“Really?” asked Clarissa, looking confused.
“Umm, yeah, I think so. You were in London to meet an agent.”
Clarissa thought about this, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, yes! I remember, we bumped into each other on Oxford Street.” She looked at Chris and smiled. “Amazing,” she said.
Chris smiled proudly. “And yesterday at midday you were sitting at your desk, writing.”
Sir Bentley gave a sigh of relief. “Well, thank goodness,” he said. “I couldn’t have imagined you having anything to do with this.”
“Did you read what I wrote?” Clarissa asked Chris, teasing him.
Chris looked embarrassed. “I only saw a sentence, that was it. And I won’t say anything, I promise.”
Clarissa smiled. “That’s okay—I would have done the same myself, I’m sure.”
“What have I missed?” said Rex, suddenly waking up from his trance.
“Welcome back, Rex. Chris was just telling us what he saw.”
“Waitress, going to a meeting, writing yesterday lunchtime?” asked Rex, despondent.
Sir Bentley nodded. “Yes, well done.”
“Guess you didn’t need me. Psychic Sam already did all the work.”
“You did well,” said Sir Bentley, reassuring him. “We needed you both to make sure the details were correct.”
Rex shrugged, annoyed.
“Clarissa, we’re going to have to go,” said Sir Bentley, placing the mug back on top of one of the stacks of books on the coffee table. “Are you sure you won’t come with us? You’ll be much safer on the mainland—we don’t know what we’re up against.”
Clarissa shook her head. “Thank you, but you know I only leave the island for the Antarctic Ball, and that’s only because I’m patron to the Children’s Welfare Charity. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be quite happy to never leave. I’ll take my chances here.”
“Very well,” said Sir Bentley. “I know how stubborn you are, so I won’t try to change your mind, but please be vigilant. If you see anything suspicious at all, no matter how small, call me immediately and I’ll get people over to you straight away. And I’m going to send a team over to install cameras, which we’ll keep an eye on.”
“Very well, thank you,” said Clarissa, showing them all to the front door. “It’s been lovely to meet you both,” she said, turning to Chris and Rex, “and please, take care of yourselves.”
“I won’t let anything happen to them,” said Sir Bentley, guiding the boys out in front of him. “I learned my lesson a long time ago.”
• • •
An hour and a half later, the helicopter carrying the boys and Sir Bentley landed gently back on the tarmac of the Battersea heliport. Sir Bentley stepped out and down the stairs that had been wheeled up to the door. The boys followed him into the waiting car.
“Hungry?”
The boys nodded eagerly.
“Good, me too,” said Sir Bentley. “Napoli, John.”
“Yes, sir,” said John, starting up the engine.
• • •
The line of cars pulled up outside an unassuming white-fronted restaurant in a small cobbled plaza, and Chris, Rex, and Sir Bentley waited as Ron jumped out, followed by a group of guards from the car behind them, and went inside to make inquiries. After a couple of minutes Ron reappeared and, after a quick scan of the street, motioned that the coast was clear. Chris and Rex stepped out of the car and followed Sir Bentley in to find a short, white-haired man in a chef’s suit waiting for them.
“Signor Bentley, welcome!” he said in a strong Italian accent. “We have your room ready for you at the back.”
“Thank you, Giovanni,” said Sir Bentley, motioning for the boys to follow him toward the back of the restaurant.
They entered the room and took a seat at a long table covered in a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Giovanni handed each of them a menu.
“I recommend the Giovanni special,” he said to the boys. “Best pizza outside of Italy.”
The boys nodded eagerly, their mouths watering at the thought.
“Excellent work, boys,” said Sir Bentley, as Giovanni left the room. “You did very well with Clarissa. After we’ve eaten, we’ll go to Lady Magenta’s, and then you can head back to Myers Holt and relax.”
“Does she live near here?” asked Chris.
