Bookweirder (4 page)

The three of them had concocted an elaborate plan to distract the lawyers by releasing some sort of animal in the office. Once they had driven the lawyers out, the Intrepids would ransack the files for proof that the lawyer was working against them. George had wanted to use a snake, preferably an Armenian mountain viper or a king cobra, to execute this plan. Gordon was all for getting a trained monkey. But Pippa prevailed, and they decided that mice would be just as distracting and easier to get hold of.

The break-in had put this scheme on hold. George had led
them on several expeditions around the grounds. The previous night they had come across a Gypsy encampment at the edge of the estate—just a few tents in the clearing on the other side of the ravine, dim triangular shapes lit by the yellow light of two lanterns in the trees. When they’d returned the next day in daylight, the camp was gone, but George was now convinced that the Gypsies were behind the break-in.

George paced before the fire, watched anxiously by the Cook children. “Now that Hepplewaithe has dismissed most of the servants, the hall is poorly guarded.”

There had been more than a dozen full-time staff at the hall. Now there were only the Cooks, Administrator Hepplewaithe, a single housekeeper and a part-time cook.

“In the old days, the groundskeeper would have made his rounds at dusk, checking that the doors and casements were locked. When there was trouble, he used to bring in extra men from the village. If Father were here, we’d have five or six men scouring the grounds.”

“Don’t let it bother you, George,” Pippa soothed. She spoke softly and thoughtfully. Her eyes followed George as he paced back and forth. “You’ve better things to do than watch for kitchen theft. We’ve our trip to London to plan. That’s the important thing—proving your father is innocent.”

George didn’t seem to hear her. He swept a dark forelock out of his eyes. “The thieves must have been scared off before they found anything truly valuable,” he concluded. “I expect they’ll try again another night. I’m not having the silverware and family portraits stolen on my watch.”

Pippa tried to convince him that he was judging the Gypsies too harshly.

“They are travelling people. They live in their wagons. What do you suppose they would do with your family portraits?” she asked sensibly.

“Sell them, of course,” George insisted. “My father always said that they would not be out of place in a museum. There are
collectors all over the country who would pay handsomely to get their hands on them.”

Gordon chuckled. “I have to walk past the portraits of some of your ancestors to have my bath. I’d pay a good penny to have them taken away.”

George shot Gordon a stern look and the younger boy instantly dropped the smile from his face.

“How can you be sure it’s the Gypsies?” Pippa asked.

“It has to be the Gypsies,” Gordon cried. “Who else could it be? George is right. We have to stay here and defend the hall.”

Gordon’s bravado brought a frown to George’s face. Gordon was only repeating the argument George had made to Hepplewaithe earlier that day, but it sounded ridiculous. He thought for a long moment as he gathered his ideas. “The Gypsies wouldn’t dare come near the house in broad daylight. We’re safe to go to London for the day still. We just have to be back for the night to keep watch.”

“Were you planning on sleeping at all during this?” Pippa asked.

Now that a plan was forming, George was less easily offended. “I won’t have to stay awake all night. I’ll sleep at the top of the Rook on the south lawn. It has a perfect view of the house, and if there’s any break-in, I’ll be sure to see it.”

“You can’t sleep in the folly,” Pippa protested. “You’ll catch your death.”

“Nonsense,” George replied. “I’ve plenty of blankets and a waterproof, if required. I’ll keep watch for a few nights to make sure our intruder isn’t coming back. We can take the train to London in a few days.”

Gordon offered to join George on his vigil in the folly, but both George and his sister overruled him.

Pippa glanced from Gordon to George wearily. “This whole thing is folly, if you ask me.”

George ignored her objection. “You’ll be more use to us up here at the house, old bean,” he told Gordon. “Keep an ear open for anything strange, yes?”

Gordon snapped to attention and saluted sharply in the manner his father had shown him when he’d sailed off for France.

