Peter and the Sword of Mercy (36 page)

“Don’t let him—” began Wendy, but before she could get the warning out, the Skeleton, cat-quick, had lunged toward Leonard, his claw of a hand darting out. Leonard, with starstuff-heightened senses, saw it coming. He vaulted into the air, just avoiding the Skeleton’s touch as he thrust out his sword to force the Skeleton backward.

Leonard landed a few feet away, putting himself between the Skeleton and the others. “Wendy,” he said over his shoulder. “Help Peter up and get away. Go where I told you. Do it now.”

“But—”

“Now!”
There was a note of desperation in Leonard’s voice, and Wendy suddenly understood why: the starstuff was wearing off. She went to Peter, who was still on the ground, moaning. With Neville’s help, she got him to his feet. Draping his arms over their shoulders, they started down the street as quickly as they could manage, trailed by Mrs. Bumbrake and the two boys. Behind them, the sound of the fire-truck bells grew louder. After they had gone about fifty yards Wendy glanced back. Flames were erupting from the roof of the Aster mansion. By the light of the fire, Wendy could see two shapes near the big oak, one light and one dark, circling each other, each looking for an advantage.

She turned back, hurrying with Peter down the dark street, away from the horror behind them. She clung to the hope that her grandfather would somehow prevail, that she would see him again. She tried not to think about how weak he had been without the starstuff.

They were almost to the end of the street. Ahead were the lights of Kensington Road.

From somewhere behind her, Wendy heard a scream.

T
HE
L
AUNCH

T
HE ENGINE CREW OF THE STEAMER
Nimbus
had seen their captain only once on this voyage. He was a last-minute replacement for Captain Peale, a fair and well-liked seaman who had commanded the
Nimbus
for twelve years.

But just before sailing, Mr. Peale and his regular officers and deckhands had all taken ill with a strange sleeping sickness. Only the four engineers working far belowdecks remained from the original crew. The
Nimbus
was lucky to have them: its twin engines were quirky, prone to problems that only the four engineers understood how to fix. They came to wonder if they were spared the illness because of this knowledge.

The one time they’d met their new captain had been enough. It was just before casting off; he’d come down to the engine room and told them, in a brief, snarling speech, that he didn’t want them associating with the rest of the crew. That was fine with them; they wanted no part of the new crew if it was anything like the new captain.

He was old, with a weather-ravaged face and dark eyes set in a permanent glare. The worst was his nose—or lack of one. He wore a beak of gray wood tied around his head, covering a hole in the center of his face. Sometimes when he spoke the hole emitted a deep whistling noise, like the hooting of an owl. The captain’s name was Nerezza.

After the
Nimbus
left port, the engine crew had almost no contact with anyone else on the ship. Their only communication with the captain came in the form of orders barked down the voicepipe from the bridge to the engine room. Occasionally the engineers ventured up on deck, but the new crew made it clear they were unwelcome, so they never stayed long. They were not told where the ship was going, or why.

One day, in midocean, the
Nimbus
stopped. Through a porthole, the engine crew caught a glimpse of a small dinghy being lowered, with four men aboard. After that, for many days, the
Nimbus
seemed to travel in a huge circle, many miles in diameter. They were out of sight of whatever they were circling, but the men in the engine room had spotted a small, persistent cloud on the horizon. They figured they were circling an island, day after day. But why?

“Some kind of smuggling,” was Chief Wilkie’s guess. The other three were inclined to agree. This Nerezza was a bad one, that much they were sure of. One of the men said he’d once heard a story about a Captain No Nose, who sailed to England with a ghost as cargo. The other insisted they didn’t believe in ghosts. But the story stayed with them, and more and more, they avoided the upper decks. All they wanted was to get off this ship alive.

But when? Endless day followed endless day, with the
Nimbus
always circling, circling.

And then one day some black smudges of smoke appeared in the sky, and the ship came alive. The crewmen readied the odd launch that had been loaded aboard the
Nimbus
just before she sailed—a sturdy-looking six-oar row-boat with a cargo space amidships. The engine crew had wondered what its purpose was. Even more mysterious was the launch’s cargo—four crates hauled up from the forward hold. The engine crew speculated on what was in the crates. Gold, was one theory.

At sunset, the ship turned toward the cloud on the horizon, and Nerezza’s command came down the voice-pipe.

“All ahead one-quarter,” he rasped. “Run her quiet, and no new coal.”

The engine crew knew what this meant. Nerezza had let the boilers build up heat; now they could propel the ship forward at a slow pace without so much as a puff of smoke from her stacks.

Night fell. Hours passed. The ship steamed quietly forward, all her lights out.

