The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman

  They tied up the canoe in their usual place, and the chandler promised to keep an eye on her, and soon they were in Cranham Street.

  “What’s that?” said Asta as soon as they turned the corner.

  A grand gas-powered vehicle was standing right outside Dr. Relf’s house. Malcolm stopped to look at it.

  “She’s got a visitor,” said Asta, a jackdaw now.

  “Maybe we should wait.”

  “Don’t you want to see who it is?”

  “Sort of. I don’t want to get in the way, though.”

  “It’s them who’s in our way,” said Asta. “She’s expecting us. We always come at this time.”

  “No, I got a feeling….”

  It was the grandeur of the vehicle that disturbed him. It didn’t fit with his knowledge of Dr. Relf. Still, Asta was right: they were expected.

  “Well, we’ll just have to be polite and keep our eyes open,” he said. “Like proper spies.”

  “We are proper spies,” said Asta.

  There was a chauffeur with a short pipe in his mouth who was lounging outside the car. He gave them an incurious glance as Malcolm rang the bell.

  Dr. Relf, looking a little bothered, opened the door.

  “We can come back later if—” Malcolm began, but she shook her head firmly.

  “No, Malcolm, come in,” she said, and Jesper murmured, “But be careful,” only just loud enough for them to hear. Then, louder, she said, “My visitor’s just going.”

  Malcolm stepped over the sandbags, and Asta became a robin, and then changed back to a jackdaw. Malcolm was completely at one with her uncertainty, but thought, Stay like that, when she was in her dusty black feathers. And he assumed an expression of dim and mild agreeableness, the next best thing to being invisible.

  It was as well he did. In the sitting room Dr. Relf said, “Mrs. Coulter, this is my pupil Malcolm. Malcolm, say hello to Mrs. Coulter.”

  The woman’s name hit Malcolm like a bullet. This was Lyra’s mother. She was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen: young and golden-haired and sweet-faced, dressed in gray silk, and wearing a scent, just the very faintest hint of a fragrance, that spoke of warmth and sunlight and the south. She smiled at him with such friendliness that he was reminded of that strange moment with Gerard Bonneville. And this was the woman who wanted nothing more to do with her own child! But he wasn’t supposed to know that, and nothing would have made him admit that he knew anything about the baby.

  “Hello, Malcolm,” she said, and held out her hand to shake. “And what’s Dr. Relf teaching you?”

  “The history of ideas,” said Malcolm stolidly.

  “You couldn’t have a better teacher.”

  Her dæmon was disconcerting. He was a monkey with long golden fur, and if there was an expression in his black eyes, it was unfathomable. He sat perfectly still on the back of her armchair, and Asta, who out of politeness would normally have flown across to say good day, felt repelled and frightened and stayed on Malcolm’s shoulder.

  “Are you a scholar too, Mrs. Coulter?” Malcolm said.

  “Only an amateur. How did you find a teacher like Dr. Relf?”

  “I found a book she’d lost and brought it back. Now I borrow books from her and we talk about them,” he said in the sort of polite, neutral tone that he used with customers in the Trout whom he didn’t know very well. He was hoping she wouldn’t ask where he lived, in case she knew where Lyra was and made the connection; but hadn’t they said she had no interest in the child? Perhaps she didn’t know and didn’t care.

  “And where do you live?” she said.

  “Down St. Ebbe’s,” he said, naming a district in the south of the city, and surprising himself by saying it so calmly.

  The golden monkey stirred but said nothing.

  “And what do you want to do when you grow up?”

  Everybody asked that, but somehow he expected something more interesting from her.

  “I dunno, really,” he said. “Maybe work on the boats or the railway.”

  “I expect the history of ideas will be very useful, then,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  That was sarcastic. He didn’t like it, so he thought he’d disconcert her.

  “Mrs. Coulter,” he said, “I met someone the other day who was a friend of yours.”

  Asta could see Jesper’s eyes widen. Mrs. Coulter smiled again, but differently.

