by Mez Blume
I didn’t like the image of a lurking, spying Wix on our trail any better than she did. “We should tell Janklow,” I said, decidedly putting the image out of my mind.
“Hasn’t he already gone to investigate that Gabriel Webb lead up in Lincolnshire?”
I had forgotten. A messenger boy had brought us a note from Janklow late last night informing us that he had tracked down one of the Round Table painters who, he hoped, might know something of Gabriel’s whereabouts. The note said that he would leave on the nine o’clock train to Lincolnshire that morning. He hoped to bring us news by the next day.
The thought of Janklow being miles away made me uneasy, but I tried to put on a brave face. “We’ll just have to tell him the minute he gets back.”
“Yes, we’ll tell him. But we don’t need Janklow to tell us Wix is involved in this stolen painting business.”
I stopped beside the frozen fountain in the market square and looked her in the eye. “What makes you think so?”
“Isn’t it obvious? First of all,” she held up her thumb, “when and where was the first place we ever saw him?”
“Near St. Paul’s on the night of the theft,” I admitted.
“Secondly, what reason would he have for following a couple of girls around London unless he suspected we were on his case? And third,” she held up another finger, “didn’t you hear what Dobbs said? The man has done time for burgling churches. For heaven’s sake, he’s the perfect suspect. I honestly can’t believe we didn’t see it before. Why are you shaking your head?”
“Can’t be,” I said. “Remember the mark on the wall at the crime scene? The person who hung that painting had to be tall. Wix looks strong enough to carry away a huge painting, but not tall enough to hang the replacement. And he doesn’t wear any rings.”
Imogen squinted dubiously. “How do you know that?”
“I looked at his hands back in Salomon & Botts.”
She looked impressed but wasn’t ready to give up her angle. “Well you’re the detective, but I’d be willing to bet this entire basket of food it was Wix.”
“And what about Gabriel Webb?” I challenged. “We know the painting is his, and now it turns out the pocketwatch was once his too. Seems to me that all the evidence points to him.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t behind it. The painting is his. That I accept. But what if he didn’t act alone? After all, nobody’s seen the man for years. Could be he’s in hiding but still pulling the strings on some grand master scheme to get back at his brother.”
We stopped beside a fountain. I perched on the edge, puzzling over Imogen’s suggestion. As I did, my eyes happened to fall on a lame beggar beside the greengrocer’s cart. A sign hung around his neck: War in Africa left me with one leg. Please help. With one hand, he held out his upturned cap for coins, and with the other he supported himself with a makeshift crutch.
“You know, Im, I think you might be right. What was it Mr. Salomon said about Gabriel Webb?”
“He said Gabriel was polite, quiet, and… oh! He said he was lame,” she answered.
“Exactly. So he couldn’t have performed the theft on his own. He had to have help.”
“And that help had to be strong enough to carry the painting out of the building for him. Like Wix,” she added smugly.
“And now,” I said, feeling a fog was lifting, little by little, “somehow, Gabriel Webb has found out we’re on his tracks and sent Wix to keep an eye on us.”
Imogen nodded in an ‘I told you so’ way.
I stared at her, a mad idea dawning in my racing mind. “You know, if Wix is working for Gabriel Webb, he might just lead us to his hiding place.”
“You mean you want us to follow Wix?” Imogen gave me a look as if she thought I’d finally cracked. “You are joking? May I remind you that he is the one following us? Have you ever tried following someone who’s trying to follow you at the same time? I’m pretty sure you just end up going in circles.”
“We’ll simply have to outsmart him,” I said. My imagination was hard at work, painting pictures of knocking on Gabriel Webb’s door and demanding he tell us where he had got Ramona’s paints … of finding her at last… of Inspector Janklow praising us for cracking the mystery all on our own…
The pictures evaporated as the church bells began to chime in the hour. We listened, counting the ten gongs of the clock.
