Seb frowned. ‘I want to say that sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why.’
‘It’s the eyebrow streak,’ Valian said. ‘The chief officer of the MV Outlander had one, and a blond beard too.’
‘Yes, but it couldn’t have been him,’ Ivy reasoned. ‘He’s—’ She stopped short of saying ‘dead’ in front of Stanley.
‘Shall I show you out?’ the archivist asked.
Ivy got to her feet slowly, the others rising beside her. Something very confusing was going on.
Back upstairs, Valian pushed his head between Ivy and Seb’s shoulders as Stanley escorted them along the corridor. ‘The chief officer was definitely dead; I checked his pulse myself. That leaves us with one possibility: someone in Lundinor is masquerading as him.’
‘Yes, but who?’ Ivy asked. ‘And why?’
Seb grimaced. ‘Who do we know who is a master of disguise and was on that ship? Jack-in-the-Green – it’s got to be.’
‘Maybe Selena sent him to destroy the postcard, only he got disturbed by Stanley before he could finish the job?’ Ivy suggested. ‘We need to work out who’s missing from that photo. There must be a reason why Selena wanted it gone.’
As they entered the central room of the windmill, Ivy’s senses were on full alert. Something was wrong. The journalists were in a frenzy, shouting to each other and milling around. The receptionist kept wiping her brow as she scribbled furiously with a feather.
For a horrible moment Ivy thought the newspaper workers had learned about the missing postcard, but then one of them barged past her, running towards the doors. Ivy clearly wasn’t the target of their concern.
A reporter with cropped black hair and square glasses heaved himself on top of his desk and spread his arms wide, addressing the entire room.
‘OK, everyone, calm down,’ he insisted. ‘We’ve got no official details as yet, but reports are coming in thick and fast that posters have been put up along the Gauntlet. Rupert?’ He pointed to a bespectacled man holding a snow globe. ‘I want photos of people’s reactions to that poster. Get down to the underguard station ASAP; see if it looks like they’re setting up for a public announcement. Julia?’ He addressed a woman with wavy blonde hair in the middle of a group of journalists. ‘We need vox pops from the traders – I want reactions! Forget the double murder at the memorial, this is the biggest story of the week. Why, this is the biggest story of the year! Selena Grimes has just announced the first legal Grivens contest in over a century! We need exclusives!’
Wiping dust from her eyes, Ivy hopped off the sponge mop onto the gravel. Seb took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his insides.
‘Thank you for travelling with Squeegee and Son’s uncommon mops,’ the sky driver said cheerfully. ‘Don’t forget to rate us via featherlight.’
‘Thanks.’ Valian slipped his dustpan hover-shoes off his feet and handed them over.
Ivy waited until the driver was out of earshot before speaking. ‘I don’t understand. How can Grivens be legal again?’
Valian shook his head as they headed towards the House of Bells. The Gauntlet was remarkably empty now. Traders had left the street in order to gather under the trees, where linen sheets, fluffy bedspreads and crocheted blankets were hovering beneath the leafy canopies like giant butterflies. Projected onto the centre of each was a live video feed from the Great Cavern underguard station – Ivy recognized its smooth granite walls and smoked-glass windows.
Seb’s forehead creased as they passed a levitating fleece throw. ‘What are those things exactly?’
‘Materializers. They display images,’ Valian said. ‘We should see what happens; it might be the public announcement they mentioned at the Barrow Post.’ They made their way under an oak tree, where a pale yellow duvet cover was hanging.
The image on the duvet cover flickered. Ivy flinched as the front door of the station shot open and a dozen underguards came marching through, their tricorne hats fixed to their heads. They formed a line and then parted down the centre. Inspector Smokehart and Selena Grimes appeared between them.
Selena raised a conch shell to her lips and cleared her throat. ‘Some of you will know that Lundinor was established on the site of an ancient Roman undermart; and though its laws and customs have been forgotten, many of them are still honoured today. One such rule permits the practice of outlawed celebrations on the occasion of a grand anniversary.’ She clapped her hands together and smiled. ‘Therefore, in honour of the five-hundredth anniversary of the birth of our founder, Sir Clement, I am delighted to announce that a one-off international Grivens contest will be staged in the world-famous West End stadium the day after tomorrow!’
