I was more worried than ever about Nick. If the bosun was in so much danger, then Nick was too — and now the man from Calcutta really had killed somebody.
I’d arranged to meet him after work at the fountain, but very late in the afternoon Cramplock insisted that we clean a whole lot of type particularly thoroughly and, after messing about with spirit and cloths and waste paper, I was at least an hour later in getting away than I’d intended. My cuffs stank of spirit, and I couldn’t get rid of the oily sensation on my hands, no matter how much I rubbed them, or how much Lash licked them. I kept having to stop him because I was sure it wouldn’t do him any good.
When we arrived, a clock was already chiming eight. It was still hot, but the shadows were growing long and the number of people was diminishing. I lurked on the street corner, watching, trying to catch a glimpse of Nick and yet stay out of sight until I could be sure there was nobody with him.
But there was no sign of him. Maybe he’d gotten tired of waiting, and gone home. Or maybe he hadn’t turned up at all. I waited for a while, and then decided to ask someone. There was an old woman sitting by the fountain, surrounded by black skirts, with a shock of red hair billowing up from her head which made her look rather like a volcano. She was selling flowers, and I’d watched her sitting chatting to passersby, and smelling her flowers when there was no one to talk to.
“Excuse me,” I said, “have you seen a young lad who looks a bit like me? In the last hour or so?”
“I see all sorts,” she told me, “from sittin’ ‘ere. Soldiers, I seen. Cattle, I seen. Men with pitchforks, men with bottles, men with carts. Boys I seen too.” She reached down for a flower and put it to her nose. I waited for her to speak again; but she seemed so engrossed in the flower, I eventually decided she wasn’t going to, without prompting.
“So?” I said, “did you see a lad or not? A bit taller than me, sort of skinny, with a big bruise up here.”
She was smiling at me from behind her flower. “Boys,” she said, “all shapes and sizes, some little, some fat, some blond, some black. Warious,” she mused, “as warious as flars. A man I seen with no legs today, swingin’ himself about on his fists. A grand man I seen with a wig as long as a horse tail. A man I seen with a big basket. A man I seen kickin’ a child, today,” she said, tailing off sadly and putting her nose back into the flower.
“Just a minute,” I said, “Lash, come here! Did you say a man with a big basket?”
Her eyes were twinkling, but she said nothing. I tied Lash’s lead to his collar, wary now.
“Where was he going? This man with a basket? Did he have brown skin? Or a mustache, or anything at all?”
Still her eyes twinkled.
“You buy a flar off me,” she said, suddenly and sweetly, “and maybe I tell you, mmmm?”
“Oh lor,” I said, “just a minute.” I fished in my pocket and found a halfpenny. “How many flowers do I get for this?” And how much information, I wondered.
“Roses,” she said, “tulips and roses. And lupins.” She looked up at me. “And white poppies,” she added, “Norfolk white poppies. You give me your ha’pney, and here’s half a dozen. Lovely Norfolk white poppies!”
I gave her the money. “Now,” I said, “this man with a basket.”
“Running,” she remembered, “not half an hour ago, as I sat here, running thataway. Yes — a foreign gentleman all right. ‘Andsome, and tall, and his coat black and beautiful. But a nervous gentleman, clutchin’ his basket, oh so precious! What was in it? Don’t ask me, but precious! Must a been! Thataway,” she said again, nodding over to her left, “running.”
“And the boy I was asking after?” I said. She shook her head, and went back to the flowers.
So the man from Calcutta’s trail had grown warm again suddenly. My mother’s face came into my head again, imploring as she had done in my dream this morning, clutching at her wrist. I had to go after him. The way the flower woman had indicated the man had gone was the same direction as Nick’s. I might as well head for Lion’s Mane Court.
When I got there I left Lash tied to the same post as before, promising him I wouldn’t be long. He licked my face trustingly, and I stood up. There was no sound from the bosun’s house as I crept through the passageway into the little courtyard, already bristling with shadow as the dusk closed in. There were no lights burning in the windows; but I thought I’d better watch for a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear — so, as before, I crept into the stable which belonged to the inn next door, and which afforded such a good view of the yard.
