by John Moralee
The article listed several reference books for more information.
The internet was excellent for looking up subjects - if you didn’t care about the veracity of the information provided, but for real meat and potato facts they needed to study the primary sources, the books that the articles had been based on. Armed with a list of titles, they set off for the public library.
The library was in the centre of Hobley, a short walk from the bus station. They got wet running down the street and up the steps into the building, which stayed open until eight on weekdays. Three grungy-looking university students were using the library’s computers, but nobody was browsing the books. One librarian was quietly re-stocking shelves. She was a cheerful brown-haired woman in her early thirties, wearing a long beige skirt and matching blouse. She saw Saffron and waved with a warm smile.
“Hi, Mrs Cook,” Saffron said to her like they were good friends.
The librarian looked at Saffron’s wet clothes and hair. “Look at you! You’re all wet. Do you want a towel to dry your hair?”
“Uh, no. It’ll dry itself. It’s nice and warm in here. But thanks.”
“Who’s this?” the librarian said, looking at Ryan.
“My friend Ryan.”
“Hi,” he said.
“You’re wet too. What a rotten day, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s supposed to be better tomorrow,” the librarian said. She didn’t offer me a towel, he thought. “We’ve got some excellent new titles in, you know. Anything I can help you with, Saffron?”
“Thanks, Mrs Cook, but I already know what I’m looking for.”
“You always do,” the librarian said, returning to her work.
Ryan whispered when they were walking away. “How on earth do you know the librarian’s name?”
“I spend a lot of time in here. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Okay,” he said. “You look mad. Did I say something wrong?”
She sighed. “Not you. Some of the girls at school tease me about liking books more than boys. They call me a swot. I don’t like it. I should be allowed to enjoy a hobby without criticism. I don’t criticise them for obsessing about boy bands, reality TV celebrities and footballers – no offence.”
“None taken,” he said. “The girls obsessed with footballers - what are their names, for future reference?”
“Shut up,” she said, not unkindly. “Let’s find those books.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Saffron headed straight for the right section without pausing to look at the signs attached to the shelves. Ryan felt ashamed of not liking books as much as she did. She read for pleasure. Voluntarily. He read when he had nothing better to do. He had been in the library no times in the last year, despite passing the building at least once a week. Some of the books looked quite interesting. Maybe I should come more often, he thought. Looking at the huge variety of subjects made him wonder what he’d been missing. He wondered where he’d put his own library card. It was in his bedroom somewhere. Unless he’d lost it? He would have to look for it when he got back home.
“Here we are,” Saffron said. The Supernatural and Occult section was on four shelves. “The book he wrote isn’t here. It’s probably too obscure for a branch library. I bet the only copies are in the British Library in London.”
“Well, there’s got to be something here.”
They found some alternative books on the list and took them to a reading table. The books included Satanism, Dark Magic: Evil Intent, A History of Witchcraft, Spells and Magic and The Diabolical Fiends of Victorian England.
They were flicking through the books when Mrs Cook passed by. When she read the macabre titles, her smile vanished. “Uh – Saffron, Ryan – do your parents know you’re reading those books?”
“We’re doing a school project on the Salem Witch Trials,” Saffron said, quickly, allaying the librarian’s suspicions with a warm innocent smile.
“Oh, I see. That’s – uh – nice. Well, good luck.”
“Thank you,” they both said.
As soon as Mrs Cook had moved on, Saffron complained. “Great! Now she thinks we were a couple of freaks.”
“No, she doesn’t - thanks to your quick thinking. About the Salem Witch Trials - how’d you think of that?”
“Last week I read a play about it called The Crucible, written by Arthur Miller, who was once married to Marilyn Monroe. He wrote it during the 1950s when many Americans were afraid of communists taking over their country. It was like with the terrorists today. Everyone was scared of Reds under their beds. Many people merely suspected of being communists were put on trial. They were told they would be punished if they didn’t admit guilt and name other communists. Innocent people were found guilty though they hadn’t done anything. A lot of innocent people were jailed or black-listed so they couldn’t work, just because someone accused them of being a communist. His play was basically a political allegory about how wrong it was, but he used the Salem, Massachusetts witch trials to tell the story.”
Sometimes Ryan barely understood a word she said. What was an allegory? He wanted to ask her, but was afraid of looking stupid. “Yeah, I saw the film of The Crucible. Winona Rider was in it with that guy played Abraham Lincoln.”
“I didn’t see the movie,” she said. “Was it good?”
“It wasn’t bad. There was an awful amount of hysterical screaming, though.”
They looked through the books, staring at the indexes. Diabolical Fiends of Victorian Britain had a chapter devoted to Lucas Ravencroft. It contained the biographical detail found on the internet, and it also contained some very old photographs. One was a poor-quality picture by today’s standards, but it showed a very old white-haired man. He was sitting in a wheelchair outside a large country manor. It had been shot at Ravencroft House in 1905, when he was ninety-nine-years old, according to the information underneath. He looked much older than the man he’d encountered, but there was definitely a family resemblance. His face was long and narrow. His lips looked cruel, like his eyes.
