The Lightning Catcher (24 page)

“I say it is simple. These experiments cannot be performed without Angus's permission, and since he has just refused to give it, I see no point in continuing this meeting any further.”

Gudgeon grunted in agreement. “And that's the most sensible thing any of you lot's said all afternoon.”

“I believe there are other ways of exploring the talents of a storm prophet,” Rogwood added calmly. “Experiments with lightning, even those of the low voltage kind, are far too risky to conduct on an eleven-year-old boy, especially when we do not have the permission of his parents. As I have said before, I think it would be far wiser to await the return of Doctor Obsidian and consult him on a matter in which he alone has considerable expertise.”

Valentine Vellum frowned at Rogwood. Principal Dark-Angel, however, appeared to be considering his words carefully.

“Very well, Aramanthus, we will allow Doctor Obsidian to determine our next step, once he returns to the Exploratorium. If you will kindly escort Angus back across the Lightnarium? We do not want him to miss his dinner.” She stood up and peered down at Angus, a strangely disappointed expression on her ghostly white face.

 

“Valentine Vellum wanted to do
what
to you?” Dougal gasped as Angus related the whole incident to him later that same evening. He'd found Dougal sitting in the Pigsty after dinner, absorbed in his favorite book by Archibald Humble-Pea and attempting to decipher yet another of its secret codes. The book lay abandoned on the floor now, however, as Dougal listened intently to what Angus had to say.

“Vellum had a whole table of instruments already laid out,” Angus explained, shuddering at the thought of it. “It sounded like he was planning to strike me with some lightning just to see what would happen.”

“You're kidding.” Dougal's eyes were now as round as saucers. “I can tell you what would have happened. You'd be half dead by now! I reckon it's like Gudgeon says. Vellum's an ungrateful jerk, even though you've just saved Percival from being flattened by a fognado, and he's managed to fool Dark-Angel with some ridiculous story about testing your brain.”

“He might have gotten his own way, too, if it hadn't been for Gudgeon and Rogwood. Principal Dark-Angel seemed pretty keen on the idea.”

Dougal let out a low whistle. “Still, it sounds like you should be safe enough now, until this Doctor Obsidian guy comes back to the Exploratorium. But all the same . . . I'd definitely sleep with your door locked from now on if I was you. You don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and find Valentine Vellum trying to zap your brains with some lightning tarantulatis.”

“Yeah, I think I will.” Angus nodded. But he also couldn't help wondering what the tests would have shown. Would they have revealed that he definitely was some weird kind of weather prophet? Or would they have proven, beyond any doubt, that he was nothing but an ordinary lightning cub after all? And what exactly had Principal Dark-Angel meant about his abilities developing in the wrong direction?

 

In the excitement of the fog field trip, Angus had almost forgotten about his duties as a trainee, and in the days that followed, he found it extremely difficult to concentrate on his work in the experimental division. Especially as it had now reached an all-time low, and they were cleaning and repairing an entire collection of moldy old armpit warmers (normally used on polar expeditions) that Catcher Sparks had discovered festering at the back of a storage cupboard.

To make matters worse, a letter had finally arrived from Uncle Max—ripped to shreds and hanging in tatters, with a sticker from the Imbur Island post office informing him that it had been “slightly damaged during transit.” Angus, however, decided that “ravaged by a pack of hungry wolves” would have been a far more accurate description. He'd done his best to stick the ripped pieces back together again, but it was still impossible to read. And any hopes he'd had that Uncle Max might tell him more about his kidnapped parents had been dashed.

Instead, he now found his thoughts returning, almost hourly, to the holographic history, which was showing definite signs of drying out. Angus had high hopes that they would soon be able to listen to Philomena Whip-Stitcher's riveting tale in full—which, if they were lucky, might lead them straight to the missing map, and then to the lightning vaults themselves. Dougal, however, seemed less certain.

