Books by Jenny Nimmo

Another one for Myfanwy, with love.
First published in Great Britain 2002 by Egmont UK Limited
This edition published 2010
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2002 Jenny Nimmo
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 2543 4
ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1202 6
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

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Contents

Cover

Title page

Books by Jenny Nimmo

Copyright

Prologue

1 Charlie hears voices

2 The Yewbeam aunts

3 The flame cats

4 The inventor’s case

5 Trapped in the dark

6 A ruined half-term

7 Hypnotised!

8 Breaking the rules

9 The Red King’s room

10 Skeletons in the cupboard

11 Clues at last

12 Mind games

13 The inventor’s tale

14 Billy’s dark bargain

15 A ringing, chanting, shining knight

16 War

17 The inventor’s daughter

18 The Red King

19 Into the ruin

20 The battle of the endowed

21 The longest night of the year

Prologue

Long, long ago a king arrived in the north. They called him the Red King for he wore a scarlet cloak and his shield was emblazoned with a burning sun. It was said that he came out of Africa. This king was also a marvellous magician and each of his ten children inherited a small part of his power. But when the king’s wife died, five of his children turned to wickedness and the other five, seeking to escape the corruption that surrounded their evil siblings, left their father’s castle forever.

Broken-hearted, the Red King vanished into the forests that covered the kingdoms of the north. He did not go alone, however, for he was followed by his three faithful cats; leopards to be precise. We must never forget the cats!

The manifold and fabulous powers of the Red King were passed down through his descendants, often turning up quite unexpectedly, in someone who had no idea where they came from. This is what happened to Charlie Bone, and to some of the children he met behind the grim, grey walls of Bloor’s Academy.

Charlie hears voices

On a Thursday afternoon, just after tea, Charlie Bone saw smoke. He happened to be looking out of his window when a dark cloud lifted above the autumn trees. The wind blew it south and it moved through the sky like a great, floating whale.

Somewhere, on the other side of the city, there was a fire. Charlie could hear a fire-engine racing towards it. He had no idea that in mysterious and unexpected ways he was connected to it, and would soon be drawn to the place where it had begun.

Charlie slept well, got up next morning and went to school. After school, Charlie and his friend, Benjamin Brown, walked home together, as usual. The cloud of smoke had gone, but the sky was stormy and dark. A fierce wind sent red and gold leaves bowling down Filbert Street.

Benjamin crossed the road to number twelve, while Charlie stopped at number nine. Most of the people who lived at number nine complained about the large chestnut tree in front of it; how dark it made their rooms, how damp and creaky it was, and how it would probably fall on the roof one day and kill them all in their beds. Needless to say, no one at number nine did anything about it. Complaining to each other was as far as they went. They were that sort of family. Or, rather, those sorts of families.

As Charlie ran up the steps to his front door, the tree sighed and rained a handful of conkers on to his head. Luckily his thick, springy hair softened the blows. Thick hair had its uses, though not many. Charlie was always being told to smarten himself up, an impossible task for someone with hair like a hedge.

‘Hullo, Grandmas!’ Charlie called as he stepped into the hall.

There were two grandmas at number nine: Grandma Jones was Charlie’s mother’s mother, and Grandma Bone was Charlie’s father’s mother. Grandma Jones was round and cheerful and bossy, while Grandma Bone only spoke to complain. She rarely smiled and nothing made her laugh. Her hair was thick and white, and she wore long, stiff garments in shades of black, grey or brown (never pink, which was Maisie’s favourite colour). Grandma Jones liked to be called Maisie, but Charlie wouldn’t have dared to call Grandma Bone by her first name, which was Grizelda. She liked to remind people that, before she had married Mr Bone, she had been a Yewbeam. The Yewbeams were an ancient family, their history littered with artistic people, and others who had more unusual talents, such as hypnotism, thought-reading, and bewitchery.

Charlie knew he had disappointed Grandma Bone by being ordinary. Even worse, in her eyes, he was quite happy to be ordinary.

When Charlie came home from school it was always Maisie who plonked a wet kiss on his cheek and pushed a plate of something under his nose. Today Maisie had a large bump on her forehead. ‘Ruddy conker,’ she told Charlie.

Grandma Bone was always sitting in a rocker by the stove, criticising Maisie’s cooking or the state of Charlie’s hair. Today the rocker was empty. That was the first unusual thing.

It was Benjamin’s tenth birthday on Saturday and Charlie had decided to make him a birthday card instead of buying one. He’d taken a photo of Benjamin’s dog, Runner Bean, smiling or, to be more precise, showing his long, incredibly yellow teeth.

Charlie had asked his mother to get the photo enlarged at Kwik Foto on her way home from work. He intended to stick a balloon saying ‘Happy Birthday, Benjamin!’ above Runner Bean’s head.

The second unusual thing was about to happen.

At five minutes past four, Charlie’s mother came in with a box of over-ripe apples and rhubarb. ‘They’ll make a lovely crumble,’ she said, dumping the box beside Charlie’s plate and kissing his shaggy head. Amy Bone worked part-time in a greengrocer’s shop, so there was always plenty of fruit and vegetables at number nine.

Charlie leaned away from the rotting fruit. ‘Have you got my photo, Mum?’ he asked.

Amy Bone rustled about in her shopping bag and found a large orange envelope. She put it on the other side of Charlie’s plate.

Charlie opened the envelope and revealed – not Runner Bean – nothing like Runner Bean.

It was at this moment that Grandma Bone appeared. She hovered in the doorway, fingering her neck, touching her silver-white hair and pulling at her stiff black skirt. She looked somehow as though she was on the brink of fulfilling her destiny. And in a way she was, though, at sixty-five, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a bit late.

The photograph that Charlie now held showed a man cradling a baby. The man sat on an upright chair. He had thinning, greyish hair and a long, mournful face. His crumpled suit was black and his thick pebble glasses gave his pale grey eyes a lost, marble-like stare.

Instead of pushing the photograph back into the envelope, Charlie continued to gaze at it. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. He began to feel dizzy and his ears were filled with mysterious sounds, like the hiss and swish of voices on the radio, when you can’t pin them to the right frequency.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Er, what . . .?’ His own voice seemed far away, trapped behind a kind of fog.

‘What’s wrong, Charlie?’ asked his mother.

‘Is something happening?’ Grandma Bone crept forward. ‘Aunt Eustacia rang me. She had one of her premonitions. Are you a proper Yewbeam, after all?’

Maisie glared at Grandma Bone, while Charlie pulled his ears and shook his head. If only the horrible muffled buzzing would go. He had to shout in order to hear himself. ‘They’ve made a mistake at the shop. Where’s Runner Bean?’

‘There’s no need to shout, Charlie.’ His mother looked over his shoulder. ‘My goodness, that’s certainly not a dog.’

‘Ow!’ wailed Charlie. But suddenly the mumbling voices broke free of the buzz and made themselves clear.

First came a woman’s voice, soft and unfamiliar: I wish you wouldn’t do this, Mostyn.

Her mother’s gone. I don’t have a choice. This voice was definitely male.

Of course you do.

Will you take her, then? said the man’s voice.

You know I can’t, replied the woman.

Charlie looked at his mother. ‘Who said that?’

She looked puzzled. ‘Who said what, Charlie?’

‘Is there a man in here?’ he asked.

Maisie giggled. ‘Only you, Charlie.’

Charlie felt claw-like fingers sink into his shoulder. Grandma Bone leaned over him. ‘Tell me what you hear,’ she demanded.

‘Voices,’ said Charlie. ‘I know it sounds silly, but they seem to be coming from this photograph.’

Grandma Bone nodded. ‘What do they say?’

‘For goodness sake, Grandma Bone, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Maisie.

Grandma Bone gave Maisie a withering look. ‘I am not being ridiculous.’

Charlie noticed that his mother had gone very quiet. She drew out a chair and sat down, looking pale and anxious.

Maisie began to bang saucepans about, muttering, ‘You shouldn’t encourage it. It’s all rubbish. I won’t have it . . .’

‘Ssssh!’ hissed Charlie. He could hear the baby crying.

The strange woman spoke again. You’ve upset her. Look at the camera, Mostyn. And please try to smile. You look so dismal.

What d’you expect? said the man.

A camera shutter clicked.

There. Shall I take another?

Do what you want.

You’ll thank me, one day, said the woman behind the camera. If you really intend to go through with this, it’s the only thing you’ll have to remember her by.

Hm.

Charlie noticed that a cat peeped from behind the man’s chair. It was an extraordinary colour; deep copper, like a flame.

From far away Charlie heard his mother’s voice. ‘Shall I take the photo back, Charlie?’

‘No,’ murmured Charlie, ‘not yet.’

But it seemed that the photograph had nothing more to say. The baby grizzled for a moment, and then was quiet. The gloomy man stared silently at the camera, and the cat . . .? Was that a purr? Maisie was making such a noise with the saucepans it was difficult to hear anything else.

‘Hush!’ commanded Grandma Bone. ‘Charlie can’t hear.’

‘It’s all nonsense,’ Maisie grumbled. ‘I don’t know how you can just sit there, Amy, and let your potty mother-in-law get away with it. Poor Charlie. He’s just a boy. He’s got nothing to do with those crazy Yewbeams.’

‘He’s got their blood,’ said Charlie’s mother, quietly. ‘You can’t get away from that.’