“Not far, just off Park Lane. I’ll warn you now, she’s a rather—how shall I put it?—eccentric woman. Quite different from Clarissa.”
“Eccentric?” asked Rex.
“Yes, you’ll see what I mean. She’s also rather less agreeable to us turning up. Lady Magenta is known for her dinner parties, and apparently we’re interrupting her preparations for one she’s hosting tomorrow night.”
“Was she a pupil at Myers Holt too?” asked Chris.
“No, a teacher. And a very good one, though not too popular with the students, I’ll admit. . . . Ahhh, Giovanni!”
“I hope you’re hungry!” said Giovanni, carrying in the three most enormous pizzas the boys had ever seen.
• • •
After lunch, stuffed full of pizza and cheesecake, they drove to Lady Magenta’s home in the prestigious neighborhood of Mayfair. Sir Bentley stopped the boys on the steps of the grand apartment building and gave Rex a warning look.
“No comedy this time, please, Rex. You both need to be on your best behavior.”
“Moi?” said Rex, pretending to look insulted. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Hmmm,” said Sir Bentley, tutting gently. He led them through the revolving door, across the foyer, and into the elevator.
The doors of the elevator opened out onto the penthouse floor, and Chris walked into the marble entrance hall behind the line of security guards led by Ron and John. The men divided themselves into two groups, flanking the doorway, and Sir Bentley stepped forward between them and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later a butler, distinguished-looking and in full uniform, opened the door and tipped his head in greeting.
“Lady Magenta is expecting you; please follow me,” said the butler, leading them across a corridor and into an enormous room, bigger than the whole of Chris’s house.
“I wish I brought my sunglasses,” whispered Rex to Chris, as they both looked round at the gold curtains, gold wallpaper, and grand oil paintings that hung in ornate gold frames. Gold urns, filled with flowers and cascading ivy, stood between the heavy gold curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, and hanging from the center ceiling was a gold (in keeping with the theme) chandelier, bigger than a car and lit with hundreds of lights that danced over the marble floor.
At the far end of the room was a long dining table, covered in swaths of fabric, and two figures standing on either side of a tall, thronelike chair, their backs to the arriving guests.
“This looks cheap,” said a clipped voice coming from the other side of the chair. A piece of dark blue fabric was thrown onto the floor. “This is unbearably tacky,” continued the voice, and another piece of fabric was discarded. “And this . . . monstrosity of a dress . . . I wouldn’t even wipe my floors with it,” said the voice, throwing the fabric at the sheepish-looking woman on the right.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” said the lady. “If you give us five minutes, I’ll bring in some other samples we have.”
“You’ve wasted enough of my time as it is,” said the voice. “Get out.”
“But—” said the woman.
“I said, get out!”
A hand appeared from the other side of the chair, shooing the woman away. The woman, looking as if she was about to cry, knelt down and gathered the dresses from the floor as her companion scooped up the ones on the table. They turned and rushed out with their heads down.
The butler turned to Sir Bentley and motioned for him to stay where he was. He approached the throne slowly.
“Lady Magenta?”
“What is it, Alfred?” said the voice, irritated.
/> “Sir Bentley and guests are here to see you as arranged.”
“I’ve changed my mind; I’m far too busy. Tell them I’m out. Make something up—a charity function or something,” she said.
“They’re standing behind you,” whispered Alfred, leaning over.
“For goodness’ sake, Alfred,” she said, showing no signs of embarrassment. The chair was pushed backward and from it emerged a tiny woman with an elaborate red beehive that added some two feet to her petite frame. The hair had been pinned so tightly that it looked like she was standing in a wind tunnel, her skin taut and her eyes pulled back so far that they looked like two cat’s eyes.
“Arabella, how are you?” said Sir Bentley, stepping forward.
“Busy, Bentley, terribly busy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our meeting today—I still have nothing to wear for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“This won’t take long,” said Sir Bentley firmly.
