The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  Zoé nodded. Mr. Angel, a grizzled old fisherman, had ferried them back and forth to Caldey Island one cloudy August day. She remembered the squawking gulls and leaping fish, the salt spray on her face—and Ian, seasick, almost falling over the side.

  “If the fog lifts, we might even see the rooftops and turrets of Wythernsea,” added Granddad, his eyes bright.

  Wythernsea. Granddad’s stories about the island always sent chills up and down Zoé’s spine. A mile east of Caldey, Wythernsea had been famous for two things: its talented glassblowers and its Retreat for the Rescued, the Lost and the Shipwrecked. Wythernsea had a history of saving people lost at sea. Whenever there were shipwrecks, the islanders would jump into their boats and search for survivors, taking them to the Retreat to recover.

  Family legend had it that their ancestor, Captain Ezekiel Blackwood, crashed his ship, the Black Swan, on the rocks off Wythernsea in a storm in 1324. He and his crew were rescued, and when the ship was repaired and they were preparing to set sail, the townsfolk presented Captain Blackwood with a weathervane, “to protect him forevermore.” It was the very same weathervane that spun on the roof of Granddad’s cottage.

  Sadly, Wythernsea was submerged and washed away a quarter century later, when a hurricane struck the west coast of Wales. It was said that at low tide the castle turrets could sometimes be seen and church bells heard clanging. But Zoé knew that couldn’t really be true; Ian had told her that by now the bells would have corroded underwater. Even so, whenever they were near Wythernsea, she listened for them.

  “Er, Granddad,” she heard Ian say, “ever hear of anyone in Tenby called Mr. Marriott?”

  “There’s a Dr. Marriott on Crackwell Street,” replied Granddad, dipping his spoon into a soft-boiled egg. “Why do you ask?”

  Zoé and Ian exchanged wary looks.

  “Is he a local historian?” asked Zoé, thinking fast. “Ian’s, um, looking for historians to interview.”

  “For my history project,” Ian chimed in.

  That’s sort of true, thought Zoé. After all, Ian really did want to talk to local people about Tenby’s history.

  “Dr. Marriott’s a retired academic who runs an antiquarian bookshop,” explained Granddad. “I bought my illustrated edition of The Count of Monte Cristo from George last winter. A rather unorthodox character, but extremely knowledgeable.”

  George Marriott lived in Tenby! Zoé wasn’t sure what Granddad meant by unorthodox, but it sounded hopeful. They needed some unorthodox help right now.

  “Hmm, maybe I’ll drop by and see him,” said Ian, throwing Zoé a look of suppressed excitement. “Dr. Marriott probably knows some interesting history.”

  Once they helped clear the table and did the dishes, the two cousins grabbed their coats and took off into the Old Town.

  “It’s not really a lie, is it?” said Ian, snapping pictures of the more antiquated hotels and cottages they passed along the way. “Telling Granddad I needed to ask this George Marriott character about Tenby’s history?”

  “Not a lie. Well, it’s kind of a fib,” said Zoé, buttoning her shiny purple raincoat and flipping her collar up like a detective. In one hand she carried a tourist map of Tenby, with an X penciled in halfway down Crackwell Street. “But maybe that’s okay, because we made a pact not to tell him. Granddad’s sensitive,” she added, feeling protective of her grandfather, “and we don’t want to go scaring him.”

  “Totally right, best to keep him in the dark,” agreed Ian as they made their way along St. Julian’s. “Hey, look over there! A neon sign in Tenby’s historic district? How gauche is that? I’m surprised the town council allowed it.”

  Zoé’s mouth dropped when she saw the electric sign flashing the words ZIVAL’S OPTICAL SHOP, in orange and green letters, the O looking like an enormous eye. Inside the window a smaller neon sign flashed: WE ARE NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS—WELCOME, SPECIAL CUSTOMERS!

  “That wrecks everything!” she said, outraged. “How could they get away with it? Why didn’t they keep their quaint hand-carved sign?”

  The giant eye gave her a sudden queasy feeling, maybe because it made her think of Iris Tintern.

  “I had weird dreams last night, did you?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember,” said Ian. “None of us Blackwoods remember our dreams. It’s because we’re all concrete thinkers.”

