The Thief's Apprentice

by Bryan Methods

  “Won’t they punish your brother if it keeps going wrong?”

  “My brother is but one cog in a machine. If anything, he is the last one they ought to suspect, since the goods never reach his hands.”

  I took a sip of my tea while I tried to understand all this. As usual, Mr. Scant’s Darjeeling was brewed perfectly. One thing continued to bother me. “But . . . if you’re stopping him from doing this forgery, doesn’t that mean his debt will never be repaid?”

  Mr. Scant let out a breath. “Yes. He may even resent me for it. But I would sooner bear his scorn than let him become something he emphatically is not—a true criminal.”

  “Why doesn’t he run away?”

  “He is watched. His family too. The Woodhouselee Society has arranged a good life for Reginald’s daughter, Elspeth, which placates him better than any opium pipe. She has a place at a superlative school in France—under the Society’s watch, as Reginald well knows. Young Elspeth is clever but troubled. She has a powerful gift for mathematics . . . but finds other people more of a puzzle. When they took her away, Reggie grew lazy and compliant. Which leaves me to right his wrongs. Or, more precisely, to stop them from ever happening.”

  “But this can’t go on forever, surely? Whoever does the stealing in the first place, they’re going to want to . . . to get you. If you’re standing in their way, they’ll set a trap!”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid that can’t be denied. Which is how we arrive at the man you saw me subdue in the night, an agent of the Woodhouselee Society. My greatest blunder—I noticed him following me and took flight. When he was able to track me even to the roof of this building, I realized he had to be dealt with. I subdued the man, but as I was carrying him down through the house, he displayed the ability to dislocate his joints and free himself from his restraints. Remarkable, really. We fought for a second time, which was where you spotted me. He is now a very long way away, and not likely to betray any secrets—even if he has them.”

  “You didn’t do him in?”

  The sneer on Mr. Scant’s lips suggested he didn’t appreciate the question. “No. No, I did not ‘do him in.’ I saw no need. I simply sent him on a long voyage to Shanghai.”

  “In China?”

  “The only Shanghai of which I am aware. The Woodhouselee Society wants to hawk its goods there, so I thought I should send him to negotiate in person.”

  “Gosh. China. I’ve never been further than Edinburgh. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get so far from home. I can’t imagine being stuck in a crate all that time . . .”

  “Who said anything about a crate?” Mr. Scant said. “Though a crate was involved, as it happens.”

  “What would have happened if he had run away instead of fighting you?”

  “I may be getting old, Master Oliver, but I could still easily catch up to the likes of him, and he knew it. On the other hand, a few years ago, I would have noticed him regain consciousness instantaneously. A sign of age, I fear.”

  I gave a little smile. “Are you losing your touch?”

  Mr. Scant did not smile back. That is to say, he carried on not smiling. But he attained an even more profound level of frostiness, probably a new depth for mankind. “That may very well be the case,” he said. “I would not have been so careless even three years ago. And if I must still wage this little war of mine three years from now . . . who can say if I will still be capable? One mistake can mean incarceration, disgrace, or worse.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “That, of course, is where you come in, Master Oliver.”

  “Where I . . . ?”

  “I am not certain it is possible—or wise. But the reason I asked you to accompany me, and the reason I am now taking you into my confidence, is the increasing likelihood that I will need assistance.”

  I swallowed. “Do you mean . . . something like an apprentice?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “How would we even begin?”

  “We begin,” said Mr. Scant, “with your mind.”

  VI

  The Valkyrie

  new life began, disappointingly, with study.

  The most important thing, Mr. Scant told me, was to understand the world and how it worked. To look at things differently, always with a goal in mind. And with his guidance, I saw how the dull equations in school could be the keys to understanding one of Mr. Scant’s machines, or how Mr. Ibberts’s desert-dry history lectures were full of clues to what drove rich and powerful men. Mr. Scant would ask me to learn about a particular sculptor or painter, and if Father didn’t have a book about him, I’d find one in the school library during break.