The dark corner where I wanted to sit was already occupied. By a familiar, pale object more than half my height, tapering inward toward the ground. The snake basket.
I stood frozen behind the stall, fervently hoping the horse wasn’t going to kick me. There didn’t seem to be anyone else here — just the basket, standing there like a silent oriental sculpture. The sun had now gone down completely and there wasn’t enough light here in the stable to see inside the basket, even if I had dared to lift the lid. But if I knew the man from Calcutta, he wouldn’t have left his precious snake in the basket unattended. The snake must be somewhere else.
And even as I stood there, in the damp corner of the stable, I began to detect from the darkness outside the sound of a low, sinuous voice … singing.
Sure enough, a peep through the hole in the stable wall revealed the dark, hunched figure of the man from Calcutta, over in the shadows, bending over the cellar grating.
He must have sent the snake inside.
I SHOW HIM DEATH SOON.
I was gripped by panic. Nick! I pictured him backed against the wall, terrified, as the snake reared its head, coiled at his feet or on his bed, its tongue flicking in the dank air. Agitated, in the dark, I lost my footing in the straw and reached out to grab something to steady myself. My hands clutched at the basket; but it couldn’t stop my falling weight and suddenly I was sprawling on the muddy straw. With a terrific clatter the box toppled over against the wooden wall, making the sick horse stir in its stall and give a kind of groan, which seemed to linger and resonate in the timbers of the stable until it was inconceivable that the man from Calcutta hadn’t heard it. Cursing myself for my clumsiness, I leaped back up to press my eye to the hole. I could see him looking over at the stable in alarm. He stood up, and began to approach.
I was trapped. He was coming back to the stable door, and there was no other way out! My only chance was to try and hide in the horse’s stall, at the back, in the deepest of shadows, and hope I wouldn’t be seen. I shuffled alongside the horse, patting the poor creature’s mangy flank and whispering, “Easy boy”
The stable door rattled. The man from Calcutta was standing, listening now, just a few feet away, just inside. I couldn’t see him; I couldn’t hear him; but I could sense him, his dark silent presence, between me and freedom. I prayed the horse’s wheezing breath would drown mine out, as I sank to my knees in an attempt to get as far out of sight as possible. Now I was kneeling underneath the horse: as I peered out between its trembling black legs, its grimy tail formed a kind of curtain between me and discovery.
I didn’t dare move. It was almost too dark to see anything at all, but now I could hear movement in the stable, and the man’s low murmuring in his own language. I realized my knees were getting wet, and a foul smell was rising to my nostrils as I crouched there. It was all I could do to stop myself from coughing.
He stayed for about two minutes, I suppose — but it seemed like hours. Then there was the tiniest creak as he left the stable, and all of a sudden the sense of him was no longer there. Although I could tell he’d gone, I gave him plenty of time to get away. Just as I’d decided to risk crawling gingerly out of my hiding place, the horse gave a sudden shudder and a jet of something wet began to spray across my back.
I scrambled out and, as I stood up, I banged my head on a beam and doubled up again in pain. What a mess, I thought, clutching my head and feeling the stinking liquid dribbling down my shirt and pants. Why on earth had I let myself get mixed up in all this?
The basket had gone. The courtyard was empty, and the coast was clear. I scuttled across to the cellar window. A few times I hissed, “Nick!” — but there was no reply. Nothing stirred. There was no light.
I had to find out if Nick was safe. I’d have to risk going down into the cellar, through the scullery. I froze as the pink-painted door scraped across the floor when I pushed it ajar; but all seemed silent and still inside; and as I ventured in I saw no one on guard, and nothing blocking the trapdoor down to Nick’s little cellar room. Picking a lantern off a hook just inside the door, I ventured over to the trapdoor, pulled it up, and peered into the hole.
“Nick!” I whispered.
Nothing. Of course, I knew he wasn’t in there. They would never have left him unguarded with the cellar open like this. But I had to be sure. I took a couple of tentative steps down the ladder.
“Nick!” I squeaked. “It’s me!”
