day, listened carefully to the question, said “Marks and Spencer’s 100% Cotton Y-fronts, actually,” and had been left with a dead receiver.
Shadwell sucked deeply. “Ach, that’s no’ proper phenomena,” he said. “Can’t see any witches doing that. They’re more for the sinking o’ things, ye ken.”
Newt’s mouth opened and shut a few times.
“If we’re strong in the fight against witchery we can’t afford to be sidetracked by this style o’ thing,” Shadwell went on. “Haven’t ye got anything more witchcrafty?”
“But American troops have landed on it to protect it from things,” moaned Newt. “A nonexistent continent … ”
“Any witches on it?” said Shadwell, showing a spark of interest for the first time.
“It doesn’t say,” said Newt.
“Ach, then it’s just politics and geography,” said Shadwell dismissively.
Madame Tracy poked her head around the door. “Coo-ee, Mr. Shadwell,” she said, giving Newt a friendly little wave. “A gentleman on the telephone for you. Hallo, Mr. Newton.”
“Awa’ wi’ ye, harlot,” said Shadwell, automatically.
“He sounds ever so refined,” said Madame Tracy, taking no notice. “And I’ll be getting us a nice bit of liver for Sunday.”
“I’d sooner sup wi’ the De’el, wumman.”
“So if you’d let me have the plates back from last week it’d be a help, there’s a love,” said Madame Tracy, and tottered unsteadily back on three-inch heels to her flat and whatever it was that had been interrupted.
Newt looked despondently at his cuttings as Shadwell went out, grumbling, to the phone. There was one about the stones of Stonehenge moving out of position, as though they were iron filings in a magnetic field.
He was vaguely aware of one side of a telephone conversation.
“Who? Ah. Aye. Aye. Ye say? Wha’ class o’ thing wud that be? Aye. Just as you say, sor. And where is this place, then—?”
But mysteriously moving stones wasn’t Shadwell’s cup of tea or, rather, tin of milk.
“Fine, fine,” Shadwell reassured the caller. “We’ll get onto it right awa’. I’ll put my best squad on it and report success to ye any minute, I ha’ no doubt. Goodbye to you, sor. And bless you too, sor.” There was the ting of a receiver going back on the hook, and then Shadwell’s voice, no longer metaphorically crouched in deference, said, “‘Dear boy’! Ye great Southern pansy.”27
He shuffled back into the room, and then stared at Newt as if he had forgotten why he was there.
“What was it ye was goin’ on about?” he said.
“All these things that are happening—” Newt began.
“Aye.” Shadwell continued to look through him while thoughtfully tapping the empty tin against his teeth.
“Well, there’s this little town which has been having some amazing weather for the last few years,” Newt went on helplessly.
“What? Rainin’ frogs and similar?” said Shadwell, brightening up a bit.
“No. It just has normal weather for the time of year.”
“Call that a phenomena?” said Shadwell. “I’ve seen phenomenas that’d make your hair curl, laddie.” He started tapping again.
“When do you remember normal weather for the time of year?” said Newt, slightly annoyed. “Normal weather for the time of year isn’t normal, Sergeant. It has snow at Christmas. When did you last see snow at Christmas? And long hot Augusts? Every year? And crisp autumns? The kind of weather you used to dream of as a kid? It never rained on November the Fifth and always snowed on Christmas Eve?”
Shadwell’s eyes looked unfocused. He paused with the condensed milk tin halfway to his lips.
“I never used to dream when I was a kid,” he said quietly.
Newt was aware of skidding around the lip of some deep, unpleasant pit. He mentally backed away.
“It’s just very odd,” he said. “There’s a weatherman here talking about averages and norms and microclimates and things like that.”
“What’s that mean?” said Shadwell.
“Means he doesn’t know why,” said Newt, who hadn’t spent years on the littoral of business without picking up a thing or two. He looked sidelong at the Witchfinder Sergeant.
“Witches are well known for affecting the weather,” he prompted. “I looked it up in the Discouverie.”
Oh God, he thought, or other suitable entity, don’t let me spend another evening cutting newspapers to bits in this ashtray of a room. Let me get out in the fresh air. Let me do whatever is the WA’s equivalent of going waterskiing in Germany.
“It’s only forty miles away,” he said tentatively. “I thought I could just sort of nip over there tomorrow. And have a look around, you know. I’ll pay my own petrol,” he added.