“I wouldn't get your hopes up too high if I were you,” he warned one evening as they were sitting in the Pigsty. They had just spent a particularly revolting day in the company of the armpit warmers and were now attempting to tackle a series of homework questions on deep sea fog, assigned by Miss DeWinkle. The holographic history was on the table in front of them, its damp pages steaming gently in the heat from the fire. “I mean, that book took quite a battering from those hailstones, didn't it? So there's always a chance it might never dry out again.”

“Yeah, but it's already managed to say a few new words today,” Angus said, watching as Oswald/Philomena squeezed a trickle of water out of his blond wig and hung it up to dry. “And okay, so we can't actually understand what any of those words are yet, but I bet it's only a matter of time.”

In the meantime, Miss DeWinkle had finally moved on to the subject of invisible fog. They spent hours in the weather bubble poring over the McFangus guide, trying in vain to understand the mysterious properties of the elusive substance and how to tell if it was creeping up on you in the Imbur marshes.

It was while they were being lectured one afternoon on the great invisible fog of 1912—which had descended upon the unfortunate town of Little Frog's Bottom, concealing its whereabouts for a full three days before anyone could find it again—that Perilous was drenched by a sudden and unexpected shower of newts. The skies outside turned a damp and wriggling black, and the tiny creatures landed with a disturbing
thump
against the glass and steel of the bubble above their heads.

“Looks like your uncle's at it again, doesn't it?” Dougal mumbled quietly, so nobody but Indigo and Angus would hear him.

Relations between Dougal and Indigo had definitely improved since the first field trip, but Indigo was still reluctant to discuss her uncle and looked deeply uncomfortable whenever the subject came up.

“Shush, will you?” she hissed. “You know I don't want anyone else finding out about my family. I promised my mum I wouldn't tell . . . and if the Vellums overhear us talking . . .”

She glanced over her shoulder. Luckily, Pixie and Percival were both staring blankly into space at that moment, drooling. But Indigo continued to look troubled for some time after that.

At the end of their lesson, when it had finally stopped raining amphibians and they were stuffing their fog guides back into their bags, they saw Catcher Sparks enter the room and draw Miss DeWinkle to one side for a private chat. Angus, Dougal, and Indigo packed their things away as slowly as possible, trying to overhear.

“I've just met Aramanthus outside Principal Dark-Angel's office, and his room has been completely ruined by the newts,” said Catcher Sparks, looking flustered.

“Oh, goodness, poor Aramanthus!” Miss DeWinkle shook her head. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“I doubt it. He went outside when the newts started falling, to collect some samples for Principal Dark-Angel, and when he got back to his office, the horrible creatures had come in through the window and turned everything completely upside down. His entire collection of antique safety goggles has been smashed to pieces, including the pair worn by Hortence Heliotrope.”

“But you can't mean—not
the
Hortence Heliotrope,” Miss DeWinkle gasped. “The famous lightning catcher who first discovered the existence of double-ended lightning bolts?”

“The very same.” Catcher Sparks nodded solemnly. “But that's not the worst of it. A whole year's worth of notes on forked lightning have been ripped up and thrown around the room like confetti. . . .”

At these words, Indigo suddenly gasped. She covered her mouth with her hand, but it was too late. Catcher Sparks had heard her. The lightning catcher swiftly turned around, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“And what, may I ask, are you three still doing here?” she asked, her hands resting on her hips. “This lesson ended almost five minutes ago.”

“Er, we're not doing anything,” said Angus, pushing Indigo and Dougal hastily toward the door. “We were just leaving, Catcher Sparks.”

“Well, hurry up and leave a bit faster,” she said, watching them with beady eyes as they darted past. “And make sure you close the door on your way out, Doomsbury.”

“What did you have to go and gasp like that for?” asked Dougal as soon as they'd left the weather bubble behind. “We might have heard something interesting if she hadn't noticed us standing there.”

“Oh, but we did hear something interesting!” said Indigo, her face shining with excitement. “And I think I've just realized something really important—but I can't tell you out here in the middle of the hallway. Come with me.” She dragged them down a dark and deserted-looking tunnel to their left.

The tunnel came to a dead end, and they concealed themselves in the shadows of a broom closet.