Maisie couldn’t. She closed her mouth in a tight little line.

Charlie was very bewildered. In the morning he had been an ordinary boy. He hadn’t been touched by a magic wand, or banged his head. He hadn’t had an electric shock or fallen off a bus, or, as far as he knew, eaten a poisoned apple. And yet, here he was, hearing voices from a piece of photographic paper.

To set his mother’s mind at rest, Charlie said, ‘I don’t think it was anything, really. I just imagined it.’

Grandma Bone leaned even closer and breathed into his ear, ‘Listen tonight. Things work better after midnight.’

‘He’ll be asleep by then, I’ll have you know,’ said Maisie, who had ears as sharp as a rabbit’s. ‘It’s all rubbish.’

‘Huh!’ retorted Grandma Bone. ‘Just you wait!’ She wafted away, leaving a scent of mothballs and mint drifting round the kitchen.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Charlie said when she had gone.

‘Are you sure?’ his mother said anxiously.

‘Honest. I was just doing it to tease Grandma Bone.’ He was trying to convince himself as well as his mother.

‘Charlie, you’re a wicked boy,’ Maisie said happily as she banged a meat cleaver into a meaty bone.

Charlie’s mother looked relieved and opened the evening paper. Charlie slipped the photograph back into its envelope. He felt exhausted. Perhaps a bit of TV would help him to relax. But before he could escape, the doorbell rang and Grandma Bone could be heard saying, ‘It’s Benjamin Brown, isn’t it? Charlie’s in the kitchen. And you can leave that mangy Baked Bean outside.’

‘It’s Runner, not baked,’ said Benjamin’s voice, ‘and I can’t leave him outside. It’s nasty weather.’

‘Dogs like nasty weather,’ said Grandma Bone.

Benjamin and his dog appeared in the kitchen. Benjamin was a small, pale-faced boy with hair the colour of damp hay. Runner Bean was a large, long-nosed dog also with hair the colour of damp hay. For some reason Benjamin was always being picked on by other boys. People stole things from him, tripped him up, laughed at him. Charlie tried to help his friend but, sometimes, Benjamin was beyond help. Sometimes, in fact, Charlie thought that Benjamin didn’t even notice that he was a victim. He lived in a world of his own.

Runner Bean, smelling the meaty bone, rushed straight to Maisie and began to lick her ankles.

‘Get off!’ she yelled, swiping him on the nose.

‘You are coming to my party, aren’t you?’ Benjamin asked Charlie.

‘’Course I am,’ said Charlie, immediately feeling guilty about the birthday card.

‘Good, because I’m getting a game that needs two people to play it.’

Charlie realised that no one else would be at Benjamin’s party. This made him feel even more guilty. Runner Bean began to whine, almost as if he’d guessed that he wouldn’t be appearing on Benjamin’s birthday card.

‘I’ll be there,’ said Charlie cheerfully. He hadn’t bought a present yet. He would have to rush out to the shops before he began his quest. But what quest was that? Something seemed to be hijacking Charlie’s thoughts.

‘Want to come for a walk with Runner?’ Benjamin asked hopefully.

‘OK.’

Maisie shouted something about supper as Charlie and Benjamin left the house, but the wind howled round their heads, and a clap of thunder drowned her words. Runner Bean yelped as a conker hit his nose, and Benjamin managed to smile at last.

As the two boys and the dog ran into the wind, leaves flew in their faces and stuck to fur and clothes. Charlie felt better in the open air. Perhaps it really had been a trick of his imagination. He hadn’t heard voices at all, it was just some silly nonsense that he’d made himself believe, and Grandma Bone had encouraged him, just to annoy Maisie and upset his mother.

‘Yes,’ Charlie cried happily. ‘It’s all rubbish.’

‘And leaves,’ said Benjamin, who thought Charlie meant the litter being blown down the street.

‘And leaves,’ sang Charlie. He saw a newspaper flying towards him and stuck his foot out to catch it. But the paper lifted in a sudden gust and wrapped itself round his waist. As he pulled it away from him, a picture on the front page caught his eye.

A mean-looking boy stood on the steps of a grey building. He had a long, narrow face and a whispy moustache grew above his thin upper lip. His dark hair, parted in the centre, had been drawn back into a ponytail.

‘What’s that?’ asked Benjamin.

‘Just a boy,’ said Charlie, and yet he had the suspicion that this wasn’t just any boy.

Benjamin leaned over Charlie’s arm and read, ‘Manfred Bloor, aged seventeen was rescued from a fire at Bloor’s Academy yesterday. Manfred said he was lucky to be alive.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Charlie breathlessly.

‘What d’you mean, he didn’t?’ said Benjamin.

‘He didn’t say that,’ Charlie murmured, and he suddenly sat on the ground, with his back to the wall. He held the paper at arm’s length, dismayed by the words that were creeping out of the picture.

Someone’s going to pay for this.

‘How’d you . . .?’ Benjamin began.

‘Shut up, Ben,’ cried Charlie. ‘I’m listening.’

‘What to?’

‘Shush!’

As Charlie stared at Manfred Bloor there came a jumble of shouts and then a woman’s voice broke through the others, Are you accusing someone, Manfred?

Too right I am, said a husky voice.

Why d’you think it wasn’t an accident?

The husky voice again, I’m not stupid, that’s why.

A man said, The fire service told us a candle was probably blown over. Don’t you believe this?

ENOUGH! Whoever said this had such a deep and chilling voice, Charlie dropped the paper. It whirled away and flopped into the gutter.

‘Charlie, what’s going on?’ asked Benjamin.

Charlie gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m hearing voices,’ he said.

‘Oh, no.’ Benjamin sat beside him, and Runner Bean crouched beside Benjamin. ‘What sort of voices?’

Benjamin never ever said ‘That’s rubbish’. He took life seriously, which wasn’t always a bad thing.

Charlie told Benjamin about the photograph of Runner Bean that had got mixed up with a man and a baby. ‘It was going to be a surprise birthday card for you,’ said Charlie, ‘and now it won’t be. I’m sorry.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Benjamin. ‘Go on about the photograph.’

Charlie explained that he’d heard voices when he looked at the man and the baby. He’d even heard the baby cry, and perhaps a cat purring.

‘Weird,’ breathed Benjamin.

‘I made myself believe I’d just imagined it,’ said Charlie, ‘but when I saw the newspaper, it happened again. I could hear reporters talking to that boy on the front page. I could hear his voice, too. He sounded kind of mean and sly. And then someone said, “Enough!” and that was the worst voice I ever heard, in my whole life.’

Benjamin shivered and Runner Bean whined in sympathy.

The boys sat, side by side, on the damp pavement, not knowing quite what to do. The wind flung leaves at them, and thunder grumbled in the distance.

It began to rain. Runner Bean nudged Benjamin and whined. He hated getting wet. And then, during a particularly loud clap of thunder, a man appeared in front of the boys. He was wearing a dark raincoat and his wet hair was plastered over his forehead in wide, black bands.

‘It’s raining,’ the man announced. ‘Had you not noticed?’

Charlie looked up. ‘Uncle Paton,’ he said in surprise.

Uncle Paton was Grandma Bone’s brother. He was twenty years younger than she was and they didn’t get on. Paton led a secret life, even eating apart from the others. He never went out in daylight.

‘You’re wanted at home,’ Uncle Paton told Charlie.

Charlie and Benjamin stood up and shook their cramped legs. This was the third unusual thing to happen today. It wasn’t nearly dark enough for Uncle Paton to venture out.

Charlie wondered what could possibly have happened to cause such drastic action.

The Yewbeam aunts

It was difficult to keep up with Uncle Paton. He swept through wind and rain as if he wore seven-league boots.

‘I’ve never seen your uncle outside in the daytime,’ Benjamin panted. ‘He’s a bit funny, isn’t he?’

‘A bit,’ agreed Charlie who was rather in awe of his peculiar uncle. He put on a spurt as Uncle Paton had already arrived at the steps of number nine.

Benjamin fell behind. ‘Something’s up with your family,’ he called to Charlie. ‘I hope you can still come to my birthday.’

‘Nothing can stop me,’ said Charlie, reaching his uncle.

‘No dogs,’ said Uncle Paton, as Benjamin and Runner Bean came leaping up to them.

‘Aw, please,’ said Benjamin.

‘Not today. This is family business,’ Paton said sternly. ‘Go home.’

‘OK. Bye, then, Charlie.’ Benjamin trailed away, followed by Runner Bean, his ears and tail well down. A real hangdog.

Uncle Paton ushered Charlie into the kitchen and then disappeared upstairs.

Charlie found his mother and two grandmothers sitting at the kitchen table. Maisie looked very put out, but a secret smile played on Grandma Bone’s thin lips. Charlie’s mother was nervously stirring a cup of tea. Charlie couldn’t imagine why. His mother didn’t take sugar.

‘Sit down, Charlie,’ said Grandma Bone, as if she were about to put on a show entirely for his benefit.

‘Don’t let the Yewbeams get at you!’ Maisie whispered. She took Charlie’s hand and patted it.

‘What’s going on?’ said Charlie.

‘The Yewbeam aunts are coming,’ said his mother.

‘Why?’ asked Charlie.

