Peter and the Sword of Mercy

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  At the moment, however, it was Revile who was uncomfortable, as he always was in this dark and drafty room—the lair of Baron von Schatten. Upon being summoned, Revile had, as always, let himself in, closed the door, then walked toward the candle. Now he stood by the tiny flame, his eyes darting about, trying to locate von Schatten. Revile knew he was lurking somewhere in the darkness.

  “Have you something to report?”

  Revile jumped at the voice, which sounded as though it came from the bottom of a deep well. Revile half-turned toward the sound, not wanting to look directly at the tall form of von Schatten, who stood only a few feet away, though he had made no sound approaching.

  “Yes,” said Revile. “A coded dispatch from Belgium.”

  “The Skeleton,” said von Schatten.

  “Yes,” said Revile. “It seems he won the cooperation of a museum curator. The Skeleton is on his way to Aachen, on the German border.”

  Revile, despite his discomfort, smiled, imagining what the Skeleton had done to the curator. Revile took great pleasure in the thought of other people’s pain.

  “And the tip?” said von Schatten.

  “He did not say. But I assume its recovery is imminent.”

  “It had better be,” said von Schatten.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Revile saw von Schatten shift position. He did this often. On those rare occasions when he stood still, his upper body moved in an odd manner, almost as if it were flickering, like the flame of the candle in front of Revile.

  “The coronation date has been fixed for the twenty-sixth of June,” said von Schatten. “By then we must have the tip.”

  “Yes, Baron.”

  “And by then we must also reach the vault. What progress can you report on that effort?”

  “It proceeds slowly, Baron. The rock—”

  “It must go faster.”

  “Yes, but the diggers are working to the point of exhaustion.”

  “Then work them harder,” hissed von Schatten. Revile flinched, feeling von Schatten’s breath on his neck.

  The breath was cold.

  “Yes, Baron,” said Revile, inching forward, toward the security of the candle flame. Von Schatten would get only so close to the flickering light.

  “If necessary, you will enlist more diggers,” said von Schatten.

  “We’re doing that, Baron. In fact we enlisted one last night. The one you recognized here at the palace.”

  “Good,” said von Schatten. “I shall visit him soon. Meanwhile, you will push the diggers harder. We must reach the vault before the coronation.”

  “Yes, Baron,” said Revile, feeling, despite his fear, a spasm of pleasure at the thought of the pain he would inflict on the diggers.

  “And you will remind our friend in Belgium of the urgency of his mission. The vault is useless to us without the tip.”

  “Yes, Baron. I’ll send the dispatch immediately.” Revile, eager to escape, turned toward the door to go, only to find his path blocked by von Schatten, whose dark eyeglasses reflected the flickering candle flame.

  “Do not disappoint me, Simon,” said von Schatten. “You would not want to disappoint me.” Von Schatten’s right hand reached out and touched Revile’s arm, and for an instant Revile felt the awful cold filling him. …

  The tip and the vault by coronation day. It was von Schatten’s voice, but it came from inside Revile’s mind.

  And then the hand pulled away, and the cold was gone. Revile almost cried out in relief.

  “I won’t disappoint you, Baron,” he said, stumbling toward the door.

  Yanking open the door, he stepped into the hallway and quickly closed the door behind him. Gasping for breath, he half walked, half ran away from von Schatten’s room, the unwelcome voice echoing in his mind.

  The tip and the vault by coronation day.

  CHAPTER 6

  MOLLY GOES LOOKING

  FOR THREE DAYS, Molly waited for James to return to her home, as he’d promised. In truth, she wasn’t looking forward to it. She intended to tell him that there was nothing more to discuss. Her ailing father, Lord Aster, could not possibly help james pursue his suspicions, and she was far too busy with her duties as wife and mother.

  The more she’d thought about everything he’d told her, the more she’d convinced herself that James had to be mistaken about von Schatten. Whatever James had felt in the palace—or thought he’d felt—there had to be some rational explanation for it. She suspected it was just a case of nerves—that James, feeling the pressure of his difficult palace assignment, had felt a cold draft and overreacted.