Then she stopped.

The engine-room crew, hearing activity above, went to the portholes. By the dim moonlight, they watched as the launch was lowered. There was a man at each oar, and one at the tiller.

“Take a close look at the tillerman,” said Wilkie.

The others squinted through the portholes and gasped. The man at the tiller was Captain Nerezza. He gave a hand signal. The six men pulled smoothly on the oars. The launch slipped away from the
Nimbus,
into the night.

“That’s two boats we’ve lowered now,” said one of the engine crew. “Where are they going?”

“I don’t know,” said Wilkie. “But wherever it is, there’s going to be trouble.”

T
HE
S
COTLAND
L
ANDING

T
HE DRIVER OF THE HORSE-DRAWN TAXICAB
was initially reluctant to take the odd-looking passengers, especially Peter, wearing island rags, and Wendy, missing a shoe. But when Neville handed the driver a pound note, he quickly relented, allowing the six of them to squeeze into the cab, with John and Michael, terrified from their encounter with the Skeleton, sitting on Mrs. Bumbrake’s ample lap. Peter, still in pain, needed Wendy’s help to climb in. He sat in silence, looking down.

The taxicab rumbled through the dark streets for fifteen minutes, then stopped in front of a narrow three-story building on a quiet street near Sloane Square called Draycott Place. Neville looked at the building doubtfully. It was completely dark, not a glimmer of light showing in any of its windows. “Are you certain this is it?” he asked the driver.

“I am, guv’nor,” said the driver. He pointed toward a small sign by the door that said:

SCOTLAND LANDING HOTEL NO VACANCY

“I’ve passed this hotel a thousand times,” said the driver. “It never has a vacancy.”

“Really,” said Neville.

“Are you sure this is where you want to go?” said the driver.

“We are,” said Wendy, before Neville could answer.

They piled out of the taxicab, and Neville paid the driver, who flicked his reins and disappeared into the night. Wendy approached the door and tried the knob. It was locked. There was no doorbell button or pull rope, so she knocked three times. There was no answer. She tried again, and again, each time pounding harder, but still getting no response.

“I’m cold,” said Michael, huddling close to Mrs. Bumbrake.

“Me too,” said John.

“Perhaps we should try to find another hotel,” said Neville.

“Grandfather told me to come
here,”
said Wendy. “We need to be someplace safe, with the police looking for us.”

“They’ll find us anyway if we’re standing out here in the street,” observed Mrs. Bumbrake.

Wendy knocked again. Still no answer. “There must be
somebody
here,” she said. “Why don’t they answer the door?”

Just then the door opened, and out poked an enormous head. It belonged to an equally enormous man, with a wild mane of white hair flowing into a bushy white beard. Peter was sure he’d seen this man before, but he couldn’t quite think where.

“Can’t you see the sign?” the man growled. “There’s no …” His eyes fell on Peter. “Hold on.” He stepped outside; his shoulders were so wide they barely fit through the door. He was barefoot, wearing only a nightgown the size of a tent. He moved close to Peter, peering down into his face, then nodded. “You’re the boy who was at Stonehenge,” he said. “Remember me?”

“You were at Lord Aster’s country house,” Peter said. “You’re the man with the animals.”

The man grinned, his beard parting to reveal a set of huge white teeth. “That I am. Magill’s my name. And you are …”

“Peter.”

“That’s right, Peter,” said Magill. “And still a boy after all these years.” He did not appear to be surprised by this. Glancing around at the others, he said, “Who are your friends, Peter?”

“My name is Wendy Darling,” said Wendy. “I’m Leonard Aster’s granddaughter.”

Magill’s eyes brightened. “And how is Lord Aster?” he asked.

Wendy hesitated, then said, “There’s been some trouble.”

Magill’s smile disappeared. “Come right in,” he said.

They entered the hotel, and Magill, after bolting the door, led them down a hallway into a drawing room. It had a pungent, musky aroma and was quite dark, the only light coming from a few glowing coals in the fireplace. In the far corner a massive figure, even larger than Magill and remarkably hairy, dozed in an overstuffed chair, snoring loudly.

“Don’t mind Karl,” said Magill.

Karl,
thought Peter. Somehow he knew that name. …

Uncle Neville stepped closer to the sleeping form and peered at it for a moment.

“My word,” he said. “Is that a …”

“A bear!” said Peter, remembering.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, pulling Michael and John close.

“You have a
bear
in your hotel?” said Wendy.

“It’s not really a hotel,” said Magill. “We’ve no guests. After Lord Aster became too ill to travel to his country house, he brought me here to London, to be close by. Just in case, he said.”