St. Paul’s Cathedral can seat at least two thousand people for anything from a royal wedding to a midnight Christmas mass, but right now Nelson felt as if he and Uncle Pogo were alone inside the dark and vast belly of a whale. If this had been a normal visit, Nelson would have been gazing up at the incredible arches and marveling at the sheer scale of the dome, but at night, with the only light coming from a few emergency exit lights, it was all far too creepy for him. He decided to keep his eyes focused on the black-and-white tiled floor in front of him.
* * *
“Look at this poor fellow,” said Pogo as they reached a very large marble statue wrapped in plastic sheets. The storm must have been directly overhead by now, because there was hardly a gap between each shock of lightning and roar of thunder. The lightning briefly illuminated the impressive figure of a man riding a horse under clear plastic.
“There’s a leak, and the water is completely ruining his lovely looks. Look at him. His face has gone all yucky. Anyway, our mission is to find the leak and save the statue!” Pogo grinned, but his excitement wasn’t quite rubbing off on Nelson. “Follow me,” said Uncle Pogo, before limping off toward a stone staircase on their right. “It’s like a great big colander. The dome, I mean. Holes everywhere. In fact, you could say this is a very holy place! Ha ha! Do you get it? Holy! Ha ha ha!”
Nelson really wasn’t finding any of this funny, but Pogo didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, that was a good one. Anyway, this place has leaks galore, and every time it rains it’s causing more and more damage, not to mention playing havoc with the electrical system. Shot to bits from what I gather. I mean, they patched up all the holes they could find, but somehow the water’s still … You look confused—are you all right?”
“No, I get it,” Nelson replied emphatically, but it wasn’t true at all. He hadn’t taken in a single word his uncle said, but he followed him away from the statue toward the stairs.
“Anyway, they’ve tried all sorts of things to fix it,” said Uncle Pogo, his voice echoing off the walls as they descended the dark staircase. “Even had teams of specialists from those wonderful cathedrals in Venice. Cost ’em a fortune, but none of it worked because … Well, I’m not exactly sure why it didn’t work, but anyway I know one of the priests here—used to play rugby together—and he put me up for the job of solving the problem once and for all. So here we are. Welcome to base camp, Nelson.” Uncle Pogo unhooked a flashlight hanging from his utility belt and pointed it into the darkness. The beam of light illuminated a circle of bone-colored pillars surrounding two tents; one large and brown, the other small and orange. Between these tents was a large black tomb that rose high from a stone plinth on an intricately patterned tiled floor. With a shock that almost stopped his heart, Nelson saw his own name written on the side of the tomb.
It was worse than any nightmare he had ever had. Imagine seeing your own grave!
“Ta-da! You’ll be sleeping right next to the one and only Admiral Nelson. The two Nelsons! You can keep each other company.” On closer inspection Nelson saw the full name of the man inside the black tomb.
HORATIO ∙ VISC ∙ NELSON
Admiral Nelson. The same man who stands proudly on a column with pigeons on his head in Trafalgar Square. He may have been a noble and famous leader, but all Nelson could think about now was that he was going to be sleeping in a big scary room next to a dead guy. “You’re probably hungry, eh? Growing lad and all that. Of course you are. Why don’t you grab something to eat while I finish setting up. I put a lunch box in your tent.” Uncle Pogo pointed at the orange tent and busied himself lighting paraffin lamps and placing one at the base of each column.
Nelson pulled at the stubborn zipper of his orange tent several times before he managed to get it open. He did this with very little enthusiasm, mainly because he was still feeling enormously sad but also because he didn’t want his uncle to think that any of this was cheering him up.
In the gloom of the tent Nelson could see a pile of gray blankets and a pillow stacked at the far end. His inflatable mattress was clearly made for use in a swimming pool, as it had dolphins printed all over it, a bright pink base, and a hole on each side for your drink. Nelson pulled his backpack in after him, nearly bringing the entire tent down when it rolled backward against the side. Next to the pillow and blankets he found a shoe box with the words FOOD FOR NELSON written on the lid in black felt-tip. He realized that he really was hungry and opened the box to find two more boxes: AM and PM.