  My friends were a bit nonplussed by this new behavior. Chudley even tutted at me, saying he thought I cared more about books than rugger these days. But I swatted him about the head and made a point of proving him wrong during the next practice, because Mr. Scant would surely want me to improve my strength and stamina next. It could do no harm to get a head start.

  To my surprise, Mr. Scant was displeased when I told him about the encounter. “Why strike him?” he asked.

  “He didn’t mind. We’re friends. We’ve been friends since we were five years old and he taught me the secret to stopping Big-Jaw Watts in the year above from stealing my lunch was to stomp on his toes. We’re still friends.”

  “When we spoke about your mind, that did not mean only knowledge. Understanding the contents of books is well and good, but understanding people is vastly more important. You must be able to perceive what others want from you and then please them. To make them enjoy your presence. Then, you can learn from them—and they will know if you are insincere. I advise you to practice.”

  “So I should make people like me the way they like you?”

  “Don’t try my patience, Master Oliver.”

  I walked away from him muttering, but didn’t dare say anything more. Now that I no longer suspected that he was on the brink of murdering me, I had relaxed around Mr. Scant, but the possibility remained that he could decide I ought to be silenced.

  So I decided to heed his advice. The next day, I told Chudley I was sorry for hitting him. I even did it in front of Bert Simmons rather than waiting for a quiet moment. Chudley looked a bit confused, and I didn’t blame him: nobody ever said sorry at school unless a teacher was making them. “Don’t be soft,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not getting too big for your boots.”

  “Because I was reading books?”

  “No—because you . . . I dunno, you started looking at us funny, is all. All smug.”

  “Well, I . . . That wasn’t my intention. And I shouldn’t have hit you.”

  “Barely noticed it. What, should I cry every time the wind makes a weed brush against me?”

  I laughed. “Weed, is it? And who won last time we arm-wrestled?”

  “Er, if I recall correctly, that was you and Richards and Macclesfield all at once.”

  “Still counts.”

  “It really doesn’t!”

  Going back to normal was as simple as that.

  To my surprise, the newspapers made little fuss about the return of the painting. After a few days, a notice deep in the Twopence Herald mentioned damage to the gallery, but the reporting was simple and perfunctory. Mr. Scant said that because the papers didn’t understand why a thief would return a painting, they didn’t know how to write the story properly and so avoided it.

  Every so often I would meet Mr. Scant’s eye, and a small movement of his head in the direction of the garden would let me know to meet him that evening in the Ice House. By and by I began to grow familiar with his different machines and their functions: the one for sharpening the blades of the claw, which I wasn’t allowed to go near; the one for coiling rope extremely tightly; the one for making canisters that let out smoke or sticky paste. Mr. Scant had given names to most of these machines—Martha, Bessie, Henrietta—which was very like what Father did with his engines at work. What would Father have though
t, I wondered, if he knew all this was going on under the surface of his property? Indeed, how much of this equipment had been quietly purloined from Father’s stores? I dared not ask.

  After about a week and a half of this, I received the nod after my tutoring session. I met Mr. Scant in the garden and entered the Ice House, chirping to him about the latest set of chemical elements I had committed to memory. He met this accomplishment with a hand held up for silence.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, as Mr. Scant hurried down the rickety stairs.

  “The time we have been preparing for is at hand,” he said, meeting my eye only for a moment. “As you know, King Edward passed away earlier in the year, and His Majesty King George has not yet been crowned. For some months, preparations have been underway for his coronation.”

  “Right,” I said. “We had a lesson with Mrs. Bell about how even if he won’t be crowned until next year, the history books still say he reigned from 1910. Some of my teachers talk about the coronation so much we think they expect to get an invitation.”