  Zoé decided to let that one go. Ian’s parents were quirky egghead types who spent hours arguing over obscure topics like the beauty of fractals or how mapmaking shaped the course of history. Her mom said some of their kooky ideas were bound to rub off on Ian.

  “I keep telling myself I imagined those creatures,” he said. “But I didn’t, did I? We both saw them come out of the puzzle, right? And—” He came to a stop and swallowed hard, pulling his hood over his face, like a snail retreating into its shell. “Can we not talk about it right now?”

  “I think we should tell this George Marriott about them,” said Zoé. “I bet he saw them, too, and that’s why he wrote a warning note.”

  Whenever she thought about the creatures, she felt ripples of fear inside her stomach. They’d flown out the attic window, disappearing into the fog—but where had they gone? It made her skin crawl to think they might be hiding somewhere in Tenby.

  They turned onto a cobbled lane of elegant Georgian houses painted in soft greens and lavenders and yellows, overlooking Penniless Cove Hill and the harbor below. Moments later the two stood before a black lacquered door attached to a tall pink house facing the sea, and Ian took a rapid burst of photos—thirty at one go.

  Zoé thought the bookseller’s house charming, with its tiers of multi-pane bay windows and ornamental cornices. A plaque next to the door read: NO. 36½ CRACKWELL—GEORGE R. MARRIOTT, ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSELLER—HOURS BY CHANCE OR BY APPOINTMENT.

  “This is the guy,” she said with an air of certainty, lifting the elegant brass knocker. “I just know it.”

  A lean, bustling woman with crinkly hair opened the door and ushered them inside. Zoé knew her mom would go bananas over the hairdo. Her mother adored retro hairstyles, and this one seemed retro-retro.

  “Goodness, we weren’t expecting you quite this early,” said the woman, smoothing down her apron. “Never mind, children, this way.” Zoé and Ian exchanged confused looks but neither said a word as they followed her into a high-ceilinged room lined with shelves of books that looked supremely ancient—probably just as vintage as the old lady, thought Zoé.

  “I’m Mrs. Prosser, Dr. Marriott’s housekeeper. The professor will be with you momentarily. Make yourselves comfortable.” The door clicked softly behind her.

  “What was that all about?” said Zoé. “How did she know we were coming?”

  “Maybe Granddad phoned to say we were on our way,” said Ian, looking around with a puzzled frown. “Hey, there’s nowhere to sit in this place! No chairs, no sofa, just a bunch of old books. Like a scene out of Dickens.” Both Ian and Zoé were familiar with Charles Dickens because Granddad had collected all his books and often read out loud from them.

  Having nowhere to sit didn’t bother Zoé, who was standing before a gilded mirror checking out her reflection. Before leaving the cottage, she’d sprinkled on extra fairy-sparkle glitter, and now she could see a thousand tiny stars twinkling in her hair—and a few shining on her forehead and ears as well. The overall effect was sort of ethereal.

  While Ian thumbed through an old history book, Zoé began writing down impressions of Dr. Marriott’s house in her journal. Then, without warning, the door flew open and a bulky shape filled the doorway.

  “Hello and welcome,” boomed a deep voice. “A fine day for June, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, hello,” said Ian.

  With one glance Zoé took in the small walrus mustache, the corduroy blazer and the T-shirt with the words IDEAS MAY BLOSSOM—HAYFESTIVAL.COM. The man was bald save for tufts of hair that sprang over his ears, giving him the appearance of a disgruntled owl. In o
ne earlobe hung a tiny gold hoop. She hadn’t expected the earring.

  “Dr. George Marriott, at your disposal.” He smiled, revealing a row of teeth gleaming like pearls.

  They shook hands and Zoé liked him at once. Gazing down at his ink-stained fingers, she noticed a tattoo on one wrist: a fiery red Welsh dragon, so finely detailed she wondered if it was a stick-on.

  “Nice to meet you, Professor,” said Ian politely.

  “Only Mrs. Prosser addresses me as Professor these days,” said Dr. Marriott with a chuckle. “My academic career ended years ago. I prefer to be known simply as an antiquarian bookseller.”

  “You certainly have lots of old books,” said Ian. “Very impressive.”

  “Indeed. First editions are my specialty.”

  “Our grandfather is John Lloyd Blackwood and he sells antique furniture,” said Zoé. “But he likes antique books, too. You sold him The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s his favorite novel in the whole world.”