Standing beside his wheelchair was a young, dark-haired woman dressed like Florence Nightingale. She was slim and extraordinarily pretty. Unlike Lucas Ravencroft, her face radiated warmth into the camera.
“Saffron, look at this picture. This Ravencroft kind of looks like the man I saw if you added sixty years. They’ve got to be related.”
“I wish I’d seen him properly so I could give my opinion,” she said. “Who’s the nurse?”
“It’s actually his wife. Her name was Lilly O’Donnell. She married him when he was 95 and she was only eighteen.”
“Wow. That’s some age difference. It’s like Lisa Simpson marrying Mr Burns. She must’ve married him for his money, hoping he’d die quickly.”
On the next page was another photograph of the country house. The house was a blackened ruin.
“It says here there was a fire one night. It started in his study where Lucas Ravencroft liked to stay up late reading his collection of rare and unusual books. The whole building quickly caught fire, but Mrs Ravencroft and the servants managed to escape. Ravencroft himself wasn’t so lucky. It was his habit to lock himself in his study because he liked his privacy. He was incinerated in the fire. Only a few bones and ashes were found the next day in what remained of his wheelchair.”
“Yuck,” Saffron said.
“The police suspected Mrs Ravencroft had set the fire to kill her husband, but they couldn’t prove it. It was just as likely her husband had fallen asleep in his wheelchair in front of a roaring fire, which had spat out a hot coal. The servants testified they had often seen him reading by candlelight, which could also have been the cause. The inquest was inconclusive, which meant the case stayed open. Under a cloud of suspicion of being a black widow, Lilly returned to Ireland where she’d been born. She was pregnant when her husband died. She named her son after her dead husband - so perhaps she did love him after all.”
> “What happened to them?”
“It doesn’t say.”
Saffron rubber her chin thoughtfully. “So, our Ravencroft could be a descendent?”
“I guess so. What a messed up family that must’ve been! I wonder how the kid reacted when he found out his mother was suspected of killing his father?”
“He’d need major therapy – but they didn’t have that in those days. It could have seriously ruined his life. Turned him insane.”
“And then his children would grow up just like him?”
Saffron nodded. They continued reading. None of the other books had much in them. They found out Lucas Ravencroft had been a member of several secret societies, but the books didn’t say which ones. They were running out of ideas when Saffron suggested using the library’s computers to see who owned 16 Willow Lane. They picked two free computers next to a student who was looking up Star Trek websites. Ryan accessed the on-line version of Hobley’s phone directory. Every address in the area with a telephone was listed in its database. 16 Willow Lane didn’t have a listed phone number. Therefore, it didn’t appear in the database. Meanwhile, Saffron tried another similar website – one that included the names of tenants and landlords. She got a hit for the address. The registered tenant of 16 Willow Lane was not Lucas Ravencroft. It was someone called Mr KW Parker. A google search of his name returned nothing.
“I think KW Parker is an alias,” she said.
“Or it could be his real name,” he pointed out.
Mrs Cook announced the library was closing in five minutes. They returned the books to the shelves, and then they left with more questions than answers.
“I want to rescue her tomorrow,” Ryan told Saffron when they were waiting for the bus.
“Why so soon?”
“I don’t want to leave her locked up a moment longer than I have to.”
“It could be dangerous,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. She looked scared. “You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to. I’ll understand.”
“No way! I’m not letting you do it alone. Certainly not after last time. You can count me in. But we need to really plan everything down to the last detail, okay?”
“Agreed,” he said.
They talked about their plans on the bus ride. It was getting dark. Ryan walked with Saffron up to the door of her home. He could hear the noise of her brothers squabbling and the twins bawling.
“Want to come in?” she asked him without enthusiasm.
He didn’t feel like wrestling her brothers, which would happen nine times out of ten if he did go in. “No – I’ll see you tomorrow. I think I’ll have an early night. Want to be fresh for the rescue.”
“Well, goodnight then,” she said, unlocking her door.
“Yeah, goodnight.”
Saffron shut the door.
See you tomorrow, he thought.
He hoped it would not be the last time.
Chapter Nine
When Ryan said goodbye to his mother, kissing her at the front door, he was dressed in his school uniform, but he had a change of clothing in his backpack, along with some tools he’d taken out of his father’s toolbox. He thought of the tools as his breaking-and-entering kit. They included a torch, a chisel, a hammer, a cordless electric drill and some screwdrivers. The backpack weighed a ton. He felt like a hunchback, but his mother didn’t seem to notice him stooping. He could have been wearing a black-and-white striped burglar’s costume and she wouldn’t notice.
He was waiting outside Saffron’s home when she emerged in her uniform saying goodbye to her mother, who was holding one of the bawling twins.
Together they walked in the direction of their school – until they were out of sight.
Now they could begin the rescue operation.