Still no sound. As the lantern sent its dim glow around the cellar, it was quite clear there was no one there.
So where was he?
I slid down the last two steps until I was standing on the grubby floor. I’d brought the most revolting smell into the cellar with me, and as I looked down I noticed I’d left little pools around my feet and some strands of yellow straw scattered loosely around the floor. I was very wary in case the man from Calcutta had left his snake down here, and for the first few minutes I just paced, slowly, around the little room, watching and listening for any sign of movement. There was nothing: it was soon clear that the man must have retrieved his snake before he left, having found no one here for it to bite.
Nor were there any clues as to where Nick might have gone: no notes, no sign of a disturbance. There was a low bed in a corner, and a small bare table in the middle of the room, with a flickering stub of candle on it in a waxy old dish. The only thing I discovered was a crumpled handkerchief, sitting on the old bedsheet, spotted with dark blood. What was the story behind this, I wondered with a sudden misgiving.
But all further thought was halted as I heard voices up in the courtyard, one of them unmistakably Mrs. Muggerage’s.
I was trapped! I suddenly realized I’d left the scullery door open, and I wouldn’t even have time to pull the trapdoor shut above my head. It was a dead giveaway. Thinking quickly, I threw a few things into disarray: ruffled up the bedsheet, tipped up the candle, flung open the cupboard, overturned a couple of bottles; then snuffed out the light and dived under the rickety old bed.
There was an almighty clattering from up above; and, almost as soon as I’d hidden myself, a shaft of light broke into the room and Mrs. Muggerage’s voice blared, “All right, come out, oo’ever you are! We’ve caughtcha!”
There was silence for a couple of seconds.
“Get down there and see who it is,” she said. And Nick’s voice piped up.
“But what if they —”
“Shut up and get down there!” There was a sudden series of thuds as someone half fell, half ran down the steps.
“There’s nobody here.”
“What?” Mrs. Muggerage sounded contemptuous, as usual.
“It’s empty,” said Nick’s voice, “there’s nobody here.”
I held my breath as Nick’s feet came close to the bed.
“Someone’s been here, looking for something. But they’ve gone.”
There was a clomping sound as Mrs. Muggerage came down to see for herself. Eventually I heard her grunt with disappointment.
“Well,” she said, “you can stay down ‘ere now. I’m going to put the keg back and if I hears one peep out o’ you …” Her threat remained unspoken.
The trapdoor was slammed and I heard Nick sigh. There was a creak as he sat on the bed; and then came the sound of the heavy keg being scraped back into place on top of the trapdoor. Nick began to sniff. At first I thought he’d detected the smell of the horse manure I was covered in; but I soon realized he was crying. I lay there listening to him, not daring to move.
Eventually I whispered, “Nick!”
There was a creak as he sat up, startled.
“Nick, it’s Mog,” I hissed, “I’m under the bed. Ssssh!” Trying to be as quiet as possible, I shuffled out, and sat up on the floor, blinking.
“Mog! What are you doing here? Why did you —“
“Listen,” I said, “the man from Calcutta’s been here. I watched him letting his snake into this cellar. He was after you, Nick, or somebody in this house anyway.” I got up and sat on the bed, so I didn’t have to whisper so loud. “He’s only just left,” I said, “two minutes earlier and you’d have disturbed him.”
“Mog,” Nick said, still sniffing, “you stink. Again!”
“I know, I had to hide under a horse. Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story.” Nick wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then his eyes. “How are you going to get out of here now?”
I hadn’t thought of this, I’d been so relieved to find Nick was all right; but I was more impatient to hear his story than to worry about how we might escape.
“Can Mrs. Muggerage hear us?” I asked.
“Not if we whisper.”
I decided I’d better try and start from the beginning. I told him about the snakebite; about the house next door to Cramplock’s; about the elephant statue and the cubbyhole; about the man from Calcutta’s latest note.
“He’s got it in for your Pa,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about that other note he left. And I’m pretty sure when he wrote ‘I show him death soon,’ he really meant the bosun.”
