She looked up at him, lips trembling, face white as chalk. ‘It is just like before, with Papa.’ Her eyes welled with fresh tears.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He went away too, and I . . .’ Her voice shrank to a choked sob. ‘I never saw him again.’
‘But you will, won’t you? We’ll lick old Hitler and you’ll go back home and he and your mum, they’ll be there waiting for you.’
‘No, they will not. They cannot, they . . .’ She raised a shaking hand and pressed it to her mouth.
George frowned. She wasn’t making any sense. ‘What? Tell me.’
‘My parents, they are . . .’ She gripped the banisters with both hands and gave a juddering sigh. ‘They are tot.’
‘Tot?’
She looked up at him, eyes full of torment then slumped forwards with a groan. When she spoke the word in English, it was a whisper.
‘Dead.’
A knot formed in George’s throat. ‘But . . . but when you said before they were back in Germany, I thought you meant . . .’
She shook her head, then groaned again and gave in to a wave of shuddering sobs.
The knot in George’s throat grew bigger. He swallowed against it. He was desperate to say something: anything to make her feel better – but there weren’t any words. So instead, dropping down on the floor beside her, he slipped his arm round her shoulders and sat with her until at last the sobbing stopped.
She lifted up her head then and looked at him, her cheeks red, and wet with tears. ‘I am sorry.’ I should have told you. But it hurts. It hurts so much.’ She gulped in a breath and reached for the star pendant, clutching it tight against her.
He squeezed her arm. ‘It’s all right.’
She gave a small sigh. ‘No. It is not. You are my friend and I want you to know the truth.’
George sat there and listened as Kitty told him about her parents. How they had met while they were both working at the University in Munich. How they’d fallen in love, married and then had her. Of family trips to the boating lake in the park near their home. Of helping her mother bake lebkuchen biscuits and being read to by her father every night before she went to bed.
But then – her eyes clouded suddenly – Hitler and his anti-Jewish Nazi party had come to power and Jews everywhere had begun to be persecuted. Kitty’s parents had both lost their jobs. They had been forced to find work in a factory and move to a tiny apartment in the worst part of the city.
During one terrifying night in early November, two years ago, there had been riots in towns and cities across Germany. Jewish houses and businesses had been destroyed; shop windows smashed in; synagogues – the places where Jewish people worshipped – burnt down. In some towns, Jews had even been beaten up and killed.
‘After Kristallnacht – that is what they called it later because of all the broken glass on the streets – my parents were very frightened. Everyone knew the Nazis were behind the riots. And then Papa was arrested.’
‘Arrested?’
‘They put him in a camp. Mama wrote letters to the authorities to try and get him released, but it was no use. And then she lost her job in the factory.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Friends did what they could for us, but it was hard for them too. I wanted Mama to sell this.’ She held out the gold star pendant. ‘But she refused. It was my grandmother’s, you see. She left it to me in her will.’ Kitty curled her fingers back round the pendant and pressed it gently to her lips. ‘Then Mama heard about the Kindertransport plan.’
‘Kinder-what?’
‘The transports. I told you about them, remember? They offered Jewish children lucky enough to have their names put on the list the chance to escape and come to Britain. Because Papa was in a camp and Opa was living here in England, they agreed to take me. I did not want to go – to leave them – but Mama insisted. She hid the necklace inside the heel of my shoe so the Nazis would not find it and take it from me at the station.’ She bit her lip and looked away.
‘What about them, your mum and dad?’
Kitty tightened her grip on the pendant and forced herself to meet his gaze again. ‘When the guards in the camp found out Papa had been a professor, they decided to make an example of him. They worked him hard. So hard he . . .’ Her eyes filled with fresh tears. She took a deep breath and went on. ‘They said he had died of natural causes, but a friend who’d been in the camp with him and managed to get released later told Mama the truth. Not long after, she got sick. But she could not afford the medicine she needed and so she died too.’ The star pendant slid from her grasp. She gave a ragged choking sound and pressed her hands to her face.
