The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Devil's Hound (15 page)

Pete slipped on an imaginary banana peel and landed heavily on his backside. Lizzie gave a weak smile.

“Let's try that again,” Didi said. This time, as Pete slipped and landed, Didi played a resounding
boinngggg
on the drums.

Lizzie laughed out loud. “I see what you mean.”

“It's the music that makes it funny,” Pete said with a wink. “Every time you go head over heels, there'll be a noise to make 'em laugh in the stands.”

“So,” Nora said, “are we ready?”

They managed ten minutes of practice. To her surprise, Lizzie found that clowning suited her much better than serious performance. The onlookers gave her a round of applause every time she flubbed a routine. Before long, she was grinning despite herself.

But suddenly, Victoria bucked. Nora gasped, “Oh, no!” and quickly dismounted. Hari came running up.

“What's upsetting her?” Lizzie asked.

“I don't understand it,” Hari said. Victoria stamped and whinnied even under his gentle hands. “Outside, she is calm. In here, she is skittish.”

Lizzie thought about Shadow the dog and what Hari had said about him. Animals usually had a good reason for behaving strangely. What could it possibly be? Shadow had been starved and mistreated, but Victoria had been given nothing but star treatment ever since they'd set up the circus here.

Star treatment
, Lizzie thought. The words echoed in her mind. She looked from Victoria to the group of circus folk sitting in the audience.
She's the star of the show, just like I am. But nobody asked her if she wanted to be a big star, did they?

Lizzie remembered the first time Victoria had been spooked. It was at the entrance to the cemetery, while the funeral procession had been passing by. Maybe ghosts weren't to blame at all. Maybe the problem was that everyone in the procession had been staring at them. At her!

“You don't like being looked at any more than I do, do you, Victoria?” Lizzie said. “Poor girl, you've got stage fright too!”

Nora came over to her, looking curious. “You've had an idea?”

“I think I know why Victoria's acting up,” Lizzie explained. “She doesn't like being stared at!”

Victoria shook her head, making a whickering noise that sounded like disgust.

Nora's eyes widened. “You've got a point, there,” she agreed. “Every single time she's acted up, there were people watching! The cemetery gates, the field, the show, and now this!”

“But what about last night?” Lizzie wondered. “She didn't even go on, she was that panicked. Who was watching her then?”

“The debt collectors,” Hari said with a sigh. “And half a dozen of us circus people who were there to keep an eye on them. I think Lizzie's right.”

“So what do we do about it? We can't hide the audience away, can we?” Lizzie looked into Victoria's sad, dark eyes and felt sorry for her. “Poor thing. You couldn't say what the problem was, could you? I wish we'd guessed it sooner.”

“This might not be that tough a problem to crack,” Nora said happily. “Give me just a moment.” She rushed off, then came back after a few minutes holding something like a harness.

“Blinkers?” Lizzie guessed.

“Maybe if she can't see the crowd, she won't get upset,” Nora said.

Before they could put the theory to the test, Malachy appeared at the entrance. “Special meeting in the tea tent! Attendance mandatory for everyone!” He grinned at Lizzie. “And that counts double for you.”

* * *

“Blimey,” Lizzie whispered as they saw Fitzy, who was standing on a box and beaming at the gathered crowd. “If he was smiling any brighter you could stick him on a cliff top and use him as a lighthouse.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” called Fitzy. “Boys and girls. Dear friends, one and all . . .”

“Get on with it!” someone shouted. A peal of laughter followed, from Fitzy too.

“I draw your attention to this special edition of the
London Evening Post
,” Fitzy declared. “Please be so good as to read the headline.” He held the newspaper up so everyone could see it.

CIRCUS CHILDREN APPREHEND GRAVE ROBBERS
Desecration Ended
by Valiant Youths of Fitzy's Traveling Circus

Lizzie pushed her way up to the front of the crowd so she could get a better look. An artist had provided a sketch using a lot of imagination. The drawing showed a group of children in circus costumes — a clown, an acrobat, and a lion tamer — surrounding a grave. An ogreish-looking man was climbing out with a body slung over his shoulder.

“I can't take my eyes off you lot for a minute, can I?” Fitzy laughed. “Now, I don't want to get anyone in trouble with their folks, so I won't ask the heroes to identify themselves now. But I think we can all guess who they were.”