  “I wonder who that was,” she said.

  “I don’t know his name. He came in our pub. He was talking about you. His dæmon’s a hyena with three legs.”

  That was a horrible shock for her. Malcolm could see it, and Asta could see it, and Dr. Relf and Jesper could see it too—but all that happened was that the golden monkey leaned forward and put both paws on Mrs. Coulter’s shoulders, and the faint pink left her cheeks.

  “What an extraordinary thing,” she said in the calmest tone in the world. “I’m sure I don’t know anyone like that. And what pub is this?”

  “The Scrivener’s Arms,” said Malcolm, certain that there was no pub of that name anywhere in the city.

  “And what was he saying?”

  “Just that he was a friend of yours and he was going to see you soon. I don’t think many people believed him, actually, because he hadn’t been in before and no one really knew him.”

  “And do you spend a lot of time chatting in the bar to strangers?”

  The color had come back to her cheeks, but where it had been a delicate flush before, it was now a small fierce spot on each cheekbone.

  “No, I just help out in the evenings,” Malcolm said in his most equable tone. “I hear lots of people saying all sorts of things. If he comes back, shall I tell him I’ve seen you and you don’t know him?”

  “You’d better not say anything. You’d better not listen to nonsense either. I’m sure Dr. Relf would agree.”

  Malcolm looked at Dr. Relf, who was listening wide-eyed. But she blinked and recovered, and said, “Was there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Coulter?”

  “Not for now,” said Mrs. Coulter. The golden monkey had come to sit on her lap and press his face into her hair, as if he was whispering. She stroked his fur automatically, and he turned his head to glare at Malcolm with those unfathomable eyes. Malcolm stared back calmly, though he felt anything but calm: if that monkey had a name, it might be Malice, he thought.

  Mrs. Coulter gathered the dæmon into her arms and stood up, whispering something to him. Then she held out her hand to Dr. Relf.

  “Very kind of you to put up with me calling without any notice,” she said, and then turned to Malcolm. “Good-bye, Malcolm” was all she said. She didn’t offer to shake his hand.

  Dr. Relf showed her to the front door, helped her on with a warm fur coat, and saw her out. Malcolm watched through the window as the chauffeur stood up straight and bustled around being useful.

  “Well, what did you say that for?” said Dr. Relf as the great car drew away.

  “I didn’t want to tell her where I lived.”

  “But the man with the hyena dæmon! Why on earth—”

  “I wanted to see what would happen.”

  “Malcolm, that was very reckless.”

  “Yes. But I don’t trust her. I wanted to shake her a bit, and I thought that would work.”

  “It certainly did. But did he say anything about her? Did he say he was a friend?”

  Malcolm told her what Alice had said about Bonneville. “I just thought,” he added, “if she was meaning any harm to Lyra, it might frighten her a bit.”

  “It frightened me,” said Dr. Relf. “But tell me again: He said what?”

  “He said he was Lyra’s father.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t tell her that.”

  “I wouldn’t be that silly,” said Malcolm.

  “No…I need a cup of tea. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

  “What did she come here for?” said Malcolm, sitting on the kitchen stool.

 
“Well,” she said, “to ask about Lyra.”

  “Really? What did you tell her?”

  “It was strange. She seemed to think I had some connection with the child. As I do, I suppose, indirectly, through you. It was…” She stopped, holding the kettle in midair, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Yes. It was just as if she’d learned about that from an alethiometer. I wonder! It’s exactly the sort of partial knowledge that you get when you’re in a hurry, or you’re not an expert reader. She was clearly passionately interested in where the child was, and something had told her that I might know.”

  “But you didn’t…”

  “Of course not. Of course not! She began by asking about the Oxford alethiometer group, about…all sorts of things. But politely, as if she wasn’t really interested. Then she began to ask about the child who was being held somewhere in Oxford, or near Oxford, as if it was something interesting but not important, except that it clearly was. Jesper was watching her dæmon, who was gripping the back of her chair….”