“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “The Duke of Belfry will be attending, and everything must be perfect. We can do this another time. Alfred, call Dior and ask them to come round immediately with some options for my dress tomorrow.” Lady Magenta walked over to an armchair and took a seat beside a pot of tea. She poured herself a cup without offering one to anybody else, and took a sip.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alfred, hurrying out of the room.
“Arabella, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” said Sir Bentley.
“No, Bentley, I don’t think you understand the gravity of my situation. I have less than twenty-four hours before I host one of the most talked-about social functions of the year, and I have nothing to wear.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear enough when we spoke,” said Sir Bentley, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. “Your life may be in danger, not to mention Clarissa’s, my own, and the prime minister’s.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said Lady Magenta calmly, taking another sip of her tea. “And besides,” she said, looking up, “I don’t think I need to remind you that I am well versed with all the techniques of the Ability. I could block a thousand little brats trying to use it on me at the same time. They wouldn’t get far.” She looked over at Chris and Rex for the first time and gave them what might have been a frown, though her face, pulled back as far as it was, barely moved.
Chris, however, didn’t react, his face blank as he stared intently at the woman.
Sir Bentley sighed. “I can see we’re getting nowhere. Perhaps we can visit at another time that’s more convenient.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Magenta dismissively. “Call Clara and she’ll see if I can fit you in.”
“Very well. Good day, Arabella. Come on, boys,” said Sir Bentley, leading Chris and Rex out of the room. He pressed the button for the elevator.
“Honestly, that woman is infuriating,” said Sir Bentley, mostly to himself. “It’s enough to make me wonder whether she could have something to do with this whole mess.”
“She doesn’t have anything to do with it,” said Chris.
“I just can’t understand why—what did you say?” said Sir Bentley in surprise, looking round at Chris.
“She didn’t have anything to do with it. I used the Ability when you were talking to her and checked. She hasn’t seen Cecil Humphries or Richard Baxter in years. And she was at a racecourse having lunch with a group of ladies yesterday.”
Sir Bentley looked at Chris with a stern expression on his face. For a moment Chris thought he might be in terrible trouble, until Sir Bentley started chuckling.
“Quite unorthodox, Christopher . . . but brilliant. Well done,” he said, patting Chris on the head. Rex looked annoyed that he hadn’t thought of doing this himself.
“I wonder how she didn’t notice,” said Sir Bentley. “Your Ability must be incredibly strong—if she had heard the whisper of ringing in her ears, she would have blocked you immediately. Very impressive, young man.”
Chris smiled, proud of himself.
“This doesn’t, however, bring us any closer to solving the mystery of who is organizing these attacks,” said Sir Bentley, suddenly looking serious. “I’m afraid we still have work to do—what work, however, I’m still not sure. I have men watching everybody we think is at risk, but until something new presents itself, it seems like we’re back to square one.”
• • •
From the window of a hotel room opposite, Dulcia watched Sir Bentley leave the building with Chris and Rex and get into the car that was waiting for them. She was fuming.
“So, he thinks he can use the Ability to help him,” she said, having heard the entire conversation from Mortimer and Ernest, who were standing dutifully at her side, using their Ability to listen in on Sir Bentley. “We’ll have to speed up our plans; I can’t risk Bentley Jones finding out anything. Our surveillance is over, boys; pack your bags. Tomorrow you will take care of Lady Magenta. There’s nothing we can do about the others; we’ll have to wait until the Antarctic Ball—it’s the only time that we know the rest of them will be in public. Hopefully, there’ll be enough distractions for us to carry out our work and get out before they notice us. In the meantime we’re going to have to tread with care. Don’t you dare ruin this for me.”
“Yes, mother,” said Mortimer and Ernest in unison.
