by D. R. Martin
Small shops lined the little arcade. A cobbler, a fishmonger, a tailor, a bookseller, a toy shop. And here and there, ghosts mooned about, as ghosts often did. A soldier from the continental wars of the early 1800s. A lady from several centuries ago, in a spectacular dress with fine embroidery. Oddly, they seemed unsurprised to see Johnny and the colonel. They said nothing and did nothing. They just stared.
A young boy and a woman came out of the toy shop, the lad proudly hugging a colorful, pressed-metal roadster. They both gasped. Johnny presumed they couldn’t see the colonel, and were taken aback encountering an ordinary kid in hiking clothes, hovering up in midair.
The woman stopped and gave Johnny a disapproving look. “What in the world are you doing up there, young man? You could get hurt!”
Johnny briefly explained why he was levitating and what he was doing. He asked if they’d seen a blond-haired boy running through.
As the woman shook her head, her son tugged at her sleeve. She looked down at him. “Yes, Oswald?”
“I saw him,” the tyke said, a bit shyly. “He had a green bag and he went that way.” The boy pointed to the far end of the little shopping street.
Johnny thanked them. The colonel flicked the reins and nudged Buck’s flanks with his heels. They began trotting away.
“You’ll need to dismount, boy, or you’ll bump your head,” the woman shouted after them. “There’s a low, narrow passageway that leads out into the pottery yards.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Johnny bellowed back. “I’ll do that.”
They emerged from out of the tunnel into a broad courtyard. There were brick factory buildings on three sides, although they seemed to be abandoned. Many of the windows had been broken. A big, weatherworn sign on one of the structures said “Higgsmarket Potteries, Ltd.” But it had come partly loose and was tilting down. Johnny didn’t see a single person.
“I’m fearful that your young thief could have gone to ground anywhere out here,” the colonel said.
Johnny wanted to scream in frustration. He really liked that Ritterflex camera. Now it was gone. And he didn’t know if he could find another camera like it in Higgsmarket.
“I’m sorry, Master Johnny. If we had the whole brigade here, we might have a chance of finding him. But this… This is akin to hunting for a needle…”
“… in a haystack,” Johnny groaned, completing the simile.
This was terrible!
The camera was gone. Probably for good.
As he trudged back to the teashop to get Nina, Johnny thought about what he should do. He had to notify the police, because that camera was worth at least seventy-five dollars. Then he figured he ought to go around to as many pawn shops as he could. The kid would probably try to sell the Ritterflex at one of them. And what would happen to the film already exposed? What a mess.
* * *
The next morning Johnny again faced a mystery that had baffled him since they had arrived in the Royal Kingdom. There it was, sitting in a little rack in the middle of the hotel breakfast table. Toast. But it was cold. What was the point of that? Didn’t it make more sense to put butter and jam on nice hot toast? Who wouldn’t prefer that? But he scraped some butter onto the cold toast, and began to munch.
Then he remembered.
The Ritterflex was gone, stolen. And this stupid town didn’t have a decent camera store. Even the pawnshops Johnny had visited yesterday afternoon didn’t have anything good. He had to buy a crappy folding camera at a chemist’s. So he didn’t have a good camera to take on the expedition. Now he was worried that the chief wouldn’t be happy with the quality of his pictures.
Nina arrived at the table and began to butter her own cold toast. She tried to lift his spirits, telling him that he was such a good photographer, that he could probably cover the whole story with an ordinary box camera.
But Johnny didn’t feel like being comforted. “I’ve never had a camera stolen before. And wouldn’t you know, it has to happen just before we leave on one of the biggest assignments ever.”
“And that would be this morning.”
Johnny almost jumped out of his chair.
Rex Ward, the secret agent, had come down through the ceiling and landed right next to Johnny—who looked at him, prompting Nina to do the same. Even without her etheric goggles, she was well trained in the craft of looking at dead people she couldn’t see.
“You mean, we’re leaving soon?” Johnny asked.
Rex nodded, while gazing enviously at the overloaded breakfast plates.
