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There aren’t many upsides, economically speaking, to growing up on an estate in a single income family. But I will say this for it - I can sniff out a bargain like Toby on the trail of vestigia.
And I don’t just mean a two for one offer in the shops. I’m not above picking stuff up that’s been left on the side of the road. Lesley’s teased me about it for as long as we’ve been on teasing terms, but I think she’s being a bit precious. I’m not exactly rooting through the bins for old newspapers and socks. But when someone leaves a perfectly good picture frame or shelf out, why not? No one’s gonna know where you got it from once it’s on your wall. And when you come from a large, sprawling family of limited means, you learn to keep an eye out for anything and everything - a sturdy high chair, a table if it’s not too wobbly, even bookcases. At this point, it’s nearly muscle memory to look out for stuff.
In fact, the best way for the Faceless Man to infiltrate the Folly would simply be to turn himself into a pasta machine in good nick and plant himself near the front steps until I walk past. I should probably ask Nightingale if this is actually possible.
All of the above is by way of explanation for what happened one cold, wet afternoon just before Christmas, which took a turn for the unexpected.
I’d taken Toby out for his walk and, since variety is the spice of life, I’d avoided our usual route around the park, instead heading for the walkway at the base of Senate House towards Gower Street. Senate House is a large, stone building that dominates Russell Square, the jewel in the unfinished crown that was the University of London’s brief flurry of building activity in the 1930s. It has always looked to me like a giant, Stalinist wedding cake or a budget Empire State Building, but Toby has loved coming through here ever since he spotted a fox darting into their front gardens. I’d just come out of the other side of it when I spotted the treasure, lying on the pavement like rubbish.
Technically, it was rubbish, left nestled in a pile of bin bags, but that was an outrage to the beautiful specimen of a christmas tree I saw before me.
I’d been expecting to find one at some point this week. After all, it made perfect sense that in an area mainly consisting of trendy offices or student halls, a few trees would get dumped when said offices and halls shut for the year. It beat returning to a sad pile of dried needles and branches in the New Year. But I hadn’t expected to find one like this.
We didn’t have a tree in the Folly. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, I had a little fake one in the coach house, but it didn’t hold a candle to this. A proper tree. It was about seven foot tall, and so lush and green it looked like it had been ripped from the front of a twee Christmas card. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d wanted growing up, knowing full well it would have bust through the floor of our upstairs neighbour, and cost more than our entire Christmas Day spread. I could picture it now in one of the reception rooms in the main part of the house, right in the corner against the built-in bookcases, where it would fit like a dream. It even still had its stand and a few decorations someone hadn’t bothered to remove before dumping it.
And I was pretty sure that if I rooted around the Folly I’d find some previously unnoticed store cupboard somewhere, stuffed with those weird tinsel sprays they used to tie onto trees in the 50s, or the lit candles the 19th century had favoured before too many of them went up in flames. But that was a problem for later, once the thing was safely back inside. There was no way I was letting this opportunity pass me by.
I put on my gloves, grabbed the trunk, and began dragging it purposefully back towards Russell Square. Toby grabbed the other end in a counterproductive but enthusiastic way, no doubt angling for sausages as a tip for services rendered.
Despite the cold day, I was sweating by the time I actually got it to the Folly’s front steps, and was soon huffing and puffing with the effort of getting it up to the front door. I kept my spirits up by thinking about the coffee and mince pies (homemade by Molly, and possibly containing actual minced meat) I knew were waiting in the dining room. I was just trying to remember if we had any brandy butter in the fridge as I gave the tree one last shove to get the bottom two feet of it into the hallway, when all of a sudden I was doing neither of these things.
All of a sudden, I was flying, launched up and out by a force that had blasted me away from the building. I found myself looking first at the grey sky, then at a passing bus, and finally at the lamp post outside the Folly as I barrelled through the air. The lamp post came towards me quickly, but instinct, honed by months spent avoiding the swings of Friday drunks in Leicester Square, made me turn away at the right moment. I landed on the pavement in a heap but avoided any serious injury. For half a second I was fine, other than confused, a little panicked, and ready to cast Impello at any individuals, masked or otherwise, who might approach. It was at the end of that half a second that I heard a swishing noise, which I soon learned was the tree, flung by the same strange force I was, hurtling towards my face.
Everything hurt. My ears rang, giving Toby’s worried bark a strange reverberation, and even though I was looking up at a monochrome sky, I was pretty sure it was swimming. I shut my eyes against it, as it was suddenly far brighter than it had been a few minutes before. Even in my addled state, it was obvious I had a concussion. I think I must have fallen asleep for a bit, because it seemed as if I had only just shut them when Nightingale, whom I had left in the labs for Toby’s walk, was on the street with me, gently cradling my bare head away from the cold concrete with his hands.
I tried to speak but a strange noise came out.
‘Shush, it’s alright, Dr Walid is on his way. I don’t think it’s too serious.’ He said, although his voice had that tone he uses when he’s trying to reassure himself as much as the person he’s talking to. I looked up at him, and confirmed my suspicions with a look at his face, his eyes darting this way and that to try and spot the source of the blast. I knew, on some level, this was all very serious, but I was feeling strangely giddy.