  She would never voice her beliefs to James, of course. She was too fond of him to hurt his feelings. No, she would simply tell him that she could not become involved. She did not want anything to disrupt her safe and tidy life. She definitely did not want her husband to know that James had come around talking of ghosts from the past. George would be furious if he knew his wife had even agreed to see James a second time.

  George would be even more furious if he knew that young Wendy was now pestering her mother with questions about James and the Starcatchers. Molly had sternly refused to answer these questions. She’d forbidden Wendy to say anything more about James’s visit, or to speak to anyone about it, especially her father. But Wendy was a stubborn child and deeply curious; Molly worried that, given the chance, she would try to learn more.

  So in Molly’s mind it was settled: when James returned, she would firmly, but politely, turn him away.

  When he failed to arrive the night after his initial visit, Molly sent a letter to his office by the morning post. She hoped for an answer by the evening post, but none came. There was none the next day either, nor the next.

  With each passing hour, Molly’s anxiety increased. James had seemed deeply upset, and had gone to the trouble of seeking her out. He was not the kind of person to simply drop the matter. If he’d changed plans, or decided he did not need her, he would have at least written to her. Why hadn’t he? Could it possibly be that he was, after all, in real danger?

  On the fourth day, she could stand it no longer. With George at work, Molly left the children with their nanny, announcing that she was meeting a friend for lunch. Instead, she went to Scotland Yard, taking the Underground from South Kensington to Westminster. This meant she rode the District Line, which was where the mysterious disappearances had been taking place. But she felt safe making the trip at midday, when the tunnels and platforms were fairly busy.

  Scotland Yard proved more of a challenge than Molly expected. She was a well-spoken lady from a good family, and she could be quite forceful when she wanted to be. Even so, it took her several hours to talk her way into the office of Chief Superintendent Blake, whom James had identified as his superior.

  Blake, a distinguished-looking man with thinning gray hair and piercing blue eyes, rose reluctantly from a cluttered desk. His greeting was polite enough, but his tone left no doubt that he was irritated by her intrusion.

  “And how may I help you, Mrs. Darling?” he said.

  “I am concerned about one of your inspectors,” she said. “James Smith.”

  She saw Blake react. It was subtle—a flicker of the eyes—and he recovered quickly. But it was there; Molly was sure of it.

  “And what is the nature of your concern?” said Blake.

  Molly had given considerable thought to what she would say. She didn’t want to reveal that James had told her about his spying mission in the palace, and she certainly didn’t want to say anything about Ombra or the Starcatchers. So she told Blake only that James was an old friend, that he had visited her home three nights earlier to discuss “an important matter.” He had promised to return the following night, and had failed to do so. She had posted several letters, and these had gone unanswered.

  Blake listened, nodding. When she finished, he said, “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Darling. But there is no cause for worry. Inspector Smith is fine. In fact, he is on holiday.�
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  “But…are you sure? He said nothing to me about going on holiday. And he promised to return to my—”

  “Yes, it was a bit sudden,” said Blake. “But overdue. Inspector Smith has been working very hard of late, and we…that is, I thought it would do him good to get away for a month or two.”

  “A month or two? This is very odd, Chief Superintendent,” said Molly. “I’m certain he intended to visit me. For him to just leave …”

  “Perhaps he changed his mind,” said Blake evenly, his eyes fixed on hers.

  Molly returned his gaze, saying nothing, thinking, Something is wrong.

  “Perhaps,” Blake continued, speaking slowly, “I could be more helpful to you if you were to tell me about this ‘important matter’ raised by Inspector Smith.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s…personal,” she said.

  “I see,” said Blake. He gestured at the clutter of papers on his desk and said, “Then if you’ll excuse me …”

  “Of course,” said Molly, moving to the door. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all,” said Blake, making no effort to sound sincere. As Molly reached the door, he said, “One last thing, Mrs. Darling.”

