The Gleeman
Copyright© 2026 by KiwiGuy
Chapter 4
Foucester sat behind his desk, papers neatly aligned, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Gislane entered. She looked different now—clean, composed, dressed in neat, practical clothes—but there was still something restless about her, as if she were listening to something no one else could hear.
“Are you the Town Clerk?” she asked.
“Yes. Foucester is my name. How can I help you?”
“I’ve recently arrived in your town, and I wish to start a business. I understand I need to apply to you for a permit.”
Foucester leaned back slightly. “What sort of business?”
“I’m an animal nutritionist. I advise people on the care and health of their animals.”
He nodded approvingly. “That sounds useful. We’ve a vet in town, but he’s often rushed off his feet.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “And, between ourselves, he charges rather more than he should.”
A faint smile touched Gislane’s lips.
“I’m sure you could be a real asset to the community,” Foucester continued. “It’s refreshing, I must say—someone wanting to contribute, rather than drift.”
Gislane inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“Come back tomorrow,” he said, already reaching for a file. “I’ll have your permit ready.”
“Thank you very much.”
She turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
...
The boardroom of Councillor Gloucester was arranged with careful authority—a long table at its centre, polished surfaces reflecting quiet power. Against one wall stood a large sideboard, solid enough to conceal a man if necessary.
The baker entered first, carrying a tray laden with morning tea—teapot, cups, and a generous plate piled high with small cakes. Cameron followed, balancing a cloth.
“They certainly enjoy their refreshments, young master Cameron,” the baker muttered as he set the tray down. “If famine ever comes to this town, it’ll be their doing.”
Cameron grinned. “Your business doesn’t seem to be suffering, Mr Baker.”
“No,” the man replied dryly. “Their waistlines keep me well employed.”
He gestured. “Set those cakes down at the far end. You do like hovering about, don’t you?”
“I like helping,” Cameron said simply. “Makes me feel like I can do something real.”
The baker snorted, though not unkindly. “You’ve ambitions enough for three lifetimes. Baker, musician, architect ... what’s next?”
“Newspaperman, maybe.”
“Of course.” The baker shook his head. “And I suppose the cold weather has nothing to do with your frequent visits to my kitchen.”
Cameron laughed. “Yes, I do like the warmth. You make me feel like I can do something real.”
“Get away with you. I was never one to turn down a free hand, that’s all. Now, if you’ll just spread that cloth over the cakes...”
The baker stopped abruptly. “The meringues!” he exclaimed. “Jane will forget them entirely.” He hurried for the door. “Back in a moment!” And he was gone.
Left alone, Cameron carefully spread the cloth over the cakes. As he did, his elbow caught one. It rolled off the table and disappeared behind the sideboard.
“Oh no...”
He leaned his crutches against the furniture and lowered himself awkwardly to the floor, crawling behind it to retrieve the runaway cake. At that exact moment, the door opened. Cameron froze.
Gloucester entered, ushering in Foucester and another councillor, Debenham.
“Do come in, gentlemen,” Gloucester said smoothly. “Make yourselves comfortable. Ah—our baker has done us proud again. I always say it is difficult to think coherently on an empty stomach.”
The men took their seats. Gloucester settled at the head of the table.
“Tea or coffee, Debenham?”
“Black tea. No sugar.”
“Foucester, if you would.”
Cups were poured and passed. Gloucester selected a cake; the others declined.
“A pity,” he said lightly. “Still, nothing here ever goes to waste.” Behind the sideboard, Cameron barely dared breathe.
Gloucester dabbed his lips and leaned forward.
“To business. As you know, I have long been concerned about that ... anomaly ... known as The Pitch. An unregulated wasteland. A haven for drifters. A stain on our town.
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