The Yewbeam aunts were Grandma Bone’s three unmarried sisters. Charlie only saw them at Christmas, and he’d formed the impression that they were deeply disappointed in him. They always left a strange assortment of gifts: paint-boxes, musical instruments, masks and cloaks, and even a chemistry set. Charlie had found none of these things the least bit useful. He liked football and TV, and that was about it.

Grandma Bone leant across the table. Her eyes sparkled mysteriously. ‘My sisters are coming to assess you, Charlie. And if it is found that you are worthy – that you are, as I suspect, endowed – then they will provide the necessary funds to send you to Bloor’s Academy.’

‘Me? At Bloor’s?’ Charlie was aghast. ‘It’s for geniuses.’

‘Don’t worry, love. You won’t pass the test,’ said Maisie confidently. She got up muttering, ‘Of course, it’s old Maisie who has to do all the preparation for our Lady Mucks, isn’t it? I don’t know why I bother.’

There was to be a dinner for the aunts, Charlie’s mother explained. The best silver, the finest crystal and the treasured porcelain, would be carried up from the cellar and laid in the chilly dining-room, a room that was only ever used when the Yewbeam aunts came. Maisie was defrosting chicken and fish and goodness knows what else, as fast as she could.

Charlie would have been worried if he hadn’t been completely convinced that he wouldn’t pass the aunts’ test. He remembered how he’d tried to paint a picture for them and failed miserably. How he’d unsuccessfully attempted to play a violin, a flute, a harp and a piano. He had put on the masks they provided: animals, clowns, pirates, cowboys and spacemen, but only managed to act the part of Charlie Bone. Finally, it had to be admitted that he was not gifted.

So as he waited for the great aunts to arrive, Charlie was not as fearful as he should have been.

Benjamin, on the other hand, was extremely fearful. Charlie was his best friend, his only friend. Anything that happened to Charlie would, indirectly, happen to him. Sinister events were closing in on his friend. Benjamin sat by his bedroom window and watched Charlie’s house. As darkness fell the street lamps came on and lights winked in the building behind the chestnut tree: in the basement, the attic and all the bedrooms. What was going on?

The wind intensified. Thunder and lightning coincided. That meant that the storm was right above. Benjamin clung to Runner Bean, and the big dog hid his face in Benjamin’s sleeve.

The street was now deserted except for three shadowy figures. On they came, a line of black umbrellas hiding all but the hems of three dark coats and six boots: four black and two red. In spite of the wind, there was a strange rhythm in their movements, almost as if a dance were taking place beneath those wide umbrellas. The figures stopped beside the chestnut tree, as Benjamin feared they would. And then they mounted the steps to Charlie’s house.

For the first time in his life, Benjamin was glad to be himself and not Charlie Bone.

At number nine the dining-table was laid, and damp logs smouldered in the grate. When the doorbell rang, Charlie was sent to answer it. The three great-aunts swept into the house, stamping their feet on the tiled floor and shaking out their wet umbrellas. Their coats were hurled across the hall, landing on Charlie as if he were a coatstand.

‘Pick them up, boy,’ commanded Aunt Lucretia, as Charlie scrambled beneath the wet garments. ‘They’re valuable moleskin, not rags.’

‘Now, don’t be harsh, Lucretia,’ said Aunt Eustacia. ‘Charlie’s got a secret to tell us, haven’t you, pet?’

‘Erm,’ mumbled Charlie.

‘Don’t be shy.’ Aunt Venetia, the youngest, came swaying up to him. ‘We want to know, everything.’

‘Yewbeams, come in. Come in!’ Grandma Bone called from the dining-room.

The three sisters sailed through the door; Lucretia, the eldest, first, Venetia, the youngest, last. Snatching glasses of sherry from Grandma Bone, they gathered round the dwindling fire, shaking their damp skirts and patting their abundant hair. Lucretia’s white as snow, Eustacia’s iron-grey, Venetia’s still black and folded round her head like raven’s wings.

Charlie backed away and made for the kitchen where Maisie and his mother were busy round the stove.

‘Take the soup in will you, Charlie,’ said his mother.

Charlie didn’t want to be alone with the great-aunts, but his mother looked hot and weary, so he did as she asked.

The soup tureen was very heavy. Charlie could feel the glint of Yewbeam eyes, following him round the long dining-table. He plonked the tureen on a mat and ran to fetch the bowls, before Grandma Bone could complain about the drop of soup that had spilled over.

When everything was ready, Grandma Bone rang a bell, which Charlie thought was rather silly. Everyone could see that the meal was on the table.

‘Why do we need a bell?’ he asked.

‘Tradition,’ snapped Grandma Bone. ‘And Paton has no sense of smell.’

‘But Uncle Paton never eats with us.’

‘Today,’ said Grandma Bone emphatically, ‘he will.’ ‘And there’s an end to it,’ said Maisie with a grin, which soon faded when the four sisters glared at her.

Uncle Paton arrived looking irritated, and the meal began. Maisie had done her best, but ten minutes was rather short notice to devise a meal of any distinction. The soup was salty, the chicken dry and the trifle had a sad, drowned look. No one complained, however. They ate fast and heartily.

Maisie and Charlie’s mother cleared the table. Paton and Charlie helped. And then it was time for the assessment. Charlie discovered that his mother was not allowed to be present. ‘I won’t go in there without you!’ he said. ‘I won’t.’

‘Charlie, you must,’ said his mother. ‘The Yewbeams hold the purse-strings. I have nothing.’

‘It beats me why you want Charlie to go to that ridiculous academy,’ said Maisie.

‘For his father’s sake,’ said Charlie’s mother.

Maisie clicked her tongue and said nothing more.

Charlie’s father was dead, so why did it matter so much? His mother wouldn’t tell him. She gave him a little push towards the dining-room and in he went.

‘I want my mum in here, or I won’t do it,’ said Charlie.

‘My, my, a boy who wants his mother,’ Aunt Venetia cooed.

‘A boy who wants his mother is a baby,’ said Aunt Lucretia sternly. ‘Time to grow up, Charlie. This is a Yewbeam affair. We don’t want distractions.’

At this point Uncle Paton tried to slip away, but his oldest sister called him back. ‘Paton, you’re needed. Do your duty, for once.’

Uncle Paton reluctantly slid into the chair she indicated.

Charlie was made to sit on one side of the table, facing the four sisters, Uncle Paton sat at the end. Charlie wondered how the assessment would be conducted. There appeared to be no musical instruments, no masks or paint brushes on the table. He waited. They watched him.

‘Where did he get that hair?’ Aunt Lucretia asked.

‘His mother’s side,’ said Grandma Bone. ‘A Welshman.’ She spoke as if Charlie were not there.

‘Ah!’ The three great-aunts sighed, disapprovingly.

Aunt Lucretia was fumbling in a large leather bag. At last she drew out a brown paper packet tied with black ribbon. She tugged the ribbon and the packet fell open, revealing a pile of ancient-looking photographs.

Grandma Bone pushed the packet over to Charlie, and the contents fanned out across the table.

‘What am I supposed to do with these?’ asked Charlie, who had a very good idea what they wanted him to do.

The great-aunts smiled encouragingly.

Charlie prayed that nothing would happen; that he could just glance at the dusty-looking collection and look away before he heard voices. But, one quick look told him that the people in the photographs were making a great deal of noise. They were playing instruments: cellos, pianos, violins. They were dancing, singing, laughing. Charlie pretended not to hear. He tried to push them away from him, towards Aunt Lucretia. She pushed them back.

‘What do you hear, Charlie?’ asked Grandma Bone.

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie.

‘Come on, Charlie, try,’ said Aunt Venetia.

‘And don’t lie,’ said Aunt Eustacia.

‘Or we’ll make you cry,’ snarled Aunt Lucretia.

That made Charlie angry. He wasn’t going to cry for anyone. ‘I don’t hear nothing,’ he said, shoving the photographs away.

‘Anything,’ said Aunt Lucretia, shoving them back. ‘You don’t hear anything. Not nothing. Grammar, boy. Has no one taught you?’

‘He clearly needs to attend the academy,’ said Aunt Eustacia.

‘Just look at them, Charlie, there’s a pet,’ said Aunt Venetia sweetly. ‘Just for one minute, and if nothing happens, we’ll leave you in peace and just . . .’ she waved her long white fingers, ‘melt away.’

‘All right,’ Charlie said grudgingly.

He thought he could get away with it; just look at the photographs and block out the sounds. But it didn’t work. The sounds of cellos, pianos, sopranos and great gusts of laughter came bursting out at him, filling the room. The great-aunts were talking to him, he could see their thin lips working away, but he couldn’t hear their words above the dreadful clamour of the photographs.

At last Charlie seized the pile and flung them, face down, on to the table. The sudden silence was a wonderful relief. The great-aunts stared at him, quietly triumphant.

It was Aunt Venetia who spoke first. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Charlie?’

Charlie realised he’d been tricked. He’d have to watch out for Aunt Venetia in future. She was obviously more cunning than her sisters. ‘Who are all those people, anyway?’ he said miserably.

‘Your forebears, Charlie,’ said Aunt Lucretia. ‘Yewbeam blood ran in all their veins. As it does in yours, dear clever boy.’ Her attitude had changed completely. But Aunt Lucretia being nice was just as scary as Aunt Lucretia being nasty.