  “Shortly after the ceremony, His Majesty the King is to travel to India. There are parts of His Highness’s empire where his subjects may be confused about the power that a man from some strange foreign land holds over their lives, so a second coronation is to be held there. Now, as you may know, the crown itself must never leave this fair land. Yet His Highness is expected to wear one for this appearance abroad. To resolve this dilemma, a wholly new crown has been made, affixed with six thousand and more precious jewels.”

  “They stole it?”

  “Ah, now, that I think would be a task beyond even our little Woodhouselees. An object worth tens of thousands of pounds and meant for the head of a king is not put on display like a mere oil painting.”

  “But didn’t you once steal the Sword of Mercy? That’s one of the Crown Jewels.”

  “Don’t forget, the Society did the initial stealing. I did the returning. But yes, I held Curtana for a time, before I could return it. All I can say of the matter is that iron bars work well for stopping the theft of crowns. They are of less use in protecting long, thin objects.”

  “So you got to hold something from the Crown Jewels!”

  “Only until I could be rid of the thing. In any case, stealing the new crown is simply beyond the resources of the Society. Of interest to them, and therefore to us, are the magical rituals associated with the Crown Jewels. There have been kings in this land since the times of dragon-slaying and swords in stones and suchlike, if we believe the legends. As a result, the king’s advisors in such matters have taken an old book of magic—the thoroughly Christian kind, you understand—out of a secret part of the British Library, so that its spells of protection could be cast upon the crown. That is a prize our adversaries could scarcely resist.”

  “A book of magic?”

  “A grimoire, they call it. A very old book entitled The Grand Song of Solomon. I mentioned before that the Woodhouselee Society associates with specialists in old magic, did I not? At least one of them is a magician secretly employed by the Palace to conduct any rituals they feel they need.”

  “The Royal Family believes in all this?”

  “Likely not. The whole affair is probably considered part of the crown’s . . . manufacturing process, if you will. But is a blessing from a magical book any stranger than the other rituals that happen at the coronation?”

  “I suppose not,” I said. “So they mean to steal this book?”

  “Indeed. The advisors stored it at the library at St. James’ Square after the ritual was completed, where it awaits return to the British Library. The Society was able give my brother access to the tome until the copy was ready, and now they have made their switch.”

  “So the book’s already been stolen?”

  “Indeed. I confess, we are late to act. This has been an unusual crime for the Society—no infiltration of a museum or gallery took place, so my source could not forewarn me. What pains Reginald went to in reproducing an entire grimoire, I cannot say. But since a member of the Society was officially charged with keeping the book, Reggie is not a criminal until the original is sold. So the sale is what we must prevent.”

  As Mr. Scant finished speaking, a sound startled me, sudden and strange: Mr. Scant had pulled his claw on with such force that it made a thick, clanking noise. A few moments later, I realized what this meant.

  “We’re going now?” I said.

  “Any later and I risk not being able to make proper arrangements for dinner. And as you know, I take my duties seriously.”

  The location of the secret headquarters of Mr. Scant’s enemies made squeezing in a death-defying operation before dinner surprisingly feasible.

  “Mrs. McBunty’s house?” I said, pointing to the property directly opposite ours.

  “Indeed. The dear old grimalkin knows nothing of it, of course.”

  “And . . . they don’t know you live here?”

  “Of course not. That would make life extraordinarily difficult.”

  “Then . . . you chose to work for Father because he lived in the house opposite?”

  “Where better?”

  “Mr. Scant, sometimes I think you might be a lunatic.”

  “I am certain this isn’t the first time you’ve thought so, Master Oliver. But the house itself is not the Woodhouselee Society’s meeting place. It is simply one of several entrances. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  My mission, Mr. Scant told me firmly, was to stay watchful and out of sight as we entered the tunnel under Mrs. McBunty’s house. According to Mr. Scant, the members of the Society would do far worse things than the guards in the portrait gallery if they caught me. And, he informed me with his usual ruthlessness, my being caught here would also compromise Mr. Scant’s mission—whereas, in the gallery, he could have replaced the painting no matter what became of me.