“Oh, to be able to eat and smell some fried eggs and kippers,” he sighed. He blinked back at Johnny. “Sal leaves at eleven this morning. The SGS officer I’ve been in contact with has made the arrangements for you.”
“What happens when we get to Chippington?” Nina asked. She had put on her etheric goggles now, which drew perplexed stares from a few other breakfasters in the dining room. Johnny had to admit the glasses made her look plenty weird.
“Simple enough,” Rex said. “You’ll head off with your escort and several ghost couriers, to bring back your reports. And you will try earnestly to not get killed or captured.”
Johnny wondered if Rex was just trying to be funny, and waited for him to smile or wink or something. Wasn’t that the escort’s job? To keep them safe?
“And speaking of your escort,” Rex said, “here he is.” The ghost made a head nod toward the dining room entrance.
Johnny turned and looked quizzically at the approaching black-haired teenager, who swaggered into the room as if he owned the place. He was wearing a tan trench coat that was, at the moment, unbelted, and a dark, wool suit that looked fashionably up to date. Johnny caught the odor of his scented hair oil. A bit of a dandy, apparently.
This is the guy they hired to lead Nina and Johnny, and protect them from zombies? A kid? He didn’t even vaguely resemble the rough, tough rugby player Johnny had hoped for.
Behind the kid came a red-haired girl in a well-tailored, double-breasted, green plaid suit. Johnny noticed her eyes—a shade of violet that he had never seen before. Two ghosts—a dark-skinned boy and a little girl—floated above them.
“Johnny, Nina,” Rex said, “I’d like you to meet Marko Herne. Mr. Herne thought it best that you have more than one escort. So you’ll also be accompanied by his associates. This is Iris Budd, the late Raj Gupta, and Iris’s late sister, Petunia.”
Marko didn’t seem much happier to see Johnny, than Johnny was to see Marko. Johnny got a distinct impression of coldness and disregard from this kid, and he had no idea why.
The curt, quick handshake that they exchanged confirmed it.
Marko was actually glaring at Johnny, as he nudged a thick strand of black hair off his forehead. “I have something for you.”
He swung his left arm around to the front.
“Holy maroley!” Johnny blurted, amazed. “You got my camera bag! Is the Ritterflex in there?”
Marko didn’t exactly look happy about it. “Yeah, and you’re lucky I found the blasted thing. What I want to know is how stupid are you, letting a street rat grab it so easy?”
Chapter 13
Sunday, February 2, 1936
Wickenham, Gilbeyshire
Except when Grandmother or Mel sent her off on an errand—usually to refresh the contents of the teapot—Bao had spent most of her first few days at Wickenham haunting the great library.
Grandmother sat at a huge desk and went through stacks of papers one by one, scribbling notes down as she progressed. She riffled through books and boxes. Professor DeNimes and Mel did the same, but at much smaller desks. Bao wished that she could read well enough and was smart enough to do the same thing—to help her friends. But she was having a hard enough time just reading Ellie Owl and the Midnight Hoot.
Despite being warned by Grandmother to not bother anyone, Bao’s curiosity got the best of her. When Grandmother left the library late one afternoon, Bao zipped over to Mel and asked what exactly it was she w
as looking for.
Mel put down the stack of papers she held in her hands. “Well, Bao, you know that Percy turned himself into a zombie.”
Bao, floating several inches above the floor in front of Mel, nodded earnestly, remembering with a shudder that creepy man.
“We’re trying to figure out how. And then we want to stop it from happening ever again. I’m looking at some articles that Percy clipped out when he was a teenager. They’re mostly about cricket stars and test matches and whatnot. There are even a few about baseball. Nothing to do with ghosts and bombs and zombies that I can see. But everything has to be checked out.”
Bao listened intently. The little ghost girl agreed with Nina. Zombies were gross. She hoped that Grandmother, the professor, and Mel could figure out how to do away with them.
But boxes and boxes of Percy’s papers covered several tables that had been set up in the library. Bao thought that it would take a very long time to get through all of it.