  As she put the kettle on the stove and busied her hands with the tea caddy, she was thinking hard. Malcolm saw, and said nothing.

  She didn’t speak till they were sitting down beside the fire. Then she took a deep breath.

  “Malcolm,” she said, “I’m going to take a risk now and tell you some things I shouldn’t. You will keep quiet about them? You do understand how important it is?”

  “Well, course.”

  “Yes, of course you do. I just dread putting you in danger, and I don’t know whether it’s more dangerous for you to know these things or not to.”

  “Probably more dangerous not to.”

  “Yes, that’s what I think. Well, the fact is, I’ve left the alethiometer group.”

  “Why?”

  “I was offered a chance to do something else. To work with a different alethiometer, on my own.”

  “I thought there wasn’t many of them.”

  “This one became free. Unexpectedly.”

  “That was lucky.”

  “I don’t know. It might be. I think that was one of the things Mrs. Coulter was trying to find out—whether I had it.”

  “Is she a spy, then?”

  “I think so. For the other side.”

  “Did you hide it from her? I mean, hide that you were doing it?”

  “I hope so. That dæmon…it’s impossible to tell anything from that face.”

  “He was a bit shocked when I said about Gerard Bonneville.”

  “Yes, he was. And she was very shocked. I’m still not sure you should have done it.”

  “We wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

  “Known what?”

  “That she knew about him. Oh, you remember I told you about the broken shutter on the priory window, when we saw him hitting his dæmon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it wasn’t broken. Sister Benedicta told me someone had forgotten to close it.”

  “That’s interesting. I wonder if someone left it open on purpose.”

  “That’s what we’ve been thinking,” said Malcolm. “But I dunno who would have done that.”

  Dr. Relf put her teacup down on the hearth.

  “Malcolm, you won’t tell anyone about the alethiometer business, will you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, surprised she should ask.

  “I didn’t think you would. But it is deadly secret.”

  “Course I won’t,” he said.

  He ate a biscuit. She went to the window.

  “But, Dr. Relf,” he said, “can I ask you what you’re doing with the new alethiometer? Is it the same as what you did in the group?”

  “No, it’s not. The people who gave it to me want me to ask about Lyra, among other things.”

  “What do they want to know about her?”

  “She’s important in some way they don’t understand. And they want me to look into some more questions about Dust.”

  She had her back to him, and he felt she wasn’t happy answering too many questions, but he had to ask one more.

  “And is ‘they’ Oakley Street?”

  She turned around. The sky had become dark behind her, and the only light in the room came from the coal fire in the hearth, so he couldn’t see her expression.

  “Yes, it is,” she said heavily. “But that’s not for mentioning, remember.”

  “No. All right. I won’t ask any more questions.”

  She turned back to the window. “It looks as though your gyptian was right, and it’s going to rain again,” she said. “Let’s finish soon or you’ll get soaked. Come and choose a couple of books.”

  He could tell she was worried, and not wanting to hang around in case he annoyed her, he quickly picked out a murder story and a book about China and said good-bye.

  —

  Once the safe had been installed and the break with the alethiometer group was complete, Hannah asked Professor Papadimitriou about that odd moment at the end of the dinner, when no one could look at her, when the atmosphere changed so suddenly.

  Papadimitriou explained it. It seemed that sometimes Oakley Street and other secret services had to use blackmail in order to turn an agent on the other side. There was an agent they were targeting at present, for example, who was reputed to have an unhealthy interest in young boys.

  As soon as he said that, she saw the trap she’d fallen into, and cried out in dismay, “No! Not Malcolm!”

  “Hannah—”

  “I won’t allow it! You want to offer him up—I don’t know—as a temptation—and then what? You’ll burst into the room and catch the man red-handed? Or worse? You’ll have a secret camera installed and take photograms? You want to put Malcolm into a situation like that? How despicable. And Nugent said it wouldn’t put him in danger—and I believed him. God, what a fool!”