‘You can go now, Charlie,’ said Grandma Bone. ‘We have things to discuss. Arrangements to make for your future.’

Charlie was only too glad to go. He leapt up and marched to the door. As he went he caught sight of Uncle Paton’s face. He looked sad and far away, and Charlie wondered why he hadn’t said a word the whole time he’d been there. Paton gave Charlie a quick smile and then looked away.

Charlie hurried to the kitchen where Maisie and his mother were eagerly waiting for the results of his assessment.

‘I think I’ve passed,’ he told them glumly.

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Maisie. ‘I thought you’d get away with it, Charlie. Was it the voices?’

Charlie nodded miserably.

‘Those ruddy Yewbeams.’ Maisie shook her head.

Charlie’s mother, however, was not so unhappy. ‘The academy will be good for you,’ she said.

‘No, it won’t,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t want to go. It’s a stuffy old place for geniuses. I won’t fit. It’s halfway across the city and I don’t know anyone there. Suppose I refuse to go, Mum?’

‘If you refuse . . . all this could disappear,’ said his mother, waving in the general direction of the kitchen cupboards.

Charlie was astounded. Were his great-aunts witches, then? Making houses disappear at the touch of a wand, or maybe an umbrella?

‘D’you mean the house could disappear?’ he said.

‘Not exactly,’ said his mother. ‘But our lives would change. Maisie and I have nothing. Not a bean. When your father, Lyell, died we were at the mercy of the Yewbeams. They provide for everything. They bought the house, they pay the bills. I’m sorry, Charlie, you’ll have to go to Bloor’s if that’s what they want.’

Charlie felt very tired. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘And now I’m going to bed.’

He had forgotten about the orange envelope, but when he got to his bedroom, there it was on his pillow. His mother must have rescued it from the piles of food and crockery on the kitchen table. Charlie decided not to take a second look at the man and his baby. He would take the photo straight back to Kwik Foto tomorrow, and maybe get Runner Bean in exchange.

When his mother came up to say goodnight, Charlie made her sit on his bed and answer a few questions. He felt he deserved to know more about himself before he set foot in Bloor’s Academy.

‘First, I want to know what really happened to my father,’ Charlie said. ‘Tell me again.’

‘I’ve told you so many times already, Charlie. It was foggy, he was tired. He drove off the road and the car plunged into a quarry, it was a hundred metres deep.’

‘And why aren’t there any photos of him around? Not one.’

A shadow passed across his mother’s face. ‘There were,’ she said, ‘but one day, when I was out, they all disappeared. Even the tiny picture in my locket.’

Charlie had never heard about this. ‘Why?’ he asked.

At last his mother told him the truth about the Yewbeam family; how horrified they’d been when Lyell fell in love with her, Amy Jones, an ordinary girl with no exceptional talents. In a word, unendowed.

The Yewbeams forbade the marriage. Their laws were ancient and strong. The women could marry whomever they chose, but every male with Yewbeam blood must marry an endowed girl. Lyell broke the rules. He and Amy Jones had eloped to Mexico.

‘We had a wonderful honeymoon,’ sighed Charlie’s mother. ‘But when we came home I knew that Lyell was worried. He hadn’t escaped them after all. He was always looking over his shoulder, running from shadows. And then, one foggy night, when you were two years old, he got a phone call. A summons, really. Grandma Bone was ill, he must go to her immediately. So he got in his car and . . . drove into a quarry.’ She gazed into the distance for a moment and murmured, ‘He wasn’t himself that day. Something had happened. It was almost as if he were under a spell.’

She wiped away a very small tear. ‘I don’t think Grandma Bone has an ounce of love in her,’ she said. ‘As far as the Yewbeams were concerned, when Lyell died it was just the end of an unfortunate episode. But they were interested in you, Charlie. Suppose you turned out to be endowed? They realised they would have to take care of you until they found out. So they gave me a house and let Maisie move in. And then Grandma Bone arrived. To watch us. Uncle Paton came shortly after that, because . . . well, I suppose he didn’t have anywhere else to go. I was grateful for everything, until the photos vanished. It was something I just couldn’t understand. Grandma Bone denied having touched them, of course.’

Charlie listened to his mother’s story and put two and two together. ‘I know why the photos vanished,’ he murmured. ‘Grandma Bone didn’t want me to hear what my father had to say.’

‘But, Charlie, you were only two,’ said his mother. ‘She didn’t know that you would have this funny gift for hearing voices.’

‘She guessed,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s probably in the family.’

His serious face made his mother smile. She kissed him goodnight and told him not to worry about the Yewbeams. ‘And don’t worry about Bloor’s Academy either,’ she said. ‘After all, your father went there.’

‘And did he have a talent?’ asked Charlie.

‘Oh, yes,’ said his mother, from the door. ‘But not your sort of talent, Charlie. He wasn’t endowed. He was a musician.’

When she had gone Charlie couldn’t sleep. He had too much on his mind. It was unsettling to think he was part of such a peculiar family. He wanted to know more. Much more. But where to begin? Perhaps Uncle Paton could provide a few answers. He didn’t seem as heartless as his sisters.

The storm blew itself out. The rain stopped. The wind died and the cathedral clock struck midnight. On the twelfth stroke, Charlie felt a sudden, strange breathlessness. Something was happening to him. It was as if he were passing through a moment when he might live or die. He thought of Lyell, the father he couldn’t remember.

The moment passed and Charlie found himself wide awake and restless. A few minutes later, he heard Uncle Paton creak downstairs and go to the kitchen for a snack. Charlie had grown used to his uncle’s night-time ramble. It always woke him up. Usually he would just turn over and go back to sleep. Tonight he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

When his uncle left the house, Charlie crept downstairs and followed him. He’d often wanted to do this but he’d never had the courage. Tonight was different; he felt confident and determined. Paton moved fast. By the time Charlie had closed the front door, very softly behind him, his uncle was about to turn a corner. Keeping close to the houses, Charlie ran to the end of the street.

Paton paused and looked back. Charlie shrank into the shadows. The street they had turned into was lit by small bell-shaped lamps that cast a soft glow on the wet paving stones. Here, the trees grew closer, the walls were higher. It was a quiet and mysterious place.

Paton Yewbeam was on the move again, but now his purposeful stride had become an aimless stroll. Soon, Charlie, hopping from tree to tree, found himself only a few paces behind his uncle.

A chill wind cuffed Charlie’s ears and he began to wonder if his midnight stalking was going to come to anything. Uncle Paton hadn’t turned into a vampire or a werewolf after all. Perhaps he just felt happier in the dark. Charlie was about to turn and creep back home when his uncle suddenly stopped. He was standing about a metre away from a lamppost and a strange sort of humming came from him. Not humming, exactly, because Charlie couldn’t actually hear it. It was more like a feeling of humming, as though the air round his uncle was charged with soundless music.

The light in the lamp grew brighter, so bright that Charlie could hardly look at it, and then, with a little crack, the glass shattered and shining fragments fell to the pavement.

Charlie gave a low gasp. He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps it was just coincidence. His uncle standing there, while a power surge made the light in the lamp too hot for the glass.

Paton moved on and Charlie followed, still hiding behind the trees. His uncle slowed down as he drew level with another lamppost, but this time, although the light became fierce and bright, Paton walked past before the glass could shatter. And then, without looking back, he said, ‘Why are you following me?’

The flame cats

Charlie froze. He couldn’t believe his uncle had seen him. But then the question came again, ‘Charlie, why are you following me?’

Charlie walked out from behind a tree. ‘How did you know?’ he asked in a whisper.

Paton turned to look at him. ‘I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘No, I didn’t think that,’ said Charlie.

‘But how?’

‘I saw you, dear boy, as I turned the corner. To tell the truth I was half expecting it. I don’t suppose you could sleep after that dreadful evening.’ Paton gave a grim smile.

‘Is that your talent, Uncle Paton?’ Charlie asked. ‘Brightening the lights?’

‘Pathetic isn’t it? I ask you, what use is it? I wish you hadn’t seen.’ Paton regarded his lean fingers. ‘Come on, let’s get you home; I’ve done enough for tonight.’ He tucked Charlie’s hand through his arm and they began to walk home again.

Charlie saw a new side to his uncle. Not many people could boost a light just by being there. In fact, as far as he knew, no one had ever done such a thing before. Lights played a big part in the night life of a city. Uncle Paton could have a wild time down in the centre, where lights winked and glittered on every surface.

‘Have you ever – you know – done what you just did to lots of lights?’ asked Charlie. ‘Like in a place where all the theatres and cinemas and discos are?’

For a moment Charlie thought that Paton wasn’t going to reply. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. And then his uncle murmured, ‘Once, long ago, I did it for a girl I knew.’

‘Wow! Was she impressed?’

‘She ran away,’ said Paton sadly, ‘and never spoke to me again.’

‘I see. Wouldn’t it be safer if you went out in the daytime, Uncle Paton? I mean, there aren’t so many lights on.’

‘Huh! You must be joking,’ said his uncle. ‘Every shop window has a light in it. There are lights everywhere. And people can see me in the daylight. Besides, it’s become a habit. I just don’t like daylight, and won’t be caught in it.’

They had reached number nine, and Charlie hurried back to bed before anyone else in the house woke up. He fell asleep almost at once, and dreamed that Uncle Paton had turned up the light in every star, until they all exploded, like fireworks.