“I can’t outsmart anyone on an empty stomach,” Imogen said, decisively hoisting her basket over her shoulder. “Let’s eat now and make a plan after.”
“Agreed.” I jumped up, taking a quick detour to drop a few shillings in the lame beggar’s cap on our way.
As Imogen pushed open the gate of the Hostel for Girls of Good Character, she said over her shoulder, “I’d still like to know why Phineas Webb lied about getting that watch from a pawn shop.”
My mind had been so preoccupied, I hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe he’s just ashamed to say he got it from his good-for-nothing brother,” I offered. “Same reason he’s forgotten Gabriel’s painting. Sounds like Phineas has tried to forget he has a brother at all.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” she said as we climbed the stairs to the door. “Those two looked like such good friends in the photograph. I wonder what happened?”
The moment we entered the house, Effie Turvey came bustling up the corridor.
“My dears, I suppose you’ve been out taking the fresh air this morning? How lovely.” She folded her hands and beamed at us a moment.
“Oh, uh, yes, and I’ve just got a letter from my father,” Imogen said, setting down her basket of food and fishing out her coin purse again. “Here you are, Miss Turvey. He’s sent some payment for our stay so far, and says to thank you from the bottom of his heart for looking after us so well.”
“Oh! Bless his soul.” She tucked the coins into her own little purse and dabbed her eyes with her lilac handkerchief. “You must tell him it is our greatest joy to feed and care for such dear lambs, just as our Lord would have us do.”
She beamed after us as we started up the stairs. When we were halfway up to the first landing, she exclaimed, “Oh! I nearly forgot!” and taking an envelope from her pocket, she bustled up the stairs after us. “This was left for you about half an hour ago, Katie dear.”
“Oh.” I looked at my name written in lavish calligraphy on the front. “But who delivered it, Miss Turvey?”
“Oh, just a messenger boy, my dear. Didn’t say on whose errand he’d come, I’m afraid.”
I waited until we reached our room to tear open the envelope.
“Well? Who’s it from?” Imogen asked through a mouthful of bread as she unpacked the basket and laid our feast out on the bed.
I shook my head, my eyes scanning rapidly down the page. I flipped it over to check the back. “It doesn’t say.”
Imogen frowned. “Well what does it say?”
“Someone’s found my detective notebook. Listen to this:
I have in my possession a notebook inscribed with your name and address. If it is of any value to you, come to the Taxopholite Club in Regent’s Park at 11 AM today and await me at the pavilion. I will be happy to restore it to its rightful owner.
Yours respectfully–
“But there’s no signature,” I said, flipping the note over to inspect the back once again.
Imogen frowned. “Why make you go all that way to get it? Why not just send it with the messenger?”
I stared at the elegant penmanship, wondering what kind of person’s hand had written it. “I don’t know. How far of a walk is it to Regent’s Park?”
Imogen shrugged. “About half an hour.”
“Then if we leave right away, we should get there in plenty of time to find this place.”
“But…” Imogen gazed longingly at the bread and cheese she’d taken such care to set out. “What about Dobbs? You told him we’d meet him here at noon.”
“We’ll be back by noon,” I said, smirking at her preten
d concern for Dobbs. “And we’ll have the feast then, I promise.”
She bit her lip, unable to tear herself away from the spread.
“I can go on my own, Im, if you’d rather stay here.”
She sighed and reached for her hat. “Don’t be silly,” she said flatly. “I’m coming with you.” She shoved the hat back onto her head, then stopped, sprinted back to the bed, snatched up a roll and stuffed an enormous bite into her mouth. Returning, she pulled the door closed behind us with a last, agonised look back.
19
The Captain’s Captives
I left a message with Agatha Turvey to tell Dobbs where we’d gone in case we were a few minutes late getting back. I wished he had come with us on our errand. We were having no luck at all finding the Taxopholite Pavilion, as neither Imogen nor I knew what that word meant, and had to ask a constable patrolling the park if he had any ideas. He pointed us in the right direction and we found ourselves, as it turned out, at an archery club.