Saffron pulled out her notebook and a pen. On the bus yesterday, she had written down a check-list. “Okay. Stage one is preparation. We’ve got our phones?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Me, too.” She ticked it off. “What about the burglary equipment?”
“Since I didn’t have my own lock-picks, I’ve brought this stuff. Hope it’s enough.”
He showed her inside his backpack.
Her eyes widened. “What’s that? An electric drill?”
“You never know. It could always be used to drill holes in her door if I can’t find an easier way of opening it.”
“Next, we need to get provisions.”
They had a second breakfast at Burger Palace. They also ordered some additional food and drinks to take with them.
“Hope this isn’t our final meal,” Ryan said, laughing nervously.
“Not funny. You’re making me more nervous. In a few minutes – in exactly six minutes and thirty-one seconds - we will be officially late for school. My dad will literally kill me if he catches me bunking off like my brothers. He won’t care that I’ve got a really good reason. He wouldn’t believe I was rescuing a girl from a wicked man. It sounds like the plot of a stupid fairytale.”
“You dad won’t find out,” he promised. “It’s time for your alibi.”
Ryan established an alibi for Saffron’s absence from school by phoning the school and pretending to be her dad. He spoke gruffly and told the secretary Mrs Hubert his daughter was suffering from the flu. Saffron wouldn’t be in today. If Mrs Hubert did call her home to check, they would be caught in a lie, but the secretary sounded like she believed him. Because Saffron was a good student and never skipped school, it wasn’t suspicious. He hung up, grinning.
“Well?” she said.
“She believed me. You’ll have to pretend to my sister when you call, not my mum, but we better not do that for another ten minutes. We don’t want the calls to appear connected. Now what’s next on the checklist?”
“We get changed.”
Ryan and Saffron used the public toilets to change into clothes suitable for their mission. He had chosen a dark jumper, old shirt, some scruffy jeans, and his best trainers. He stuffed his uniform into his backpack before leaving.
Saffron emerged from the ladies’ room wearing a baggy grey tracksuit with a hood. She had the hood down, but she could pull it up later, if she needed to hide her face. She was also wearing a long black wig.
“Where did you get that?”
“Remember the time I dressed up as a witch for Halloween? I found the wig in my wardrobe.”
“You looked completely different wearing it. It makes you look older.”
“Good. There’s no point having a disguise if I’m recognisable.”
They walked out of the Burger Palace. They stopped at the duck pond to check their clothing. Like Saffron, he had secured his phone to his belt. He plugged in a long black lead that had an earphone and small microphone allowing him to use it with his hands free. He clipped the microphone to his collar, then tested the equipment by walking a distance away and calling Saffron’s phone.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she answered. “You?”
“Yes. The connection’s excellent,” he said, walking back to his friend. “We better conserve batteries, though. Don’t want them going dead during the mission.”
He turned off his phone, as did Saffron.
“The mike makes you look like a secret agent,” she commented.
“James Bond?”
“Johnny English.”
A few minutes later – not so quickly it would seem suspicious – Saffron called the school giving Ryan an alibi. Her impression of Rachel sounded uncannily like his sister. She had an ear for impressions. (She had once pretended to be Miss Kadinski in a bad mood that had scared the whole class.) When she hung up, she was smiling. “It worked. She actually said a lot of students are off today probably because of the cold, wet weather we had yesterday.”
“God bless British summers,” he said.
“Stage one complete,” she said. “Stage two: surveillance.”
Ryan was apprehe
nsive about going to Willow Lane, but he wasn’t sick when he saw the house. His stomach tightened up, though. Judging by the way Saffron was chewing her lip, she was nervous, too.
They positioned themselves a safe distance away up the lane, where there was a bus shelter nestled between a church and a pub. Anyone seeing them would assume they were waiting for the bus and hopefully not question why they weren’t in school. They looked like two kids on a day off, not like spies on a stakeout operation.
The bus shelter’s dirty Plexiglas windows were ideal for shielding them from view. Sitting in the corner seats, they wiped small areas free of dirt so they could spy on the other side of the street. Their position gave them a clear view all of the way down the road, providing they didn’t mind sitting awkwardly facing the Plexiglas. Unfortunately, the hard, red plastic seats weren’t exactly comfortable – but it was better than standing up. Nobody could sit on the bus shelter’s seats without getting a numbed bum.
“We really should have a name for what we’re doing,” Ryan thought aloud. “Mission Improbable. Yeah, that sounds about right. Your mission - should you decide to accept it - is to break into the house of a madman without getting caught ...”
He hummed the original Mission Impossible theme tune.
Saffron gave him an irritated look.
“You know what?” she said.
“What?”
“I’ve never bunked off school before.”
“Neither have I,” he said.
“It makes me feel bad, but it’s also a little exciting. No wonder my brothers like doing it.”
“At least you have a good reason,” Ryan said. “They just bunk off to go to the arcade.”
“So, now we wait for him to leave,” she said, sighing. “This is the part of the plan that is the least predictable. Waiting for something to happen. What if he doesn’t go out?”
“We’ll come back tomorrow.”