruefully. "Doesn’t stop them believing in me," he answered. "This isn’t the first time the Order has involved me in one of their little messes."

"You never told me that."

"And I'm not telling you now. Doesn’t help us much anyway, does it?"

"Maybe if we found the manuscript they’d leave us alone?" Swiftnick suggested dubiously.

Turpin considered this with a cynically raised eyebrow. "And then what? It might be better off left hidden than let the likes of Spellman get hold of whatever artefact it leads to, lad."

"But if we had it, we could give it to the Order," Swiftnick pointed out, warming to his idea. "And we don’t know that the artefact is anything more than some silly legend. Besides, it’s got to be safer with us than leaving Spellman to find it. If he knew about the ring and the manuscript, then he must know about this house."

"Since the Order brought it, they probably do too...." Turpin paused and then swore savagely. "Oh sod it, the bastards, the complete and utter bastards!"

"What?" Swiftnick exclaimed in alarm.

Outraged, Turpin started to pace the study. "They set us up," he said angrily. "The Countess never meant to meet us that’s why Jacob knew to send us here. They wanted us here to find the manuscript for them! Spellman’s one of them. He was only checking to make sure we hadn’t got the manuscript already. I should have bloody hit him harder..."

"So what do we do then?"

Turpin scowled and flung up his hands in exasperation. "What can we do? You’re right for once. We have to find the bloody manuscript then I’m going to burn the damn thing in front of the damn Order!"

Swiftnick shivered and folded his arms, glancing nervously around him. Dick was too angry to be reasonable, but he didn't think he should saying things like that with the ghosts around. They might get annoyed with him.

Dick had grabbed a candlestick and was already stomping back out into the hall. Swiftnick raced after him, unwilling to be left alone. Turpin had stopped, holding up the candle to peer at the balcony from below. The supporting beams had been carved with vines and flowers with large ornate flower bosses every now and then. Deep shadows suggested holes and gaps and Swiftnick’s imagination made faces out of the carvings.

"You’re not going up there?!" Swiftnick exclaimed in alarm as Turpin headed grimly for the stairs.

"You got a better idea?" Dick retorted sourly as he paused with one booted foot on the bottom step. When Swiftnick shook his head, he started upwards, stomping heavily on each tread as it to crush it into submission. Swiftnick tiptoed after him, looking around him nervously and flinching at the shadows flickered in the candlelight. They reached the top with no ghostly intervention however and Dick turned left, walking slowly along the balcony. Swiftnick followed him, drawing in a sharp breath as a blast of cold air stopped him in his tracks. "Dick?" he whispered uncertainly. "What was that? Did you feel it?"

"I felt it," Turpin agreed stiffly. His eyes were enormous in the mysterious light of the candles, dark bottomless pools of night. "Probably nothing but a draught. Place is full of them..." He took another few steps, running his hand along the dusty dark wood of the rail. "About here I think..."

"I don’t think this is a good idea..." Swiftnick protested. "It feels, like something’s watching us..."

Dick gave him an exasperated glance and leaned over the rail, peering down into the hall below. "Uh huh, about here is right...." he decided. Lifting the candle higher he held it out over the drop, studying the ornately carved wood. "Come and have a look..."

"Must I?"

"Scared?"

The taunt was enough to make Swiftnick scowl and come to his partner’s side to peer over. Heights didn't normally bother him, but he kept seeing Rimini’s ghost plummeting...

Turpin’s hand on his shoulder made him jump wildly and suck in a gasp of breath. Dick chuckled wryly. "Jumpy, lad?"

"And you’re not?" Swiftnick shot back indignantly.

Dick smiled mirthlessly, his eyes hardening. "I want that manuscript back..." he told him.

"Back?" Swiftnick squeaked.

"Aye. I'm bloody well going to get something out of this. Manipulate me, will they? Here, hold this...." Shoving his candlestick into Swiftnick’s hand, Turpin caught hold of the rail and swung one leg over the top.

"Be careful..." Swiftnick protested instinctively.