  Molly stopped, turned. “Yes?”

  “In this line of work,” said Blake, “we deal constantly with unfortunate people whose lives have been…disrupted.”

  Molly frowned, wondering what Blake was getting at.

  “I have found,” continued Blake, “that often people bring these disruptions upon themselves.”

  “What are you suggesting?” said Molly.

  “I’m suggesting,” said Blake, “that it’s best not to go looking for trouble. Because if you do, sooner or later, you will find it.”

  Molly blinked. “Are you threatening me, Chief Superintendent?” she said.

  Blake waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not,” he said. “I’m simply making an observation. I’m only thinking of your own well-being, Mrs. Darling. Yours, and your family’s.”

  Molly met his gaze, held it for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure you are,” she said. Without another word, she left the office, feeling Blake’s eyes on her until she closed the door.

  The visit had taken longer than she expected; night had fallen by the time Molly left Scotland Yard headquarters. She hurried to the Westminster tube stop, praying she would get home before George. She descended the steep stairway, paid her fare, and made her way to the District Line platform, joining the scattered dozens of passengers waiting for the next train to rumble out of the dark tunnel.

  She felt uneasy—in part because of Blake’s thinly veiled threat, and his obvious lie about James. What was he hiding? Where was James?

  But something else was bothering Molly: a feeling she was being watched. She glanced around the platform, seeing random groups of office workers and laborers, people on their way home at the end of a workday. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet there was something else, something she could feel, a sense of menace in the thick air around her. Molly shivered.

  Don’t be a ninny, she told herself. You’re imagining things.

  Still, she felt it.

  Molly glanced to her left. At the end of the platform, close to the tunnel mouth, stood a bobby wearing the traditional police uniform with its distinctive domed helmet. Molly walked toward him, stopping twenty feet away, ashamed of herself for her fearfulness, yet feeling safer nearer the bobby and farther from the other passengers. She waited there, alone, for a few minutes. Then she heard the low sound of a train coming from the blackness of the tunnel at the far end of the platform. It grew steadily louder, and the train hurtled into view, seemingly going far too fast before shuddering to a stop with an earsplitting screech of brakes. The front car was almost empty. A few feet away, the car’s gateman was sliding open its mesh gate. She started toward it.

  “Madam!” shouted a deep voice behind her.

  Molly turned. It was the bobby. He was coming toward her, a big man with a lush mustache.

  “Hold up, please, madam!” he said, still approaching.

  “But …” said Molly, gesturing toward the train. Down the platform, she saw a few people who’d gotten off and were heading for the stairs. The waiting passengers had all boarded, except for Molly.

  “Get on, madam, if you’re getting on,” said the gateman.

  Molly started toward the door.

  “Wait!” shouted the bobby, his voice deep and com-manding. Molly hesitated.

  “Suit yourself, madam,” said the gateman, as he began sliding the mesh gate closed.

  The bobby had reached Molly now. He reached out and grabbed her coat sleeve with a massive hand. Molly’s eyes met his and she knew—she knew—that she could not let him hold her there. She drew back her right foot and kicked him hard on the shin. As he bent over in pain, she yanked her arm free with all her strength, ripping her sleeve but freeing herself. She ran to the car, reaching the door just as the gateman was about to latch it closed. She pounded on the gate.

  “Let me in!” she said. “Please!”

  The gateman looked up from the latch; he had not seen the struggle between Molly and the bobby.

  “Make up your mind,” he muttered, reluctantly sliding the gate open. Molly lunged inside, gasping, her heart pounding. She looked back fearfully, but the gateman had already closed the gate; the bobby had not boarded the train. Molly looked out the window and almost screamed when she saw him on the platform only a few feet away, staring at her.

  The brakes hissed. The train started moving. The bobby’s eyes stayed on Molly as the car slid past. And then he was gone from sight, and the train, gaining speed, rumbled into the dark tunnel ahead.