The pavilion was a sort of clubhouse where the archers took tea between shooting rounds. Imogen glanced around at the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen clinking their china teacups and laughing as they shared stories about past fox hunts. “This mystery person must be posh. Of course,” she added ominously, “that hardly means he or she isn’t evil.”
It didn’t feel like the sort of place a malicious plotter would choose to set a trap. “They probably didn’t want to entrust the notebook to the messenger is all,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.
“Or they were determined to meet the famous Katie Watson for themselves,” Imogen said with a smirk. She glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s not yet eleven. Fancy a cup of tea?”
I couldn’t deny her one cup of tea after I had dragged her away from her beloved feast, so we took a table and ordered a pot of Ceylon and two slices of ginger cake. As soon as the waiter filled our cups and stepped aside, a little red-headed boy appeared in his place. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, smudging dirt over his freckled cheeks, and stared at us blankly.
“Hello,” I said uncertainly.
“Is one of you a Miss Katie Watson?” He belted out the question so loudly, several tea drinkers turned to gawk in our direction.
“I am,” I said quietly, hoping he’d pipe down.
“Was told to give you this,” he said just as loudly, and pulled my notebook out from his ragged little jacket.
“Thanks, but who told you to give it to me?” I whispered, taking it from him and rubbing the smudges off the cover with my napkin under the table.
The boy shrugged. “Dunno.”
Imogen tried. “Can’t you remember anything about the person who gave it to you?”
“I runs lots o’ errands for lots o’ folk. Can’t rightly ‘member one from the next, Miss.”
We looked at each other, not sure what to make of this odd situation. The boy continued to stand there, as if waiting for something.
“Was there something else?” I asked.
He held out his grubby hand.
“Oh, sorry. Im, could you…?”
She clicked her tongue. “Not the most helpful service, but I suppose…” She opened her coin purse and placed a couple of coins in his hand. It must have been a better tip than he was used to getting. He stared wide-eyed at his palm, then a snaggle-toothed smile lit up his face. “Bless ya, Miss!” he shouted before scampering away, just like a miniature Dobbs.
“Well that was strange,” Imogen said.
“Uh-huh.” I was already rifling through my notebook. There was no damage that I could see. All the pages seemed to be intact. I flipped to the back cover and pulled open the little pocket. The photograph of the two young Webb brothers was still there. I took it out and placed it on the table between Imogen and me. Leaning in for a closer look, I spotted something I hadn’t noticed before. It was just as Mr. Salomon had said! Gabriel Webb had one arm braced around his brother’s neck; the other was supported by a cane.
“Katie…” Imogen was tapping my arm over and over.
“What?” I said, a little annoyed at the interruption. But as I looked up, I saw for myself. Mr. Wix paced back and forth beneath the branches of a yew tree, like a prowling beast, just outside the pavilion porch.
Imogen growled in her throat. “How did he find us here?”
I stuffed the photograph back into the journal pocket and threw it into my bag. “There must be a way out through the back.” I cast about for an alternative door but found none. “We’ll have to try the kitchen. There’s bound to be a way out through there.”
I watched until the waiter reappeared with a tray of tea things. “Quick!” I waved Imogen to follow me as I bee-lined, head down, for the kitchen.
There it was. The kitchen door was already open. I could see the frosted grass on the other side.
“May I help you?”
I froze and stood up. A square-shaped, flush-faced cook with a rolling pin in hand was giving us the evil eye.
I opened my mouth, but Imogen was faster. “We’ve just come to give our compliments to the chef. Marvellous cake.” She gave me a shove, and we carried right on out the door, leaving the cook in speechless surprise.
Once out on the lawn, we sprinted towards the first cover we saw (a row of hay stacks acting as archery targets), jumped behind one nobody was using, and peered around.
“Katie, I hate to ask…”
“What?” Imogen’s squeamish tone made me uneasy.