  “Ah yes, I’m acquainted with your grandfather. I sold him an early edition. Sublime illustrations,” said Dr. Marriott in what Granddad would call a cultured voice.

  They trailed him out of the room and down a hallway that smelled of old books and boiled cabbage. Ian started peppering Dr. Marriott with questions when he saw the old-fashioned wallpaper depicting schooners and merchant ships and British seaports. My cousin’s a real history geek, thought Zoé. She found his enthusiasm contagious, even when he got stuck on dates and other boring topics, and she admired his knack for unearthing obscure historical details.

  Once on the top floor, Dr. Marriott escorted them into another room crammed with seemingly endless shelves of books running from floor to ceiling. Through the bay windows, Zoé could see thick fog rolling past, enveloping the boats in the harbor.

  “Apologies for the chaos,” said Dr. Marriott as they sidestepped stacks of magazines and crates filled with books. “I’m in the midst of rearranging my office, but it seems to be taking ages. Mrs. Prosser refuses to clean the room—can’t say as I blame her.”

  Zoé had somehow imagined the grown-up George Marriott to be a frail, reclusive academic wearing rimless bifocals and a dark suit with patched elbows, his office filled with Victorian armoires and maps of galaxies pinned to the walls. The real version of George Marriott was much more intriguing.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Dr. Marriott, unfolding two wooden chairs. “The Tenby Observer said they were sending their finest junior reporters, and I see they’ve done just that.” He eyed Zoé’s journal. “I see, too, you have your notebook at the ready. Well done.”

  “I think maybe—” Ian began.

  Dr. Marriott rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Yes indeed, you strike me as inquisitive types.”

  More confused than ever, Zoé watched the professor sink into a captain’s chair behind a desk littered with sketches, photographs, scrunched-up wads of paper and cups of cold tea (she could see mold floating in one of them). At the edge of the desk, threatening to fall at any moment, was a hulking typewriter with most of its keys jammed.

  “But, Dr. Marriott,” she said, “we’re not junior—”

  “Here, my calling card,” he cut in, handing them each a crumpled business card. Then he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

  Zoé smoothed out the card. George R. Marriott, Professor Emeritus was embossed at the top in scrolled letters. The next lines read: Medievalist, Archivist, Seller of Antiquarian Books and Fine Manuscripts. She wondered what a medievalist did but felt too shy to ask. In smaller print, at the bottom, it read: Honorary Member of the Society of Astercôte. She had no idea what that meant, either.

  “Not to seem rude,” said Ian, surveying the room with a curious expression. “I was just wondering … where’s your computer?”

  Dr. Marriott grinned and Zoé watched his mustache flip up at the corners. “You young folks will think me daft, but I’m extremely attached to my outdated typewriter. Lovely old thing—a 1940s Underwood—and I refuse to replace it.” He gave an exaggerated wink that made Zoé giggle. “Here you go, kids, compliments of the house.” A candy bar landed in her lap. “Brain food, stimulates all that gray matter.”

  She tore off a wrapper that read: “Pimms’ Health Bar: If it isn’t Pimms, it isn’t healthy.” Definitely not from Maisie’s Sweet Shop, she thought, nibbling on it. It tasted a bit like cardboard (she’d once eaten cardboard on a dare), with a hint of coconut.

  Dr. Marriott rummaged through his desk drawers and whipped out a pen, twirling it like a miniature baton. Zoé couldn’t believe it. He was holding a fountain pen! “Before we get started, perhaps you’d like me to sign one of my books? Doctor Doom and the Starchild has just come out: a dystopian thriller for ages ten and up.”

  “You’re an author?” gasped Zoé. She’d met plenty of journalists and bloggers before, because of her mom’s profession, but this was the first time she’d met someone who’d actually written a book.

  He nodded modestly. “I was a keynote speaker at last year’s Hay-on-Wye literary festival.” His hand swept past a stack of books on his desk, all with colorful covers. “Some of my earlier novels.”

  Tilting her head, Zoé read the titles: Toxic, Gothic Werewolf, The Sea of Liquid Iron, and a fourth that was composed of weird symbols.

  “Wow, those are super titles,” she said. There were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask, like whether he’d seen creatures come out of the puzzle and if so, whether he’d written about them in his books.

