32

BITSY Bentham’s face was pale in the moonlight as she read some of the messages from her mom to Nigel. “‘Have you found them yet?’ . . . ‘They will reach the Kozhim River before you. We must stall for time’ . . . ‘Darling, you were not to go rogue in Russia. Be sure to stay with them in Kathmandu.’” She handed the phone back to Nigel. “Wow . . .”

Alex put her hand on Bitsy’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s complicated,” she said without much conviction.

“I’m so sorry,” Nigel said. “She was good to me for many years.”

“She hated how Spencer Niemand dismissed you,” Bitsy said, her voice choked and distant. “That’s all I knew. I had no idea you and she were working together.” Her eyes were moist as she looked at Nigel. “After Uncle Basile died, Mummy became . . . oh, I don’t know, cut off. Angry. Impatient.”

“When she found out Max and Alex would be coming to London, everything changed,” Nigel said. “The genius sleuths who had discovered a secret treasure—decoding hints no one else could! She got it in her head that you’d be the ones who could solve the mystery of Gaston’s missing work.”

“She never asked us,” Max said.

“She wanted to,” Nigel replied. “The idea was, she and I would entice you—little by little. I would show you the code . . . we would get to know one another. She didn’t want to overwhelm you after your ordeal. But things didn’t go quite as planned at the funeral home. You went off with . . .”

He looked at Bitsy.

“They went off with me,” she said. “And I was worried Mummy would be upset. So I kept our whereabouts a secret.”

“I contacted her when you found me,” Nigel said. “She began imagining herself as a silent partner. An overseer. At first I was to be her eyes and ears. Then the keeper of the artifacts.” Nigel sighed. “After things went bad in Greece, I’m afraid she rather snapped. Her assignments to me became more bizarre. I believe she lost track of the mission. She thought that I could find the ingredients myself.”

“Did she make you rat us out to the police?” Max said.

Nigel chuckled ruefully. “I’m afraid not. I was being followed too, you know. A fellow from Interpol tracked me to my hotel. I had to give him back an artifact so he would leave me alone.”

“He didn’t lock you up?” Alex asked.

“Darling, they’re hippo bones, not Rembrandts.” Nigel smiled. “He doesn’t know that I kept a couple hidden in my skivvies.”

Bitsy squeezed her eyes shut. “Did you have to tell us that?”

“I still don’t trust you,” Max said.

Nigel sighed. “I don’t blame you.”

“We’re trying to save someone’s life,” Max went on. “My friend has a few weeks to live. This could save her. For us, it’s not about some dead ancestor. So give us what you have and leave us alone.”

Nigel rose from the ground, struggling to stand upright. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a small sack, and handed it to Max. “I had a daughter once. And a wife. I lost my girl to sickness and my wife to grief. Take these, please. They’re yours.”

Max took the sack and opened it. He pulled out four water-filled vials, two containing hippo bones and two containing coils. “Thank you.”

“I’m . . . so sorry about your family,” Alex said. “I didn’t know . . .”

Nigel nodded. “Save your friend. You have two of five ingredients. I am old and tired. I am more than willing to go back home and fade quietly into history. But if you would have me, I’d help you heart and soul, to my last breath.”

Alex and Bitsy stood silent. Both of them looked at Max.

“What do you think?” Alex finally said.

Max’s eyes were fixed on Nigel. He wasn’t smelling fish. Or ham. Or cat pee.

No fear, no confusion, no anger.

Just yak manure. But that was real.

“One for all, and all for Jules Verne,” Max said softly.

Nigel nodded. Max saw his shoulders shaking. Alex put her arms around him first. And then Bitsy.

Max didn’t bother. He moved toward Snort, who nodded his head and grunted.

“I like your attitude,” Max said.

Out by the road, two sets of headlights approached. Bitsy tore away from Nigel, running toward the lights, waving her arms. A moment later, Sal’s voice called out from the first car, “Who won?”

Nigel laughed, wiping his eyes. “Children, it looks like our chariots have arrived.”

“It was a tie!” Max shouted to Sal. He and Alex each took one of Nigel’s shoulders and led him out to the second car.

As Bitsy climbed into KB’s car, Max remarked, “She looks sick.”

“I don’t blame her, given the rather shocking news,” Nigel said, as both vehicles snaked up the hill toward the farmhouse.

“I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like for her,” Alex said. “Her own mother . . .”

“Between you and me,” Nigel said, “I never thought those two were very close. Gloria always regretted marrying Niemand. The way she told it, he influenced Bitsy. Turned her into a mini-him.”

“Bitsy isn’t at all like that guy,” Max said.

Nigel shrugged. “I don’t see it either. I suppose Gloria was lying to me about that too.”

The cars were approaching the top of the hill. Max could see the farmhouse behind a wrought iron gate. The building was made of stone, with large front windows and an ornately carved wooden front door. Furrowed fields stretched out on either side, extending back to the foot of a terraced mountain. A stream wound its way downward through the crops. Closer to the house, at the edge of the field, crates and sacks were piled high, waiting to be picked up. Two white domes loomed overhead—one belonging to a nearby silo and the other to a Buddhist temple visible over the tree line in the distance.