In the morning, Charlie woke up with a nasty sinking feeling. Whether he liked it or not, he would soon be going to Bloor’s Academy. Just thinking about it made him feel ill. He could only manage one slice of toast for breakfast. The egg and bacon Maisie put in front of him were left untouched.

‘He’s worried, aren’t you, love?’ clucked Maisie. ‘Those miserable Yewbeams. Why should you go to that nasty big school? We’ll get you some chocolate at the shops. That’ll cheer you up.’

Grandma Bone was not present. She always had breakfast in her room. And Paton only ate at night, as far as Charlie knew.

He glanced at his mother who was miles away, in some kind of reverie. ‘Will I have to wear a special uniform?’ he asked.

His mother looked up with a start. ‘A blue cape,’ she said. ‘The musicians wear blue. Sapphire, a lovely colour.’

‘But I’m not a musician,’ said Charlie.

‘Not strictly speaking,’ his mother agreed. ‘But they won’t have a department for your talent, Charlie. You’ll be put into music, like your father. Take your school recorder. I’m sure that will do.’

‘Will it?’ Charlie was doubtful. He’d never been good at music, and only played his recorder when he was forced to. ‘When will I have to start?’

‘After half-term,’ his mother told him.

‘So soon?’ Charlie was horrified. ‘In the middle of a term? Before Christmas?’

‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ his mother said regretfully. ‘The Yewbeams think it would be best. They say there’s not a moment to be lost, now that you . . . now that they are certain.’

‘Poor mite,’ Maisie muttered.

It had begun to rain again and Maisie pulled on a bright pink mack. Charlie’s mother took an umbrella from the hallstand. She didn’t like wearing a mackintosh.

‘We won’t be long at the shops,’ she told Charlie. ‘Do you want me to take that photograph back?’

Charlie had almost forgotten Benjamin’s birthday card. For some reason he was reluctant to lose the photo just yet.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But could you buy a birthday card for Benjamin? I don’t think I’ll be using Runner Bean after all.’

When Maisie and his mother had gone, Charlie ran upstairs to fetch the orange envelope. He had just opened it and pulled out the photo when the doorbell rang. No one answered it. Grandma Bone was out, apparently, and Uncle Paton wouldn’t even answer the telephone during the day.

Still holding the photograph, Charlie went down to open the door.

A very strange man stood on the step. Stranger still were the three cats, winding themselves round his legs.

‘Onimous and Flames,’ said the man. ‘Pest control.’ He produced a card from the inside pocket of a furry-looking coat.

‘Ominous?’ said Charlie.

‘Not at all,’ said the man. ‘Onimous. Quite different. Orvil. Orvil Onimous.’ He gave Charlie a big smile, revealing sharp, bright teeth. ‘I believe you have a problem here. Mice?’ He gave a funny sort of leap and landed beside Charlie.

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. He’d been told never to let a stranger into the house. But this one was in already. ‘Did someone send for you?’

‘Something did. I can’t tell you what it was, just yet. You might not believe me.’

‘Really?’ Charlie was intrigued.

The cats had followed Mr Onimous and were now prowling round the hall. They were most unusual-looking cats. The first was a deep copper colour, the second a bright orange, and the third a fierce yellow. The copper cat seemed to know Charlie. It stood on its hind legs and rattled the kitchen doorknob.

‘Have patience, Aries,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘Will you never learn?’

Aries had managed to turn the knob. The kitchen door swung open and he ran inside, followed by the other two cats.

‘Sorry about this,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘He’s an impetuous fellow, is Aries. Leo’s a bit pushy too, but Sagittarius has lovely manners. Excuse me, I’d better keep an eye on them.’

Before Charlie had time to turn round, Mr Onimous had slipped past him and hopped into the kitchen, calling, ‘Flames, don’t let me down. Do it nicely.’

All three cats were now pacing before the larder. Charlie remembered the rotting fruit, and before the cats could break through another door, he opened it and let them in.

A fierce pouncing, leaping and screaming began. The larder was apparently full of mice. Not for long. The cats despatched one mouse after another, depositing their bodies in a neat line along the wall.

Charlie backed away. He hadn’t known there were any mice at all in the larder. Why hadn’t Maisie or his mother noticed? Perhaps they had all arrived this morning, drawn by the smell of old fruit. Charlie was rather fond of mice and wished he didn’t have to watch the row of little grey bodies grow longer and longer.

When the line was fifteen mice long, the cats appeared to have finished the job. They sat down and vigorously washed their immaculate fur.

‘How about a cup of coffee?’ said Mr Onimous. ‘I feel quite exhausted.’

As far as Charlie could tell, Mr Onimous had hardly lifted a finger, let alone done anything exhausting. The cats had done all the work. But Mr Onimous was now sitting at the kitchen table, looking eagerly at the coffee tin, and Charlie didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. He was still holding the photograph, so he put it down and went to fill the kettle.

‘Ah,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘Here we have it. This explains everything.’

‘What does?’ Charlie looked at the photograph which Mr Onimous was now holding up to the light.

Mr Onimous pointed to the cat at the bottom of the photograph. ‘That’s Aries,’ he said. It was quite a few years ago, but he doesn’t forget. He knew you’d spotted him. That’s why he led me here.’

‘Pardon?’ Charlie felt weak. He sat down. ‘Are you saying that Aries,’ he pointed at the copper-coloured cat, ‘Aries knew I’d seen his photo?’

‘It wasn’t quite like that.’ Mr Onimous scratched his furry-looking head. His pointed nails were in need of a good cut, Charlie noticed. Maisie would never have let anyone get away with nails as long as that.

The kettle boiled and Charlie made Mr Onimous his coffee. ‘What was it like, then?’ he asked, putting the cup before his visitor.

‘Three sugars, please,’ said Mr Onimous.

Charlie impatiently tossed three spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee.

Mr Onimous beamed. He took a sip, beamed again and then, leaning close to Charlie, he said, ‘He knew you were connected, Aries did. And so you are; you have the photograph. These cats aren’t ordinary. They know things. They chose me because I’ve got a special way with animals. They lead me here and there, trying to undo mischief, and I just follow, helping where I can. This case,’ his finger came down on the man holding the baby, ‘this is one of the worst. Aries has always been very angry about it. Time and again he’s tried to put it right, but we needed you, Charlie.’

‘Me?’ said Charlie.

‘You’re one of the endowed, aren’t you?’ Mr Onimous spoke softly, as if it were a secret, not to be spoken out loud.

‘They say so,’ said Charlie. He couldn’t help but look at the photograph, with Mr Onimous’ finger stuck so accusingly on the man’s face. And as soon as he looked, he began to hear the baby crying.

Aries ran over to him and, placing his paws on Charlie’s knees, let forth an ear-splitting yowl. His cry was immediately taken up by orange Leo and yellow Sagittarius. The noise was so painful, Charlie had to press his hands over his ears.

‘Hush!’ commanded Mr Onimous. ‘The boy’s thinking.’

When the yowling had died down, Mr Onimous said, ‘You see. You are connected, Charlie. Now tell me all about it.’

Although decidedly odd, Mr Onimous looked kind and trustworthy, and Charlie was badly in need of help. He told Mr Onimous about the mix-up with the photographs, the voices, the horrible Yewbeam aunts and their assessment, and their decision to send him to Bloor’s Academy. ‘And I really don’t want to go there,’ finished Charlie. ‘I think I’d almost rather die.’

‘But, Charlie boy, that’s where she is,’ said Mr Onimous, ‘the lost baby. At least, that’s what the cats seem to think. And they’re never wrong.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, cats, we’ve got to go.’

‘You mean the baby in the photograph was lost?’ said Charlie. ‘How can you lose a baby?’

‘It’s not for me to say,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘You take that photo where it belongs, and perhaps they’ll tell you.’

‘But I don’t know where it belongs,’ said Charlie, beginning to panic. Mr Onimous was slipping away without helping at all.

‘Use your loaf, Charlie. That’s an enlargement, isn’t it? Find the original and you’ll find a name and address.’

‘Will I?’

‘Without a doubt.’ Mr Onimous smoothed the pile on his coat, turned up his collar and made for the front door.

Charlie stood up, uncertainly, questions bubbling in his head. By the time he reached the open door, all that could be seen of his visitor was a small disappearing figure, followed by a flash of hot colours, like the bright tail of a comet.

Charlie closed the door and ran upstairs. Seizing the orange envelope, he shook it fiercely and out fell a small photograph; the original of the enlargement downstairs. He turned it over and there, sure enough, was a name and an address, written in bold, flowing letters:

Miss Julia Ingledew 3, Cathedral Close.

Where was Cathedral Close, and how was he to get there? He would have to leave the house before Maisie and his mother got home. They would never agree to his roaming off on his own, to a place he didn’t know. And if he didn’t act now, he might not get back in time for Benjamin’s party. But he’d have to leave a message, or his mother would worry.

As far as he could remember, Charlie had never been inside his uncle’s room before. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung permanently on the door. Recently, Charlie had begun to wonder what Paton did inside all day. Sometimes a soft tapping could be heard. Usually there was silence.

Today, Charlie would have to ignore the notice.

He knocked on the door, hesitantly at first, and then more vigorously.

‘What?’ said a cross voice.

‘Uncle Paton, can I come in?’ asked Charlie.