The sound of a car on the gravel outside made Norman put the book down. That would be his mom and Dora returning, so there would be hope of dinner soon.

Norman closed his eyes. He couldn’t decide if it was weird that George had a folly, too. A month ago he hadn’t even heard of them. Now they were appearing everywhere.

That morning in the ruined abbey folly he had been able to imagine himself inside a book. Could he do it again? Could he make the bookweird work? It had started the first time when he’d eaten part of a book. It had been difficult to break the habit of nibbling the corners of his pages, but he had forced himself to stop—partly out of fear of it happening again, partly out of fear of it
not
happening. He wanted to hang on to the possibility of going back there someday.

Norman inhaled deeply and tried to visualize it. He told himself he was in the great hall of Lochwarren. All the stoats were asleep, but the castle would soon be roused by the bells of the nearby chapel of St. Sleekyn. Young Malcolm would come bounding down the stairs and order breakfast. Once again, Norman could almost taste the lingonberry pie.

A voice called from below, “Norman, we’ve brought pizza!”

That wasn’t a stoat’s voice or a hare’s. It was his mother’s.

It was a mixed blessing. Pizza was, as Norman’s mother frequently declared, God’s gift to boys. Back home, Norman could have eaten a whole pizza by himself if they’d let him. But the English managed to mess it up. He couldn’t say why, but their pizzas tasted funny—something about the sauce, maybe. Since he had recently decided to be a vegetarian, though, it was about the only thing that he could eat and enjoy in this country. Everything else, even the chips, was usually beef-flavoured.

Norman brought
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies
down with him. He could easily eat pizza and read at the same time. It would save
him having to listen to Dora’s pony stories. Everyone else was already in the dining room when he arrived. It always felt weird eating pizza right out of the box on that big wooden table, but Norman had gradually gotten over the sense that he should always be eating something on a plate and with the right-sized fork in this ornate room. He slid his hand inside the pizza box, marked with a “V” on the top, and was opening his book and his mouth simultaneously when his mom spoke.

“I see you’ve found a book,” she said cheerfully. “What have you got?”

Norman bit down on the wedge of pizza before replying.

“It’s called
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies.
There’s a whole series of them up there in the library.”

Meg Jespers-Vilnius rolled her eyes as she listened. “Perhaps you could be slightly less barbaric and finish chewing before you speak.”

Norman nodded but took another bite.

“I remember those. I had the whole series,” she continued.

Norman lifted a pizza slice to his mouth. “Actually, these are Uncle Kit’s,” he said and took another bite.

“No, they aren’t,” Meg replied sharply. Norman was briefly stunned by her tone. Meg Jespers-Vilnius was almost annoyingly positive about everything. It was practically impossible to make her angry or provoke an argument.

“It’s true. He wrote his name in the front.” Norman held the book up for her to see.

“That may be so, but those Intrepids books were my books. He just wrote his name in them to be spiteful.”

Norman wasn’t sure what to say to that. A few times now, when they’d mentioned Uncle Kit, she’d lost her cool.

“What’s the book about?” Edward Vilnius asked.

“It’s about these three kids,” Norman said. “One of them is some sort of junior earl or something. He lives in a cottage by himself. The other two live at some old house that’s been turned into a hospital. I guess they solve mysteries or something. Have you read it?”

Edward thought about this for a while, wrinkling his forehead and chewing slowly. “Nope,” he said finally.

“You’ve never read anything good,” Meg chided. “I bet you only read Shakespeare and Dickens when you were a kid.”

Edward stroked his new goatee solemnly. “And we loved it,” he declared in his horrible fake English accent. “Kids these days are spoiled with their Computerboxes and their automagic video platters.”

“I remember loving those books,” Meg recalled wistfully, ignoring her husband’s comedy act. She put aside her annoyance with her brother. “The oldest boy is George—do I remember that right? His father has been put in prison for a crime he did not commit,” she continued enthusiastically. “And the children seem to be able to go anywhere and do anything without any parental supervision.”

