The Alarming Career of Sir Richard Blackstone

by Lisa Doan

  “Though Mr. Snidefellow can be … misguided at times, I believe he is an honest man. Of course he is mistaken in this matter, his thinking has been led astray somehow.”

  “All I know,” Henry said boldly, “is Sir Richard has not been involved in any crimes. He is the best person I have ever met. He’s probably the best person in England.”

  The duchess smiled. “So say I,” she said. “Now, the question is how to clear up this ridiculous misunderstanding. I’m surprised the councilman did not consult me before taking such a rash step. He did not even mention it this morning.”

  Henry was not as surprised as the duchess that Snidefellow hadn’t mentioned it.

  “We must not allow Sir Richard to linger in jail. This matter must be dealt with at once,” she said.

  Henry told the duchess that he would write to Sir Richard’s solicitor in London, and that Fitzwilliam was expected to arrive any day.

  “I shall write a note to Mr. Snidefellow and ask him to come to me,” the duchess said. “He will see that he has made a mistake when I point it out to him.”

  When Henry left the duchess, he felt a good deal better than when he had arrived. She would make Snidefellow let Sir Richard out of jail.

  Billy followed him to the stables. “What you been talkin’ over with her Ladyship?” he asked.

  Henry mounted Cantankerous. “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s confidential business.”

  “Playin’ it close to the vest, are you?”

  “Very close, Billy.”

  The footman shrugged. “I been thinkin’ we ought to give Matilda some kind of title, like she’s real nobility. After all, she nearly got killed by Farmer Giles, and she lived to tell the tale. What do you say? I was thinkin’ of Matilda, Queen of the Spaniels.”

  Henry did not at first answer. He thought it was an excellent idea, but he didn’t want Billy to think that he could just go tacking names on to his dog whenever he felt like it. Finally, he said, “I will give that suggestion serious consideration.”

  Mrs. Splunket was outraged at the news of Sir Richard’s imprisonment.

  “The nerve of that rascal to arrest our good Sir Richard,” Mrs. Splunket said, “whose only crime is that he is a very bad inventor.”

  Henry sat on the floor with Matilda. He had been nodding and agreeing with the housekeeper for over a half hour.

  “The most my master is guilty of is burning off his own eyebrows and digging up my roses. I suppose one does not get arrested in England for ruining a garden?”

  “Certainly not,” Henry said, nodding.

  “Well,” she continued, “I will not sit idly by while the good man is sitting in jail. Who knows what sort of rancid food they might call dinner?” Mrs. Splunket proceeded to pack a basket of food. After she had packed enough for Sir Richard to live on for a month, she left for the magistrate’s jail in the village to see that Sir Richard was cared for properly. Considering her red face and the pace at which she marched down the drive, Henry thought Mr. Snidefellow would be wise to stay out of her way.

  Henry had just finished the letter to the solicitor when Mrs. Splunket returned. She dropped down into an overstuffed chair in the library and scooped Matilda onto her lap. “Well,” she said, still out of breath from her walk, “I never heard of such a thing. Sir Richard is accused of murderin’ a man that ain’t even been found and kidnappin’ a baby afore he ever set foot in the county.”

  “Wait,” Henry said. “Red Callahan has not been found? But then, how do they know he’s dead?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. As they tell it in the village, the magistrate has gone and declared him dead, as he ain’t been seen in two days. They reason that old Red was heavy on the drink, and as he hasn’t been seen at The Buck and Boar, his liver couldn’t stand up to a dryin’ out and he must surely be dead somewhere. They say Snidefellow had it from a doctor that a man like Red would die of the delirium tremens if he don’t make it to a tavern every day.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Henry cried.

  “A course it is,” Mrs. Splunket answered. “But that Snidefellow has got them poor souls to believe all manner of things. They ask me, how is it that Sir Richard found the puppy? And how is it that Sir Richard found that footprint from the boy when all those investigatin’ that cave never did find it?”

  “Because it was hidden behind a rock!” Henry said.

  Mrs. Splunket looked puzzled. “What was you two doing looking for Red Callahan behind a rock?”

