Secret Breakers: The Power of Three

by H. L. Dennis

  ‘Granddad gave that to you?’ Brodie said, trying to hide the surprise in her voice. ‘Really?’

  Friedman laughed and lowered the chain so the key rested in the hollow at the base of his neck. ‘It was your mother’s too. Apparently she sent it to your grandfather along with a letter to pass on to me just before she died. Sent it from Belgium, before the accident. She sent something for Smithies, too. Some long strip of paper with holes punched in it. But to me, she sent a letter and this key.’

  Brodie narrowed her eyes to concentrate.

  ‘I never got the letter. Your grandfather said there was some problem. But he gave me the key. Said your mother thought it was important for me to have it.’

  Brodie felt the exhausted cogs in her mind begin to whirl. ‘Why was my mother in Belgium?’

  ‘Van der Essen,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘We were sure the Professor had known more about MS 408 and your mother went to check out his things. Spoke to his family.’

  ‘And the accident happened before she could tell you what she learnt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the key came from Belgium?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t know what the key’s for?’

  ‘Yes. No. I thought perhaps it was just a sign, you know.’ His face was colouring in the moonlight.

  ‘A sign of what?’ Brodie’s voice was rising.

  ‘Brodie. Things were complicated between – well, your mother and me. We had feelings for each other. But I had my difficulties. It wasn’t a good time for me. Being accused of madness isn’t an easy thing to bear.’

  ‘And you think the key was just a sort of symbol,’ she said, her heart racing now so her words fell over themselves. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘All?’ The man looked angry. Hurt even. ‘I don’t think you can talk so flippantly about things that don’t concern you. You’re too young to understand.’

  ‘That’s not fair! I’m part of this team aren’t I? I’m not asking about you and my mum! I’m asking about the key.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Brodie had jumped up, pacing about. ‘OK. OK. I’m thinking about the hidden clue in the box from the Pavilion.’

  ‘What clue? Come on, Brodie. What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were there. You heard Smithies read it.’

  Friedman shook his head. ‘I came into Hut 11 and I told you the Director was coming. I heard nothing about another clue.’

  ‘But we talked about it as we ate?’

  ‘Still not there, Brodie. I needed air. Crowds unnerve me.’

  Brodie could feel her frustration rising. ‘But you knew we were going on to try and read MS 408. Why do you think we weren’t stopping?’

  Friedman laughed. ‘I don’t need to see another clue to decide to go on. I’ve never given up. Never. My whole life’s been about making sense of MS 408. I go on because that’s what I do. I don’t keep trying because it seems likely or because we’re getting closer. I keep going because I don’t know how to stop.’ He paused. ‘They don’t claim a man is mad for no reason,’ he said.

  Brodie tucked her hair behind her ears.

  Connections were firing in her mind. The Veritas logo and the symbol of an elephant holding a key. The importance of never forgetting. The value of the scabbard.

  ‘OK. I get it,’ she blurted. ‘You keep going whatever the odds. But what if I tell you there’s another clue? What if I tell you, we found more? I think the key round your neck, the one my mum gave you, is the answer!’

  The Director closed the door to his office and flicked the latch. He removed his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of the chair, smoothing the creases in the sleeves. Next he loosened his tie, slipping the opened knot over his head and laying the silk strand across the arm of the suit. Then he removed his cuff links and put them in the silver tray to the left of his desk. They rattled as they rocked across the silver, the engraving on their surface flashing in the light of the neon strip above them.

  Finally, the Director rolled up his sleeves.

  Seated on the leather chair, just beside the window, the Director picked up the phone and paged through to his secretary. ‘I’d like to use the private line,’ he said in a voice warmed a little by the cheap wine he’d drunk on the train back from Bletchley.

  ‘Certainly, sir. Is there anyone I can connect you to?’

  ‘No. Just ensure the line’s secure.’

  He waited for a moment until he dialled. Then he spoke very clearly so his words could not be in any way misheard. ‘They are more inventive than we feared. And their commitment seems absolute.’

  ‘So. Are you telling me it’s time for direct action?’

  The Director waited before he answered.

  ‘Yes. The time has come.’

  ‘This’d better be good, Brodie,’ Hunter yawned from behind the sleeve of his rather large dressing-gown. ‘I was having a wonderful dream where the water in the fountain in the middle of the lake had turned to chocolate.’

  Tusia mumbled something which Brodie couldn’t quite hear but she thought she included the words ‘typical’ and ‘drowning’.

  They met in the music room. Hut 11 still had memories of the Director’s rant about legalities and legal injunctions and was too far to go in the dark.

  ‘So,’ said Smithies, stifling a yawn himself. ‘Are you two going to explain what all this is about?’ He held the metal phoenix box in his hands as Brodie had insisted he went to get it. The rest of Veritas stood round the edges of the room, although Mr Bray had made use of a chair in the corner and was rubbing his feet in an attempt to bring feeling back to them. Ingham was offering him some painkillers, but Mr Bray refused. The only member of the group who didn’t appear to be suffering from extreme exhaustion was Fabyan, who announced happily he was still running on Illinois time and was ready for anything.

