‘You could give it to Gordon and ask him to charge it for you. He could get it back to you tomorrow.’
‘What if I need it?’
‘What do you do at home when you can’t play games?’
‘Play football –’ Hal thought for a minute – ‘or draw.’
‘I’m sure we could find you some art materials.’
Hal sat down on the sofa feeling deflated.
‘There’s always billiards or darts,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘And I can teach you a card game or two, if you’d like?’
Gordon Goulde returned, carrying a pair of oatmeal corduroy trousers, a navy blazer with a tartan lining, and a white shirt, all of which he laid out on the bottom bunk. He produced a maroon bow tie from his pocket, placing it on the neck of the shirt.
‘They’re not for me?’ Hal was aghast. ‘They’re gross.’
Gordon Goulde raised an eyebrow. ‘I borrowed these from the royal wardrobe,’ he replied. ‘They were once worn by the young princes.’
‘They are perfect, Gordon.’ Uncle Nat put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’
‘Um, yes,’ Hal mumbled. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll need them back when we get to Paddington,’ Gordon Goulde said as he left.
‘Wait … Mr Goulde.’ Hal stood up. ‘The other children travelling on the train – could you introduce me to them?’
‘I’m afraid there are none.’
‘I mean, not as guests, but in the crew?’
‘Children are not allowed to crew the royal train, Master Beck,’ he said. ‘You are the only child aboard the Highland Falcon.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A DOG’S DINNER
Gordon Goulde is a liar! Hal thought, as his uncle helped him into the itchy tartan-lined blazer.
‘I don’t have to wear the bow tie, do I?’
Uncle Nat laughed. ‘If you don’t seize the opportunity to wear a bow tie when you’re on a royal train, when will you ever wear one?’ He picked it up. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like to be a prince?’
Hal frowned at the maroon bow. Popping up his collar, Uncle Nat slung the tie around Hal’s neck, creating the bow expertly with nimble fingers. Hal looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked posh. If he wore these clothes to school, he’d be bullied for sure.
‘Think of it as a costume. Pretend you’re a spy.’ Uncle Nat waggled his eyebrows. ‘The name’s Beck – Harrison Beck.’
I am a spy, Hal thought, staring at his reflection, and I’m going to find out who that girl is and why Gordon Goulde is lying. He turned to his uncle. ‘You know, you don’t need to keep calling me Harrison. You can call me Hal. That’s what my friends call me.’
‘Thank you, Hal.’ Uncle Nat beamed. ‘That means a lot. Now, shall we eat? I’m starving.’
The dining car was bustling. The mouth-watering smell of food emanating from the kitchen made Hal’s stomach growl. Uncle Nat made a beeline for the table where Isaac, the photographer, was sitting on his own. Sierra and her friend were dining at a table with Steven and Lydia Pickle. Ernest White was across the aisle on his own, and at the furthest table sat the baron and his surly son. As the train swayed, the cutlery and glasses clinked and shuddered, but no one seemed to mind.
‘Why is Sierra Knight on the grand tour?’ Hal asked, as bowls of steaming soup were placed on the table in front of them.
‘She’s a friend of the princess,’ Isaac replied, picking up his spoon. ‘They worked together, several years back. She says she wanted to come because she’s researching a role for a new film about a female train driver in the Second World War.’
‘Shockingly, there weren’t any female train drivers until the 1980s.’ Uncle Nat shook his head.
‘Is her friend an actress too?’ Hal asked.
‘That’s not her friend,’ Uncle Nat replied. ‘That’s Lucy Meadows, Sierra Knight’s personal assistant.’
Hal glanced over. Sierra was gazing out the window. He wondered what she could be staring at, until she pursed her lips, and he realized it was her own reflection.
‘Oh, Lucy.’ Sierra grabbed her assistant’s arm. ‘Imagine me leaning out of the engine and looking into camera.’ She paused, eyes growing wide. ‘There’s such a freedom to travelling by train,’ she proclaimed. Then she smiled, pleased with herself. ‘That’s a good line, don’t you think? Write it down. We’ll send it to the screenwriter.’
Lucy Meadows dutifully took a notebook and pen from her cardigan pocket, while opposite, Steven Pickle slurped his pea soup.