Dick snorted. "Trust me, lad, I know I can’t fly."

Swiftnick eyed him dubiously, worried by the feral light in his partner’s eyes. Turpin might berate him about being cautious, but there were times when Dick took risks that frightened Swiftnick out of his wits; especially when he was in a temper.

Setting one of the candlesticks down on the balcony, Swiftnick pressed up close to the rail as Turpin nestled his boot into the carvings of the support beam.

"Unlike Rimini I'm no soft nobleman," Dick said smugly as he secured his grip on the rail and peered along the length of the beam.

Swiftnick rolled his eyes and got ready to grab him. He didn't know how much good he could do if Dick did slip, but if he could give him a chance....

"Now, if I was hiding something..." Turpin mused, shuffling carefully along the beam and holding firmly to the rail.

Swiftnick shadowed his every move. "I’d put it somewhere I could get it back easily," he argued. His mouth was dry even if Dick’s wasn't.

"Not too easily," Dick answered absently.

"But they didn't have to get it back, did they?" Swiftnick pointed out as a sudden thought struck him. "That was up to Rimini. They only had to tell him where it was...."

Turpin gave him a sharp look, his sudden movement making something creak and crack ominously beneath his weight. Where his hand gripped the rail, the ruby ring glinted wickedly in the candlelight. "I think I know where it is..." he murmured.

Swiftnick shot an uneasy glance at the ring then caught his breath as Dick suddenly ducked and stretched.

"Ah hah!"

The crack of the beam made Swiftnick’s blood run cold and he dropped the candle to grab at Turpin, grabbing for his shoulder and upper arm. Turpin cursed at him, scrabbling for a better grip as Swiftnick flung his weight backwards, struggling to pull him to safety.

Below the candlestick bounced off the tiles and rolled, sending a spill of light across the floor before it winked out.

"Almost got it..." Dick panted, straining against Swiftnick’s grip.

"Dick! Leave it!" Swiftnick wailed in panicked exasperation, feeling his heels sliding on the wooden floor.

Turpin only grunted, making a sudden lunge that almost broke Swiftnick’s grip. With an exclamation of triumph, he pulled back, stuffing something into his shirt before shifting his grip to climb back over the rail. Under his weight, the beam flexed again.

Dick let out a startled exclamation, looking down in surprise as he felt the beam groan through his feet. The beam let out another agonised crack and a chunk of carving broke free, dropping away into the darkness below. Dick paled and in his haste to scramble to safety, his foot slipped and for one horrible moment, he felt himself start to fall. Then Swiftnick heaved at him in desperation and Turpin flung himself forward, dragging himself over the rail to tumble into a heap on the balcony on top of the younger man.

"You stupid....!"

"Ah!" Panting, Dick held up a warning finger.

"Yah!" Too angry to express himself, Swiftnick shoved him off and rolled back to his feet. For a second he stood over Dick with his fists clenched tight, restraining the urge to kick him. Then he swung on his heel and stomped away, muttering furiously under his breath.

Turpin gazed after him curiously, smiling faintly, then he slowly picked himself up and peered uneasily over the balcony. He hadn’t quite realised how far down it was until the beam groaned and he’d looked down. "What was I thinking?" he muttered uneasily. "What possessed me to do something that bloody stupid.....?" He lifted his head, glancing after his apprentice. No wonder Swiftnick was so disturbed.

"You could have been killed! You could have fallen!" Swiftnick yelled at him, catching his eye from the head of the stairs.

"You wouldn't have let me," Dick answered, striding briskly towards him. His stride broke into a run as a gust of freezing cold wind rushed past him as if someone had run past him. "Swiftnick!" he yelled in warning.

Swiftnick tottered, making a desperate grab at the stair post and clinging to it as the wind screamed around him, tearing at his clothes and hair and face until his eyes stung with tears and his body felt frozen with cold. He could feel vicious hands pushing and shoving at him, sense the anger in the winds that battered and strove to push him down the stairs...

His grip started to loosen as a terrible sense of despair and abandonment crept over him...