They stopped before the gate, where a sign in many languages was embedded into the stones. Max’s eyes immediately went to the English part:

WELCOME TO

ARMANDO OF KATHMANDU

PRODUCE FOR RESTAURANTS AND HOMES

The gate opened with a loud metallic groan, and they drove up a winding gravel driveway to the front door. A thin man with salt-and-pepper hair emerged. Shielding his eyes against the headlights, he called out to KB in Nepali.

“He doesn’t look too happy,” Alex said.

“Wait a second . . .” In the front car, Sal rolled down her window and called out to the man. “Aren’t you the father of little Milan Karkhi?”

The man’s annoyed expression vanished. “Ms. Munson?”

“You know him?” Max called out.

“I had his daughter in fourth grade! This happens to me all the time.” With a laugh, Sal bolted from the car and gave the man a hug. “Mr. Karkhi! I didn’t know you lived here!”

“Of course,” the man said. “Armando was my wife’s great-great-grandfather.”

As Max, Bitsy, and Alex got out of the cars, Sal quickly introduced them and took a deep breath. “Mr. Karkhi, I’m dying to catch up, but first I have a favor to ask. My friends here are on a search for something important that you may be able to give them.”

Max quickly explained the basics and showed him the list, pointing to the entry “Derived from the black smear of eternity from Armando of Kathmandu.”

Mr. Karkhi scratched his head. “Well, we’re Armando of Kathmandu all right. But I don’t know what the black smear could be.”

“Sherlock Holmes would ask to see the grounds,” Bitsy said. “He’d come up with ideas by observing.”

“I’m happy to show you around, if you think it would help,” Mr. Karkhi said. “Come.”

He led them around the house, gesturing toward the silo. “We built that to echo the dome of the stupa, just beyond—the Buddhist worship site. Although much of Nepal is Hindu, Buddha himself was born in this country. His name was Siddhartha Gautama, and Armando believed that his spirit blessed the soil.”

Max dug his hand into one of the furrows. “What’s this stuff?”

“Mustard,” Mr. Karkhi said. “The blossoms cover the fields with yellow in the winter. Up ahead we grow many squashes. Some of the harvest is already packed into the crates and sacks, which we’ll bring to market in the morning. The soil is perfect for okra and spinach and potatoes, and up there in the hills we also grow cauliflower and rice.” He stopped. “Any of this ringing a bell for you?”

“Not yet,” Alex said. “Let’s keep going.”

“We’re proud of our terrace farming,” he said. “Many people in Nepal grow their own family crops this way . . . .”

As he led them up a pathway, pointing out features of the farm, Max peered into the crates. They were full of berries, plants, beans, and twisty, odd-looking root vegetables. The mountain stream burbled just beyond them. He dug his hand into a crate and pulled out a green bean. It smelled amazing. His stomach let out a growl, and he realized he hadn’t eaten in hours.

Max spat on the bean, washed it in the stream, and wiped it on his pants to clean it. Then he bit into it, releasing a tangy, sweet burst of flavor into his mouth. He finished it in four big bites, and then ate another. The next crate was full of berries. He grabbed a small handful and tossed it in his mouth.

But after the second bite, he gagged. “Yyyyeeewww!”

Alex was the first to come running. “Max, are you all right?”

“B—berrible terries—pkaacch!” he said, coughing and spitting. “Terrible berries!”

Mr. Karkhi helped Max to his feet. “Come into the house. What did you eat?”

“I don’t know!” Max moaned.

As they ran in, Max choked and coughed into his hand. Mr. Karkhi gave him a water bottle from his counter, then gestured to a room tucked behind a door under a set of stairs. “Fill your mouth to dilute the taste, then spit it into the sink.”

By the time Max got there, his palm and forearm were speckled with dark spots. He swallowed some water, spat, and looked in the mirror. His tongue was coated black. He lifted the bottle to his lips again.

Then he stopped.

Putting the bottle down, he looked in the mirror again, sticking his tongue out.

“Moo-huh-ha-keh!” he yelled.

He raced back into the kitchen, where Alex and Bitsy stared at him in dismay. “Put your tongue back in your mouth, it’s disgusting,” Alex said.

“Mr. Karkhi, do you sell stuff to anyone besides restaurants?” Max asked.

“We have clients in many industries,” Mr. Karkhi said.

Max dug around in his backpack and pulled out the paper he’d bought in Thamel. Ripping off the wrapping, he unfurled a sheet on the kitchen counter. “Like the paper industry?”

“Such gorgeous colors,” Mr. Karkhi said, running his fingers along the paper. “Yes, I sell to this designer. Why—?”

“What does he buy from you?” Max asked.

“Black turmeric,” the farmer replied. “He uses it as a base for his permanent black ink.”

Black turmeric, grown locally—that’s what the old guy said! Does that stuff come in the form of berries—and is it this color?” Max opened his mouth and pointed to his tongue.

“Oh, dear,” the farmer said. “That will take a long time to fade.”

“The black smear,” Max said, “of eternity . . .”