“You don’t think Wix could’ve stolen your notebook without your noticing it, do you?”
I gulped. It was a chilling thought, and one I preferred not even to imagine. “Well I’m sure he didn’t write the letter,” I asserted, mostly to make myself feel better. “There’s no way his penmanship is that perfect.”
“But Gabriel Webb might have written the letter,” she persisted. “Wix just did the stealing.”
I didn’t answer. If Imogen was right, we were dealing with a man who was as dangerous as he was hideous. A man who could make even his hulking presence invisible and seemed always to be lurking not far off. Yet, as much as I wanted to be rid of him, to be running in the opposite direction, this man was our best shot at solving this mystery once and for all.
“He’s moving!” I whispered hoarsely. “He’s looking in at the pavilion window! Oh, oh, he’s leaving. Quick!”
Imogen groaned but followed. We scampered from haystack to haystack until we reached the last one in the row.
“He’s taking the path around the pond,” I whispered.
We followed at the safest distance we could manage while still keeping an eye on Wix’s back, scurrying behind trees, shrubs, a gardener’s wheelbarrow, boarded-up lemonade stands, any cover we could find, never letting Wix out of our sight. A time or two, he turned suddenly as if sensing he was being followed, and then we ducked down low and held our breath until he carried on his way.
We followed him right across Regent’s Park when, finally, he reached the eastern gate.
Beyond the park gates, we found ourselves in a very different part of town. Long, straight rows of tall, sooty brick buildings all stacked on top of one another loomed up on either side and stretched as far as the eye could see. As we walked along, passing door after door, sometimes a smudged, sad face peered out at us from a grimy window. A few barefooted children were following their ringleader in a hunt after a rat, but they gave up the chase to watch us when we passed.
Imogen, grimacing from a foul, fishy smell in the air, whispered, “Do you think he’s gone inside one of these houses?”
I stopped walking and squinted to try to see further up the long street. My eyes scanned the bare heads of men and women and finally landed on the familiar hat. “There!” I said. “He’s just turned right behind that post box!”
We picked up our pace and ran to the place where he had disappeared. It was a dark, narrow, drippy alleyway with ropes of soggy laundry hung between the two buildings on either
side like strange, ghostly bunting. The eerie cry of seagulls echoed through the brick tunnel like a warning.
We looked at each other, clearly feeling the same strong reluctance to enter.
With a deep breath, I asked, “Ready?”
Imogen plugged her nose. “Ready.”
We picked our way through the alley, trying not to think about the squidgy, smelly substance beneath our feet. Though it was too dim to see them, the coughing and muttering of people huddled between crates and barrels followed our steps. I gripped Imogen’s hand and walked more briskly.
At last, the gulls’ cries grew louder and pale light crept into the alleyway. We reached the other end and both breathed in the fresh air. We had come out onto a busy towpath beside the canal. A little way up the path, men were driving mules to pull a barge of goods along the canal. They were stopped, waiting at a lock for the water to fill up. A group of boys leaned over the bridge that spanned the lock, tossing stones down into the canal, laughing and throwing more each time the men working the barge shouted at them to stop.
But there was no Wix.
“Bet he went over the bridge,” Imogen said.
We crossed over, ignoring the gawking stares and jeers of the rock throwers. The other side of the canal was a wharf like the one we’d visited in King’s Cross with Dobbs. It was covered by a timber frame, and littered with the same barrels, crates, rope and other shipping knick-knacks.
We wandered aimlessly between the stacks of crates that seemed to go on and on. There was no sign of anyone, and quite frankly, it was the last place I wanted to meet Wix. I turned to Imogen. “I don’t think he came this way. We might as well turn ba–”
Her scream drowned out every other sound. I didn’t even hear the heavy feet hit the ground as Wix dropped from a beam overhead. But I felt his landing shake the ground right behind me and swung around to see his gnarled, scarred face contort into a wicked leer.