‘Why?’ queried Paton.

‘Because I have to find somewhere, and I want you to explain to Mum.’

There was a deep sigh. Charlie didn’t dare open the door until his uncle said coldly, ‘Come in, then, if you must.’

Charlie turned the doorknob and peered inside. He was surprised by what he saw. His uncle’s room was overflowing with paper. It hung from shelves, dripped from piles on the windowsill, covered Paton’s desk and lapped like a tide round his ankles. Where was the bed? Under a blanket of books, Charlie guessed. Books lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, they even climbed round the desk in tottering towers.

‘Well?’ said Paton, glancing up from a mound of paper.

‘Please can you tell me where Cathedral Close is?’ Charlie asked nervously.

‘Where d’you think? Beside the cathedral of course.’ Paton was a different person in daylight. Chilly and forbidding.

‘Oh,’ said Charlie, feeling foolish. ‘Well, I’m going there now. But could you tell Mum. She’ll want to know, and . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Paton, and with a vague wave, he motioned Charlie away.

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, closing the door as quietly as he could.

He went to his room, hurriedly pulled on his anorak and tucked the photos, in their orange envelope, into his pocket. Then he left the house.

From his bedroom window, Benjamin saw Charlie walking past with a determined expression.

Benjamin opened his window and called, ‘Where are you going?’

Charlie looked up. ‘To the cathedral,’ he said.

‘Can me and Runner Bean come?’ asked Benjamin.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m going to get your present, and it’s got to be a surprise.’

Benjamin closed the window. He wondered what sort of present Charlie could buy in a cathedral. A pen with the cathedral’s name on it? Benjamin had plenty of pens.

‘Still, I don’t really mind,’ he told Runner Bean. ‘As long as he comes to my party.’

Runner Bean thumped his tail on Benjamin’s pillow. He was lying where he wasn’t supposed to, on Benjamin’s bed. Luckily, no one but Benjamin knew about it.

The cathedral was in the old part of the city. Here the streets were cobbled and narrow. The shops were smaller, and in their softly lit windows, expensive clothes and jewellery lay on folds of silk and velvet. It seemed a very private place, and Charlie felt almost as though he were trespassing.

As the ancient cathedral began to loom above him, the shops gave way to a row of old half-timbered houses. Number three Cathedral Close, however, was a bookshop. Above the door a sign in olde worlde script, read INGLEDEW’S. The books displayed in the window were aged and dusty-looking. Some were bound in leather, their leaves edged in gold.

Charlie took a deep breath and went in. A bell tinkled as he stepped down into the shop, and a woman appeared through a curtained gap behind the counter. She wasn’t as old as Charlie expected, but about the same age as his mother. She had thick chestnut hair piled up on her head, and kind brown eyes.

‘Yes?’ said the woman. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I think so,’ said Charlie. ‘Are you Julia Ingledew?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

‘I’ve come about your photograph,’ said Charlie.

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Goodness!’ she said. ‘Have you found it?’

‘I think so,’ said Charlie, handing over the orange envelope.

The woman opened the envelope and the two photos fell on to her desk. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to have these.’

‘Have you got mine?’ asked Charlie. ‘My name’s Charlie Bone.’

‘Come through,’ said Miss Ingledew, motioning Charlie to follow her through the curtain.

Charlie walked cautiously round the counter and through the curtain in the wall of books. He found himself in a room not unlike the shop. All books again, packed tight on shelves, or lying in piles on every surface. It was a cosy room, for all that; it smelled of warm, rich words and very deep thoughts. A fire burned in a small iron grate and table lamps glowed through parchment-coloured shades.

‘Here we are,’ said Julia Ingledew, and from a drawer she produced an orange envelope.

Charlie took the envelope and opened it quickly. ‘Yes, it’s Runner Bean,’ he said. ‘My friend’s dog. I’m going to make a birthday card with it.’

‘A lovely idea,’ said Miss Ingledew. ‘More personal. I always like “personal”. It shows one cares doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie uncertainly.

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, Charlie Bone,’ she said, ‘I feel you should have a reward of some sort. I haven’t got much cash about, but I wonder . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Charlie, a little embarrassed, though he could have done with some money, to buy Benjamin’s present.

‘No, no really. I think you’re just the person. In fact I feel that these have been waiting just for you.’ She pointed to a corner and Charlie saw that his first impression of the room had been mistaken. It was not filled entirely with books. A table in one corner was piled high with boxes: wooden boxes, metal boxes and big cardboard cartons.

‘What’s in those?’ asked Charlie.

‘My brother-in-law’s effects,’ she said. ‘All that is left of him. He died last week.’

Charlie felt a lump rising in his throat. He said ‘Um . . .’

‘Oh, dear. No, not his ashes, Charlie,’ said Miss Ingledew. ‘They’re his – what shall I call them – inventions. They only arrived yesterday. He sent them by courier, the day before he died. Goodness knows why he left them to me.’ She fetched one of the boxes, removed the lid and took out a metal robotic-looking dog. ‘It’s no good to me,’ she said. ‘Do you want it?’

Charlie thought of Runner Bean, and then of Benjamin. ‘Does it do anything?’ he asked. Because inventions usually did something.

‘Of course. Let me see.’ She pulled down the dog’s tail. It barked twice, and a voice said, ‘I am number two. You have already pulled my tail, so you know how to make me play. To fast forward press my left ear. To rewind press my right ear. To record press my nose. To stop pull my right foot up. To replace tapes open my stomach.’ The voice that gave these instructions was familiar to Charlie.

‘Any use to you?’ asked Miss Ingledew. ‘Or would you like to see the others?’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Charlie. ‘Brilliant. But the voice, is it your . . .?’

‘Yes. My brother-in-law, Dr Tolly. It was one of his earliest, but he never bothered to sell it. Once a thing was made, that was it. He was a lazy man, Charlie. Clever, but lazy.’

‘It’s him in the photo, isn’t it?’ Charlie didn’t mention that he’d recognised the voice. How could he?

‘Yes, that’s Dr Tolly. He did something terrible once.’ Miss Ingledew’s mouth closed in a grim line.

‘Why did you want his photo, then?’ asked Charlie.

The bookseller darted him a quick look, as if she were sizing him up. ‘It’s the baby I want,’ she said at last. ‘It’s all I have to remember her by.’ And suddenly Miss Ingledew was telling Charlie about the dreadful day when her sister Nancy died, just before her daughter’s second birthday, and how a few days later, Nancy’s husband, Dr Tolly, had given his daughter away.

‘I didn’t think you could give children away,’ said Charlie, horrified.

‘You can’t,’ said Miss Ingledew. ‘I was sworn to secrecy. I should have taken her, you see. But I was selfish and irresponsible. I didn’t think I could cope. Not one day has passed, since then, when I haven’t regretted my decision. I tried to find out who she’d been given to, where she had gone, but Dr Tolly would never tell me. She was lost in a system of lies and tricks and forgery. She’d be ten years old now, and I’d give anything to get her back.’

Charlie felt very uncomfortable. He was being drawn into a situation he didn’t much like. If only he hadn’t heard the voices in the photograph. How could he possibly tell Miss Ingledew that three cats thought the lost baby was in Bloor’s Academy. She would never believe him.

In a shadowy corner, a grandfather clock struck twelve and Charlie said, ‘I think I’d better go home now. Mum’ll be worried.’

‘Of course. But take the dog, Charlie, and –’ she suddenly darted to the table and withdrew a long silver case from the bottom of a pile, ‘will you take this one as well?’

She didn’t wait for an answer, but plunged it into a bag marked INGLEDEW’S BOOKS. Handing the bag to Charlie, she said, ‘You can pop the dog in as well, there’s just enough room.’

The bag was unbelievably heavy. Charlie carefully placed the dog, in its box, on top of the metal case. Then he trundled to the door, wondering how on earth he would manage to heave the bag all the way home.

Julia Ingledew helped him up the step and opened the shop door, which gave another melodious ring.

‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said Charlie, ‘but what’s in the case?’

The answer was rather surprising. ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Ingledew. ‘And I’m not sure I want to. Dr Tolly exchanged it for his baby. Whatever it is, it can’t be worth as much as a baby, can it?’

‘N-no,’ said Charlie. He put the bag on the ground.

‘Please take it, Charlie. You look just the right person. I’ve got to get it out of the house, you see.’ She lowered her voice and darted a quick look down the street. ‘And can I ask you to keep it a secret, for now?’

‘That’s a bit difficult,’ said Charlie, even more reluctant to take the strange case. ‘Can’t I even tell my best friend?’

‘Tell no one who you wouldn’t trust with your life,’ said Miss Ingledew.

The inventor’s case

Before Charlie could think of anything to say, the bookseller gave him a brief wave and then closed her door. He was alone in the shadowy street with something that had been exchanged for a baby.

Why hadn’t Miss Ingledew opened the case? What could be inside? Charlie began to talk to himself as he struggled over the cobbles and several people glanced at him suspiciously. Perhaps they thought he had stolen the bag. He turned a sharp corner and nearly fell over a big, shaggy dog.

‘Look out!’ cried Charlie, dropping the bag. ‘Runner Bean, it’s you!’

Runner Bean jumped on the bag and licked Charlie’s face.

‘Get off!’ said Charlie. ‘That’s valuable.’

