“Listen to this,” he said, clutching it tight as they passed the Button Factory.
ROSEWOOD CHRONICLE
BUS STOPS AFTER LEMON DROPS
Lemon drops were left scattered in the snow after a Rosewood bus, barreling up Foldink Street, struck a patch of ice, lost control, blasted through a snowbank, slid onto Howling Bloom Street, and flattened a lady leaving DuttonLick’s with a bag of them. That’s right—the Helmsley Curse has claimed another victim.
This is the third freak bus incident in as many days. In response, the city has announced it will suspend all bus service until further notice. It’s a decision leading many to wonder: Could the Helmsley Curse get any worse?
Oliver finished reading just as they turned onto Howling Bloom Street, which was lucky because a violent gust tore the paper from his hands and carried it far over Rosewood Park. But Oliver barely cared, because they were standing before DuttonLick’s sweetshop—three stories of pure confection. Through the paneled windows, Archer could see that it was crowded with many of his former Button Factory classmates—including the nasty ones. Alice P. Suggins was tossing jelly beans into Charlie H. Brimble’s mouth, while Molly S. Mellings was trying to see how many lollipops she could lick and stick to Digby Fig’s back without him noticing. Christmas was over, but Mr. DuttonLick was still celebrating the season with free chocolate days leading up to the big party. Posters were plastered all over the windows. Oliver pointed to one. Today’s free sweet was a chocolate raspberry snurple.
“What’s a snurple?” he asked.
“It sounds like a disease,” Adélaïde replied.
“I hope they’re not all gone. I want to try one.”
“You mean contract one?”
A huge snowdrift stood between them and the sweetshop doors. And just as they began to scale it, a figure approached from behind and plowed right into them, knocking everyone face-first into the snow. Oliver lifted his head, ready to shout at the rude person, but Archer quickly put a hand over his mouth.
“Was that who I think that was?” Adélaïde whispered, wiping snow off her face.
“If you think it was the crooked man,” Archer replied.
Archer had only glimpsed the side of the man’s face, but that was enough. The crooked man continued down Howling Bloom Street, clapped his boots outside the door of Bray and Ink, and vanished inside. Archer, Oliver, and Adélaïde hurried after him, slid up to the shop windows, and pressed their faces to the cold glass.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
♦ CROOKED EUSTACE MULLFORT ♦
Bray and Ink was narrow, like all the shops along Howling Bloom Street. Inside, it was crowded with tall shelves that leaned one way or the other. Archer, Oliver, and Adélaïde watched the crooked man hastily search those shelves, piled with journals and paper and stamps and ink, before delving deeper into the shop and banging a bell on the counter.
“Follow me,” Archer said, pulling away from the glass.
The trio crept through the door and snuck across the aisles until they were at the far side of the shop. They inched to the edge of a shelf and peered around it. The crooked man was still banging the bell, staring over his shoulder at the door.
“Ah, Eustace Mullfort!” Mr. Bray called, waddling out from a back room. “Always a pleasure.”
Oliver almost laughed. He turned to Adélaïde and mouthed, “His name is Eustace Mullfort?”
“Your shop’s drafty,” Mr. Mullfort replied.
“Drafty?” Mr. Bray glanced around. “I don’t feel a draft. Of course, compared to your Strait of Magellan, I’ve got the fanciest store in Rosewood! Now what can I do you for this evening? More ledgers, is it?” Mr. Bray dipped below the counter. “I’ve just received a—”
“I need a journal, actually. I didn’t see what I wanted on the shelves.”
“What’re you looking for, exactly?”
Mr. Mullfort stuck his tongue into his cheek. “How about brown leather with, say, reinforced corners? And stitching or some such. Green, perhaps?”
Archer couldn’t put his finger on it, but the journal Mr. Mullfort described sounded very familiar.
Mr. Bray laughed. “Well, this is certainly something! No longer going for what’s cheapest?”
“Do you have one or not?” Mr. Mullfort asked, tapping his spindly fingers on the counter. “I’m in a hurry.”
“All right, all right. Don’t get yourself all bent out of shape. I might have something in storage.”