  Henry gulped. He had not dared tell anybody about what had really happened to Mary but Mrs. Splunket’s loyalty was unquestioned. And, he reasoned, she already knew the tarantula had gotten bigger. Just not how much bigger.

  As Henry told her about the experiment gone wrong, Mrs. Splunket’s face changed from wonder to shock, then to fury.

  “That man!” she said. “I told him no good would come from those experiments. When creatures from the Amazon jungle started turnin’ up, I said—there’s no way a knowin’ what goes on in those kind of wild places. Mary, Queen of Scots, indeed.”

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam should be arriving any day,” Henry said, hoping to cheer her up. “Perhaps he can explain more about the lupuna tree.”

  “Lupuna tree,” Mrs. Splunket said, her voice full of disgust. “Whoever heard of such a thing? Why did Sir Richard have to go messin’ with foreign trees, I’d like to know? He shoulda kept his eyes on a good old oak. English trees don’t do nothing unusual.”

  “We have to find Red Callahan,” Henry said. “If we do that, Snidefellow’s whole case falls apart.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Splunket said. “If that old devil Callahan is still alive. He ain’t been seen one way or another.”

  The following day, Henry took Cantankerous down every deer path in the Queen’s Forest that he could find. It was the first time he had ventured into the woods alone and he hoped it would be the last. He would not be anywhere near it if it weren’t necessary to find Red to exonerate Sir Richard. Every snap of a branch or rustle of a leaf felt dangerous. There were times Henry worried he might get lost and not be able to find the main trail again. The forest was vast and it felt alive to Henry, as if it watched him and if he let down his guard it would trap him somehow. He kept reminding himself that could not be true and was just caused by his idea that the sundew must be able to think, but it did no good. As the sun began its slow descent and the shadows deepened, Henry hurried back to the stables. He was greatly relieved to be out of the forest but discouraged at his lack of progress. Red Callahan had disappeared without a trace.

  That evening, Henry took Matilda out on the lawn. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched again, as if the forest had a hundred eyes upon him.

  Henry was startled from his thoughts by the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the drive. A rider had turned into the lane and galloped toward him. A tall, tanned man about thirty years old wheeled in his horse, jumped down from the saddle and said, “Fitzwilliam here. Tell your master I am at his service.”

  It took a good deal of time to acquaint John Fitzwilliam with the facts, such as Henry knew them.

  They sat in front of a crackling fire in the library, long into the night.

  “This is a fine state of affairs,” said Fitzwilliam. “Here I am, ready to stand steady by his side at the altar, and the old boy has created a couple of creatures and got himself thrown in the clink for murder and kidnapping.”

  Henry thought that was one way to put it. He said, “We were anxiously awaiting your arrival to find out more about the lupuna tree.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know more than I wrote.”

  “Sir Richard is certain that the lupuna powder caused the … undesired effect,” Henry said. “What’s strange, though, is why the different effects? It cured you of your fever and it filled Mr. Terrible’s aquarium full of crickets, yet it turned Mary, Queen of Scots, and the Musca domestica into giants.”

  “Wait, what?” Fitzwilliam said, put
ting down his glass of brandy. “Who is Mr. Terrible? Mary, Queen of Scots, died centuries ago.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Henry said. He had become so used to the names he had forgotten that Fitzwilliam would not know anything about it. When Fitzwilliam had collected the specimens they only had their Latin names, not the names Henry later gave them. “Mr. Terrible is the Phyllobates terribilis. Mary, Queen of Scots, is the Theraphosa nigrum lapis. We call her Queen of the Scots because of her daring and impetuous nature.”

  “I see,” Fitzwilliam said. “Blackstone wrote me to ask permission to name the species after himself, which I heartily gave as there is no Latin word for Fitzwilliam. But he failed to mention the Queen of the Scots being at all involved.”

  “I named her that,” Henry admitted.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter what you named her, as she’s unlikely to come when called. All right, so why the different effects? Who knows? It is called the giant lupuna tree. I suppose that would account for the tarantula and the fly turning to giants.”