As it was the evening, Nelson opened the box marked PM and found three smaller boxes inside, labeled STARTER, MAIN COURSE, and PUDDING. Inside STARTER he found a pepperoni stick bent double to fit in the box. He didn’t fancy a spicy sausage right this minute, so he opened the next box: MAIN COURSE. Inside this box was a Scotch egg. (For those of you who don’t know what a Scotch egg is, it’s a hard-boiled egg under a layer of sausage meat and the whole thing’s covered in bread crumbs.) This Scotch egg had evidently seen its best-before date come and go, and it bore the smell of something very wrong indeed. Nelson almost didn’t dare open the last box. But he was hungry. How bad could it be? When he slid open the box marked PUDDING he found a teaspoon and a large wad of tinfoil. He peeled the foil back to reveal what he thought at first to be maggots but then recognized as rice pudding. Nelson loved rice pudding, but this gloopy mess, and the smell of the Scotch egg still hanging in the air, had completely short-circuited his pangs of hunger. The idea of sleeping on an air mattress in this eggy tent seemed impossible, so he ventured back out to the crypt.
* * *
Hunched over a laptop that was connected by several wires to what looked like a large radio, Uncle Pogo sat with a pepperoni sticking out of his mouth like a cigar. As he tapped quickly at the computer keys, he chewed away at the spicy sausage.
“Did you find your food box? I labeled everything for you.”
“Yes, thanks, Uncle Pogo,” said Nelson, still trying hard not to retch from the smell of rotten egg.
“Look at this. A 3-D model of the entire cathedral,” said Pogo proudly, his eyes fixed on the screen, which was lit by a rotating outline of the building. “All the red dots are barium sensors. You know what barium is?”
Nelson shook his head.
“Oh, it’s a very handy chemical. I’ve covered the whole roof in it. That’s what I was doing when you arrived. So now, when the rain leaks into the building, it will carry the barium with it, and these clever little sensors will lead me straight to the—” Pogo was interrupted by a loud alarm. The screen flashed and one of the sensors lit up.
“There she blows! Level 1. Ha ha! Nelson, the time has come to save the day!” Like a cheesy special effect, the entire crypt exploded in a flash of lightning accompanied by a knee-knockingly loud roll of thunder.
“Let’s suit up,” said Uncle Pogo, and before Nelson had time to ask why or even protest, he and his uncle were wearing matching outfits consisting of rubber boots, a head-to-toe waterproof poncho, and a balaclava with flashlights strapped to either side of their heads right where their ears were hiding.
This is what they looked like.
“Ready?” asked Pogo with a big grin.
“I don’t want to do this, Uncle Pogo,” said Nelson, which, when you think about it, seems fair enough.
“Oh” was all Uncle Pogo could say in return. He seemed to be noticing his nephew’s lack of enthusiasm for the first time. Nelson had only just begun to come to terms with the idea that Celeste was missing and now he was dressed up like a loony and about to go looking for leaks in St. Paul’s Cathedral. He just wanted something to make sense. To be normal. And he certainly didn’t want to cry in front of his uncle.
Pogo awkwardly reached out and grabbed Nelson’s shoulder. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, but Uncle Pogo was not familiar with being supportive and ended up nearly knocking Nelson over.
“Sorry,” he said, and shuffled awkwardly. “Erm, look, they’ll find Celeste, Nelson. I’m absolutely sure they will.”
“I just wanna go home,” mumbled Nelson as he looked down at the rubber boots on his feet.
“Yes, well, sitting around brooding will only make you feel worse. But I know what the solution is.”
“What?”
“Keep busy and keep moving,” said Pogo. “Oh, and music!” He reached down to his fake right leg and pressed a switch just below his knee. Music began to boom from his shin. “Oh ho! That’s more like it!” Nelson was amazed. His uncle’s leg had a built-in speaker from which “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon was now blasting, echoing around the cathedral loud enough to rattle Admiral Nelson’s bones. Pogo grabbed hold of the flashlights on either side of Nelson’s head and switched them on. “Okay, Nelson Green. We have music, lights, and now it’s time for action!” Nelson was swept up in Uncle Pogo’s madness. The musical leg was undeniably bonkers and if Uncle Pogo’s plan was to keep Nelson’s mind off his sister, he had just succeeded.
Whether or not you know this song by Paul Simon, I highly recommend you put this book down for a moment, find the song, and listen to it before you continue. It has absolutely no bearing on the story, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, and that’s a good enough reason to stop reading and listen to a song, right?