It was just getting worse. The amount of trouble we were building up for ourselves was pretty terrifying.

I mean, when it was me and Roxy keeping the secret of the weird kid who claimed to be a thousand years old, it was OK. Fun, really, in a way: you know, us against the world?

I was even cool with being the friend of the new weird kid at school and the tiny girl with the squeaky voice. Not that I had much choice, what with Spatch and Mo being pretty much inseparable these days.

But now we were thieves. Except we weren’t really, because I hadn’t stolen anything, nor had Roxy. And nor, for that matter, had Alfie.

We sat in Roxy’s garage, the three of us. The copy of A Tale of Two Cities lay on the desk and we stared at it, silently, for ages. The rest of the collection of Dickens books was still in the metal trunk beneath the battered sofa. Eventually Alfie spoke.

“It is mine. You do believe me?”

“I believe you, Alfie. It has your name in it,” Roxy said, staring at the floor.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Tell me again,” said Alfie. “What happened after Roxy pretended to faint?”

By the time Mr. Springham had made it over to the gathered crowd, Roxy still hadn’t recovered. Any longer, and I was getting scared they’d call an ambulance or something. Soon afterward, she “came round,” and I accompanied her indoors with Miss Newton, where she was made to sit in the library with a glass of water.

Miss Newton started filling in some form about Roxy fainting, and she was asking questions like “Do you have a headache? Did you injure yourself when you fell?”

School was finished for the day, anyway. Miss Newton offered to take Roxy home in her car, which was nice of her, and because I live next door, I got a ride as well. It was only when we were sitting in Miss Newton’s car that Roxy’s mobile phone starting pinging like mad.

“You’re popular!” said Miss Newton, smiling, but Roxy’s face was expressionless.

“Oh my goodness!” she said, reading her messages. “There’s been a theft at school. Some book has gone missing or something.”

I’ve got to hand it to Roxy. If I hadn’t known she was acting, I just could not have guessed. Her tone was pitch-perfect: surprised but not personally concerned. I knew I couldn’t act as well as she could, so I just kept my responses to the minimum I thought I could get away with.

“Gosh! A theft! Wow!”

Roxy shot me a sideways glance and rolled her eyes, smiling.

Miss Newton said, “I’m sure someone’s just misplaced it. These things happen all the time. Is this your house, Roxy?”

And now, an hour later, all three of us were in the garage, staring at Alfie’s book.

“It is not theft,” he said when we’d filled him in. “It was mine to begin with. You cannot steal something you already own.”

“But how did Inigo have it in the first place?” asked Roxy, fanning herself with the hat from her Oliver! costume. “He said it had been in his family for ages. His Uncle John or something?”

I started saying, “Couldn’t you, you know…,” but she was already out the door.

“Back in a minute!” she said.

We sat in silence for a bit, Alfie and me. Eventually I picked up the book. “Is it any good?” I said.

“Any good? It is his best! He told me himself it was his favorite.”

“What’s it about?”

“Do you remember the French Revolution?”

“No, but I suppose you do.”

“Sort of. It did not affect us directly. Not at first. But I do not think there is anyone left in the world that it has not affected by now. Anyway, the two cities of the title are London and Paris, and there is a man called Sydney Carton who is a brilliant lawyer—”

He was cut short by Roxy returning with her laptop. As we watched over her shoulder, she logged into the same genealogy sites she had shown me a few weeks ago.

“Thank heavens for people with unusual names,” muttered Roxy as her fingers tap-tapped on the keyboard. “Here we go: Inigo Delombra. There’s his birthday, born at North Tyneside General Hospital…father Alfonso Perera Delombra, born in Spain…mother Anne Janette Mac…erm…McGonagal…”

“Wait,” said Alfie. “Did you say McGonagal?”

“Yeah, look. Why?”

He didn’t answer her straightaway. Instead he said, “Check her parents, can you, please?”

More tapping, then, “Here we go. Anne Janette McGonagal, second daughter of James McGonagal and Carol Downey Adams, who were married at…hang on…”

“No, do not bother with James,” Alfie snapped. “Who is this John McGonagal? Who is Great-Uncle John?”

Roxy gave him a look as if to say, “Calm down with the commands,” but she could tell that he was excited, so she kept on searching.

Moments later, up came a scanned page from an old census.

“There! John McGonagal, born 1951 in South Shields. He’s the brother of James.”

“Yes,” Alfie said. “That’s Great-Uncle John!” He was practically shouting.

“And this is relevant why, exactly?” murmured Roxy, clearly baffled by Alfie’s excitement.

“I knew him!”

We both stared at Alfie.

“You know these people?” I gasped.

He nodded slowly. “It was John’s father, Jack, who stole the book from me in the first place. I always suspected but I had no proof. Now I know.”

We were letting this sink in when Roxy’s phone pinged.

“It’s Mum. She wants me to go in.”

She had hardly finished speaking when we heard Precious Minto’s ear-splitting screech from her back door: “Rrrr-o-xyyyyy! You come in now! An’ bring your friends!”

This did not sound good.