Mr. Bray disappeared. Mr. Mullfort stepped away from the counter. Archer could no longer see him, but from the footsteps, he knew Mr. Mullfort was near the front door.
“Bray’s right. There’s no draft,” Mr. Mullfort muttered.
Oliver’s smile wilted. “He’s searching the shelves. He knows someone came in. We need to hide!”
“But where?” Adélaïde whispered, glancing left and right.
Archer looked to the ceiling. “Up! Go up!”
The trio took hold of the slanted shelf and quickly climbed it like a ladder. Archer hoisted himself over the top, followed by Oliver, and then they both grabbed Adélaïde, whose wooden leg vanished from view the moment Mr. Mullfort peeked down the now-empty aisle.
“Found something!” Mr. Bray called.
The trio sat wedged together, not three feet from the ceiling, hidden behind reams of yellowed paper, peering down at Mr. Mullfort as he rushed back to the counter.
“He’s balding,” Oliver whispered.
“Forgot I had these,” Mr. Bray said, dropping a dusty box on the counter and brushing himself off. “Will they work?”
Mr. Mullfort tore the box open and lifted a journal. Archer recognized it immediately.
“Those are the same journals my grandparents use,” he said. “The ones I found inside their trunks.”
“This should do the job,” Mr. Mullfort replied, almost smiling.
Mr. Bray looked somber, gazing at the journal.
“I’ve never displayed these. They were a special order—for the Helmsleys. I’ve sold them those journals for as long as I can remember. Always such kind customers. It’s terrible to see what’s happened, isn’t it?”
Mr. Mullfort set the journal on the counter and fetched his wallet. “Don’t tell me you believe the story that buffoon at the Doldrums Press wrote?”
There was a faint grunt next to Archer. Oliver’s teeth were clenched. Mr. Bray wasn’t too pleased either.
“Aubrey’s not a buffoon! I’ve supplied his paper for years. But I told him he got this one wrong. I mean, really. To claim that Captain Whoever-He-Was left the Helmsleys on an iceberg to freeze to death? There was no reason given. And then they went into hiding? That sounds like paranoia to me.” Mr. Bray leaned across the counter. “You must know more. What’s everyone at that Society think?”
“They found the story laughable. We’re going to banish them. Rosewood officials should do the same.”
Mr. Bray shook his head, staring at the dusty box of journals. “If the whispers are anything to go by, that’s a real possibility. I can’t imagine they’ll need these journals anymore. Take the entire box, if you want.”
“I only need one. And a large envelope. And stamps.”
Mr. Bray set everything on the counter and took Mr. Mullfort’s money. As Mr. Bray put the bills into the register, Mr. Mullfort reached into the box and slipped a second journal into his pocket.
“Did he just steal one?” Adélaïde whispered.
“He did,” Oliver replied.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Mr. Bray said, shutting the register and closing up the box. “And everyone at the Society. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with any of this.”
Mr. Bray lugged the box into the back of the shop.
Mr. Mullfort tore a page from the journal, scribbled a note on it, and after sealing everything inside the envelope, made for the exit. The trio heard the door open as they climbed down the shelf, and they felt a gust of cold wind when it
slammed shut. All three stepped out from the shadow of the aisle—and stopped dead.
“I knew I wasn’t alone in here.” Mr. Mullfort smiled at them, his hand still on the doorknob. He opened it. Another cold breeze blew over them. They’d been tricked. “So you’ve decided to go swimming, have you?”
Mr. Mullfort lunged, grabbed Archer by the collar, and wrenched him out of the shop.
♦ STEAMING ♦
“Sneaky little wunderkind,” Mr. Mullfort hissed, dragging Archer into an alleyway next to Bray and Ink and forcing him up against a brick wall. “Your grandparents have you tailing me, do they?”
“Archer? Archer! Where are you?”
In an instant, Oliver and Adélaïde were at his side.
Mr. Mullfort’s darkened silhouette stooped before them. “Now be good children and tell me what you saw. You saw something you shouldn’t have, didn’t you?” His narrowed eyes caught a bit of light streaming down the alley. They were fiery slits.
“We didn’t—we were just—looking for school supplies—” Archer stammered.