‘I love that brooch.’ Lydia Pickle huffed. ‘I’ve never seen a brooch that shape before – a big bow all covered in diamonds. I love bows. The jeweller said it was a one-off. All the girls at the salon love it. It’s just so twinkly.’ She clapped a manicured hand to her forehead. ‘You’ll keep a look out for it, won’t you? It cost a mint.’
‘Of course.’ Lucy nodded. ‘We both will. I’m sure it’ll turn up.’
‘I had it on when we were in the greenhouse, glugging the champers, but then I looked down, and it was gone!’ Lydia stuck out her bottom lip and blinked to show how sad she was.
‘You probably weren’t even wearing it,’ grunted Steven Pickle.
‘But I was wearing it!’ Lydia protested. ‘Didn’t you see?’
Hal remembered Lydia’s sparkling bow. It had been hard to miss.
‘I hope you put it on the insurance,’ said Steven Pickle, tearing a bread roll.
‘Course I did.’ Lydia bit her lip and looked away.
As the Highland Falcon rattled through Stevenage, the woman who’d been serving drinks in the observation car wheeled in a trolley carrying a side of beef and carving tools. Hal stared at the trolley’s white cloth, looking for signs of movement. When she came to serve their table, he stuck out his foot, pushing the cloth in. There was nothing behind it.
‘Hello.’ He smiled sweetly at the waitress as she served Uncle Nat and Isaac. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Amy.’
‘Do you think I could have an extra Yorkshire pudding please, Amy?’
‘Of course, sir.’
The smart blazer and bow tie seemed to be working. ‘Amy, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you seen a girl on the train, about my age?’
Amy looked shocked. ‘No! You are the only child passenger. There are no children allowed in the crew carriages.’ She dropped a second Yorkshire pudding on to his plate and hurriedly pushed the trolley to the next table to serve the baron and his son.
Hal narrowed his eyes. She was lying. No children allowed? There were secrets on this train. He looked down at his Yorkshire puddings.
‘They won’t be as good as your mum’s,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘No one makes a better pud than Bev.’
‘Mum’s are the best,’ Hal agreed, ‘but, I’ll eat them anyway. I love Yorkshire puddings.’ He watched Amy serve the baron, who picked up his napkin, flicked it open, and tucked it into the collar of his shirt.
‘Did you know, the baron owns the most impressive model railway in the whole of Europe?’ Uncle Nat said in a low voice. ‘He built most of it himself.’
Isaac nodded. ‘It is a joy to behold. If you’re ever near Hohenschwangau Castle in Bavaria, you should check it out. He lets the public in at weekends.’
‘He’s a distant relative of the royal family,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘I’ve enjoyed his company a number of times, although I’ve not met his son before.’
Across the aisle, Hal saw Ernest White stand up. He had a foam-headed microphone in his hand and was sliding open the top panel of the window. He clamped the microphone to the window frame, foam end poking out, then plugged it into a small portable recorder, which he tucked between the seat and the carriage wall.
‘What’s Mr White doing?’
Uncle Nat smiled. ‘He’s recording the sound of the steam train travelling at speed.’
‘Why?’
‘Becau
se it’s unique, and for him it’s attached to important memories. The sound of an A4 Pacific under steam is as beautiful to Ernest White as a symphony by Beethoven.’ Uncle Nat sat back and closed his eyes, listening to the train.
Hal tried to do the same, but all he could hear was Lydia Pickle.
‘Last week, I was reading about your break-up with Chad in Hot Stories magazine,’ Lydia Pickle said to Sierra, ‘and now look at me having a proper nosh-up with you.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Is it true you’re from Liverpool? You don’t have a Scouse accent.’
Sierra Knight replied with a tight smile and a tiny nod.
Lydia Pickle held up her hands, squeaking in a high voice, ‘Eh! Eh! Ferry cross the Mersey.’
Steven Pickle roared with laughter at her terrible impression of a Liverpudlian.
Ernest White scowled and shook his head at the noise.
‘No one likes Mr Pickle, do they?’ said Hal quietly.
‘He makes a great deal of money from the railways but spends very little of it improving them,’ said Uncle Nat. ‘That upsets people.’
‘Who needs trains with seats?’ Isaac said with a wink. ‘Or air conditioning? Or ones that run on time?’