A sudden noise from above made us both jump; I stopped talking abruptly and we listened; but it seemed it was only Mrs. Muggerage slamming a door somewhere.
“I thought it was my Pa coming in,” said Nick. “He was so angry when he came home last night — mainly about you. He thinks you’re a spy for Coben. He kept asking me about you and I told him you were a saddlemaker’s boy called Jake. He beat me black and blue, Mog, I thought he was going to kill me.” He wiped his eyes again. “He didn’t believe a word I said. Oh, I hate my Pa, Mog! I hate him so much!”
Nick sounded as though he was about to cry again. I remembered what he’d said the other day, when I’d first met him, about my being better off than he was, despite not having parents at all. At first I’d thought he’d be anxious to learn his Pa was in so much danger; but now I was beginning to realize just what it might be like having someone like the bosun for a father.
He was silent for a few moments, swallowing his tears.
“So, where’ve you been?” I asked eventually.
“Ma Muggerage told him how I kept sneaking out,” he continued, wiping his nose, “and this evening he came bursting in and said if I was so good at crawling through windows I could come and help him. He took me to this little house where he said Coben had been living. I suppose it must have been Jiggs’s house, you know, where they took you and locked you up the other day. And he made me crawl in through a broken window to look for the Camel. I had to smash the glass some more to squeeze in, but I cut my leg. And he wanted me to look for a load of papers. He said he had to have them and I had to find them. Well, they weren’t there, Mog. I knew they wouldn’t be, but I couldn’t tell him that, could I?”
“How did you know they wouldn’t be there?”
“What? Well — because — because you took them, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly realizing, “yes, I suppose I did. But Nick — they’ve gone!”
“Who have?”
“Not who — the papers, I mean.” I was embarrassed. After all Nick’s worries about the safety of Cramplock’s shop, I now had to admit the most important evidence in the whole affair had been taken from there, under my very nose. “They’ve been stolen,” I said rather sheepishly. “And so have —” I bit my lower lip, wondering suddenly whether I should mention my treasure tin. Nick might think it silly and sentimental. “Some other stuff’s disappeared from my room with them,” I said vaguely. “The man from Calcutta must have taken them. He’s probably been in through the wall.”
There was too much information to swap at once and neither of us was really understanding what the other said at this stage. Mrs. Muggerage hadn’t left him a lamp, but she had at least lit the candle; and in the flickering light I watched his face, the remains of his tears still glinting on his cheeks.
“Well,” he said at length, “Coben’s not living there any more, of course, he’s probably in France by now. But my Pa still hit me when I couldn’t find anything, as if it was my fault Coben had gone. He’s so stupid, Mog.”
“I saw Coben,” I said slowly, “at the Three Friends last night.”
Nick’s jaw dropped. “You went there as well?”
I told him about the cab, and the conversation Coben had had with the man they called His Lordship.
“He was nervous, Nick, you could tell. This Lordship must be someone pretty frightening. And Coben was talking to him about —”
I was about to say, about Damyata. But something made me stop. Up to now I’d told Nick everything I’d found out. I had to trust him — I had to trust somebody — it was the only way I could prevent myself going mad. Except that something, deep inside me, was nagging at me to keep it to myself. Just this name. Just for the time being.
Nick was too interested to notice I’d stopped halfway through a sentence. “So where did Coben go after that?” he urged me.
“I don’t know,” I continued rather lamely. I’d run out of story now. “Into the darkness somewhere. I couldn’t follow him.”
Nick was looking at me. “You’ve had even more adventures than me,” he said, and sniffed deeply again. He looked at me. “Your hair’s all wet,” he said, “and your clothes … what on earth happened to you?”
“I told you,” I said, “I had to hide under that old horse in the stable over the way.”
“I still don’t —“ he began, and then stopped. A look of horror crossed his face as he realized what had happened, and then he began to laugh.
I couldn’t help laughing too; but then I remembered Mrs. Muggerage upstairs. “Ssssssshhh!” I hissed.
Nick reached over and threw me a ragged old towel, with which I thankfully dried myself as best I could. “Here, stick these on,” he whispered, rooting out a pair of pants and an old brown shirt.