There was a burst of applause under the trees. Some people jumped into the air, raising their arms and cheering.
‘In keeping with the traditions of the original game,’ Selena continued, ‘both living and dead players will be welcomed, although we will be using some new rules to safeguard living contestants. The prize – donated anonymously – will be a trove of uncommon objects to the value of ten thousand grade.’
Valian’s jaw dropped; a few traders gasped.
The materializer showed Selena passing the conch shell to Inspector Smokehart. His voice was flat. ‘Entrants must drink from the contest master’s cup. One glove from each participant will be kept until the day of play. Withdrawals are forbidden. Security in the stadium will be tight. For full details, see the posters.’
The image vanished with a squeaky pop, leaving the duvet cover bare as it folded itself into a neat square and dropped to the ground. The traders left the trees and returned to their businesses in a flurry of whispers.
Valian closed his mouth and stared at the pavement. ‘She’s found a loophole in the law against playing Grivens! I can’t believe it.’
‘Yeah, by going back to Roman times,’ Seb added incredulously.
Ivy had no idea about Lundinor’s ancient history, but she did know that the Dirge had an insatiable thirst for knowledge – if anyone had discovered the forgotten secrets of GUT law, it would be them. ‘Surely no one is actually going to go along with this?’ she asked hopefully. ‘It’s completely irrational. You can’t just make something against the law, and then reinstate it for one day.’
Seb stared at her. ‘You seem to be forgetting where we are, sis: weirdo capital of the world. These are the people who invented the Timbermeal.’
Valian smiled sarcastically but gave a grim nod. ‘He’s right. Uncommoners love traditional celebrations; the more eccentric, the better. In any case, people will welcome a distraction from all this news of Jack-in-the Green and the murders at the memorial. This contest has come at the perfect time.’
The more Ivy thought about it, the more certain she felt that Selena had planned it that way. She reran the announcement in her head. ‘The contest will take place two days from now. That’s May Day – the same deadline Jack-in-the-Green has for finding the Jar of Shadows.’ A cold sense of foreboding came over her. ‘Do you think Selena’s planning to use the jar at the contest somehow?’
The three of them looked at each other warily. The people in the street around them had no idea how much danger they were in.
‘We’ve still got time to find that jar before they do,’ Seb said, gritting his teeth. ‘Perhaps, now we know more about the Dirge’s plan, we should ask Granma for help.’
Ivy considered the suggestion carefully. ‘But Granma Sylvie is already uneasy about being here – if she knows the Dirge are planning something, she’ll probably whisk us away before we’ve had a chance to stop it.’
‘We need to be careful who we talk to,’ Valian added. ‘We’ve no idea how many disguises Jack-in-the-Green has.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Seb said, glancing nervously up at a folded materializer hanging in a tree. ‘He could even have been one of the officers standing in the background at the announcement.’
‘Even scarier than that,’ Valian said, ‘he could be that tree.’
‘Ivy! Sebastian!’ Granma Sylvie leaped up from her seat. Strands of long white hair had come free of her neat bun and her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just run the entire length of the Gauntlet. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She squeezed Ivy tightly and then pushed her back for inspection. ‘Are you OK? Where have you been since the Timbermeal?’
Ivy brushed the dried mud from the last mop landing off her knees. ‘Just exploring the Great Cavern. We didn’t go far.’ She greeted Ethel with a hug and sat down on the bench beside Granma Sylvie. Ethel patted Seb fondly on the shoulder as he took a chair. Her hand froze when Valian appeared behind him. They gave each other a wary scowl, and he joined the others round the table.
‘What happened to you?’ Seb asked Granma Sylvie, taking in her dishevelled hair and clothes. ‘You look a bit—’
‘I’ve had a difficult morning,’ Granma Sylvie said, cutting him off. ‘This business sorting out the Wrench estate has been exhausting. Only an hour ago, the underguard escorted me into the family mansion.’
