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  George and Pippa followed Gordon, if not his conversation. Pippa was alert, aware that they were heading into London’s less salubrious neighbourhoods. Two things always gave it away: the hats and the smell. In the gardens and along the high streets it was all top hats and bonnets. As they passed through the business district, they waded through a sea of black bowler hats. Here, in the labyrinth of small streets, the bowler hats were brown with dust, and there were more flat caps and bare heads.

  With the descent of hats there came a descent of smells. Pippa didn’t especially like any of London’s smells, but at least near the parks you’d get a whiff of clean air. As you got into the narrower streets, the smoke hung around, the yellow smoke of coal fires, and mingled were the pungent scents of the wares being manufactured or sold. Pippa’s nose twitched as she picked up the scents of fish, new rope, old fruit … some very old fruit somewhere rotting. The city made Pippa nervous, and she couldn’t help wondering again if George’s plan was as well thought out as it should be. She kept her worries to herself, but once or twice gave George a questioning glance. George was his usual confident self. Even as the fog descended and the streets narrowed, he strolled along with assurance, intent on his mission.

  They passed several curious-looking bookshops that doubtless stocked the stranger books that George sought out. Here was a vendor of Oriental and African goods, its window full of twisted, spindly wood sculptures and long-faced masks. George made note of a manufacturer of fine scientific lenses and a crimson-and-gold sign advertising the outfitter to the Royal Geographical Society expeditions. He would have loved to spend the afternoon idling in these back lanes, but he had a job to do.

  He was almost disappointed when Gordon pulled them up.

  “Is this it?” Pippa asked dubiously.

  Gordon bit the side of his lips and screwed up his eyes. He peered over one shoulder and then the other. George lifted his street atlas expectantly.

  “We should have turned left back there.”

  When they finally did find Dodgeworth’s it was only after three or four more wrong turns and a good deal of backtracking. In the yellow fog, the dingy storefront was easy to miss.

  “Alexander Dodgeworth’s Zoological Supplies and Exotic Menagerie,” Gordon read the faded yellow letters on the dingy green sign triumphantly. The blackened windows gave no indication of what was inside. A smaller notice on the door read: “Ornithological, Herpetological, Marsupial and Exotic Mammal Supply Our Specialty.”

  George pushed the door open and all three children waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did they were met by a long line of wooden cages that made a sort of corridor from the door to a tall counter at the back.

  The three moved slowly towards the back of the store, craning their necks to peer into the dark cages. Most of the animals were asleep. In the dim light of the store, with the animals curled up like that, it was difficult to tell just what animals they were, so George and Pippa were obliged to believe Gordon as he pointed and whispered, “Arctic fox, red panda, wombat. That’ll be a marmoset in there.” As he said it the little monkey in the crate leapt to life, sticking its face between the bars and shrieking, as if it had been lying in wait for them.

  The Intrepids leapt backwards. Pippa let out a little shriek, then began to laugh as she saw the tiny monkey’s grinning face.

  “Actually, what you’re looking at is a spider monkey, Master Cook.”

  Dodgeworth was a tall, thin man with a long, thin moustache that curled up towards the ends. The moustache mimicked the easy smile on his face as he emerged from the back of the shop, wiping the dust from his hands on his apron front.

  He chatted with Gordon cheerfully, asking after his mother and whether they’d had any letters from his father in France. Pippa’s face darkened at the mention of their father, and Dodgeworth noticed.

  “I’m sure he’s having a great adventure. Looking after them horses, he’ll be nowhere near the fighting. He’ll be back at Christmas with some tales to tell, no doubt.”

  Pippa smiled appreciatively at his reassurances.

  “So you’re after some mice, are you?” he asked, when they told him what they were looking for. “You haven’t bought yourself a snake, have you?”

  “We’ve rescued a kestrel. It has an injured wing,” George explained, telling him the story they’d agreed to. “We’re looking after it until it can fly again.”

  Dodgeworth listened intently, nodding all the while. “You’ll be thinking of training it, then. Noble sport, that—falconry. The place for your falconer’s paraphernalia is Peregrine’s around the corner.”

  “Actually,” George replied, “we’re going to let it go.” Nevertheless he took out a small notebook and pencil from his blazer pocket and made note of Peregrine’s. It was the sort of information he liked to keep track of.

  “I’ll fetch you some juicy ones. As they’re meant to be eaten, you won’t be bothered about colour.” He disappeared into the back of the store.

  While George counted some silver and copper coins onto the counter, Gordon’s eyes roamed over the cages of exotic birds and small monkeys. “Had any two-headed kittens lately, Mr. Dodgeworth?” the younger boy asked hopefully. “Miniature cows, perhaps, like from Lilliput?”

  “Nothing nearly so interesting,” Dodgeworth replied from the backroom. He emerged with a brown, perforated cardboard box that jiggled ever so slightly as he placed it on the counter. “Trade in your stranger fauna has fallen off since the war,” he said with some regret. “Did have some dodgy geezer in here earlier trying to fob a talking stoat off on me, but it was a dud. The Yank who was flogging it didn’t know a stoat from a weasel.”