Norman took another slice of pizza. “Sounds perfect to me.”

“I’d love to read those again,” Meg said. “Where did you say you found them?”

“In the library, behind the Harvard Classics. There’s a whole series.”

N
orman almost didn’t mind going to bed that night. For once he had a book to read. It might not have won him over from the start, but he was starting to get into it. He slid
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies
from where he’d left it in the stack of books on his windowsill and, pulling the fleecy orange blanket over his knees, found the place where he had left off.

George had been about to spend the night in the folly. The Kelmsworth Folly was not a ruin, like Norman’s abbey, but a miniature round tower called the Rook because it looked exactly like the castle in a chess set. George brought his torch (which Norman finally realized was just a flashlight, not a long pole dipped in oil) and a waterproof groundsheet, along with his blankets.

George carried his provisions up the spiral staircase to the top of the Rook. His dog, Nelson, padded silently up the stairs behind him. Drawing from his pocket the giant ring of keys that gave him access to every door on the estate, he identified the key that opened the folly’s door and used it once more on the trap door that opened to the tower roof. The border collie leapt ahead of him onto the roof.

It was a perfect vantage point from which to keep watch on the hall. It was a clear night, and a waxing moon illuminated the
sombre grey stone of the hall against the dark backdrop of Kelmsworth Wood. The hall was ancient, built originally by George’s ancestors on land granted to them by King Henry VIII. It had burned down twice and was partially destroyed by cannon fire once, so the present structure was a combination of styles and periods. The thick, castle-like walls of the original house were bridged with decorated segments carved with gargoyles and family shields. The newest windows were rounded and diamond-paned. The oldest were tall, narrow and arched. Behind those of the third floor, pale lights winked on and off. This was where Hepplewaithe and the Cooks stayed, the only part of the house still occupied. The other rooms were gradually being emptied to make way for hospital beds.

The imposing columns of the great hall’s front entrance were out of sight, but no intruder would approach from the open lawn in front. No, it was the sides and the rear of the house that were vulnerable, and George had them covered. George lay on the cold stone roof of the Rook for several hours without seeing anything between the crenellations. Occasionally he took out the brass naval telescope presented to his great-uncle Toby by his crew on the HMS
Britomart
and scanned the edge of the forest, but the forest was as still as the hall. George took some satisfaction from knowing that he was doing his ancestors proud, guarding the family seat.

But even George, who had long trained himself to go with very little sleep, was feeling drowsy. It was well past midnight when he finally drifted off. Nelson, at his side, rested his chin on his paw and stood watch over his master.

The sky beyond Kelmsworth Wood had started to turn pink when Nelson’s low growl woke George. The dog was too clever to give himself away by barking. George patted the collie on the head and rummaged for his telescope. Raising it to his eye he trained it on the house, scanning for and focusing on the doors and windows one by one.

“I don’t see a thing, old boy,” he whispered to the dog. “Where is it?”

George followed the stare of the dog’s penetrating brown eyes. There, at the edge of the wood, was movement. In the dim, predawn light it was difficult to see detail, but there definitely was someone out there, a tall figure moving furtively along the copse away from the hall. In his hand he held something large and boxy. How could he have entered the house and taken something without Nelson seeing?

“Come on, then,” George told the dog, rising and patting the border collie’s narrow head. “Let’s get a closer look.”

There were enough obstacles on the lawn of Kelmsworth Hall to conceal George and Nelson as they snuck closer. Dog and boy ducked and followed the low stone wall as far as the arboretum, where George took his next sighting with the brass telescope. The man was definitely a stranger. George would have recognized Henry the gardener from his silhouette alone. This man was tall but walked stooped over, as if trying to conceal himself—or due to the burden of the load he carried. George still couldn’t decide what it was that he had in his arms. The stranger wore no hat or uniform, so it wasn’t one of Hepplewaithe’s army liaisons, either.