“You do not want to lie to me,” Mr. Mullfort barked. His breath smelled like cabbage. “You were hiding, and we only hide when we have something to hide.”
“He’s—he’s not lying,” Adélaïde insisted. “We were at DuttonLick’s getting chocolate. And then we were going to buy school supplies. We did hide. But only because . . . we were afraid, is all.”
Mr. Mullfort tapped his crooked finger against Oliver’s forehead. “And what about the loose tongue? Does it have anything to add?”
Archer heard something crinkle. With a shaky hand, Oliver presented a small bag of DuttonLick’s chocolate eyeballs.
“Chocolates,” he managed.
Mr. Mullfort snatched the bag and bit into an eyeball. A second later, he spat the chocolate into the snow as though it’d been laced with poison.
“You saw nothing,” he warned, pouring the remaining eyeballs onto the ground and crushing them under his heel. “Don’t forget it. You three are in muddy waters, and you know what’s lurking beneath your feet.”
Mr. Mullfort gnashed his teeth and was gone.
The trio released a tremendous gasp and peeled their backs off the alley wall.
“I thought he was going to smash our heads against the bricks,” Adélaïde breathed, staring at the demolished chocolate eyeballs.
“I’m glad those aren’t our eyeballs,” Oliver agreed, turning to Archer, who was pulling something out of the snow. “What’s that?”
“It’s the journal he stole.” Archer brushed the cover clean. “It must have fallen from his pocket.”
He crept to the entrance of the alley and spotted Mr. Mullfort slithering down Howling Bloom Street with the envelope tucked under his arm.
“There’s a letter in that envelope,” Archer said as Oliver and Adélaïde huddled around him. “You don’t have to come, but I’m following him.”
Oliver and Adélaïde weren’t about to let Archer tail Mr. Mullfort by himself. They set off together, sticking to whatever shadows they could find, until Mr. Mullfort stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and shoved the envelope into a postbox. He then set off down Foldink Street.
“Maybe I can grab it,” Archer said, sidling up to the box and hooking his arm through the slot. But he couldn’t get his fingers all the way down.
“Let me try,” Adélaïde said, pushing her hand in. “My arms are skinnier.”
“Anything?” Archer asked. She shook her head.
“Stupid box with your tiny slot,” Oliver grumbled. He swung his foot at it, but slipped and kicked it much harder than he’d intended to. Adélaïde yelped as Oliver fell backward into the snow. The postbox access door creaked back and forth.
“You did it, Ollie!”
“Don’t call me Ollie!”
“You didn’t have to kick it,” Archer said, inspecting the lock. “It’s frozen. The postman couldn’t turn the key.”
Oliver stumbled to his feet as Archer fished out the envelope.
PRESIDENT BIRTHWHISTLE
23 DEANGOR STREET
ROSEWOOD
“Now we know where he lives,” Adélaïde said, peering over Archer’s shoulder.
“Can we open the envelope without tearing it?” he asked. “I want to read the letter before we put it back.”
“Aren’t we keeping it?” Oliver questioned. “You said that’s the same journal your grandparents use. I’ll bet they’re making a forgery or something.”
“I think that’s exactly what they’re doing,” Archer agreed. “Mr. Birthwhistle needs fake proof. Even if we kept it, Mr. Bray had an entire box of them. But the letter might tell us something.”
“Steam,” Adélaïde suggested. “Steam will warm the glue, and the envelope will open. We’ll be able to seal it again without them knowing.”
“Lots of hot steam out here,” Oliver said, staring at the heaps of snow.
Adélaïde spun back to Howling Bloom Street. “The café. We’ll open it there.”
Amaury was outside the coffeehouse, loading the Belmont Café delivery truck as they approached. It was a tiny vehicle with three wheels, a small cab, and a rear cargo storage area, which Amaury was tossing boxes of coffee into.
“Evening, Adié!” he called, wiping sweat from his large brow despite the freezing temperatures. “What’s got you limping, Oliver?”
“I slipped on a patch of ice. It’s dangerous out here!”
“Certainly is. I’ve never seen a winter like this in all my life.” Amaury inspected the snow he’d have to shovel out from around the truck in order to make his deliveries. “Hope I never do again. What’s in the envelope, Archer?”