  “Hannah, he would not be in the slightest danger. It would be so quick, he wouldn’t even be aware of what was happening. We’d make sure of that. He’s too valuable to risk.”

  “I won’t let it happen. Never. I’d sooner give this alethiometer back and forget I ever had anything to do with—”

  “Well, that would be—”

  “And you waited till I was committed before telling me. Well, now I see what sort of thing I’m committed to.”

  “Come back when you’ve calmed down” was all he said.

  “I won’t calm down. Not about this.”

  No, of course she’d do anything to keep Malcolm safe from that. And she saw Lord Nugent in a new light too: under that patrician charm and friendliness, he was ruthless. All she could do was ask the alethiometer about it, and make what sense she could out of the swings and pauses of the silvery needle. As ever, the deeper she went, the more questions she saw.

  —

  That evening, the rain started in earnest.

  When Malcolm went to the priory that afternoon to see if Mr. Taphouse was better, he found the workshop dark and locked up; but in the kitchen he had a surprise, because there was Alice, kneading some dough.

  “Oh,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.

  Alice looked disdainful, as usual, and said nothing.

  “Hello, Malcolm,” said Sister Fenella. The old lady was sitting by the stove near Lyra’s crib, and she didn’t look at all well.

  “Alice is helping us for a while,” the nun went on, her voice light and breathless.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “How’s Lyra?”

  “Fast asleep. Come and see.”

  Lyra’s face was pressed into the fur of her kitten dæmon, but not for long, because as soon as Asta flew down to the crib, Pantalaimon woke up and spat fiercely. That woke Lyra, of course, and she started bellowing with all the breath in her little lungs.

  “It’s all right, Lyra,” Malcolm said, “you know who we are. What a racket! I should think they can hear you all the way across the river and into the Trout.”

  Asta became a young cat and jumped into the crib, taking care
to avoid touching Lyra, and picked up Pan the kitten dæmon and gave him a little shake. He was so astonished that Lyra stopped crying at once to see what was happening, and that made Malcolm laugh, and that made Lyra laugh too, her eyes brilliant with tears.

  Malcolm was delighted to have this effect. Alice had come over to look.

  “Little flirt,” said Alice, and went back to her bread.

  “Oh, no,” said Sister Fenella, “she knows Malcolm, doesn’t she, my sweet? We know Malcolm and Asta, don’t we?”

  “Can I hold her?” said Malcolm.

  “It’s nearly time for her feed—yes, go on. Can you take her out?”

  “Easy,” said Malcolm, and while Asta playfully batted the kitten over and over, he reached in and picked the baby up. They were used to it now, and didn’t cry with alarm as they’d done at first. Malcolm pulled up a stool with his foot and sat Lyra on his knee next to Sister Fenella. The baby looked around at everything, and then her hand found her mouth and in went a thumb.

  “She’s so hungry she’s eating herself,” Malcolm said.

  Sister Fenella was stirring a saucepan of milk on the range and testing the heat with her little finger.

  “There, that’s just right,” she said. “Malcolm, dear, can you fill the bottle for me?”

  Malcolm passed Lyra to her and poured the milk very carefully into the clean bottle. He wanted to tell Alice what had happened earlier that afternoon with Mrs. Coulter, but not while Sister Fenella was there; and in any case the girl was so haughty and cold he didn’t find it easy to say anything to her at all.

  When the bottle was ready, Sister Fenella took Lyra in the crook of her arm and settled back to feed her. Malcolm was troubled; the old lady was as sweet and kindly as she always was, but her face was gray and her eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

  “I came to see if Mr. Taphouse was better,” he said, sitting on the stool again.

  “We haven’t seen him for a few days. I hope he’s all right. I’m sure Mrs. Taphouse would let us know if he was poorly.”

  “Perhaps he’s having a holiday. He got all those shutters done, though, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, he’s a marvelous workman.”

  “If you need anything else done, I’ll do it.”

  Alice gave a short laugh. Malcolm decided to ignore her.