‘Why was he invited on this journey, then?’
‘Well –’ Uncle Nat leaned forward – ‘he owns quite a bit of the line we’re travelling on. Not to invite him would have been an insult. I think everyone was hoping he wouldn’t come.’
‘But he wants his picture in the papers,’ Isaac said, giving Hal a knowing look, ‘standing next to royalty.’
Pudding arrived, and Hal wolfed down the sugary pile of Eton Mess.
‘Where’s Lady Lansbury?’ he said, looking around. ‘Isn’t she having dinner?’
‘In the private dining compartment,’ Uncle Nat replied. ‘She’s having a personal ceremony to commemorate the passing of her husband, and I believe –’ he leaned in and whispered – ‘scattering his ashes into the steam and the smuts.’
‘Oh!’ Hal was startled.
‘She’s being served by her gentleman-in-waiting.’
‘Is that the man who looks after her dogs?’
Uncle Nat chuckled. ‘I’ll bet when he took the job, he didn’t realize he’d have to wait on five dogs as well as a countess.’
‘She must love dogs,’ Hal said.
‘They’re a new addition to the household,’ Isaac said. ‘She got them after her husband passed away.’
If Lady Lansbury and her gentleman-in-waiting were here in the dining car, the dogs must be on their own in a compartment. ‘Please may I leave the table? I, um, want to go back and unpack my stuff.’
Uncle Nat wiped his mouth with his napkin and nodded. ‘Would you mind if I stayed for an after-dinner coffee?’
‘No.’ Hal got up. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He hurried through the sleeper carriages, listening out for snufflings or woofs. From behind the second-to-last door – number two – he heard scratching, a high-pitched whine and an excited yap. He looked about, then turned the handle. To his surprise, the door opened.
Five snowy dogs rushed him, and he laughed as they jumped up, pinning him to the door, trying to lick his face. One let out a joyful bark.
‘Shhhh!’ Hal whispered, slipping into the compartment and sinking to his knees. ‘You have to be quiet.’
The dogs clamoured around him in a huddle, nuzzling their heads against his shoulders. He tried to stroke each of them, but they overwhelmed him, and he found himself lying on the floor giggling as wet noses poked his ribcage looking for a pet, and his face got licked. ‘Stop it!’ He giggled, trying to sit up. ‘Sit!’
To his surprise, all five dogs obediently sat on their haunches and panted at him with shining eyes.
Hal reached out. ‘Let’s see.’ He read the silver tags dangling below their diamond-studded collars. The nearest dog was darker than the rest, with oatmeal fur. ‘You are Trafalgar … and you’re Viking.’ Viking barked, as if to agree. ‘You’re Shannon,’ he said to the dog with a flash of silver to her fur. ‘You’re very pretty aren’t you … Fitzroy?’ He struggled to grab the tag of the fourth dog, who was trying to dig up the carpet. ‘And what’s your name?’
The last dog was the smallest of the five. All the others had black or brown eyes, but she looked at him with eyes as blue as the sea. He patted his knees, and she placed her head on his lap. He pulled up her tag. ‘Bailey.’ He stroked the top of her head. ‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you all.’ Viking yipped. Hal pointed at each dog as he repeated their names. ‘Trafalgar, Viking, Shannon, Fitzroy and Bailey.’
All five Samoyeds smiled at him, and Hal grinned back.
‘I’m Hal.’ He patted his chest, and Bailey licked his face. ‘You’ve made a right mess in here, haven’t you?’
The carpet and the seat were covered in dog hairs. The top bunk was down and made up as a bed for Lady Lansbury’s gentleman-in-waiting. There were five water bowls on the floor below the window. And in the sink, a bag of dog biscuits sat below the glass shelf, which had eight octagonal glass bottles with Gyastara written on their labels in swirly writing.
Fitzroy padded to the compartment door and scratched at it. ‘No, Fitzroy – you mustn’t do that,’ Hal scolded. Bailey clambered on to his lap and curled up. ‘Hello, girl.’ He stroked her head. She lifted her nose to nuzzle his palm. As he sank his face into her fluffy neck, his heart lurched at the sound of footsteps approaching. Pushing Bailey off, he scrambled to his feet, looking around in a panic.
There was nowhere to hide.