Ivy had often thought about that strange old house on the hill; Granma Sylvie would have only been a teenager when she lived there.
‘More like you escorted them,’ Ethel corrected. ‘They couldn’t have got in if you hadn’t given them access – that place only opens to a member of the family.’ Her flinty eyes narrowed. ‘If you ask me, all this cataloguing-the-estate business is a cover for what Smokehart and the underguard really want – access to that building and all the secrets inside.’
Granma Sylvie pursed her lips. ‘Even if you’re right, I can’t avoid it now; they made me shake on it. At least I managed to convince them that the four of us were at the Timbermeal when that graffiti appeared this morning, so they can’t hassle us for statements.’ Her lip quivered. Ivy guessed the murders at the memorial and their connection with the smoking hourglass had been troubling her.
Ethel huffed and began pouring tea. ‘You can’t have them bullying you like this.’ She passed Granma Sylvie a cup of pale green steaming liquid. Seb eyed it suspiciously. ‘It’s only peppermint,’ Ethel told him. ‘Even uncommoners don’t mess around with tea.’
Granma Sylvie’s face darkened as she took the cup. ‘We’ve been logging the contents room by room, starting on the ground floor, but neither I nor any of the underguards have found anything of great value so far. I overheard a few of them talking – they suspect that my family stored any high-grade objects in secret locations around the world.’ The teacup was shaking in her hands, so she put it down. ‘I hope they’re not expecting me to know where they are.’
‘That does it,’ Ethel said. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow, whether they like it or not.’ She leaned back in her chair, a satisfied expression on her face.
Granma Sylvie pulled several objects out of her handbag: a small drawstring purse made of blue velvet, a waxy old tape measure and a stainless-steel salt cellar – the kind you’d find in a fast-food restaurant. ‘I’m only allowed to remove a few things from the house each day. Here – these are for you.’ She handed the salt cellar and tape measure to Seb and the purse to Ivy.
Ivy peered inside. The purse was filled with a handful of small feathers, some buttons, a teaspoon, a china napkin holder and a broken pencil. She sensed they were all uncommon.
‘I thought it could be your allowance,’ Granma Sylvie said. ‘Ethel told me that most children who take the glove are given one the season after.’
‘My allowance?’ Ivy queried.
‘I added it up earlier,’ Ethel explained. ‘You’ve got five grade in there.’
Ivy’s face flushed. I can trade. She flexed her gloves; now that she had something to barter with, they would record what deals she made.
Seb scrutinized the salt cellar. ‘OK, so what does this baby do?’
‘Uncommon salt cellars are viewing devices,’ Valian said.
‘And yer gran ’as the matching pepper pot,’ Ethel added. ‘Tip some out and you’ll see.’
Seb turned the object upside down and gave it a shake. The salt looked like snow as it fell. An image appeared in the crystals: it showed the porch of the House of Bells, with the five of them beneath it, as they were right then. ‘OK, that is totally cool.’
‘I’m not sure if I’ll get a chance to send many featherlights over the next few days,’ Granma Sylvie said. ‘The shakers should allow us to check up on each other.’
Ivy shared a nervous smile with Seb and Valian. They’d have to be careful.
‘What does the tape measure do?’ Seb asked, stuffing the salt cellar into his rucksack.
‘Resizes stuff,’ Ethel said. ‘You wrap it around something to make it bigger or smaller. I’ve never used one myself, but ’eard others talk about them. You’ll ’ave to get that one graded; see ’ow much it’s worth.’
Valian caught Ivy’s attention and then pointed to Granma Sylvie’s pocket.
‘Er, we found something today, Granma,’ Ivy said softly, ‘while we were exploring. This is going to sound strange, but it’s in your pocket.’
‘What?’ Granma Sylvie pushed her hand inside her jacket and withdrew the half-burned postcard. She blinked twice before examining it.