Making a face, I pulled my stinking wet shirt over my head. But as I was doing so there was a sudden clatter from above and Mrs. Muggerage’s face appeared at the trapdoor. I rolled off the bed onto the floor and Nick stood up.
“What is it, Ma?” he called, just a little too quickly.
“Who’s down there with you? I can ‘ear whisperin’, and … and laughin’,” she added bitterly, as though the latter were the worst crime she could imagine.
“No, Ma. Honest.”
A foot appeared on the top step. I held my breath. “I been listenin’, Nick boy, and you been talkin’ to someone. It’s that nasty little boy Jake again, innit? ‘Ow did ‘e get in?” She came stamping down the stairs.
“There’s no one here, Ma,” Nick protested, his voice quavering with fear. I hadn’t had time to scramble completely under the bed, and I was desperately hoping I couldn’t be seen.
“Don’t you lie to me,” the huge woman snapped.
“I ain’t lyin’, Ma, honest. You don’t have to come down. Honest.”
“You’ve ‘ad enough warnin’, Master Nicholas,” she growled. Her voice was deep with menace, in a way I’d never heard a woman’s voice sound before. “You’ve told enough lies lately, yer little rat. One more lie, Nick boy.” She advanced into the room. “Come on. One more lie!”
Something very peculiar happened to Mrs. Muggerage when she got really irate. She seemed to grow, for one thing, until she completely blocked out every other object in sight, as though someone were inflating her from behind. And her muscles seemed to tense, and her neck grew stiff, and her head shook slightly, and her eyes went glassy. It was as if, at some sudden prompting, every last trace of humanity drained out of her and she became an animal, or even a machine, perfectly adapted for violence.
“Don’t!” moaned Nick. He sounded utterly terrified. All at once I understood what he’d been suffering all his life. In his voice I could hear the pure sick fear his guardians’ violence could reduce him to. Groping on the floor around me, the first thing I found was my sopping old shirt. Silently, I pulled it towards me.
“You lie to me, Nick,” the woman cajoled, “come on. You open your mouth.” As the giant shadow fell over me, I saw my chance. I launched myself up onto the bed and, before she could really react, I flung the vile-smelling shirt over her head and pulled the corners sharply.
She struggled, her face buried in the wet cotton, her neck pulled back unexpectedly.
“Gragh!” she coughed as the revolting stuff filled her eyes and mouth.
“Run, Nick!” I screamed; giving the shirt a final twist and ducking a huge swipe from her trunklike arms, I followed Nick up the stairs.
We virtually fell out of the trapdoor into the scullery; and I slammed the door down, fumbling in panic to pull the heavy keg across the top.
“It might not hold her for long,” I said as there came a huge thump from beneath. “But it might be long enough.” I was gasping for breath. “Come on,” I urged, and reached out to grab Nick’s arm. He met me in a bear hug, sudden and tight. In two seconds in the dark scullery his fear and his relief shuddered through me, like a trapped fish escaping into open water. Two seconds: then he let go.
And we ran.
We broke our run only to untie Lash from his post; and we finally stopped at a street corner nearly a mile away, where we clung to a cornerstone and gasped for breath like hounds.
“She … hasn’t followed us,” Nick said, holding his sides. “I thought she … was going to kill us … both.”
We stood panting for a while in the dark.
“I think,” I said, “we’d better go and check on Mr. Spintwice.”
As we moved through the streets, keeping Lash on a tight lead, I told Nick more about my expedition the previous night. We were careful to keep our voices down in case unwanted ears were close at hand. At one point we felt stones raining down on us, and when we turned we saw a couple of ragged boys haring off into a dim passageway. Even the most harmless of kids, we knew, could for a couple of pennies give up information to someone with really malicious intent. These apparently innocent children were the eyes and ears of the underworld.
Nick, of course, could tell at a glance who was who. “Swell,” he’d murmur, and pull us back into the shadows as a well-dressed young man with a face scarred by smallpox sauntered by, casting a shrewd eye about him as he went. Dodging thieves such as this, we eventually reached the little silversmith’s shop.
