Black Wreath by Peter Sirr Page B

the window and when he saw where they had gone his habitual composure seemed to desert him. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘this is very inconvenient. Why on earth are they taking such trouble?’ He became agitated as he furiously tried to work out the best course of action.
    For a moment, James thought he might brazen it out and march up to them, but Vandeleur clearly wasn’t as foolish as he sometimes seemed.
    ‘I think a spell away from college is called for,’ he said and, after the briefest of farewells, disappeared down the stairs.
    James gathered up the two swords that were still on the floor.
    ‘I’ll put these in the attic, but in the meantime, sir, you will have to conceal yourself. I’ll tell them you have not returned.’
    With that, James raced upstairs to the attics and hid the swords in a roll of old carpet in a dusty corner, then raced back down. As he reached the landing outside McAllister’s room he heard footsteps on the stairs below. He rushed into the room. McAllister stood frozen by the bed, an abject statue, rooted to the spot by fear. James had already chosen him a hiding place in his mind’s eye as he was hiding the swords. On the wall beside McAllister’s bed hung a large tapestry from his father’s estate, a hunting scene, perhaps intended to remind him of home as he fell asleep. James had helped McAllister put it up. There was an alcove set in the wall, where the student had kept books and various personal effects, but there had been nowhere else to put the tapestry, so in theend McAllister had cleared out the alcove and they’d hung the tapestry over it.
    ‘You never know,’ James had said with a grin, ‘You might need a secret place to store things.’ He hadn’t thought that the secret thing would be McAllister himself.
    ‘Quickly,’ he said now, pulling the tapestry aside. ‘Get in and squeeze yourself as far back as you are able.’
    McAllister mutely obeyed and climbed into the narrow space, and James smoothed over the tapestry as best he could, praying that the searchers’ curiosity wouldn’t extend to it.
    The door burst open and the sheriff’s men came thumping in, swords at the ready, followed by the porter.
    ‘Where is he?’ the first of the sheriff’s men panted. He was quite out of breath from all his running, and the others weren’t much better.
    ‘Who are you?’ one of the men asked, pointing his blade at James’s chest, but James remained calm.
    ‘Do you mean Master McAllister? He went out about an hour ago. He said he wouldn’t be back until late this evening. He said he wanted to see the puppets in the Capel Street playhouse. I am his skivvy.’
    ‘Puppets? Did you say puppets?’ This information seemed to enrage the four swordsmen. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea.
    ‘I’ll give him puppets when I see him!’ the first said. With that, he lunged at the bed with his sword and ran the blade through the mattress, then ran the pillow through for good measure, scattering feathers all over the room. The other menbegan to search every corner, running the curtains through, emptying the clothes chest and spilling out McAllister’s waistcoats, hose, smallclothes, wig, a hat, and various papers on the floor. They examined the papers. ‘Poetry!’ one of them said in disgust.
    They lifted the rug from the floor and examined the floorboards; they scanned the ceiling, opened books and flung them to the ground.
    James could feel the sweat sticking to the back of his shirt. He forced himself to stay calm in the maelstrom of searching and destruction. He kept his eyes away from the wall where the tapestry hung, terrified that even a glance might lead them to the hiding place.
    ‘Nice picture,’ he heard one of the men say suddenly, and his blood ran cold.
    ‘Hunting,’ another said. ‘Very fitting. We’ll run him to ground and no mistake, and someone can make a picture of that.’
    ‘Does your master carry a sword?’ one of the men asked abruptly.
    As