CHAPTER SIX
THE PHANTOM FEAST
Turning to face the door, Hal prepared his apology and took a deep breath. But the footsteps passed. He lifted the blind, peeping out into the corridor. Amy, the waitress, was carrying a tray of food into the royal carriage. But there’s no one in there, Hal thought. The carriage is empty until Balmoral. Who’s Amy taking food to? He slipped out and tiptoed after her.
The royal carriage had a thick cream carpet that deadened his footsteps. He was in a lounge with mint-green upholstery and glossy wooden furnishings. He ducked behind the closest chaise longue as Amy disappeared through a door at the other end of the room. Cautiously, he crept to the door, opening it an inch and peering into a long corridor beside private rooms. Halfway down, Amy was placing the tray on the floor. She knocked three times on a door then turned towards him.
Hal ran. If he was caught in the royal carriage, he’d be in serious trouble. Someone’s in that room! he thought.
‘Calm down, you horrible things.’
Hal slowed down. The dogs were barking. Creeping past the Samoyeds’ compartment, he heard a tearing sound. The door was ajar. He saw dog food pellets rain on to the carpet which were immediately gobbled up. The dogs were hungry. Lady Lansbury’s gentleman-in-waiting was standing with his back to the doorway holding the bag of feed.
‘Right, which one of you greedy animals wants this bit of juicy roast beef, eh?’ Viking jumped up at him. ‘Good boy, Viking. Go on – eat it all up.’
Trafalgar jumped up too, and the man kicked him away. ‘Get away. It’s not for you.’ Trafalgar whined in pain and retreated into the corner of the room, licking his leg.
A fire of indignation flamed in Hal’s chest. He wanted to shout at the man, but Amy would arrive any second, and he didn’t want to get caught at this end of the carriage.
‘What do you think you’re doing, kid?’
Turning, Hal found himself face to face with Steven Pickle, who was standing outside compartment three.
‘I … I wanted to see the dogs.’
‘Do you think Lady Lansbury would like a kid sneaking around outside her rooms?’
‘No, sir. I mean – I wasn’t sneaking …’ Hal tried to shuffle past Steven Pickle, ‘I was …’
‘What’s going on?’ Lady Lansbury’s gentleman-in-waiting came to the door as Amy entered the corridor. Hal was surrounded.
‘Ah, Rowan,’ Steven Pi
ckle grunted. ‘The kid came to look at the dogs.’
Hal nodded, glancing at Amy, who was hovering as far back as she could.
Rowan scowled at Hal down his thin nose. ‘They’re not toys, kid.’ He ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. ‘Go away.’ He shut the door.
‘Get back to your own room before you get into hot water.’ Steven Pickle dismissed Hal with a wave of his chipolata fingers.
Hal scurried away, mentally adding his name to the list of people who didn’t like Steven Pickle.
Back at their compartment, Hal found Uncle Nat sitting at the writing desk, pen in hand and journal open. He’d pinned a map of the British Isles to the backboard of the desk, marking the Highland Falcon’s route in red. Hal saw that his bunk had been made up with a duvet and a plump pillow.
‘There you are,’ said his uncle, looking up. ‘Been exploring?’
‘I went to visit the dogs.’ Hal thought it best to tell his uncle before someone else did. ‘But Mr Pickle said I was sneaking about and sent me back.’ He approached the desk. ‘Why are you writing in different-coloured inks?’ He pointed at his uncle’s journal. ‘Is that code?’ He stared down at the squiggles on the page.
‘That’s Teeline. It’s a shorthand they teach you at journalism school. It’s faster to write, and usually only another journalist can decipher it.’ Uncle Nat put the lid on his fountain pen. ‘Laptops are impractical if there’s no electricity.’ He gestured around the room. ‘Each time I write, I use a different-coloured ink so that when I read it, I can see when I’ve taken a break or where something has changed. All I need to do my job is a notebook and two pens. Which reminds me …’ He reached into his case, pulling out a red leather-bound book the size of a passport. ‘This is for you.’
The book was secured with a cord, which Hal released. He flicked through the pages – they were blank, ready for him to draw on. ‘Thank you.’
‘Hop into your pyjamas, clean your teeth, and take it up to your bunk. I’ve already broken my promise to your mother about getting you to bed by eight.’
The Highland Falcon Thief Page 3