  “Does the Captain’s Quill Bookshop sell your novels?” asked Ian.

  “I believe so,” replied the professor, “but tell you what, I’ll give you each a signed copy of Doctor Doom to take home with you.”

  “Super! Thanks, Mr. Marriott,” said Ian. “I love thrillers.” He paused, his expression growing serious. “But we didn’t come here for an autograph.”

  “And we’re not junior reporters,” said Zoé, blushing. She hadn’t meant to be dishonest, she’d just gotten a little carried away, charmed by this odd bookish professor and his fascinating old house.

  George Marriott’s eyebrows, fine as moth wings, shot straight up. “But the Tenby Observer rang yesterday and said—”

  “Sorry,” said Ian. “There’s been a mix-up.”

  “We wanted to ask you about a puzzle,” Zoé blurted out. “See, this totally off-the-wall Welsh girl dug it up in one of the tunnels here and sold it to our granddad and—”

  “And we think maybe there’s a hologram inside,” Ian cut in.

  “Or maybe not,” said Zoé, slightly annoyed. “Anyway, it’s a glass puzzle inside an ancient silver box and there’s a warning to stay away.”

  “Somebody drew this cool skull and crossbones,” added Ian, “and signed it ‘George R. Marriott: Hero, Inventor, Mastermind.’ ”

  “Hero, Inventor …” Dr. Marriott’s voice faded to a croak. “Oh, my giddy aunt,” he murmured, knocking over a cup of cold tea.

  Zoé leaned forward, suddenly anxious, seeing the stricken expression on his face. “It is you, isn’t it?” she said. “It has to be!”

  “Yes, I wrote the message,” said Dr. Marriott, his trembling freckled hand mopping up the spilled tea with the London Review of Books. “You’re saying that you actually have the glass puzzle? I mean … you know where it is?”

  “Well, the puzzle belongs to our granddad,” said Zoé. “But he said we could keep it for a while. We hid it inside a sea chest in his attic.”

  “After all these years,” murmured Dr. Marriott as he slumped back into his chair looking distraught. “I never imagined.” He tugged nervously on his gold earring. “This is all rather devastating.…”

  “I really liked your message,” said Zoé, trying to cheer him up.

  “The skull and crossbones were nicely drawn,” added Ian.

  “Thank you. I was about your age when I wrote that warning. The message was intended to be a fierce and proper Keep
Out notice.”

  Zoé thought she detected a guarded excitement in the professor’s eyes, reminding her of Granddad when he talked about the past.

  “It was fierce, all right,” she said, “like something a pirate would write in the tunnels to protect his treasure! You know, to scare robbers away.”

  She could almost see Dr. Marriott as a young boy, his pockets stuffed with sweets, sauntering down the streets of Tenby in a porkpie hat, reading Sherlock Holmes and whistling bits of jazz.

  “But you spelled a couple of words wrong.” Zoé clapped one hand over her mouth. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that to a professor emeritus.

  Dr. Marriott didn’t appear insulted. “Always was a dreadful speller.” He threw her a crooked smile.

  Ian cleared his throat politely. “So … where does the glass puzzle come from?”

  “And why did you bury it in a tunnel?” asked Zoé.

  She watched the antiquarian bookseller grip the arms of his chair, as if bracing himself for a roller-coaster ride. “Would you like to hear a cracking good tale?” Not waiting for an answer, Dr. Marriott launched into his story. “The puzzle goes back to my uncle and guardian, Wyndham Marriott.”

  “Wyndham Marriott’s not your brother?” said Zoé, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

  “Heavens no, I was an only child. Wyndham raised me from the age of eighteen months, after my parents’ untimely death on a plane to Madagascar. They were anthropologists, you see. Traveled all over the globe studying primitive societies.”

  Zoé sat very still, absorbing every word, thinking how she was an only child, too, and her father had disappeared when she was little. But her father was merely in absentia, as her mom often said, while George Marriott was a true orphan. She’d never met a real orphan, having only read about them in books, and now here was one sitting next to her. In her opinion, orphans were a cut above the average kid: inventive, fearless and resourceful, battling against all odds to survive.

  “Wyndham was an ornithologist and a marvelous illustrator of birds,” Dr. Marriott continued. “He smoked Woodbines, two every evening, and smelled of Wildroot hair oil and peppermints. I was immensely fond of him.”