Free Red Moth by Sam Eastland Page B

contained only vegetation and no bones or scraps of meat. The father never seemed to notice it, but that odour filled the young Stefanov’s senses in a way he found quite overwhelming. It was heavy, sharp and seemed to spark along the branches of his nerves as if it was somehow alive.
    Stefanov’s father sat down upon an empty barrel which had once held a shipment of slivovitz, the plum brandy so favoured by the Tsar that he had bought an orchard in the Balkans specifically for the purpose of keeping him supplied. ‘You can rest for a minute,’ he murmured to his son.
    ‘Did you see?’ asked Stefanov. ‘One of those soldiers was painted to look just like the Tsarevich himself!’
    Stefanov’s father grunted, unimpressed, as he was unimpressed by most things which served no practical purpose. ‘Last year,’ he said, ‘the Tsarevich was given the opportunity to command a group of real soldiers. And do you know what he did? He marched them into the sea.’
    ‘And did they do what they were told?’
    ‘Of course! It was their duty to obey.’
    Stefanov pressed his hands together, feeling the burn in his palms from holding the wheelbarrow handles. ‘I would like to march some men into the sea. They must have looked silly, standing out there in the waves.’
    The father leaned across and cuffed him on the back of his head. ‘There is nothing to be proud of in ridiculing men who have sworn to give up their lives in order to protect you!’
    Stefanov’s father always seemed to be losing his temper, and the young Stefanov never knew when the moment would come. He lived in constant fear of crossing the invisible limits of his father’s patience. ‘But the Tsarevich is only a boy,’ he remarked hesitantly.
    ‘That is like saying that the Tsar is only a man!’ barked the father.
    Their conversation was interrupted by a quiet rustle on the gravel path which ran beside the hedge.
    The father’s head snapped up. ‘It’s him,’ he whispered.
    Stefanov’s heart slammed into his chest. ‘Who?’ he whispered back.
    Rising from his barrel seat, his father peered through the hedge.
    ‘Who is it?’ Stefanov asked again, still afraid to raise his voice above a whisper.
    The father beckoned to him, teeth bared with urgency.
    It was hard for Stefanov to see anything through the screen of holly leaves, whose needly points jabbed at his forehead as he attempted to follow his father’s gaze.
    A dark shape moved past on the other side of the hedge.
    Stefanov held his breath. An inexplicable sensation of dread washed through his mind.
    When the strange figure had gone, the father turned to his son. ‘That was him,’ he whispered. ‘That was the Emerald Eye.’
    Stefanov had heard of Inspector Pekkala. Everyone on the estate knew of his existence, although few had ever seen him in the flesh. Many times, in the company of his father, he had walked past the little cottage where the Emerald Eye was said to live. Both had searched for any sign of the famous investigator, but no one ever seemed to come or go from that lonely little building. There were rumours among his friends at school that the Emerald Eye did not really exist, but was, in fact, just a figment of the Tsar’s imagination. Lately, Stefanov had begun to wonder if those rumours might be true.
    Overcome with curiosity, Stefanov stepped over to the gate which separated the compost yard from the path which lay beyond it. With his feet on the lowest rung of the gate, he leaned out beyond the hedge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Inspector.
    What he saw was a tall figure in a dark coat, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The man walked with an unusually straight back and each of his steps seemed deliberate, like that of someone who was counting out his paces.
    A moment later, Stefanov’s father appeared beside him. ‘See the way he moves? Like a phantom. He’s not even human, you know.’
    ‘Then what is he?’ demanded Stefanov.
    ‘A demon or an angel. Who