  “Glad to know where we stand,” I said.

  Though the house in question stood opposite my family’s own, that did not mean it was within a stone’s throw. Properties here were large, ringed by high walls meant to deter undesirables—such as Mr. Scant and myself, I supposed. But garden walls were no deterrent to the Ruminating Claw and his apprentice: Mr. Scant lifted me to the top of the McBunty residence as though I weighed no more than Father’s newspaper. I dropped down behind a convenient rhododendron, Mr. Scant so close behind that he nearly landed before I did.

  “I need you within arm’s reach at all times,” he whispered, pulling his scarf up to cover his face and supplying me with one too. As I wrapped it around my neck, he added, “But if we see the Valkyrie, run and hide immediately. Now, silence from this moment on.”

  The trouble with this silence, of course, was that it did not allow me to ask the very pressing question of who or what this Valkyrie might be. But Mr. Scant had already turned away and commenced creeping toward the house. To gain access, we had to scale a chestnut tree whose branches grew close to a balcony. Mr. Scant climbed as quickly as he ran, but he knew exactly when I could follow his route unaided and when I would need his help to reach a branch or a hollow in the bark. Once we were as close as we could get to the balcony while on solid footing, Mr. Scant insisted on taking me on his back again, and I felt once more the strange solidity of his frame, as though he and Mrs. George in the kitchens had done a deal with the Devil so that everything tough and dense was transferred to him, while she got all the softness. And then he jumped.

  As we landed, Mr. Scant bent down so deeply that I could have sworn his knees came up past my head. Though our landing made almost no sound, it did dislodge an icicle from the edge of the balcony. Mr. Scant actually gave it a glare as he set me down.

  From there, we found entry easily enough, through a pair of unlocked French windows. Mrs. McBunty had one of those funny circular reception rooms with two narrow staircases running down along the walls, like the top half of an imperial staircase. They ran around
a table in the middle topped by a vase of well-kept flowers. As we descended one staircase, Mr. Scant kept a close eye on the other, while I did my best to be quiet as a mouse wearing cotton wool shoes. Fittingly, one of Mrs. McBunty’s many spoilt cats watched us with hungry eyes, but the household staff was nowhere to be seen.

  Halfway down the steps, I could hear Mrs. McBunty in another room. She had company—most likely her best friend, Mrs. MacIntosh.

  “. . . all planned out for Christmas,” Mrs. McBunty was saying with satisfaction. “I shall take what my girl Daisy gave me last year and give it to Irene at the church, and I shall take what Irene gave me for my birthday and give it to Daisy’s girl Juliet, and Juliet always gives me something with cats, so I shall give that to Mrs. Smith. You know she likes cats too, that one.”

  “And who gave you the present you’re to pass off to me, then?” I heard Mrs. MacIntosh ask, and then we were out of earshot. Mr. Scant gently picked up a nearby cat and proceeded through an innocuous servants’ door, which led to some stone steps very like the ones in my family’s house. I wondered what Mr. Scant wanted with this cat until I realized several doors had been carefully closed to stop the house’s pets from getting through. When Mr. Scant set the creature down and shooed it into the kitchen, it didn’t take long for chaos to erupt. As the maids busied themselves trying to catch the creature, Mr. Scant pulled me in through the kitchen doors and we dashed behind the big table. I caught a glimpse of the cat jumping from shelf to shelf with the three kitchen maids hurrying in pursuit. After we reached the pantry, Mr. Scant revealed a trapdoor, which he pulled open, shooing me in just as he had shooed the cat.

  Once we had climbed down and Mr. Scant had handed me an electric torch, he apparently decided silence was no longer necessary. “This is one of eight or nine entrances to the Society’s favorite stronghold. Others run from a church or two, from the old schoolhouse, and no doubt many other places I have yet to discover.”