Henry left a note on the table in case the grown-ups finished their meeting, even though that didn’t seem likely to happen any time soon.

Gone for a walk to see historical sites. Back by noon.

When Henry and José got upstairs, Anna was handing money to the guy behind the pizza counter. “Here,” she said, handing out paper plates with greasy slices spilling over the edges. “It’s early for pizza, but I know how you guys are, and I don’t want to have to stop and go looking for muffins or something once we get started.”

A muffin would have been awesome, Henry thought. With his dad stuck at the hospital and Aunt Lucinda caught up in her society stuff, he’d only had that half-smooshed banana for breakfast. But there were no muffins, so he ate his crummy pizza as they walked down the street, shuffling through crunchy fallen leaves. “I think that church is around the corner.”

Anna ran ahead. “I see it!” She opened her notebook while Henry and José caught up. “Okay, Henry, tell us what you know.”

“Uh, well … the Old North Church is where they hung the lanterns before Paul Revere’s ride to warn everybody the redcoats were coming,” Henry explained. “You know … one if by land and two if by —”

“I know that part. I mean, hello? One of my last names is Revere.”

“Oh. Right.” Henry did know that. Everyone in the Silver Jaguar Society had a famous ancestor who was an artist or creator or inventor. Henry was the descendent of Grace Wisher, an indentured servant who helped create the original Star-Spangled Banner. José was related to a Mexican artist lady named Friday or Frito — Henry never got her name right. And Anna’s great-great-something-or-other was Paul Revere.

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know any more about the tunnels. We can ask inside.”

They crossed the narrow street to the church and looked up at its old brick tower.

“Finish that pizza,” Anna said, heading for the door. “I doubt you can bring food in the church.”

Henry folded the rest of his pizza slice in half, then in half again, and shoved it in his mouth so his cheeks bulged out.

“Nice.” Anna looked at him, shaking her head. “Very nice.”

Henry tried to say, “I need energy to investigate,” but it came out as “Oo-noo-oo-noo-doo-to-enoodogah.” He followed Anna and José inside.

A short-haired woman wearing red-framed glasses and a dark blue golf shirt greeted them. “You’re just in time. Come with me and you can join the tour.” She led them to the front of the church where some old people were already gathered.

“Welcome to the Old North Church, built in 1723 and famous for its role in Paul Revere’s midnight ride. But we’re full of all kinds of history.” The guide pointed toward the back of the church. “Note the angel sculptures in our choir loft.” Four carved angels perched on podiums around the organ’s golden pipes as if they were standing guard.

“They’re lovely,” one of the old ladies said.

“They’re stolen,” said the tour guide.

“Awesome!” said Henry. The guide on his school trip hadn’t mentioned that.

“These angels were on a French ship bound for Quebec when the vessel was captured by pirates in 1746,” the guide said. “They unpacked the ship’s cargo here in Boston, hid the loot, and —”

“In tunnels?” Anna blurted out.

“Quite possibly.” The tour guide looked impressed. “Our Old North End is riddled with tunnels that were used by pirates and smugglers. And then the pirates donated these angels to the Old North Church. Now …”

Anna raised her hand. “Are there tunnels near here?”

The woman frowned. “Yes, but they’re closed off. Now, if you’ll follow me …”

Anna waved her hand wildly.

“Yes?”

“Where exactly are those closed-off tunnels?”

“There’s an entrance to one in our church crypt, but as I said —” Anna’s hand flapped so hard it looked like it might fly up into the choir loft with the stolen angels. “Yes?”

“Can we see the crypt?”

“Have your parents call to make a reservation.” The guide handed Anna a brochure. “But we don’t have tours this week; they’re doing some restoration work down there. Now … if you’ll turn to the left, you’ll see our plaque in remembrance of Major John Pitcairn….”

Anna frowned at the brochure.

“Pitcairn was fatally wounded while rallying the Royal Marines at the Battle of Bunker Hill,” the guide continued. “He died on June 17, 1775. His body is interred beneath this church.”

This time, Henry’s hand shot up.

“Yes?”

“Is he in that crypt place?”

“Yes.”

“So where is it?”

“Beneath the church.”

“How do you get down there?”

“If you are on an official tour, you use the staircase up front. Otherwise” — the guide looked at Henry over her glasses — “you don’t. Now, if you’ll all come to the back of the church, I’ll share a few more historical tidbits and then escort you to the gift shop.”

Anna started to follow, but Henry grabbed her sleeve. “Hang on,” he whispered, and ducked into one of the pews. He slid down to make room for Anna and José, and they stayed out of sight until everybody else left.

“Let’s check that crypt now,” Henry said.

Anna nodded. “She said the stairs were up here. Follow me.” She started toward the front of the church, as if this whole thing were her idea. Henry doubted they’d find anything, but the tunnels sounded cool. His Storm the Castle video game had a labyrinth where you had to explore a maze of shrubbery and peek around dark corners. He was really good at it.

Anna opened the door at the front of the church. “Jackpot!” A set of twirly wooden stairs spiraled down into the dark.

José flipped a switch, and a naked lightbulb lit the stairs. They climbed down to a long hallway, all bricked in on the sides with rust-red pipes running along the ceiling. Henry had to duck to keep from bumping his head.

José coughed, and Henry felt his own throat tickle. The air felt musty and dusty and thick.

Anna unfolded her crumpled brochure. “This says the crypt contains thirty-seven tombs. With more than eleven hundred bodies.”

“Whoa …” Henry felt the narrow hallways squeeze a little narrower. “So where are they all?”

“Here, I think.” José ran his hand over a plaque embedded in the bricks on one wall. It read ANN RUGGLES TOMB 1742. Underneath was a small, bricked-in doorway.

“They’re all over,” Henry said, wandering down the hall. Some tombs were boarded up. Others had doors, as if you could knock and somebody might answer from the other side.

Anna walked along, reading names. “Samuel Watts and Peter Dickerman. This one just says ‘Stranger’s Tomb.’ And here’s — oh!”

Henry and José rushed over to see the tomb where Anna was standing. There was no name plaque above it, but whoever it was, they’d been disturbed. Someone had broken through the wooden door. Jagged pieces of splintered wood littered the floor.

“That damage looks new,” Henry whispered.

Anna’s eyes got huge. “Like it happened last night. Right after the painting was stolen!”

Henry couldn’t stop staring into the dark. “Are you sure this is a tomb? It looks like it keeps going. What if it’s the tunnel that —”

A clanging sound interrupted him, echoing off the bricks behind them. Henry’s heart catapulted into his throat. “Someone’s coming!”

“What if it’s that tour guide?” Anna’s face twisted with worry.

But the voices that drifted down the hall were deep and gruff.

“What if it’s the Serpentine Princes?” José whispered.

“We gotta hide.” Henry squatted down and tried to see into the dark opening past the arched doorway.

“We can’t go in there,” Anna whispered. “We don’t even know —”

“We don’t have a choice.” Henry didn’t want to squeeze into that dead-body darkness any more than Anna did, but there was nowhere else to hide. He ducked down, leaned deep into the opening, and crawled inside. Ahead of him, the blackness looked like it might go on forever. Behind him, the deep voices were getting louder.

Henry took one final look at the light, one last deep breath. “Follow me, you guys.” And he scrambled into the dark.