The village of Belthorp, where Thomas and his father had lived for five years, had been the focus of attention at the time of their disappearance. But, for now, things were settling back to normal. On the Saturday after Nesta’s disappearance, life there was going on as usual.
In the flat above the newsagent’s shop, which was also the proprietor’s family home, Mrs Swanson stood glaring at her two sons, the elder of whom had just smashed the training tower his younger brother had spent the last half hour building up. A bivouac tent had collapsed in the middle of the floor and half a dozen Action Men were impeding access to the window.
‘This room looks as if a bomb’s hit it!’ said Mrs Swanson. ‘Get those toys cleared away – and close the curtains before you put the light on. If everything’s not back in place by the time I come up here again there’ll be no video and no pizza for you two tonight.’
Videos were a Saturday evening treat, together with pizzas delivered to the door in their boxes.
Philip shrugged, as if he didn’t care. At eleven, he was a shade more defiant than his younger brother. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said. ‘Most of that mess is his, not mine.’
‘But you made it,’ said Anthony, stifling a yawn. ‘It was you knocked the training tower down.’
‘You told me to dive-bomb it!’ said Philip, outraged. ‘You can’t dive-bomb it without knocking it down!’
‘Look,’ said their mother, ‘I don’t care who did what, I want this place tidied up.’
‘Tidyin’ up’s women’s work,’ said Anthony in a sleepy voice. He was echoing words he had heard others say, without paying much attention to their meaning. He was just nine and small for his age, not robust like his brother. He usually went to sleep well before the end of any video.
‘And untidying is man’s work?’ said his mother drily as she picked up a pyjama top and threw it in his direction. ‘Don’t try to be clever. It doesn’t suit you. Just get on with the job. And don’t leave it all to Philip!’ With those words, she went out and closed the door behind her.
Immediately, the two were friends again, for a while anyway.
‘Let’s just put the light on,’ said Philip, ‘and not draw the curtains. I don’t know why she’s so fussy. Nobody can see in, unless they’re in a low-flying aeroplane!’
‘Or on a double-decker bus maybe?’
‘Double-decker buses don’t come here,’ said Philip as he languidly pulled the toy box to the middle of the floor and began throwing things into it just any old how.
‘That’s not the way to do it,’ Anthony protested.
‘If you want it done any better,’ snapped Philip, ‘you can do it all yourself.’
Anthony reddened and looked close to tears.
‘Come on,’ said Philip, ‘we’ll not fight about it. Tell you what – let’s play spies first.’
Anthony brightened. ‘We’ll watch for the woman from The Grange,’ he said.
‘Too soon for that,’ said Philip. The woman from The Grange walked her Alsatians around midnight. The boys had already spied on her two or three times and identified her as the leader of a witches’ coven.
‘So who’ll we spy on?’ said Anthony.
‘We’ll watch for who gets off the next bus. There’s bound to be some suspicious characters.’
‘Like Mrs Bigwood?’ said Anthony.
‘Nah – stupid! Mrs Bigwood only wears funny hats. We’ll look for strangers wrapped up in mufflers or wearing balaclavas.’
Philip switched off the light again.
They both went to the windowsill and picked up the binoculars they’d each been given for Christmas. They weren’t high-precision instruments, but they were adequate for bird-watching on a modest scale, and looking at unsuspecting people passing along the street.
The bus came. At the stop at the end of Merrivale, five passengers alighted.
‘There’s Mrs Bigwood!’ said Anthony excitedly. ‘And she’s got her umbrella hat on again!’
Philip did not deign to answer him. The bus went onwards to the stop beside the Green. He trained his binoculars on it and Anthony followed suit. The bus carried on out of the village, leaving just two more passengers standing in its wake.
‘There’s a man with a muffler,’ said Anthony, nudging his brother’s arm. ‘A tall man with a long overcoat. He looks like a Russian.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Philip loftily. ‘That’s Nico Montori’s dad. He always wears that scarf.’
Anthony was resigned to spying failure when Philip said, ‘But you have missed the obvious. What about the girl who got off the bus at the same time?’
At that moment, Mr Montori could be seen speaking to this other passenger. Then he waved both arms and walked briskly away from her. She looked around as if puzzled. Then she sat on Councillor Philbin’s park bench. Her back was to the boys but they both saw her bend forward as if crushed by some great problem.
‘I’ve never seen her before,’ said Philip. ‘Now that’s a real mystery.’
‘There’s Mickey Trent,’ said Anthony, looking further up the road, towards the church. ‘I bet he’s been to his Auntie Fay’s.’
‘He’s stopping,’ said Philip, adjusting the binoculars to get the best possible view. ‘He’s talking to the girl.’
The girl stood up and she and Mickey walked across the Green towards Merrivale. They went in through the gate of Number 12. Mrs Dalrymple opened the door to them. Then Mickey walked quickly away and the girl went inside the house.
‘She’s gone into Mrs Dalrymple’s,’ said Philip. ‘Now what can that be about? Maybe she knows something. Maybe she’s found Thomas Derwent!’
The disappearance of Thomas and his dad was the biggest mystery the village had ever known. It definitely gave inspiration to young sleuths, constantly looking to find something that their elders and betters had missed.
The bedroom door opened and Mrs Swanson switched on the light.
‘That’s it,’ she cried, stomping over to the window to close the curtains. ‘You’ll tidy this place within the next half hour and then you’ll go straight to bed. I might as well talk to myself as try to tell you two to do anything!’
‘But there’s a strange girl gone into Mrs Dalrymple’s,’ said Philip, anxious to calm his mother down and distract her attention. ‘Mickey Trent took her there. And we’ve never seen her before.’
But Mrs Swanson would not be placated or diverted. ‘Tidy up,’ she said shortly, ‘and then bed. I don’t want to hear anything about anybody. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mam,’ said both boys together.
The girl who had just entered Number 12 Merrivale was Nesta Gwynn, the runaway from York. For the past three nights she had stayed in the garage at the back of her friend Amy’s house. Amy had made a great job of hiding her, but she couldn’t stay there on Saturday because Amy’s brother would be home from college and he used the garage for his motorbike. So Nesta had taken the train north and was resolved to meet the one human being she felt sure would understand about Ormingat. This was Stella Dalrymple, who had featured in the newspapers her mother had given her to read. Stella had spoken of ‘starlight’ when questioned about the Derwents’ disappearance, and in such a tone that the reporter had woven a tale of extraterrestrial visitors that was just too near the truth. Stella obviously knew something. She might be Nesta’s one chance of a friend in need. She could hold the key to this terrible riddle.