When she wasn’t helping Grandmother and the others, Bao spent her time with Evvie, the late Lord Hurley of Evansham. The two ghosts had met when they were about to go into the etheric bomb that Percy had built. Bao was a little girl from an ancient mountain tribe and Evvie was a teenaged noble lord of the Royal Kingdom. They hit it off splendidly, becoming the best of friends, despite their many differences.
The pair often went exploring around Wickenham. Through the attics. Down into the basement. Out in the barns and stables. Around the gardens and the great maze. Over to the village of Blackfield, where they helped ghosts from the estate spy on Ozzie Eccleston, one of Percy’s gang.
Bao didn’t like to be forward and ask about Evvie’s family. But one afternoon, when they were sitting on the ornate wrought iron fence by Wickenham’s little lake, she couldn’t help herself.
“Why didn’t you go to see your family when we were in Royalton?” she said, swinging her legs beneath her. “Didn’t you want to see your brother and everyone?”
“Well, old girl,” Evvie said, “the thought did occur to me. But the fact is that I’m dashed embarrassed about being a ghost. Our father died in ’09. And what did I go and do as soon as I became Lord Hurley? I took that blasted expedition up the Roobuco River and promptly got myself drowned. At the tender age of sixteen. I can only imagine how angry my mother and brother were at me, after warning me against going.”
“But that was a long time ago, Evvie,” Bao said. “You should talk to your brother again. He’d want to know that you’re all right, even if you’re dead.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Evvie sighed. “But I feel that with my nephew being kidnapped, his fate unknown, it would be deuced awkward for me to show up on their doorstep. And I don’t even know the poor lad’s name. No, no. They have bigger fish to fry than having a reunion with a dusty old wraith.”
Later that afternoon, Bao and Evvie were hiding up in a shadowy corner of The Laughing Fox pub. They knew that Dame Honoria’s scheme to take care of Ozzie Eccleston was about to unfold.
Down below, local men were playing darts and drinking beer, oblivious of the ghosts up above them. Some women sat at a side table, jabbering loudly at each other. A clump of men were standing around talking about the weird business up in MacFreithshire and what it might mean for the Royal Kingdom. Cigarette and pipe smoke filled the air.
And at the bar, all by himself, was Ozzie, sucking on a tall ale and voraciously consuming a plate of sausages and boiled potatoes. When he had just been a ghost, he hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything. As a zombie, he seemed to spend most of his time doing just that. Grandmother said it was a wonder that he hadn’t gained a hundred pounds.
A few moments after Bao and Evvie arrived, another man sauntered up to the bar and took the stool right next to Ozzie. The zombie looked to his right and nodded. Obviously he didn’t recognize the fellow, who happened to be one of Grandmother’s gardeners. Bao knew him as Phillip.
“Evening,” Phillip said, after he ordered a beer for himself. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you at The Fox before.”
Ozzie shrugged. “Then you haven’t been here lately. I’m practically living in the place.”
“Don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“From Rotonesia, actually. On the grand tour of the Royal Kingdom. History buff, don’t you know.”
“Well then, welcome to our little piece of history. It looks to me like you’re just about out of our local brew there. Can I buy you another?”
Ozzie’s little Rotonesian face lit up. “Good chap! Kind of you. Yes, please.”
And that was the first of about seven large mugs of beer that Phillip bought for the zombie—who about two hours later was face down on the bar, muttering to himself.
Phillip nodded at a solitary man who was sitting in a corner. The fellow trotted over. Together they hoisted Ozzie to his feet and trundled him out of the pub. Their faces were wrinkled up, probably from being so close to that dank, musty smell the zombie gave off. Bao and Evvie zoomed outside to watch them stuff Ozzie into an automobile. From there it was a quick trip back to Wickenham.
Grandmother and Mel were waiting out in the garage with several more workers from the estate, standing around a large wooden crate, the end of which was open. Stenciled on all sides were the words: FRAGILE. KEEP UPRIGHT. Inside the crate were blankets, copious quantities of tinned meat, water, a small chemical toilet, flashlights, and other supplies. There were several air holes drilled in the sides, as well.