Benjamin came hurrying up to them. ‘Sorry,’ he panted. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’

‘Were you following me?’ asked Charlie, who was quite pleased to see Benjamin.

‘Not really. I was just taking Runner for a walk. I think he must have got your scent.’ Benjamin stared at the impressive black bag. ‘What’s in there?’

‘Your birthday present,’ said Charlie, ‘but you’ll have to help me carry the bag. It weights a ton.’

‘Wow. What? No I mustn’t ask,’ said Benjamin shyly.

Charlie had to confess that there was a mysterious something else in the bag, but after a quick peek, Benjamin said he didn’t mind at all that he was going to get the small cardboard box, instead of the large metal case.

‘It’s a funny place to come for a present,’ Benjamin remarked, with a backward glance at the looming cathedral.

‘I didn’t know I would find one,’ said Charlie. ‘I came here to look for Runner Bean’s photo.’ He told Benjamin about the strange lady bookseller, and the mysterious case the lazy inventor had sent her.

Taking a handle each, the boys began to carry the black bag home. They didn’t notice that they were being followed. If they had looked behind them, they might have seen that a weasly red-haired boy, badly disguised as an old man, was hiding in doorways and then creeping up on them.

Runner Bean growled softly and nudged the bag, trying to hurry the boys. It was very troubling to the dog. There was something behind him, and something in the bag, that wasn’t right.

As Charlie and Benjamin turned into Filbert Street, Runner Bean whirled round and ran towards the stalker, barking furiously. The red-haired boy jumped away from him and fled up the street.

‘What was that all about?’ said Benjamin as the dog came bounding back.

Runner Bean couldn’t explain.

When they reached Benjamin’s house, Charlie asked his friend if he would take the bag inside with him. He didn’t want Maisie or Grandma Bone poking their noses into it.

Benjamin looked dubious. ‘I don’t know. Where will I put it?’

‘Under the bed or something. Please, Benjamin. My grandmas are always in my room, but no one seems to hassle you.’

‘OK,’ he said.

‘Don’t open your present until I come back,’ he told Benjamin. ‘I’d better go home now, or there’ll be trouble.’

Charlie was about to turn away when he heard a hollow knocking from inside the bag. Benjamin looked up, rather scared, but Charlie pretended he hadn’t heard and ran down the steps. He walked into the kitchen where his two grandmothers were arguing fiercely. When Charlie appeared they glared at him.

‘Charlie Bone!’ screamed Maisie. ‘How could you? You awful boy. How did this happen?’ She pointed at the row of dead mice. Charlie had completely forgotten them.

He explained how Mr Onimous and the cats had leapt into the house before he could stop them. ‘And then I had to rush out and exchange the photo,’ he waved the orange envelope. ‘I’m sorry I forgot about the mice.’

‘Yellow cats, red cats?’ said Grandma Bone, with a catch in her voice. Charlie could have sworn that she was afraid.

‘Well, I suppose they did a good job,’ said Maisie, beginning to forgive Charlie. ‘I’d better tidy the little bodies.’

Grandma Bone was not in a forgiving mood. ‘I knew it,’ she muttered angrily. ‘You brought them here, you wretched boy. You’re like a magnet. Bad blood mixed with endowed. It never works. I shan’t rest easy until you’re shut up in Bloor’s.’

‘Shut up? You mean I won’t be coming out?’

‘Weekends,’ snapped Grandma Bone. ‘Unfortunately.’ Out she swept, her black boots rapping on the floor like drumsticks.

‘I didn’t know that I would be shut up,’ cried Charlie.

‘Nor did I, love,’ puffed Maisie, busily disinfecting the floor. ‘What do I know of these fancy schools? Your mother shouldn’t bring home so much fruit and veg. Beats me how the Pest Control knew about it. I never told them.’

‘The cats,’ said Charlie. ‘They knew.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that cats can fly,’ muttered Maisie.

Perhaps those cats can, thought Charlie. Aries, Leo and Sagittarius were not ordinary cats, that was for sure. And Charlie had a suspicion that Grandma Bone knew this. But why was she afraid of them?

He went to his room to make the birthday card. But he found it hard to concentrate. The card went crooked, he left the ‘h’ out of birthday, and then the speech-balloon slipped over Runner Bean’s ear. Charlie flung down the scissors. Ever since he’d discovered he could hear photographs, his world had been turned upside down. If only he’d been able to keep quiet about the voices, he wouldn’t have had to go to a horrible school where he’d be imprisoned for weeks at a time, with a lot of weird children who did peculiar things.

He heard his mother come in and call to Maisie. If only she would take his side and fight the Yewbeams. But she seemed to be afraid of them. Somehow, Charlie would have to fight them himself.

Maisie had cooked vegetable spaghetti for lunch. Charlie wondered about the mice in the larder, but kept his thoughts to himself. His mother had brought him a sapphire blue cape, which she made him try on as soon as the spaghetti was finished. The cape reached almost to Charlie’s knees. It had slits at the sides for his arms and a soft hood hung down the back.

‘I’m not going to wear a cape in the street,’ said Charlie, ‘and that’s final. Everyone’ll laugh at me.’

‘But Charlie, there’ll be other children wearing them,’ said his mother. ‘And some will be in purple or green.’

‘Not in our part of town,’ said Charlie, pulling off the cape. ‘They’ll all be from the Heights.’

The Heights sprawled up the side of a wooded hill that looked down on the city. The houses were tall and grand and the people in them lacked for nothing. The large gardens were full of flowers that seemed to bloom all year.

‘I know for a fact that not every child will come from the Heights,’ said Charlie’s mother. ‘There’s a girl just two streets away, Olivia Vertigo, she was in the papers. She’ll be in Drama, so you’ll see her in a purple cape.’

‘Huh!’ muttered Charlie. ‘If you mean Dragon Street, that’s just as smart as the Heights.’ He decided he’d tuck the cape under his anorak until he reached the academy.

Even Maisie was beginning to give in. ‘It’s really cute,’ she said of the blue cape. ‘Such a nice colour.’

Charlie grudgingly took the cape up to his room and stuffed it in a drawer. (Later his mother would come up and carefully hang it in the wardrobe). Then he put Benjamin’s birthday card in the orange envelope and ran downstairs. ‘I’m going to Benjamin’s birthday now,’ he called to his mother.

Runner Bean greeted him with a loud barking. He wouldn’t even let Charlie through the front door.

‘What’s the matter with Runner?’ he shouted as Benjamin came bounding down the stairs.

‘It’s that case you left,’ said Benjamin. ‘He hates it. I pushed it under the bed like you said, but Runner growled and snarled and tried to pull it out again. He’s chewed up the bag and scratched the lid with his claws.’

Charlie managed to squeeze past the door while Benjamin hauled Runner Bean away. At length the dog gave a great howl, ran down the passage and banged through his dog-flap into the back garden.

Now that Charlie had arrived, Benjamin wanted to open his present. He ran upstairs to get it.

There was absolutely no sign that a party was about to take place. Benjamin’s parents worked every day of the week and Saturdays as well. Charlie wished he’d asked Maisie to make a cake for his friend, but he’d had too much on his mind.

‘It looks really exciting,’ said Benjamin, shaking the box. ‘Come on, let’s go into the living-room.’

No sign here of a party either.

Benjamin sat on the floor and opened the box. ‘Wow! A dog!’ he said.

Charlie pulled the dog’s tail and Dr Tolly’s voice rapped out the instructions.

Benjamin was so excited he could hardly speak. At last he managed to say, ‘Thanks, Charlie. Thanks. Wow, thanks!’

‘I should have got you a new tape,’ said Charlie, ‘then you’d have . . .’

He was interrupted by Runner Bean, who tore into the room barking madly. He paced round the metal dog, glaring at it, and then he began to whine.

‘He’s jealous,’ said Benjamin. ‘That’s all.’ He flung his arms around Runner Bean, saying, ‘I love you, Runner. You know I do. I couldn’t live without you.’

The big dog licked Benjamin’s face. He was everything to Benjamin: mother, father, brother and grandparent. He was always there when Benjamin’s parents were out. And the boy could go anywhere, at any time of day or night. As long as Runner Bean was with him, he was safe.

Charlie gave Benjamin the birthday card. ‘I made it after all,’ he said.

Benjamin didn’t notice any of Charlie’s mistakes. Gazing at the picture, he told Charlie it was the best card he’d ever had in his life. And then Runner Bean looked up at the ceiling and howled.

Tap! Tap! Tap! The sound was faint but definite. Benjamin’s room was right above them.

‘It’s that metal case,’ said Benjamin. ‘I wish you’d take it away. There could be a bomb in it, or something.’

‘Miss Ingledew didn’t look like a terrorist,’ said Charlie. ‘Nor did Dr Tolly.’

‘How d’you know?’ said Benjamin. ‘Terrorists are good at disguises. Let’s go and have a look.’

Runner Bean followed the boys upstairs, growling softly. This time he wouldn’t even come into the bedroom.

Charlie pulled the bag from under the bed and, together, the boys drew out the metal case. The tapping had stopped. Charlie undid the clasps on either side of the handle, but the case wouldn’t open. It was locked, and the key was missing.

‘Didn’t that woman tell you what was inside?’ said Benjamin.

Charlie shook his head. ‘She said she didn’t want to know. Whatever it is, it was swapped for a baby. Her very own niece.’