Lash was straining at the lead.
“What is it?” I asked him. He’d picked up a scent, and was pulling us not towards the front door but to a high gate at the side of the house, stained green with mold.
“Is that a way through to the back?” I asked. “Only, Lash seems to want us to go that way.”
We felt our way down the lane, so narrow we could touch both sides without even stretching our arms. The ground was covered in mounds of smelly garbage left outside the backs of the houses; stumbling over these, we found Spintwice’s tiny back door. Lash stood there expectantly, looking up at us.
Nick knocked, and we waited. He knocked again.
“He sleeps in this back room,” he whispered, “he ought to hear us.” He knocked harder.
There was no reply. The more we knocked, the more undeniable the responding silence. Lash started scrabbling at the door with his front paws. We tried knocking on the grimy little window.
“Mr. Spintwice!” Nick called softly.
Lash was whimpering now and I was getting worried. “You don’t think something’s happened to him, do you?” I asked anxiously. Nick said nothing. He was feeling around the window sash, and in a couple of seconds he’d slid it open.
“Mr. Spintwice!” he called in.
Putting our heads inside, we could hear a muffled banging sound as though someone was trying to attract our attention.
“Come on,” said Nick, “he’s in trouble.” I helped push him up through the little window. Lash bounded up after him; and I followed, Nick pulling me through into the little back room where the banging sounded quite distinctly now.
“Mr. Spintwice!” Nick called.
We tried to avoid the tiny furniture as we dashed through the house. The noise turned out to be coming from a tea chest on the floor of the shop. Its lid was firmly nailed down. “Mr. Spintwice!” Nick called through the side of the chest, “is that you?”
“Mmmmmmppphhhggg!” came a strangled voice from inside, followed by a long and furious storm of kicks. Nick found a claw hammer, and soon the long brown nails were pried out of the chest lid and Mr. Spintwice was revealed, trussed up like a turkey, with a silk handkerchief around his mouth.
“Thank heavens you’ve come,” he said as soon as we pulled the gag off his face. “I thought I was going to suffocate.”
“Who did this to you?” asked Nick.
For the first time since I’d met him, Spintwice wasn’t grinning. There was a dark crease of fear across his face. If we hadn’t come to check up on him, it might have been days before anyone came by, I realized. He really had believed he was going to die; and again I felt ashamed at having involved him in all this in the first place.
“A man with a pointy mustache,” piped up Spintwice when he’d got his breath, “your snake-man from Calcutta, I suppose. No sign of his snake tonight, at least.” He was very shaken, and we helped him into a chair. “I came in here to check the locks before going to bed,” he explained, “and what did I find but this fellow standing here in a cloak and looking at me with his big eyes. Didn’t expect to find anyone here, I suppose. Thought he could sneak about to his heart’s content! Well I soon saw to that.”
“But how did you end up in the chest?” asked Nick.
“Well, he was bigger than me,” said the dwarf grudgingly. “I threatened him, and told him to get out, and — well, he laughed. As if I was some sort of … of circus act,” he spluttered. “Next thing I know I’m being bundled in there and he’s banging nails in!”
I’m afraid neither Nick nor I could suppress a smile at the thought of Spintwice trying to put up a fight. We were relieved we’d arrived in time to rescue him. But there was a lump of dread in the pit of my stomach as we tried to establish what the man from Calcutta had gotten away with. A few seconds’ feeling inside a nearby cupboard was enough to make it clear he’d taken the camel; but what about the jar with the powdery contents in?
“That should be on the mantelpiece in there,” Spintwice said, indicating the little sitting room across the corridor. And, indeed, that’s where it still was. I gave a guffaw of joy.
“But won’t he realize the camel’s empty?” Nick asked, looking worried. “He might come back for the rest.”
“Shouldn’t do,” Spintwice said. “After you’d gone I had a thought, and I filled the camel up with flour. It’ll keep him happy till he gets back to Calcutta, I should think. And then his wife can use it to make bread with, and stop his mouth from complaining.”
“Mr. Spintwice,” said Nick, “you’re worth your weight in gold.”