• CHAPTER FOURTEEN •
Thursday, November 29
At eleven o’clock the next morning, while Chris was sitting in his think tank being guided round a castle by Cassandra on an elaborate treasure hunt set in medieval times, Mortimer was walking into Astell’s of Knightsbridge, a boutique hairdressing salon in South West London. Inside the immaculate white surroundings, the buzz of mindless chatter filled the room as women, seated in two long rows of white leather chairs, discussed their forthcoming holidays and the latest celebrity gossip. Mortimer walked up to the gleaming, curved counter and took a sweet from the glass bowl.
“Yes?” said the receptionist, giving Mortimer a disapproving scowl.
“I’d like my hair cut, please,” said Mortimer.
“We’re not a children’s hairdresser,” said the woman dismissively, picking up the ringing phone. “Astell’s of Knightsbridge, how can I—”
Mortimer leaned over the counter and hung up the phone.
The woman glanced up at Mortimer with a look of astonishment. “What are you—”
Mortimer placed four fifty-pound bills on the counter.
“This should cover it,” he said. “Now, where do you want me to sit?”
The woman opened her mouth but was lost for words.
“Over there?” said Mortimer, pointing to an empty chair at the back of the room.
The woman thought for a moment, then nodded, taking the money from the counter.
“Good. I’ll have a lemonade,” said Mortimer, walking away. The receptionist watched as he took his seat and picked up a magazine in front of him.
Moments later, after a huddled whisper among staff, which Mortimer watched from the corner of his eye, a young woman dressed in a starched white uniform approached him.
“Hi, welcome to Astell’s of Knightsbridge,” said the woman, slightly apprehensively. “How can we help you today.”
“I want my hair cut,” said Mortimer to the reflection of the woman in the mirror in front of him.
“Do you have anything special in mind?” asked the woman, following her well-rehearsed script.
Mortimer shrugged. “No, whatever you think . . . just take your time,” he said, looking over at the clock on the wall.
“Errmm, well, there’s not really too much to do,” said the woman, running her hands through Mortimer’s hair. “How about a trim, some highlights, and a side parting?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” said Mortimer, distracted, turning to watch as the front door opened and Lady Arabella Magenta and her enormous red beehive entered the salon.
“Lady Magenta, how are
you?” said the receptionist loudly, with an enthusiasm that had been completely absent when she had greeted Mortimer.
“Yes, very well, thank you,” said Lady Magenta, as a team of staff suddenly dropped what they were doing and rushed over to attend to their best customer. One of the staff took the enormous fur coat that Lady Magenta was wearing from her shoulders as another fetched the special fennel tea that they kept in the back room especially for her and put the kettle on to boil.
“Your favorite seat is ready for you,” said one of the women, as another hairdresser hurriedly shooed a customer out of the chair behind Mortimer. The surprised customer, her hair wet and only cut halfway around, was dragged over to the back of the room, where she was sat on a plastic chair in the corner to wait.
Lady Magenta took her seat and gave clipped orders to the senior stylist, who was smiling and nodding frantically at everything she was told to do.
“. . . and don’t you dare leave a strand out of place. Understand?”
“Yes, of course,” said the stylist, gently removing the first of a hundred clips that kept Lady Magenta’s hair in place.
Mortimer watched attentively and paid no attention to his own hairdresser, until she eventually gave up trying to make small talk and attended to him in silence. Meanwhile Mortimer kept his eyes on Lady Magenta carefully as her enormous hair was flattened and each strand meticulously painted with a red dye before being wrapped in a mass of silver foils. Finally the last strand was twisted and folded into the foil, and a large dryer was wheeled over and lowered over Lady Magenta’s head. Mortimer watched the woman flip the switch, and through the noise of the salon he made out the whirring of the machine as it came to life. His eyes went blank and he stared intently, completely oblivious to everything else happening around him.
• • •
Lady Magenta felt the heat of the dryer intensify, and she settled back into her seat, as far as the enormous contraption on her head would allow her to go. The sound around her had been completely replaced by the loud humming of the machine on her head, and she took advantage of the relative peace to run through her checklist for the evening’s event.
The Ability (Ability, The) Page 17