George stared at her open-mouthed, hardly able to believe what she’d just told him. Hitler marching into Poland and France and those other places was bad enough. But what he and the Nazis had done to Kitty’s parents and all those other innocent people . . . He shuddered, remembering again what Charlie had told him the day he’d signed up. That he had to go. Do his best to help try and stop him, even if it meant getting injured – or worse.
George swallowed. Charlie was right. They had to beat Hitler, whatever the cost. Because if the Nazis won, life wouldn’t be worth living. Not for anyone.
Kitty gave a loud sniff. ‘I . . . I think I would like to go upstairs now.’
He nodded and helped her back to her feet. When they reached the landing, he thought she might ask him to show her what he meant about the crown. But she walked straight past the study and disappeared into a room at the far end of the hallway without a backward glance.
As he stood there, wondering whether to go after her or not, a low whimper wound out from beneath the kitchen door. A twist of guilt curled up inside him. Poor Spud – he’d forgotten all about him. He darted over to the door and yanked it open. A black shape leapt up at him, drenching him with wet doggy licks.
‘Sorry, boy.’ Giving him a quick hug, George glanced back up the hall, but the door to Kitty’s room stayed firmly shut. He picked up Spud’s lead from the table and fixed it to his collar. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’
He shot a look into the study as they passed it. The crown sat in the shadows where he’d left it, the dragon crest silhouetted against the fading light. George stared down at his hands and frowned. Had he imagined the whole thing? He clenched his jaw. The only way to find out was to try picking it up again. But not now. Later. Once he’d taken Spud for his walk.
When they got outside, he took a deep breath and looked about him. The square was empty. They were probably all indoors listening to the latest news on the wireless. His stomach tightened. Would the Jerries come back and bomb London again tonight? And what about Charlie? If he was lying out there injured somewhere, could he survive another night in the open? A cold shiver ran through him.
Forcing the thought back down, he peered along the street. Best not go too far – he didn’t want to risk bumping into those coppers again. Besides, he’d promised Mister Regenbogen he’d look after Kitty. To the river and back would do. He tugged on Spud’s lead and set off at a brisk pace down the hill.
As he neared the junction, he spotted two men loitering in the doorway of an old warehouse. He was about to hurry on when he felt a sharp jerk on the lead. He looked down. Spud sat crouched on the pavement, ears back, teeth bared.
‘Come on, boy.’ He pulled on the lead, but the dog wouldn’t budge.
George glanced back at the men. The taller one had his back to them, but the other one . . . His stomach knotted at the sight of the ferrety-looking face peering out from the shadows. Bill Jarvis! They had to get out of sight and fast.
There was a narrow passage running down the side of the warehouse. He clamped a hand round Spud’s muzzle and dragged him into it, then took a deep breath and poked his head out into the street again.
The familiar mean tones of Bill Jarvis’s voice snaked towards him. ‘So yer want the job doen’ tonight, eh?’
The other man replied in a voice too
low and muffled-sounding for George to hear.
Jarvis grunted. ‘All right. But you’d better make it worth my while.’
There was a chinking sound and the rustle of paper as the taller man reached in the pocket of his coat, then held out his hand.
Jarvis snatched the money and began to count it. The other man pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his wrist, then turned his head and looked quickly out into the street.
As the evening sunlight fell on his sharp cheekbones and pale hair, George stifled a gasp. The poacher! What shady business were he and Jarvis up to now?
Jarvis gave a satisfied grunt and stuffed the money into the pocket of his grubby old farm breeches. ‘Are we done?’
The poacher drew back into the doorway and nodded.
‘Good. Then I’ll see yer at midnight at the place we agreed.’
The other man mumbled something in reply, then hunched his head and turned to go.
George shrank back into the alleyway and pulled Spud to him. A set of footsteps started up and paced quickly away down the street. He held back, praying the second man would head in the same direction as the first.