“As little as that?” said Spintwice, pretending to be offended. “That doesn’t amount to much.” He was getting his sense of humor back.
“So … what’s he going to do with it now?” wondered Nick.
“That’s his business,” Spintwice butted in. “Sit down and let me make you cocoa. I think we’re all better off without having camels in the house, if the consequences involve being hammered into tea chests by strange men.”
I looked at Nick. He had a resigned expression on his face. He knew I wouldn’t be content to sit here having cocoa with a dwarf while the villains were still running around all over London.
“I don’t think we should waste much time,” I said. “How long had you been in there, Mr. Spintwice?” I asked him.
“Quite long enough, thank you,” he snapped. Then he realized I really wanted him to tell me, and he thought for a moment. “It was a minute or two after nine when I came in here and found him,” he recalled. He had every reason to be precise: there were enough clocks in here, after all.
“It’s nearly half past ten now,” I said. “You were in there more than an hour.” I chewed my lip. “He’s had ages. He could be anywhere by now.”
“Well, precisely,” said Nick. “The important thing is, he’s gone, and Mr. Spintwice is safe. That’s all that matters. Why don’t you sit down?”
I was agitated. There was something that didn’t make sense.
“Something’s wrong, Nick. He wouldn’t have had time to get here by nine o’clock, after I saw him at Lion’s Mane Court. It must already have been very nearly nine by then.”
“Well, obviously he just moves fast,” said Nick.
“It must have taken us nearly half an hour to get here, Nick,” I persisted. “He’d have had to do more than move fast. He’d have had to have a —” I looked at Mr. Spintwice, and remembered the book Nick had shown me the first time we’d come “— a magic carpet,” I said.
Mr. Spintwice laughed shortly. “Well, if I ever see him again I’ll make sure I’ve a carpet beater handy so I can take a swipe as he comes past.”
It was plain that Spintwice needed something hot to drink to revive him, and Nick and I offered to go and make cocoa while he sat and recovered his composure.
“Why don’t you calm down?” Nick asked quietly, once we were out of earshot in the little scullery. The hiss from the water heating up in the kettle was quite loud enough to make our conversation inaudible in the next room.
“There’s definitely something not quite right,” I said. “The more we see of that man, the more magic he seems.”
“Well we can’t do anything about him just now.”
“I’d just love to know where he goes with the camel now he’s got it back,” I said.
“Mog,” Nick said, “you said yourself, he’ll be miles away by now. We couldn’t begin to find out where he’s gone.”
“We’ve got a pretty good idea, Nick. He’s probably gone back to that house next door to Cramplock’s.”
“And what are you going to do? Go in and fight him?” He suddenly looked dreadfully tired.
I stirred, uselessly. “I just think we ought to be doing something,” I said. “He’s got the camel, and he’s got a snake which bites people, and he’s got —” My bangle, I thought; but I stopped myself from saying it. “I’m afraid more people are going to get killed,” I said instead. “Where’s your Pa?”
“How should I know?” snapped Nick, irritable now. “I’m not going anywhere where I stand a chance of meeting my Pa. Or anybody else,” he added, “murderers or snake charmers or anyone. We can’t stop them. We’d just be taking a stupid risk.”
He poured the boiling water into three little mugs, and stirred cocoa into them. I carried the tray back through the little door into the parlor, steam pouring off the mugs like factory chimneys. Mr. Spintwice was looking much happier, and had produced a big glistening ginger cake from somewhere. He’d placed it on a low table in front of him, and was making a fuss of Lash, who was sitting between his feet, licking the little man’s fingers affectionately. No wonder Nick liked coming here so much. My resistance was being broken down, and I was both exasperated and delighted.
“You’re exhausted, Mog,” said Nick, coming in to join us. “You spent most of last night running around after criminals, and so did I. We all need a rest. Just forget about the man from Calcutta for a bit.”
I eyed the cake, my heart torn. “You’re right,” I sighed.
Mr. Spintwice beamed even more broadly than usual. “I think I would really be happier,” he said quietly, “if you two stayed here. Just tonight.”