A lot of feet were shuffled, and a few people whistled in mock innocence. Lizzie looked around at all the smiling faces and grinned bashfully. Even Ma Sullivan couldn't keep her stony face on anymore and broke into a smile.

Fitzy read aloud from the paper, which told a slightly garbled version of the story. For one thing, Lizzie didn't remember any heroic boy clown tripping the grave robbers up and sending them tumbling into a grave. But everyone turned to look at her when the story mentioned a mysterious “fortune-teller” with “powers quite beyond the common table-tappers and Mr. Sludges of London society.”

“What's a Mr. Sludge?” Lizzie asked Malachy.

“He's a fake psychic from a Robert Browning poem,” Malachy whispered. “It means the papers think you're genuine. I'd brace yourself for a lot more customers if I were you.”

Fitzy's voice rang out. “Now, some of you might be thinking, ‘I bet all that publicity in the papers has done wonders for ticket sales!' And you'd be right! We've sold a great many tickets for tonight's show.” He looked right at Lizzie, and his eyes gleamed with a wonderful light. “In fact, we have sold every single one of our tickets for tonight's show!”

“We're sold out?” Mario exclaimed.

“Packed to the rafters!” Fitzy raised his hat. Everyone broke out cheering and clapping.

Lizzie was thrilled for Fitzy, but she just didn't feel like celebrating. Malachy gave Lizzie a hug. But when she stiffened, he took his arm away.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she muttered. “I just feel . . . sort of wrong.”

“Is it because everyone's looking at you?” Malachy asked. “I know you don't like that.”

Lizzie shook her head. “No, it's not the attention. I don't mind that, not from friends. It's something else.” She turned to leave. Malachy started after her, but Lizzie said, “I probably just need to get some rest.”

Outside the tent, in the cool air, Lizzie listened to the sounds of celebration. The mood had shifted, and it was about time too. It was grand to see Fitzy full of hope again. So where was this unsettled feeling coming from?

Lizzie knew she still had to perform tonight, but no, that wasn't what was gnawing at her. The grave robbers were safely locked away, so they wouldn't be out for revenge. That wasn't it either. Deep down, it felt like something was still wrong. Perhaps her clairvoyant powers could help her see clearly . . .

Lizzie needed to be on her own. Celebrations and rehearsals would just have to wait. She climbed inside her trailer, closed the door, and sat down on the bed. A wave of fatigue swept over her — she badly needed a nap.

Lizzie began to clear the clutter off her bed. Hairbrush, book, loose change . . . and the horse brass Becky had given her. She picked it up, thinking that she'd put it away in a drawer — and a vision took hold of her mind. It was so powerful it forced her to her knees.

She saw Becky's father, flat on his back on a metal table. All around him lay peculiar implements: steel tongs, a saw, strange metal items like spikes and clips. He was white as flour and not moving.

“Help me,” his voice pleaded in Lizzie's mind. “I cannot rest. Make them put me back!”

“Where are you?” Lizzie cried out. “Ain't you buried?”

“Help me! She's coming . . .”

Next moment, the hunched figure of Mrs. Crowe, the housekeeper at Dr. Gladwell's, leaned into the vision. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils twitched, as if she could smell Lizzie watching her.

“. . . coming to cut meeeee!” wailed the ghostly voice.

Slowly, Mrs. Crowe wiped a bright metal object clean on a wad of cotton. She raised it up into the light, and Lizzie felt a chill as she saw what it was…

A terrifyingly sharp scalpel!

A knock at the door made Lizzie jump. “Come in,” she croaked, still feeling shaky.

Malachy peered in, a cup of tea in his hand. “I thought maybe I ought to check on you. When you don't feel right, there's usually something psychic going on.”

“Thanks,” she said with genuine gratitude. She stood up, felt dizzy, and sat down again.

“Having one of your visions?” Malachy passed her the tea and watched curiously as if he half expected her head to start spinning around.

Lizzie took a drink of tea, which made it easier to speak. “I had a vision,” she said. “A horrible one. Seems like they've all been horrible lately.” She described what she'd seen. The memory of Becky's father's pale, cold flesh made her skin crawl.