‘We’re not sure who the sender is,’ Ivy prompted, ‘but the photo shows you and Selena Grimes.’
‘Yes, but I don’t recall Selena Grimes at that age,’ Granma Sylvie remarked. ‘I have no memory of her at all, apart from the one you already know about.’
Ethel leaned over. ‘The picture must’ve been taken before you and I became friends, Sylv. You didn’t ’ang around with Selena Grimes when I knew you.’
‘What about the shoe?’ Valian asked, pointing to the toe of the mysterious black brogue. ‘Do you know who it belongs to?’
Granma Sylvie looked blank.
So much for that idea. Ivy was about to slip the postcard into her satchel when she noticed another piece of paper on the table and dragged it towards her. It was the smoking hourglass that Granma Sylvie had scribbled that morning. The other hourglass symbols – on the leather notebook and on the memorial – had been drawn with straight edges and clean lines, but Granma Sylvie’s free-hand sketch was wonky.
‘Maybe it’s just me, but do these two look similar?’ Ivy positioned Granma Sylvie’s sketch next to the postcard and pointed to the burn marks at the bottom of the message. ‘I thought that was the sender’s initials, but perhaps I was wrong.’
Seb squinted. ‘Ivy, that’s the same symbol! Whoever wrote the postcard signed it with a smoking hourglass.’
Ethel fumbled with her teacup. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’
‘A smoking hourglass …?’ he repeated.
‘I knew it!’ Ethel sprang to her feet and scuttled into the House of Bells without another word. There was a muffled chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the bells inside the shop, and then she returned carrying a newspaper and a small bell that looked like it had been carved from some sort of crystal. It was a translucent yellow in colour, with creamy white veins marbled through it.
‘I knew there was something familiar about that symbol on the memorial,’ Ethel said, opening the newspaper. ‘It’s on the front page of this afternoon’s Chronicle. Murder at the Memorial,’ she read. ‘Deplorable vandal draws burning sand timer across the stone. Underguards suspect victims were poisoned.’
Ivy read the headline, feeling a surge of excitement. ‘Are you saying you’ve seen the smoking hourglass before?’
Ethel shook her head. ‘No, but I ’ave ’eard of it – I didn’t make the connection at first because the Chronicle called it a burning sand timer. Here, listen …’
She held the crystal bell over the centre of the table and gave it a shake. A child’
s voice rang out, singing a nursery rhyme:
‘The ’vatum men come a-hunting to town
And we will go to see
In tent or thatch or burrow or cart
Who knows where they will be, will be,
Who knows where they will be?
‘With flourish and fizz the ’vatum men mix
For five wonders of light,
So stirs a dream, so flares a hope,
What will they show tonight, tonight,
What will they show tonight?
‘But ’vatum men no more we see
Now grips a crooked fear
More powerful than e’er before,
How long will the dark live here, live here,
How long will the dark live here?
‘Farewell to those great ’vatum men,
We shall see their kind ne’er more …
So hide your smoking hourglass,
And lock the secret door, the door,
And lock the secret door.’
As the bell fell silent, Ivy’s mind was reeling, wondering what it all meant. Ethel rang the bell again, as if double-checking what she’d heard.
‘Weird … but catchy,’ Seb decided. ‘Anyone know who the ’vatum men are?’
‘The Rasavatum,’ Ethel corrected, ‘to give ’em their proper name. When I was a girl, they were a guild of mixologists famous for staging secret demonstrations. They’d drift into an undermart without announcing their arrival, put on a spectacular show – brewing everything from dream elixirs to waters of eternal youth, then give ’em away free to the audience. The following day they’d be headline news.’
‘Like rock stars,’ Seb said. ‘I’m guessing you had to do some seriously impressive mixology to be a member of their guild.’
‘I’d say so,’ Ethel agreed. ‘They were rumoured to store all their recipes in a vast library, which only members ’ad access to.’
Valian shook his head. ‘But I’ve never heard of them before. Not even from my parents. What happened to them?’
The Smoking Hourglass Page 10