But the footsteps came their way instead. George’s mouth went dry. Heart thumping, he ducked into the shadows and held his breath. As the man drew closer, Spud twisted free and gave a low growl.
The footsteps ground to a stop.
‘Who’s there?’ Bill Jarvis’s crooked shadow loomed across the entrance to the alleyway.
George grabbed Spud’s muzzle again and froze. If either one of them made a sound now, he’d be on them quicker than a fox on a hen.
There was a loud hocking sound and a glob of something wet and glistening landed on George’s right boot. He gritted his teeth, willing Spud to keep still. Finally, after what seemed like an age, Jarvis moved off. George waited until his footsteps had died away, then slumped down and hugged Spud tight. What if Jarvis and the poacher had spotted him before he’d seen them? It didn’t bear thinking about. And what job could Jarvis be doing for the man?
A distant clock chimed the hour. Seven strikes. He’d better get back to the house – he shouldn’t have left Kitty on her own like that, especially what with her being so upset ’n’ all. And anyway, they ought to go and see the vicar like her granddad had said. Checking the coast was clear, he tucked Spud in behind him and set off back up the hill.
But when he got indoors again, there was no sign of Kitty. She must have gone to bed. George didn’t blame her; he was fair worn out himself. They might as well stay here tonight. They’d be safe enough. They could go over to Reverend Griffiths’ first thing tomorrow.
He let Spud off the lead and slipped into the kitchen to fetch them both a drink. His heart jolted at the sight of the bowls of half-eaten soup and the pulled-back chairs. So much had happened since he’d first met Kitty and her granddad. Good stuff like rescuing Spud and getting away from Bill Jarvis. But bad stuff too. The Jerries bombing London. Getting attacked by Scroggins and losing the ring. And then the news about Charlie . . . His chest squeezed again. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. And now Mister Regenbogen, carted off by the coppers like some kind of criminal. As for the crown and that business up at the mounds . . . His skin prickled. He still didn’t know what to make of all that.
A wet nose nuzzled the back of his leg. Spud peered up at him with questioning brown eyes.
‘Sorry, boy. You’re thirsty.’ George filled a bowl from the tap and put it down on the floor in front of him. He was probably hungry as well. His eye caught on a plate of scraps the old man had set aside earlier. He gave Spud them too.
Helping himself to a glass of milk, he tiptoed down the corridor and into the study. The sun had disappeared below the rooftops, filling the room with long shadows. He walked over to the desk and stared down at the crown. He was tempted to try picking it up again. But what if the same thing happened? He flexed his fingers. Best leave it until Kitty was around to see.
Tugging off his boots, he dropped down on the sofa. He swung his legs up and lay back against the cushions. He’d sleep here tonight. He didn’t fancy the idea of being back down in that museum again. A few moments later, Spud appeared at the door. He padded over, tongue lolling, and dropped down beside him on the floor.
‘Good dog.’ George reached out and raked his fingers through the dog’s dusty fur.
He lay there for a while, listening to the sounds around him: the buzz of a fly against the window pane; the creak of the floorboards as the air began to cool; the steady breathing of his loyal friend, Spud.
As his eyelids drooped and darkness rose up around him, the sounds grew louder and merged into one, beating against his ears like a set of giant wings. A shadow fell across him. He looked up. A great bird was circling above him. He watched open-mouthed as it spiralled steadily closer, its steel-tipped wings blocking out the light. He knew he should run; find cover. But his feet felt as if they were bolted to the ground, and try as he might he couldn’t lift them.
The bird was almost upon him now, its head angled down, its hooked beak ready to strike.
And then he saw it.
A ring. His ring, caught up in the bird’s razor-sharp talons.
He had to get it . . . he had to . . . As the bird swept down on him, George jumped up and made a swipe. The bird gave a piercing cry and veered sharply away. When it swung round again, the ring had gone. And now its talons were pointing straight at him, ready to rip his face to shreds.