“Well,” Malachy said. “What do you make of it?”

“I don't know.” Lizzie rubbed her forehead. It was damp with sweat. “I thought all this was over. It's not, though, is it?”

“It might be,” Malachy said. “Maybe what you're seeing now is the past.”

“The past?” Lizzie took another sip.

“Think about it,” Malachy persisted. “We know Becky's dad is down at the cemetery, don't we? They dug him up, took his stuff, but when they didn't find any jewels or gold, they chucked it away in the canal. So you must be seeing visions of when he was alive.”

That didn't sound right. “But he was so pale!” Lizzie argued.

“So was JoJo,” Malachy pointed out. “Becky's dad must have gone to Dr. Gladwell's when he was ill. Mrs. Crowe probably helped the doctor care for him.”

“I dunno.” Lizzie hadn't seen the body move at all. And usually her visions of the past had a slightly fuzzy quality, whereas this vision was sharp and crisp.

But as far as Malachy was concerned, the discussion was over. “Back to work for me,” he said, dusting himself off. “Lots to do tonight. It's a full house, remember?”

“Malachy—” Lizzie started to say.

“Yes?” He looked very tired.

Lizzie shook her head. “Never mind.”

Once Malachy had left, Lizzie lay down and listened to the sounds of preparation coming from all around the site. She knew she badly needed to rehearse some more, but the show tent would be busy now, and there was nowhere else to practice. Besides, the vision was lingering in her mind, nagging her to act.

“What am I supposed to do?” Lizzie murmured. Should she hold the horse brass again and try to talk to Becky's father? No. She didn't want to hear that despairing moan again. Let Malachy think what he liked. She was convinced the man she'd seen had been dead. Did that mean his body was at Dr. Gladwell's house right now, then? But if it was, what on earth was Mrs. Crowe doing with it?

A horrible thought came back into Lizzie's mind. Erin had had a theory about dead bodies and the kind of people who had uses for them. “Witchcraft,” she'd said.

Lizzie shuddered. Mrs. Crowe certainly looked like a witch. And she'd had a sharp scalpel in the vision . . .

As Lizzie's horror grew, JoJo's words came back to her. He'd warned her to stay away, just before Mrs. Crowe had come and thrown them out. What was it he'd said? Something about being stabbed to death with needles . . .

Witches made wax figures of people, didn't they? Lizzie suddenly remembered Ma Sullivan telling her that. They're called “poppets.” And they stabbed them with needles, so the victim died a lingering death . . .

“JoJo!” Lizzie cried, leaping to her feet. Show or no show, she had to go and visit Dr. Gladwell's house right now. If Mrs. Crowe really was a witch, the clown's life was in grave danger.

* * *

Dr. Gladwell's house loomed over the surrounding hedge, its dark windows filled with secrets. Lizzie lingered beside the main gate for a few minutes, trying to catch her breath after the journey and working up the courage to go inside. She couldn't get that gleaming scalpel out of her mind.

Once she was certain nobody was coming or going, Lizzie hurried through the gate. The front door was up ahead of her. A bench sat nearby — empty now, she saw. Gravel paths surrounded the house, and there were big rhododendron bushes beyond.

In her mind, Lizzie retraced her steps from when she'd been inside the house last time. That big window must be the front room, where everyone had gathered for their immunizations. So the laboratory must be on the other side, across the hallway.

Swallowing her fear, Lizzie ran up to the house and pressed herself into the corner where the front wall met the side of the porch. It formed a little blind spot. Nobody who opened the front door would see her there, as the porch wall would hide her.

She crouched down, below the height of the windows, and began to edge along the front wall of the house. By lifting her head ever so slightly, she could peep into the windows as she passed. If anyone was in the room, she could duck back out of sight.

Lizzie cautiously peered into the first window. There was the hall with the wood floor and the grandfather clock. She was going the right way. She shuffled along further, trying not to make too much noise. A crow flew up from the bushes, squawking, and Lizzie stood as still as a statue until the sounds had died away.

The next window has to be the laboratory
, Lizzie thought. She raised her head to look in, but all she saw was heavy cloth. The curtains were drawn. Grinding her teeth in frustration, she shuffled to the next window. That was blocked by a curtain too.