Bookweirder (5 page)

George skirted the edge of the arboretum, dodging from tree to tree as he crept up on the intruder. Then he patted Nelson on the side and pointed silently to the wood. The collie set off briskly and noiselessly around the edge of arboretum to cut off the intruder.

At the greenhouses, George brought the telescope to his eyes again. He could see the man’s features now. Swarthy and unshaven, he was a real ruffian. He wore a red kerchief around his neck, a rough, shapeless jumper and a long, unbuttoned coat, but no hat on his bald head. George guessed immediately that he was a Gypsy.

As George watched him, the Gypsy halted in his tracks. The intruder turned slowly and stared directly towards the greenhouse. George knew exactly what had happened. The sun now coming up behind the wood must have caught the lens of his telescope. He collapsed the spyglass and charged fearlessly towards the intruder. As soon as he started moving he heard Nelson’s bark from close in. The dog would get there first, of course.

The intruder was motionless for a moment, surprised by the dog’s bark perhaps, but he did not let his surprise last long. He peered around furtively a moment longer before dropping his load and dashing into the forest. Nelson burst into the forest after him while George made a beeline for the box. When he reached the box, he understood much better.

“Here, Nelson!” He whistled sharply, calling the dog back. Holding up the box trap that the Gypsy had left, he knew that it was not safe for Nelson to pursue.

“Poacher,” he told the dog, who tilted his head questioningly. “It wouldn’t have happened if Father were here. If Father were here, we’d still have a proper gamekeeper.”

F
or three nights George maintained his watch from the Rook, but the poacher did not return. The Intrepids scouted the ravine where they’d seen the Gypsy tents, but the camp had been evacuated. Perhaps they’d scared the intruder off. George felt confident enough to leave Kelmsworth for London to carry out his other mission.

They stepped down onto the platform at Paddington Station just before dinner. Behind them the bottle green engine let off a hiss of steam.

Gordon pulled his woven cap down over his unruly hair and marched down the platform. “Right, follow me to Dodgeworth’s, then,” he said.

George and Pippa followed more slowly.

“You sure you can find this place?” George asked, unused to following other people’s directions. He glanced towards Pippa for corroboration.

“Of course. I’ve been there millions of times. Dad used to bring me when he needed something special. Pippa wouldn’t go. She’s too squeamish.”

“That’s not true at all. It’s just that I don’t like London.”

They had stepped out of the station into what back home
would have been sunlight. Pippa wrinkled her nose at the scents and sounds of Praed Street. In front of them, a double-decker omnibus was disgorging its passengers, who hurried up the steps to the station or through the crowds onwards down the street. The air was grey with smoke and fog. It might only have been the idea of the smoke pouring from nearby factories and train yards that made Pippa’s eyes water, but they watered all the same.

“Right, gang, after me.” Gordon waved his encouragement as he trotted down the stone steps. Pippa and George followed.

“I have to tell you, old bean,” George said as they clambered onto a red London bus and climbed the stairs to the second deck, “I’d feel an awful lot better if you knew the address. We’d get there more directly, I expect, if we used the
London Street Atlas
.” He patted the pocket of his jacket.

“Don’t need an address. I’ve an explorer’s nose.” Gordon tapped his nose with his finger. “Besides, Dad’s brought me here a million times—every time the Zoological Society called him in. Dad was indispensable to the zoo, you know. If it was anything to do with the rare animals, it was him they’d have down to look after them. We always stopped at Dodgy’s first to get supplies, especially if it was the Tassie Tiger. They fed it on rabbits usually, but Dad said it needed a platypus or a potoroo every once in a while to remind it of home.”

“A potoroo?” George asked, skeptical but curious.

“It’s a half-rat, half-kangaroo thing,” George explained. “Dodgy’s bound to have one.”

George glanced at Pippa for some confirmation, but she was staring out the window, her thoughts elsewhere. London reminded her of her father.

Oblivious, Gordon warmed to his theme. “If you did want a king cobra or one of those Persian vipers you were looking for, Dodgeworth’d be the man to get it for you. Dad told me he had a two-headed kitten for sale once. I never saw that kitten, but I did see an Amazonian parrot. Dodgeworth claimed it knew two hundred different words and phrases.” Gordon’s emphasis on the words “two hundred” told them they were meant to be impressed.

“Did it say anything to you?” George asked, more amused than curious.

“It told him to mind his manners, that’s all,” Pippa replied in an even voice. So she had been listening. “There’s the Zoological Society there. Oughtn’t this Dodgeworth’s place be nearby?”

Gordon looked out, squinting through the steamy omnibus window. “Right you are, Pips. Good spot. Let’s be off.”

Recognizing Regent’s Park, George extracted his street atlas and located himself on the map. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his young friend; it was just that he liked to know where he was at all times. They left the main thoroughfare and entered a neighbourhood of smaller winding streets. It was not a part of London that George knew well. As Gordon led them on confidently, deeper into the maze, George followed along as best he could in his street atlas. Ahead Gordon bobbed along cheerfully, re-telling long and exaggerated tales that his father had told him about Dodgeworth and his menagerie.

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.