Chapter 13

Sunday, February 2, 1936

Wickenham, Gilbeyshire

 

Except when Grandmother or Mel sent her off on an errand—usually to refresh the contents of the teapot—Bao had spent most of her first few days at Wickenham haunting the great library.

Grandmother sat at a huge desk and went through stacks of papers one by one, scribbling notes down as she progressed. She riffled through books and boxes. Professor DeNimes and Mel did the same, but at much smaller desks. Bao wished that she could read well enough and was smart enough to do the same thing—to help her friends. But she was having a hard enough time just reading Ellie Owl and the Midnight Hoot.

Despite being warned by Grandmother to not bother anyone, Bao’s curiosity got the best of her. When Grandmother left the library late one afternoon, Bao zipped over to Mel and asked what exactly it was she was looking for.

Mel put down the papers she held in her hands. “Well, Bao, you know that Percy turned himself into a zombie.”

Bao, floating several inches above the floor in front of Mel, nodded earnestly, remembering with a shudder that creepy man.

“We’re trying to figure out how. And then we want to stop it from happening ever again. I’m looking at some articles that Percy clipped out when he was a teenager. They’re mostly about cricket stars and test matches and whatnot. There are even a few about baseball. Nothing to do with ghosts and bombs and zombies that I can see. But everything has to be checked out.”

Bao listened intently. The little ghost girl agreed with Nina. Zombies were gross. She hoped that Grandmother, the professor, and Mel could figure out how to do away with them.

But boxes and boxes of Percy’s papers covered several tables that had been set up in the library. Bao thought that it would take a very long time to get through all of them.

When she wasn’t helping Grandmother and the others, Bao spent her time with Evvie, the late Lord Hurley of Evansham. The two ghosts had met when they were about to go into the etheric bomb that Percy had built. Bao was a little girl from an ancient mountain tribe and Evvie was a teenaged nobleman of the Royal Kingdom. They hit it off splendidly, becoming the best of friends, despite their many differences.

The pair often went exploring around Wickenham. Through the attics. Down into the basement. Out in the barns and stables. Around the gardens and the great maze. Over to the village of Blackfield, where they helped ghosts from the estate spy on Ozzie Eccleston, one of Percy’s gang.

Bao didn’t like to be forward and ask about Evvie’s family. But one afternoon, when they were sitting on the ornate wrought iron fence by Wickenham’s little lake, she couldn’t help herself.

“Why didn’t you go to see your family when we were in Royalton?” she said, swinging her legs beneath her. “Didn’t you want to see your brother and everyone?”

“Well, old girl,” Evvie said, “the thought did occur to me. But the fact is that I’m dashed embarrassed about being a ghost. Our father died in ’09. And what did I go and do as soon as I became Lord Hurley? I took that blasted expedition up the Roobuco River and promptly got myself drowned. At the tender age of sixteen. I can only imagine how angry my mother and brother were at me, after warning me against going.”

“But that was a long time ago, Evvie,” said Bao. “You should talk to your brother again. He’d want to know that you’re all right, even if you’re dead.”

“I suppose so,” Evvie sighed. “But I feel that with my nephew being kidnapped, his fate unknown, it would be deuced awkward for me to show up on their doorstep. And I don’t even know the poor lad’s name. No, no. They have bigger fish to fry than having a reunion with a dusty old wraith.”

Later that afternoon, Bao and Evvie were hiding up in a shadowy corner of The Laughing Fox pub. They knew that Dame Honoria’s scheme to take care of Ozzie Eccleston was about to unfold.

Down below, local men were playing darts and drinking beer, oblivious of the ghosts up above them. Some women sat at a side table, jabbering loudly at each other. A clump of men were standing around talking about the weird business up in MacFreithshire and what it might mean for the Royal Kingdom. Cigarette and pipe smoke filled the air.

And at the bar, all by himself, sat Ozzie, sucking on a tall ale and voraciously consuming a plate of sausages and boiled potatoes. When he had just been a ghost, he hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything. As a zombie, he seemed to spend most of his time doing just that. Grandmother said it was a wonder that he hadn’t gained a hundred pounds.

A few moments after Bao and Evvie arrived, another man sauntered up to the bar and took the stool right next to Ozzie. The zombie looked to his right and nodded. Obviously he didn’t recognize the fellow, who happened to be one of Grandmother’s gardeners. Bao knew him as Phillip.

“Evening,” Phillip said, after he ordered a beer for himself. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you at The Fox before.”

Ozzie shrugged. “Then you haven’t been here lately. I practically live in the place.”

“Don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“From Rotonesia, actually. On the grand tour of the Royal Kingdom. History buff, don’t you know.”

“Well then, welcome to our little piece of history. It looks to me like you’re just about out of our local brew there. Can I buy you another?”

Ozzie’s little Rotonesian face lit up. “Good chap! Kind of you. Yes, please.”

And that was the first of about seven large mugs of beer that Phillip bought for the zombie—who about two hours later was face down on the bar, muttering to himself.

Phillip nodded at a solitary man who was sitting in a corner. The fellow trotted over. Together they hoisted Ozzie to his feet and trundled him out of the pub. Their noses were wrinkled up, probably from being so close to that dank, musty smell the zombie gave off. Bao and Evvie zoomed outside to watch them stuff Ozzie into an automobile. From there it was a quick trip back to Wickenham.

Grandmother and Mel were waiting out in the garage with several more workers from the estate, standing around a large wooden crate, the end of which was open. Stenciled on all sides were the words: FRAGILE. KEEP UPRIGHT. Inside the crate were blankets, copious quantities of tinned meat, water, a small chemical toilet, flashlights, and other supplies. There were several air holes drilled in the sides, as well.

As Phillip and the other man extracted a limp, drunken Ozzie from the auto, Grandmother said, “It’s not my wish to harm him, but to teach him a lesson. It was his choice to be trapped in a dead body. Now he will have ample time to ponder his misdeeds.”

Bao knew that once Ozzie was put in his box, the box was to be express-shipped all the way back to Old Number One, the island that Grandmother’s father had owned. That’s where Percy had made the second etheric bomb. And that’s where Ozzie and the Steppe Warriors had held Grandmother captive after they abducted her.

The shippers were instructed to ignore any urgent pleas from inside the box. Once the crate arrived on the island, it was to be opened and Ozzie released to his exile. Since the island was uninhabited, there would be no pubs or cafes or grocery stores. So, no more sausages and beer for him.

As soon as the last nail was hammered in, Bao shouted gleefully, “It’s just what you deserve, you mean, mean man!”

“Don’ think you’ve won,” came a slurred, muffled voice from inside the crate. “Percy Rathbone’ll have the last word. And then all of you can go hang!”