“Actually,” Adélaïde said, taking the envelope from Archer. “It’s about what’s not in the envelope. We forgot to put something inside. We need to steam it open.”
Amaury pointed to the café. “You know the drill.”
“Amaury looks exhausted,” Oliver said as they entered.
“He’s completely overworked,” Adélaïde agreed, making for an espresso machine behind the bar. “My father set up a coffee laboratory in our cellar. He’s gotten a little obsessed with his new espresso blends. And you know what he’s like. He doesn’t realize he’s left so much to Amaury. I have to talk to him about it.”
Adélaïde had been watching her father make espresso for as long as she could remember. Her movements were a blur to Archer and Oliver. Buttons were pushed, levers were pulled; the machine let out a deep groan, and then hot steam shot from a valve. Adélaïde held the envelope in it. The seal loosened and popped open. She gave the envelope to Archer. He stuck his hand in and grabbed the journal. The note came out with it.
Expect me at your house Thursday evening. Six o’clock.
I want the communications.
♦ A GENIUS, YOU SAY? ♦
Archer couldn’t tell if Oliver and Adélaïde were thinking what he was thinking, but he was still thinking it after returning the envelope to the postbox and entering DuttonLick’s sweetshop.
A bell jingled above their heads, and they closed their eyes to better enjoy the delightful aromas. When Archer opened his, he discovered that the sweetshop had gone sour. Button Factory students stood frozen in place, gawking at him. Gone was all sense of merriment and good tidings toward man.
“What are you doing in here?” Alice P. Suggins demanded, lowering her bag of hotter than hot fireballs.
“If you must know, I’m here on business,” Oliver said importantly. “Mr. DuttonLick asked me to be his assistant for the party.”
“Not you, Glub,” Molly S. Mellings scoffed. “Why is Archer here? He’s not making chocolates, is he? He’ll curse them!”
Charlie Brimble snickered with his mouth full of jelly beans and stared up at the ceiling. “Can you make it snow inside, Archer?”
Archer’s ears were pink. “You really think my family is responsible for the snow?”
“Of course they are.” Alice
snorted. “Don’t you read the newspapers? It’s a fact.”
“Forget them,” Oliver said. “Go upstairs. I’ll get Mr. DuttonLick.”
Adélaïde followed Archer past the many sneering students and down an aisle packed with sweets. Oliver stopped at the counter to speak to Mr. DuttonLick before climbing up the spiraling stairs. He paused halfway up, when he spotted Diptikana Misra, standing at the back of the shop, studying him. She quickly seized a box of blueberry pearl coconut clamshells and pretended to read from it.
On the second floor, Archer and Adélaïde sat together in a large window that bubbled out over Howling Bloom Street, watching Amaury wedge himself into the tiny delivery truck.
“I thought vehicles weren’t allowed on Howling Bloom Street,” Archer said. “Isn’t it too narrow?”
“The city gave us permission,” Adélaïde explained as Amaury drove off. “Have you ever seen a tinier truck? I think it’s cute. And Amaury looks funny in it.”
“Mr. DuttonLick said he’d be here in a minute,” Oliver said, joining them. “Did either of you see Kana downstairs? I just caught her staring at me again. She pretended she wasn’t by grabbing a box of blueberry pearl coconut clamshells. No one eats those things. That box has been there for at least three years. They’re probably toxic.”
“You should talk to her,” Adélaïde suggested, making googly eyes at him.
“I prefer nonverbal communications with Kana.”
“Speaking of communication,” Adélaïde said to Archer. “Have you figured it out? Do you have any idea what these communications Mr. Mullfort wants are?”
Archer turned from the window. “Remember when we saw Mr. Mullfort at the Society? He was searching a desk. Cornelius said that it was Mr. Birthwhistle’s office. Maybe he was looking for whatever it is then?”
“But what do you think they are?” Oliver asked. “Do you think they have something to do with the iceberg?”
“What else would they be communicating about?”
“And the journal,” Adélaïde said. “You’re going to tell your grandparents about that, right? If Mr. Birthwhistle is making a forgery, they need to know.”
The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse Page 10