He tried to dodge it, but the bird was everywhere. Switching and swooping; dipping and diving; dazzling him so he didn’t know which way to turn. And then, with an ear-splitting screech, it pinned back its wings and dived.
WOOF!
‘Wh-what?’ George jolted up and looked about him, hands and face clammy with sweat. It was a dream. Another stupid dream. He puffed out his cheeks. He was about to lie back down when a low whine sounded from across the shadow-filled room.
‘What is it, boy?’ He slid off the sofa and crept towards where Spud sat hunkered on all fours in front of the open door.
He reached out to pat him, but the dog dipped away and slunk out on to the landing. George hesitated. It was probably nothing. Still, best to check. He took a deep breath and followed him out. Spud stood hunched in the darkness at the top of the stairs, ears twitching, a menacing growl coming from the back of his throat. George tiptoed over to him, held his breath and listened.
Silence, except for the mad drumming of his own heart.
He shook his head, but as he made to turn back he heard it too. A scraping sound followed by a heavy thud, like a pair of boots hitting a wooden floor.
He froze. There was someone in the museum downstairs. A thief. It must be! Taking their chance while Kitty’s granddad wasn’t here. Well, they weren’t going to get away with it. Not if he could help it.
But he needed a weapon to defend himself with. Slipping back into the study, he ran his fingers along the bookshelves until he found what he was looking for – the smooth round surface of the axe head. He snatched up the stone and weighed it in his palm. It was heavy enough. It could wing whoever it was if his aim was true.
As he steeled himself, a creak of wood sounded behind him. His stomach lurched. Gripping tight hold of the stone, George spun round and prepared to strike.
‘No. Don’t. It’s me!’ A figure crouched in front of him, hands raised, eyes glittering with fear.
‘Kitty?’ George dropped the stone to his side.
Lowering her hands, she raised herself to her feet again and blew out a breath. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Shh! There’s a thief.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Downstairs, in the museum.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Scare them off, if I can. And if they get nasty . . .’ He held up the axe head again.
She shivered. ‘All right. Wait a moment.’ She darted over to the desk and came back a few seconds lat
er clutching a glass paperweight.
George gave her a quick nod and the pair of them slid out on to the landing.
Spud was still in position at the top of the stairs, back arched, eyes fixed on the hallway below.
George bent and whispered in his ear. ‘Stay here, boy. I’ll call if I need you.’ He patted him and glanced back at Kitty. ‘Ready?’
She nodded.
He took a deep breath and set off down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he peered along the hall into the gloom. The museum door was ajar. Signalling to Kitty to wait, he sucked in another breath and crept forwards, socks slipping on the tiles. When he reached the door, he pulled back against the wall and listened. There was someone in there all right. He could hear them moving things around. He turned and beckoned to Kitty.
She darted towards him, eyes wide, fingers gripped round the paperweight.
‘Ready?’ He mouthed the word.
She nodded.
Muscles tensing, George took another step forwards. He was about to push on the door, when a loud bang on the other side made him jump. It was followed by an angry-sounding mutter and the creak of footsteps. Coming their way . . .
Before he had a chance to act, Kitty was yanking him back down the hallway and bundling him into a cubbyhole beneath the stairs.
As she darted in behind him, the museum door juddered open. They held their breath and waited. The footsteps paused, then started up again, padding towards them down the hall. George raised the axe head in readiness.
And then it happened.
A piercing howl ripped through the air, followed by a sudden thundering of paws.
George leapt out just in time to see a black, wolf-like shape sail through the air and land half way along the hall. With a shocked cry, the intruder lurched backwards, then turned and dashed towards the front door. As he fumbled to open it, the wolf-shape slunk towards him, head down, hackles raised. The thief glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing white with fear. The creature drew back on its hind legs snarling. Then, with another blood-curdling howl, it sprang.
Buried Crown Page 13