I finally managed to make my voice work.
‘Sir, you’ve got to kiss me-’
It was at just that moment, of all moments, that the nausea part of the concussion hit, and I turned to retch violently and profusely onto Nightingale’s trouser leg. For a long moment, he didn’t move or speak.
‘Perhaps later.’ He said a little tersely, tone even more forced than before and hand tense as he continued to hold me up a little off the street. Well, I thought to myself, I’ve put my foot in it now. No wonder he sounds like a strangled cat, he’s probably making plans to flee to some bolthole to avoid seeing me for the foreseeable future.
Admittedly, it didn’t sound good, but there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what I’d said, which had nothing to do with me being secretly in love with my boss. Don’t get me wrong, he has many excellent qualities - undeniably handsome, and so stylish it might not have mattered if he weren’t. He’s also brave, and clever, and thoughtful - and he’s a fucking wizard for christ's sakes. But it wasn’t that.
You see, the thing was, we’d just been watching the Lord of the Rings the night before, something I do every December, and had press ganged Nightingale into after learning that he hadn’t seen any of them. And as I’d been lying there on the ground with him, the set up had reminded me of Boromir’s death scene. The nausea had cut me off just before saying ‘on the forehead, like Aragorn.’ Which was what I was trying to say, as nothing more than a little joke between (completely platonic) friends. It was quite an important part to get cut off at.
It was therefore with genuine gratitude that I realised I was slipping into unconsciousness.
I woke up some time later back in my own bed, feeling surprisingly well given I’d been pummelled down a set of stairs and then had a large tree land on my head. For a moment I felt a wave of panic over the attack, the panic I should have felt when it actually happened, were it not for the concussion, before realising that if I was back in my own bed, things must have gone our way. I was aware of a large plaster on my forehead, and I could feel an old-fashioned ceramic hot water bottle at my side (Molly’s doing, I decided, feeling touched). And last of all, there was Nightingale in the chair beside me, not asleep but engrossed in the copy of Gone Girl that Lesley had lent him, and that he had pretended not to be interested in.
One of the first rules of police work is that people show you their honest emotions when they think you’re not watching. As Nightingale hadn’t yet noticed me waking up, and I was apparently more compos mentis than I had been earlier, I decided to take advantage of this rule to get the lay of the land.
He seemed pretty relaxed, settled back into the chair with his shirt sleeves rolled up (and a fresh pair of trousers on), which was a good start.
I cleared my throat and he flinched, putting the book down hastily.
‘Ah, Peter. You’re awake.’ He said, a little redundantly.
‘I think so. Do you know what happened? Attack? Strange accident?’ I’d been practicing a new forma lately, a modified Impello, and wondered now if I could have accidentally used it on myself.
Nightingale’s lips twitched, suppressing a smile.
‘It was that tree of yours that did for you, I’m afraid.’ He said.
‘Foisted by my own petard.’ I replied, gesturing for him to explain.
‘Well not the tree itself, but something that was put on it by its previous owners to decorate it. A little spring of Viscum Album .’
Strangely, his cheeks got a little colour to them as he said this, and he broke eye contact.
‘Can we skip the Latin practice today? I’ve got a sick note and everything.’ I said, grimacing at him.
‘It’s mistletoe.’ He said, still not looking at me.
‘Oh, right.’ I said, and, furious as I was about it, I started to redden too, grateful that it would be less obvious. ‘The Folly not a fan of kissing then?’
He suppressed a hand twitch very well, and you might not have seen it if you didn’t know him as well as I do. I noted this for further consideration.
‘It’s a very powerful plant, magically speaking, and poisonous in conventional ways too. It’s had great importance since the days of the druids. And is still used today by a lot of unsavoury hedge witches and wizards, but not by us, so part of the Folly’s alarm system is to eject anyone trying to bring it in.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention it earlier?’ I asked, a little outraged.
‘I didn’t think it was likely to come up!’ He answered, and I had to concede that point. I held my hands up in a placatory gesture.
‘Well, you seem much better.’ He said, looking at me properly again. ‘I was a little worried about you, but Dr Walid assured me you just needed some painkillers and a good rest.’
‘Dr Walid, as usual, was right,’ I said. I felt almost fine now.
‘I brought the tree back in after you were safely tucked up, by the way. Once I’d found and removed the offending item. It’s quite a magnificent specimen. Much like the trees we… we used to have.’ Nightingale said, suddenly sad, suddenly decades away from me, in a Folly more full of life than I had ever seen it.
‘Well, we’ve got one this year.’ I said. It felt a bit trite but I couldn’t think of anything else. It did the trick though, and, just for a moment, he favoured me with a rare and warm smile.
‘Would you like to decorate it?’ He said, ‘Molly found an old store cupboard with some baubles and other trinkets packed away.’
Of course she did, I thought to myself.
Despite all the rules and regulations, and everything Lesley says about how I should pay more attention to both, at its core being a good copper is about following your instincts, however mad they seem.
And I am a very good copper.
‘Perhaps later.’ I said, and winked at him.