  Henry sat up straight in his chair. “Giant? That wasn’t in your notes!”

  “Wasn’t it, though? I was sure I had described it as rather large.”

  “That could be a clue to why the powder had the effect it did,” Henry said, “though it doesn’t answer why the powder doesn’t always turn things bigger.”

  “Well, as you say, the tarantula is safely trapped in the valley beyond the cave,” Fitzwilliam said. “The fly has not reappeared, so I think we can safely assume it has become dinner for a hungry falcon. The real question is, how do we find out more about this Snidefellow character? The only way to help Sir Richard is to bring that scoundrel to his knees.”

  Fitzwilliam took a swig of brandy. “I need to find out more about that man,” he said, “and, Henry, you’re going to help me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The following morning, Fitzwilliam and Henry prepared to execute Fitzwilliam’s daring plan. Fitzwilliam would waylay the warden, while Henry broke into Snidefellow’s cottage and searched for any information that might help Sir Richard. Privately, Henry thought it was less like a plan and more like a way to join Sir Richard in jail. He argued that they should wait to hear the advice of Sir Richard’s solicitor, but Fitzwilliam was resolute. They must act now.

  Snidefellow’s cottage was hard by the church and backed onto the Queen’s Forest. Fitzwilliam would approach by the road that led through the middle of Barton Commons while Henry would come through the forest so as not to be observed.

  Henry spurred Cantankerous through the woods. He turned onto the main trail that led deep into the forest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Once again he felt watched. Mary was safely trapped in the valley, and he did not fear the fly. But perhaps there really were wolves nearby? Or even a padfoot if such a thing existed? He could not rule that out entirely, as he had never known that a poisonous frog or a tarantula actually existed until he saw them with his own eyes. Though Henry reasoned with himself that there was nothing in the forest to be frightened of, his instincts kept telling him otherwise.

  He decided that he couldn’t entirely dismiss his feelings. His sense of impending danger had served him well on the streets of London. He had often had a sudden idea of something being not exactly right and then, when he looked about him, saw a pickpocket reaching for his cup or a constable giving him the eye or his parents coming around a corner. Henry did not know what could be causing him to feel such a deep sense of alarm now, but he decided to be extra watchful.

  Cantankerous seemed to sense danger also and was unusually cooperative. The pony moved to a trot and did not once pause to bite at Henry’s leg. Finally, Henry saw the light at the tree line that marked the edge of the Queen’s Forest.

  He silently dismounted, tied the reins to a sturdy tree limb, and crept to the back of Snidefellow’s cottage. After ten minutes of waiting, Henry heard Fitzwilliam’s booming voice.

  “Come outside, man,” Fitzwilliam said. “I won’t step into a hovel such as this.”

  Henry heard Snidefellow answer that the duchess would not appreciate the insult, as she had built the cottage especially for his convenience.

  Despite Snidefellow’s protests, Henry heard the front door open and close. The councilman had gone outside.

  Henry jiggled the latch on the back window, flinching as the iron made a rasping sound. He paused. Fitzwilliam was loudly discussing the possible fates of a councilman who overstepped his bounds. He recounted the tale of a London councilman who had the temerity to accuse the queen’s treasurer of corruption and who now made his home in the Tower.

  Henry played with the latch again and it came free. He opened the window wide, hoisted himself up, and climbed inside.

  Snidefellow’s cottage was sparse. For all the man’s airs, he lived simply. A low and smoky fireplace took up one wall, his bedstead was pushed up against another, and a plain wood desk took up a third.

  Henry tiptoed to the desk. A report to the district council lay on top. Henry read it and was surprised to find that it made no mention of Sir Richard. For all the council would learn from it, nothing of note had occurred in the hamlet of Barton Commons.

  He cautiously opened the drawers. One was filled with a stack of parchments; copies of reports scribbled out in spidery handwriting. From the looks of it, Snidefellow reported every doing in the village to the district council, right down to suspecting Farmer Giles of harboring traitorous tendencies due to his gruff manner and lack of civility to the councilman himself. That made it doubly suspicious that the most current report said nothing about Sir Richard. The other drawer only contained ink and quills.