“Come on then, spit it out,” said Dougal grumpily, removing his right foot from an empty bucket. “What's so important that you could only tell us in the presence of mops?”

Indigo ignored him and beamed at them both. “I think I finally understand why Dankhart's been bombarding us with newts and frogs and storm globes,” she announced as loudly as she dared. “It was something Catcher Sparks said just now about Rogwood's office.”

“Go on,” Angus urged. He shot a warning look at Dougal to keep quiet and let her speak.

“Well, if Dankhart's trying to get his hands on the map of the lightning vaults . . . wouldn't it make sense for him to come looking for it himself?”

Dougal snorted. “I think we might have noticed if Scabious Dankhart was wandering around Perilous, rummaging through people's drawers, searching for a missing map.”

“Not if we were busy fighting off a swarm of snorkel beetles or storm globes, we wouldn't,” said Indigo. “None of us would have noticed if a whole herd of elephants had gone stampeding through the Exploratorium juggling pineapples while that was going on.”

Angus stared at her, understanding dawning on him like a thousand-watt lightbulb being flicked on inside his head.

“Indigo, that's brilliant . . . you're brilliant!” he gasped. “I don't know why we didn't think of it sooner. That's exactly what Dankhart's been doing.”

Indigo smiled at Angus, looking extremely pleased with herself.

“All this time he's been sending distractions,” Angus continued, “and while everyone's been busy trying to fend off frogs or catch fog mites, he's been turning Perilous upside down looking for the missing map. Remember the snorkel beetles?”

“Of course I remember the stupid beetles,” said Dougal, scowling.

“While we were all shut up in the sanatorium and Catcher Sparks and everyone else was running around with nets and frying pans, Principal Dark-Angel's office was trashed.”

“And I'd like to meet the snorkel beetle that could destroy a whole filing cabinet by itself,” Indigo added. “There must have been somebody up in her office, looking through her things.”

“And on the day of the frogs, when the records office got wrecked,” said Angus, turning to Dougal, “Mr. Fristle told us that some of them must have gotten in through the window and made a mess of things, but frogs couldn't have caused that much damage on their own, could they? Somebody else must have broken in and searched his office. And now the same thing's just happened to Rogwood. . . . You don't really think Dankhart is creeping around Perilous looking through people's drawers, though, do you?”

He swallowed, wondering if the villain could be hiding behind the mops and brooms at that very moment, ready to pounce.

“How would we know even if he was?” asked Dougal darkly. “Nobody knows what he looks like for sure, do they? He doesn't exactly go around opening carnivals and judging jam-making competitions and getting his photo in the local newspapers.”

“But your dad must have a book about the Dankharts somewhere, with pictures and descriptions in it and everything?” said Angus.

Dougal shook his head. “Nobody's been stupid enough to write one. Everyone knows about his black diamond eye, of course, but he could have hidden it behind an eye patch or anything. If you really wanted to know what he looks like, you'd have to ask someone who'd actually met him. Or get a good look at one of his relatives and see if they've got any distinctive features that run in the Dankhart family, you know, like hooked noses or funny goggly eyes . . .” He tried to get a swift look at Indigo's eyes without her noticing.

Unfortunately, even in the gloom of the broom closet, it was perfectly obvious what he was doing. Indigo folded her arms ominously and glared at him.

“What are you staring at me for?” she snapped.

“There's no need to get your boots in a twist. I was just wondering, you know, if there was any family resemblance.”

Indigo frowned. “I look like the Midnights,
not
the Dankharts.”

“Yeah, but . . . you must know what your own uncle looks like?” Dougal insisted.

Indigo's nostrils flared, and Angus was suddenly reminded of Catcher Sparks when she was about to force them, headfirst, into the storm vacuum.

“Er, just drop it, will you?” he advised Dougal swiftly, feeling that his friend might have pushed things too far already.

“But she can't seriously expect us to believe that her own uncle's never even popped round for a cup of tea in all these years,” said Dougal, frowning. “You know, to catch up on all the family gossip, reminisce about old times at the castle. . . .”