  CHAPTER 7

  TROUBLING QUESTIONS

  CHEEKY O’NEAL AND HIS MEN recovered quickly from their ordeal at sea. They wolfed down the food brought to them by the mollusks—salted wild pig meat, root vegetables, breadfruit, and hearts of palm. They were less enthusiastic about other Mollusk delicacies, such as lizard kebab and boiled centipedes. But they ate well enough, and washed the food down with water from the island’s springs. In three days they appeared completely healthy.

  Fighting Prawn remained deeply suspicious of the sailors. He was convinced that they were lying about being shipwrecked, and he was determined to get them off the island. In the meantime, he reluctantly allowed them to roam about, although he had his warriors keep an eye on them.

  On their fourth morning on the island, the sailors left the village and wandered along the path leading to the drift-wood hut occupied by Peter and his mates, the Lost Boys—Slightly, Curly, Tootles, Nibs, and the twins. The hut was a ramshackle affair, held together with vines; parts of it were always falling down. When the sailors arrived, the boys, under the direction of Peter, were trying to repair a large section that had collapsed. At the moment, there was a good deal more arguing going on than repair as the boys tried to secure some poles with lengths of vine, which were forming an increasingly massive snarl.

  The sailors watched for a few minutes, amused. Finally O’Neal said, “What kind of knot is that?”

  The Lost Boys all looked at Peter, who looked at the snarl, then O’Neal.

  That’s a monkeyshank,” he said.

  O’Neal smiled. “Never heard of that one,” he said.

  “It’s a local knot,” said Peter.

  “I see,” said O’Neal. “I know a better knot. Want me to show you?”

  “No,” said Peter.

  “Yes!” chorused the Lost Boys.

  “Sounds like you’re outvoted,” said O’Neal, elbowing Peter aside and grabbing the vine in a massive hand. “Come on, men, grab those poles.”

  The other three sailors—DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson, stepped forward. In a few minutes the sailors had lashed the poles together expertly and had repaired the fallen section of the hut. When they were finished, O’Neal said, “Looks like your roof could use some work as well.”

  “
The roof is fine,” said Peter.

  “Except when it rains,” said Tootles. Everyone laughed except Peter.

  “Let’s have a look,” said O’Neal.

  For the next two hours, while Peter sulked in a nearby tree, the sailors worked on the hut—re-thatching the roof, reinforcing walls—all the while bantering with the Lost Boys, who were deeply impressed by the sailors’ skill. As the blazing sun rose high and the heat became intense, the men stopped to rest, sitting in the shade of the hut, entertaining the boys with stories of life at sea.

  After DeWulf had told a particularly exciting tale, Slightly said, “I’d like to go on a ship sometime.”

  Instantly, O’Neal sat up. “But you must have been on a ship,” he said to Slightly. “You came to this island on a ship, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Slightly, “but that was…” He stopped, cut off by a nudge from Nibs.

  “That was what?” said O’Neal.

  “That was…that was a long time ago,” said Slightly.

  O’Neal frowned, as if confused. “Well, it couldn’t have been too long ago, now could it?” he said. “You’re all just young boys. How could it have been so very long ago?” He looked around at the boys. They avoided his eyes.

  “It’s a mystery, is it, then?” said O’Neal. “There seem to be a lot of mysteries on this island. Boys who say they got here long ago and yet are still young boys. Another boy who can fly. Mermaids in the lagoon. And nobody here seems to be sick. Why, we ourselves came ashore just a few days ago, all sunburned and ailing, and look at us now.” O’Neal gestured toward the other three sailors, their once red and sun-blistered skin now glowing with healthy tans.

  “Yes, it’s a mysterious island,” O’Neal continued. “It’s almost as if”—he looked around the circle of boys—“as if there was something magical here. Maybe it’s in the water.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke, although there was no laughter in his expression. “But that’s silly, isn’t it?” he said. “How could there be magic in the water?” He looked around at the boys, waiting.