As Phillip and the other man extracted a limp, drunken Ozzie from the auto, Grandmother said, “It’s not my wish to harm him, but to teach him a lesson. It was his choice to be trapped in a dead body. Now he will have ample time to ponder his misdeeds.”
Bao knew that once Ozzie was put in his box, the box was to be express-shipped all the way back to Old Number One, the island that Grandmother’s father had owned. That’s where Percy had made the second etheric bomb. And that’s where Ozzie and the Steppe Warriors had held Grandmother captive after they abducted her.
The shippers were instructed to ignore any urgent pleas from inside the box. Once the crate arrived on the island, it was to be opened and Ozzie released to his exile. Since the island was uninhabited, there would be no pubs or cafes or grocery stores. So, no more sausages and beer for him.
As soon as the last nail was hammered in, Bao shouted gleefully, “It’s just what you deserve, you mean, mean man!”
“Don’t think you’ve won,” came a muffled voice from inside the crate. “Percy Rathbone will have the last word. And then all of you living and you traitor ghosts can go hang!”
Chapter 14
Sunday, February 2, 1936
Higgsmarket
Johnny was furious!
He had never met anyone—living or dead—who was as rude as this kid Marko.
The scene at breakfast kept replaying over and over in his head, as he walked to the Higgsmarket rail yards later that morning.
When Marko had called him stupid for letting his camera get stolen, Johnny felt as if he’d actually been slapped in the face. Even Nina looked angry. Johnny had started to defend himself, but Marko kept talking, his voice harsh and accusing.
“If I’m going to keep you alive in zombie country,” Marko had said, jabbing a finger at Johnny’s chest, “I need to know that you’re not a chowderhead. You’ve gotta do what I say, when I say it. I’m in charge, got it?”
People around the dining room were staring at them. One waitress looked as though she might intervene.
“This isn’t any picnic, mate,” Marko continued, now lowering his voice. “And I’m not putting Iris and myself at risk because of some camera-toting cowboy from the Plains Republic. Got it, mate?”
By the time Johnny finally had a chance to respond, his blood was boiling.
“Now you let me make a few things clear. I’ve traveled across the Greater Ocean and seen things you couldn’t even imagine, mate. I nearly died a half-dozen times,
mate. I saw the etheric bomb explode, mate.”
He gave Marko the coldest stare he could muster. “So just because I had my camera stolen, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Got that, mate?”
Rex had tried to smooth things over. “Now, now, lads, we don’t want to start off this partnership under a dark cloud, do we? Let’s just chalk it all up to this dashed fog. It’s got everybody acting strange. Even us ghosts.”
So Marko had grumbled that he was sorry for being so blunt. Johnny had accepted the apology, but he didn’t believe Marko meant a word of it. Johnny didn’t know how he could spend a day with this arrogant jerk, let alone a week. But if he was going to carry out his spying assignment, he had to put up with the guy.
Now they were all heading to the rail yards, where the king’s train awaited them. Johnny and Nina strode directly behind Rex Ward, with Marko and his pals up ahead. Farther back, the colonel led a half-dozen members of the First Zenith Cavalry Brigade, including Sergeant Clegg. They turned onto a side street filled mostly with tradesmen’s shops—plumbers and electricians and builders. Local ghosts stared at them rudely, as many ghosts do.
Both Johnny and Nina had on their backpacks. And Johnny was clutching his camera bag with a fierce grip. He would never so much as leave it on the floor again. Never. Ever.
Along the way, Johnny sidled up to Rex and, in a low voice, asked him a question. “What’s the story with these two kids?” He pointed at Marko and Iris, walking ahead of them.
“Don’t be fooled by their age and appearance. Marko is tough and street-smart and knows his way out of a tight spot. He comes highly recommended by the Higgsmarket constabulary. And Iris knows MacFreithshire like the back of her hand.”
“But they can’t be much older than I am,” Johnny protested.
“According to Marko’s application for security clearance, he’s sixteen.”
Johnny snorted. If that kid was sixteen, then Johnny was fourteen. And that wouldn’t be the case for nearly a year.