  Out front, Fitzwilliam bellowed, “If even a hair on my friend’s head is hurt, I’ll put you in front of a London magistrate and then we’ll see how you answer for yourself.”

  Snidefellow’s slippery voice said, “Your histrionics will get you nowhere. Unlike Sir Richard, I have nothing to hide.”

  Hide. Maybe Snidefellow had hidden something. Henry peeked up the chimney. He tested the floorboards, feeling for one that was loose. He got on his hands and knees and peered beneath the bedstead. A metal strongbox lay underneath.

  Henry dragged it out. It wasn’t heavy, so it was not filled with coin. He examined the clasp. It was padlocked.

  The latch on the front door rose.

  “We can have nothing further to discuss,” Snidefellow said. “You will learn the truth about your friend at trial. Good day, sir.”

  Henry scooped up the box, ran to the window, and threw himself out. He landed with a thud on the grass and reached up and pulled the window closed as the door creaked open.

  Hunched over, Henry ran to the woods and mounted Cantankerous. He hurried through the forest, balancing the box on his saddle. Cantankerous’s ears were up and her mouth frothing, as if she had been the one to execute the break-in. Henry made the wide U through the woods. As he came to the final turn, Cantankerous moved ever faster, but Henry felt himself relax. He was almost home.

  A flash of dark material caught his eye. The pony halted of his own accord and sidestepped, nearly throwing Henry off. He rebalanced the box in his lap and stared at the spot. Could it be Red Callahan?

  A face peered from around a tree. A long and gaunt and familiar face.

  Henry froze.

  It was his father.

  Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a moment, then his father turned and disappeared into the trees.

  Why was his father here? Why had he not said anything? Where had the man gone?

  Henry spurred Cantankerous toward the manor.

  As Henry neared the stables, he took a deep breath and tried to analyze the situation. Of course, his parents wanted him back so they could sell him off. All they ever thought about was money and to them Henry was just a commodity. A farmer sold eggs, his parents sold him. But how had they tracked him to Hampshire? Were they both here, or just his father? Why was his father hiding in the Queen’s F
orest?

  His father had seen him get into the carriage in London, but how could he have discovered anything after that? He and Sir Richard had been in a public coach with no identifying marks when they made their way to the Angel. Even Sir Richard’s private carriage did not have a coat of arms or anything that would hint at who it belonged to.

  Perhaps the baker, Mr. Clemens, had let it slip that Henry had been on his way to apply for the position as Sir Richard’s assistant? If that had been the case, his father could have easily purchased a newspaper and read the advertisement for himself. Henry remembered clearly enough that it stated: Barton Commons, Hampshire.

  Those times when Henry had felt like he was being watched and had sensed danger, he had been right. His instincts had tried to tell him there was danger lurking nearby. But why had his father only been watching him? Why the secrecy? His mother and father had a rightful claim to him. The law didn’t care whether parents were kind or cruel. So why did his father turn and disappear into the woods when he spotted Henry, instead of grabbing him and hauling him back to London?

  Henry resolved that he would do his best to help Sir Richard. Then he would run somewhere that his parents would fear to follow. He would stow away on a ship to America. It had been his plan before he had heard of Sir Richard’s advertisement. It would have to be his plan again. His parents would not dare follow him to America.

  His heart sank as he thought of Matilda. He would have to leave her behind. The first creature that had ever counted on him and loved him and now he would have to abandon her. He couldn’t even explain to her why it must be so, that it wouldn’t be fair to drag her from place to place, neither of them assured of food or a bed. He knew what it was like to be anchorless; he did not want Matilda to know, too. He just wished there was a way she could understand his reasons for leaving her.

  Henry felt lightheaded. He had thought he’d finally found his place in the world. But soon, he would be floating around anchorless again.

  His job right now was to help Sir Richard. Whatever his parents’ plans were, they would not swoop in and grab him this minute or they would have done it already. Knowing them, they probably hoped to somehow squeeze some money out of Sir Richard and were biding their time and waiting for an opportunity.