‘A baby?’ Benjamin’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s terrible.’

Charlie was beginning to feel guilty. ‘We’ll put it in the cupboard under the stairs,’ he said. ‘You won’t hear it there. And then I’ll go back to Miss Ingledew and ask her for the key.’

They dragged the bag downstairs and hid it behind a pile of old clothes Benjamin’s mother had dumped in the cupboard. When they’d closed the door, Runner Bean stood beside the stairs howling mournfully. Benjamin could only stop him by saying ‘Walkies!’ very loudly.

It was getting dark but there was still no sign of Benjamin’s parents. Benjamin seemed more resigned than upset. ‘I’ll make my own cake,’ he said. And he did. It was a chocolate sponge and he stuck ten candles in the top, and then he and Charlie sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The cake was a bit crumbly but very good.

It was half past seven when Charlie looked at his watch. He knew he should be going home, but he didn’t want to leave Benjamin alone, not on his birthday. So he stayed another hour, and they played hide and seek with Runner Bean, who was brilliant at it.

At half past eight, Benjamin’s parents still hadn’t come home, so Charlie decided to take his friend back for one of Maisie’s hot meals. There was only one egg and a pint of milk left in Benjamin’s fridge.

‘How was the party?’ asked Maisie, when two boys and a dog walked in.

‘Great,’ said Charlie, ‘but we’re still a bit hungry.’

‘There was a peculiar boy round here a couple of hours ago,’ said Maisie. ‘He was pretending to be an old man but anyone could see he was a boy. He said you’d got some case of his mixed up in the wrong bag and he wanted it back. Well, I looked in your room but all I could find was a bag of shoes. The boy was very put out. He wouldn’t believe me. A nasty piece of work, he was. Now you two run off, while I get some food on the table.’

Outside the kitchen door, Charlie whispered, ‘Don’t tell anyone about the bag, and specially not the case.’

‘Why not?’ asked Benjamin.

‘Because it was given to me and I feel sort of responsible,’ said Charlie. I think we should keep it safe until we know more about it.’ He decided not to tell Benjamin about Mr Onimous and his cats, just yet.

At that moment Grandma Bone appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What’s that dog doing here?’ she said, glaring at Runner Bean.

‘It’s Benjamin’s birthday,’ said Charlie.

‘So?’ she said coldly.

Runner Bean barked up at her and before she could say anything more, Charlie dragged Benjamin back into the kitchen.

‘Grandma Bone’s in a mood,’ Charlie told Maisie.

‘Isn’t she always?’ said Maisie. ‘She’ll calm down once you’re at Bloor’s.’

Charlie hadn’t wanted to break this news to Benjamin on his birthday, but now it was out and Charlie felt like a traitor.

Benjamin stared at him accusingly. ‘What’s Bloor’s?’ he asked.

‘It’s a big school near the Heights,’ Charlie explained. ‘I don’t want to go there, Ben.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘He has to, dear. His mum’s bought the uniform,’ said Maisie. She put two plates of baked beans and sausages on the kitchen table. ‘Now come and eat. It may be your birthday but you look half-starved, Benjamin Brown.’

Benjamin sat down, but he had lost his appetite. He slipped a sausage to Runner Bean when Maisie wasn’t looking.

‘I won’t be going until after half-term,’ Charlie told his friend.

‘Oh.’ Benjamin stared at his plate, unsmiling.

Unfortunately, Charlie’s mother chose that moment to walk in with Charlie’s pyjamas. ‘No more patched pyjamas for you, Charlie,’ she said. ‘The Yewbeams are providing a whole new set of clothes for the academy.’

‘Pyjamas?’ Benjamin looked up. ‘Are you going to sleep there?’

‘I’ll be back at weekends,’ said Charlie.

‘Oh.’ Benjamin shovelled a few beans into his mouth and then stood up. ‘I’d better go home now. Mum and Dad’ll be back.’

‘Shall I come . . .?’ Charlie began.

‘No. It’s OK. I’ve got Runner.’

Before Charlie could say another word, Benjamin and Runner Bean walked out. The dog’s tail and ears drooped dejectedly, always a sign that his master was in low spirits.

‘Funny boy,’ Maisie remarked.

‘I think I ought to see if he’s OK,’ said Charlie. ‘After all, it is his birthday.’

But when he opened the front door, he was just in time to see Uncle Paton walking away from the house. And this gave Charlie an idea.

‘Uncle Paton, can I come with you?’ called Charlie, racing after his uncle.

‘Why?’ Paton had stopped to put a large bundle of letters into a post-box.

‘Because . . . because . . .’ Charlie caught up with his uncle, ‘Well, I wanted to ask you to come somewhere with me.’

‘And where is that?’

‘To a bookshop. It’s near the cathedral, and I don’t want to go there on my own – it’s a bit spooky.’

‘A bookshop?’ Paton was interested, as Charlie hoped he would be. ‘But, Charlie, even a bookshop will be closed at this time of night.’

‘Yes, but I think there will be someone in this shop, even if it’s closed,’ said Charlie and he found himself telling his uncle about Miss Ingledew and the locked case. After all, he had to trust someone, and instinct told him that Paton was on his side, even if he was a Yewbeam.

A mysterious gleam had entered Paton’s dark eyes. ‘So you want this lady bookseller to give you a key? Tell me, Charlie, where is the case?’

Charlie hesitated. ‘I don’t want anyone to know,’ he said. ‘Someone’s already come looking for it. But if you really . . .’

Paton held up his hand. ‘You’re wise to keep it a secret, Charlie. Only tell me when you feel the time is right. Now, let’s get on and find this bookshop.’

They travelled through narrow side streets, where Paton’s talent for boosting the lights wasn’t so conspicuous. As they entered the deserted streets near the cathedral, lamps flickered rhythmically, now bright, now dim, as if they were part of a magical display.

A CLOSED sign hung behind a glass panel in Ingledew’s door, but there was a low light in the window, illuminating the antique leather-bound books. Paton gazed at them, hungrily. ‘I ought to get out more,’ he murmured.

Charlie pressed the bell.

A distant voice said, ‘We’re closed. Go away.’

‘It’s me, Charlie Bone,’ said Charlie. ‘Could I see you for a moment, Miss Ingledew?’

‘Charlie?’ Miss Ingledew sounded surprised, but not too cross. ‘It’s rather late.’

‘It’s urgent, Miss Ingledew – about the case.’

‘Oh?’ Her face appeared at the small glass panel in the door. ‘Wait a minute, Charlie.’

The light in the shop went on. A chain clanked, bolts slid back and the door opened with a familiar tinkle.

Charlie stepped down into the shop, followed closely by his uncle.

‘Oh!’ gasped Miss Ingledew, retreating. ‘Who is this?’

‘My uncle, Paton,’ said Charlie and, looking at his uncle, realised why Miss Ingledew seemed a little put out. Paton was very tall and very dark, and in his long black coat he did look rather sinister.

‘I do hope I haven’t alarmed you,’ said Paton, extending his hand. ‘Paton Yewbeam at your service.’

Miss Ingledew took the hand, saying nervously, ‘Julia Ingledew.’

‘Julia,’ repeated Paton. ‘Lovely. My nephew asked me to accompany him.’

Charlie couldn’t decide whether his uncle sounded pompous or shy. Perhaps a bit of both. ‘I’ve come about the key, Miss Ingledew,’ he said. ‘The key to that case you gave me.’

‘Key? Key?’ She seemed confused. ‘Oh, I think they came with the, er . . . I’ll have a look. You’d better come through to my, er . . . Or people will think we’re open again.’ She gave a flustered laugh and disappeared through the curtains behind the counter.

Charlie and his uncle followed. The little room behind the bookshop glowed with mellow colours, and Paton’s eyes roamed excitedly over the rows of books. Miss Ingledew had obviously been reading when they arrived, for a large book lay open on her desk.

‘The Incas,’ observed Paton, reading the chapter heading. ‘A fascinating subject.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Ingledew, still agitated. She had found a small tin of keys which she proceeded to empty on to the desk. Most of the keys had labels attached to them, but some did not. ‘How am I to tell?’ she said. ‘There are so many. Charlie, I think you’d better take all the keys that aren’t marked and see which one fits. I’m afraid that’s all I can suggest.’

‘All that could be expected,’ said Paton.

Miss Ingledew frowned at him, put a pile of keys in a plastic bag and handed them to Charlie. ‘There. Bring them back when you’ve tried them,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Miss Ingledew.’ Charlie took the keys and, as there seemed to be nothing left to say, or do, he led the way back through the curtains.

Miss Ingledew came after them, to bolt and lock the door, but as Charlie and his uncle stepped into the street, Paton suddenly asked, ‘May I call again, Miss Ingledew?’

‘Of course,’ said Miss Ingledew, taken aback. ‘It’s a shop. I can hardly stop you.’

‘No.’ Paton smiled. ‘But, after dark?’

Miss Ingledew looked rather alarmed. ‘On Fridays, I’m open until eight,’ she said, and closed the door.

For a moment Paton stared at the door as if he were transfixed, and then he turned, suddenly, exclaiming, ‘What a very charming woman.’ And his huge, soundless humming caused the nearest lamp to burn so fiercely, a fine shower of glass fell out. It landed on the cobbled street with a soft, musical tinkle.

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