  Pippa’s eyes lit up. “Could it speak at all?” she asked.

  “Not a word. The gent had dressed it up in some sort of Robin Hood costume, too—the whole kit and caboodle—but I wasn’t having it. That stoat could no more speak a word of English than it could teach a course at Oxford.”

  The children laughed, and after some instruction on the care and feeding of falcons, Dodgeworth bade them goodbye. The lanky shopkeeper saw them to the door with their box of mice. As they crossed the threshold back into the foggy street, he offered them a good price for their kestrel if they thought twice about releasing it.

  Norman could not stop reading here. This bit about the talking stoat bothered him. To the Intrepid Three it had just been a colourful story, something to laugh about, but it never could be to Norman. What if that really was a talking stoat? What if they really existed and somebody had caught one? It was a terrible thought. If animals could talk, they shouldn’t be treated like that. They should be treated like human beings. Norman couldn’t stop worrying about it. He couldn’t help imagining Prince Malcolm in that cage, caught by some ignorant trapper who just wanted to make some money off him by selling him to a circus or a freak show.

  He read on, hoping that the children would mention it, but they were too preoccupied with their raid on the lawyer’s office.

  George carried the box of mice and went over the instructions. He would go in by himself first and distract the solicitor. The Cooks would sneak in after him and find some likely place to set the mice loose.

  Norman was hardly paying attention, just skimming this part, more and more disappointed that the talking stoat went unmentioned. It was driving him crazy. Why all these reminders of Undergrowth recently: that folly the other day that was an exact replica of Tintern in the Borders, that dream about talking rabbits, and now this mention of a talking stoat in Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies? It was all starting to get to him. His fingers itched as he turned the page. It would be so easy to rip off a corner. His mouth grew moist at the thought of chewing the paper. That was how it had started before, wasn’t it? But this was his mother’s book. She would freak if she found out.

  Norman read as far as the lawyer’s office.

  The Intrepids emerged from the narrow streets of cloth caps and horse carts to the broad
boulevards of omnibuses and bowler hats. The crowds were now dotted with the white wigs and black robes of the barristers shuffling between their offices and the courts. The three children climbed the steps of a white stone building. They paused for only a moment, exchanging silent, questioning glances to confirm that they were ready. George handed the cardboard box of mice to Gordon. The younger boy nodded gravely as he took it. Pippa bit her lip and scanned the street around them nervously.

  George gave her a reassuring smile and pushed the huge brass door open. Alone he ducked into the marbled lobby beyond. The Cooks waited nervously outside. A moment later George’s head re-emerged.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “It’s as we hoped. Todd’s in there alone.”

  George held the giant brass door open for Pippa and Gordon to follow. Gordon held up the quivering box of mice, indicating that he was ready for his mission. George gave the younger boy a silent, friendly slap on the shoulder, put a finger to his lips and headed up the wide staircase to the second floor. Below, the Cooks waited for his signal.

  The office at the top of the stairs was nearly empty. Wide and tall, with marble tile on the floor and stone columns supporting its decorated ceiling, the office spoke of wealth and power. A dozen imposing oak desks were spread evenly across the floor. Only one was occupied. Its occupant looked up as George entered.

  “Ah, young Master Kelmsworth. What a surprise.”

  The smug grin on Mr. Todd’s face made him look anything but surprised. His mutton-chop sideburns merely twitched in amusement.

  “You ought to have rung. What brings you to the city?” The lawyer twisted a fountain pen gingerly at the end of his long fingers, as if afraid the ink might stain his pristine white cuffs. He was elegantly dressed in a dark grey suit and a high white collar that obscured his neck completely.

  George was not intimidated. He stretched himself to his full height and pushed out his chest. “I’ve come about the gamekeeper,” he began haughtily, taking the tone he expected to take with employees who were not doing their job correctly. “The grounds at Kelmsworth are not being looked after properly. I came across a poacher myself the other day. We absolutely must have a proper gamekeeper back on the estate.”

  Mr. Todd frowned and did his best to ignore the scuffling sounds of Pippa and Gordon Cook sneaking up the stairs. “Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do on that account at this point. While we put together the appeal, the grounds are under the jurisdiction of Administrator Hepplewaithe. We’ll sort it all out in the end, of course. You know that. But I’m afraid that in the meantime, it is out of our hands.”

  The lawyer put down his pen and held out his hands. He suppressed a small smirk as, out of the corner of his eye, he spied Pippa and Gordon ducking beneath a nearby desk.

  “But I nearly caught the poacher myself,” George protested. “He was on the lawn. He likely also broke into the kitchen several nights ago. Administrator Hepplewaithe is incompetent.”

  Todd’s superior tone elevated once more. “That may well be, but you, my boy”—he pointed at George with the end of his pen—“should not be stalking the woods looking for poachers.”

  Pippa’s high-pitched scream interrupted them.

  A dozen small white mice burst from beneath the desk where Gordon had set them free. They looked tiny and insignificant on the floor of the vast office. Their white coats blended with the marble tile, camouflaging them perfectly. They all darted immediately under the legs of desks or towards the walls, where they began disappearing into cracks in the wainscotting. There was a sort of stunned silence as Todd and the three children stared at the floor. The lawyer made a show of craning his neck about looking for stragglers.

  Pippa screamed again, but it was an unconvincing scream that trailed off to a whispering sort of high note and left her blushing with embarrassment. This was not the chaos that they had intended to provoke.

  Mr. Todd remained where he was at his desk, his expression one of quiet amusement. The slim smile on his face widened ever so slightly as a large ginger cat padded out from behind one of the stone columns. A stunned white mouse dangled from the cat’s satisfied maw. It dropped the poor creature on the floor and placed a massive ginger paw on its catch. The cat scanned the floor for more of the same, but the rest of the rodents had scattered and could not be seen.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mr. Todd, sounding rather bored. “I do hope that wasn’t a special mouse. I doubt that Vilnius will be persuaded to give it up now.” As if to make his point, the orange cat began licking his wide chops.

  George, Pippa and Gordon stood and looked on in stunned silence. This was not how this was supposed to work at all.

  Norman put the book down carefully on his windowsill and closed his eyes. What was he supposed to make of this? Vilnius was not a common name. In fact, Norman had never seen or heard his father’s surname anywhere, and the last place he had ever expected to see it was as the name of a cat in a book called Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies.

  A Morning Conversation

  When the muted sunlight hit Norman’s face, it came from the wrong direction. It woke him up but made it difficult to open his eyes. The sounds were wrong, too. There were birds outside his window, chirping madly at each other in some nearby tree. In the distance he heard the faint echo of a train whistle. There were no train tracks near his house. There was no tree near his window.

  He sat bolt upright. He must be there. He must be in the book! It was the only possible explanation. And then he recognized the room, the cluttered windowsill and the orange blanket.

  It was not the only possible explanation. He had forgotten he was in England. He was still not used to waking up in this bedroom. He pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, grabbed Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies and headed downstairs.

  His father was the only one in the kitchen. As Norman appeared at the door, Edward Vilnius was fiddling with the little stove-top coffee maker again. He slammed it down on the countertop in frustration, water and coffee grounds splashing over him. Norman tried not to stare while Edward drummed his fingers heavily on the counter and regained his composure.

  Norman guessed this was the wrong time to be asking questions, but he was not very good at suppressing his curiosity. He put his book down on the kitchen table, poured some cereal and watched as his father reassembled the coffee maker and lit the gas burner.

  “Dad, Vilnius is a city in Russia, right?” He’d been told this before but hadn’t paid much attention.

  “Lithuania,” Edward replied, not taking his eyes off the coffee maker.

  “So our family must be from there, right?”

  “My side, yes.” The coffee maker was bubbling away now, and Edward Vilnius turned to face his son, his expression unreadable. Norman could not bring himself to ask any other questions. He’d never met his father’s parents. They were never mentioned.

  “There’s a cat in this book called Vilnius,” Norman continued. He held up the book.

  “Is it an especially brilliant cat?” his father asked, a small smile breaking out, probably in anticipation of the coffee.

  “Actually, it’s quite evil.”

  “The two are often confused.” His father took the first sip of his coffee and nodded with satisfaction.

  Norman slurped the last of his cereal and was about to bolt back upstairs with his book when his father coughed and pointed to the empty bowl. Norman returned and placed his bowl in the sink.

  “You’re not staying in, are you?” his father asked. “How many sunny days do you get here?” The way he said it made it clear that Norman was supposed to stay out of the way while his father worked.

  Norman glanced out the window. The pale sun that had been there only ten minutes ago was gone, and the sky was slate grey again, as usual.

  “It’s raining,” he reported glumly.

  His father turned to look. “What a country,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Norman tromped back upstairs to his room
and flopped down on his bed. He eyed Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies suspiciously before picking it up again and thumbing through the pages.

  It was so late last night when he’d finally put the book down that he wasn’t sure he’d understood everything that was going on in the story. There was something wrong about that part in the lawyer’s office. It didn’t fit somehow. He flipped back to the start of the chapter and began to reread from the part where the Intrepids arrived in London. He wanted to make sure he’d actually read what he’d read.

  He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the window as he read. The argument of the sparrows in the tree outside had settled down to a quiet conversation of chirps and whistles. Norman pulled the orange blanket back over him. It was perfectly cozy. Thinking he’d probably stayed up too late again last night, he placed the book face down on his chest. He closed his eyes for just a moment. He was only resting them.

  In the Cage

  It was much colder when he woke up and much darker. Had he really slept all day? Surely somebody would have come and got him. He reached for the book on his chest, but it must have fallen off in his sleep. He groped around for it drowsily under the covers, but found there were no covers. This wasn’t even his bed. It was as if he’d fallen on the floor. His eyes opened slowly and he tried to put it all together. This wasn’t even his bedroom.

  Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light he could see that he was lying on a rough plank floor inside a storeroom of sorts. It was dark and dusty, and he was surrounded by crates and boxes.