  ‘OK,’ said Brodie, taking the box from Smithies. ‘Stick with this. It’s going to be good.’

  ‘Better be worth giving up a dream about a lake of chocolate,’ mumbled Hunter.

  Brodie ploughed on. ‘OK. Listen. I think Van der Essen hid us a new clue in the phoenix box. It’s that phrase hidden in the hinge. Those words “The Key to your protection”.’

  ‘Anyone else having a burst of déjà vu?’asked Hunter, who was soundly struck by Tusia on the arm.

  ‘Now,’ persisted Brodie, ‘all the codes Van der Essen left us are about King Arthur. Yes?’

  The Study Group mumbled in agreement and Mr Bray tried his best to look as if he knew what his granddaughter was talking about. Miss Tandari began to whisper in his ear, but Brodie only allowed her a little time to help him catch up.

  ‘And all the time we’ve been looking at the scabbard and not the sword. Arthur’s scabbard. Remember?’

  Tusia said something about how they could hardly forget as they’d spent the whole day running away from the authorities because of that clue and Ingham agreed, looking strangely usual in his pyjamas amongst a crowd of others, most of whom were also dressed for bed.

  ‘So,’ went on Brodie, gaining confidence as everyone began to look more awake. ‘I don’t think Van der Essen was hiding a code-book in the Pavilion. I don’t think it was about what was inside the box. The ash was put there from the beginning. But that’s not the point. It was not the sword we were after. It was the means of protection. Ultimate protection. The scabbard.’

  ‘So?’ said Ingham.

  ‘So I think the box is the important thing.’

  ‘But we’ve been all through this,’ Hunter said, sounding exasperated. ‘Going back to the box led us to the extra clue.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brodie blurted. ‘And it should take us back to the box again.’

  ‘I’m not following,’ said Miss Tandari, her forehead furrowed in an obvious attempt to pay attention. Mr Bray began shaking his head beside her.

  ‘The box is it. It’s the final clue. Not a message hidden in the box. But the bo
x itself.’

  ‘I see.’ It was perfectly obvious from Tusia’s comment that she didn’t see but had felt the need to say something that’d be considered as supportive.

  ‘It’s the box we need to look at,’ Brodie said again. ‘That’ll give us what we need. The box is the protection.’

  ‘So what we need then is the key?’ said Smithies slowly, as if awakening from a dream.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Brodie, turning the box in her hand. ‘And here, look, in the side of the box, is a hole for a key.’

  ‘Well, that’s all pretty wonderful,’ muttered Hunter. ‘And I am impressed, honestly I am. But not to be too mean about the whole clue-solving thing but I think there’s something you’ve missed.’ He waited, then opened his hands out as if showing them empty. ‘We haven’t got a key.’

  ‘Oh yes we do.’

  Hunter lowered his hands to see who’d spoken. ‘We do?’

  ‘Yes. We do.’ It was Friedman and his voice trembled as he spoke, lifting his hands to his neck to release the small golden chain that hung around it.

  All eyes in the room were on him as he passed the key to Brodie.

  ‘But where? How? When?’ It was difficult to be sure who was asking what.

  ‘My mother sent Friedman the key,’ Brodie said quietly. ‘My granddad said she was on to something and that something took her to Belgium. She must’ve got the key from Van der Essen’s things.’

  ‘And she sent the key to you?’ Tusia said, her eyes fixed firmly on the man in the centre of the room.

  He said nothing.

  Brodie held the key in one hand and the box in the other. She moved the key gently towards the lock. ‘Are you ready?’

  No one in the room answered.

  Epilogue

  Somehow it seemed fitting the discovery was made in the Music Room. Brodie, as she thought about that moment, was particularly pleased about that.

  The key turned slowly in the lock under the pressure of her hand. There was the gentle sound of clicking. A release of air as if the box was exhaling after having held its breath for a very long time. The base of the box lifted. The remains of ash fluttered away like morning mist. There was a secret compartment. A place hidden inside. And in the compartment was a small metal structure with a tiny handle. There was an opening at one end – a slit like a letterbox – and at the other end it was possible to see lines of metal almost like the keys of a miniature piano.

  ‘It’s a music box,’ said Fabyan.

  ‘But there’s no sound,’ said Tusia.

  ‘Because it needs music.’

  Brodie didn’t understand.

  ‘It works if you feed paper into the opening,’ Fabyan continued. ‘I’ve seen these things before. Paid a fortune for a few in my time. Paper is fed inside and the workings play the tune.’

  ‘But how do they know what to play?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘There’s holes,’ said Fabyan. ‘Punched into the paper like a code. And the metal keys in the workings play a note every time there’s a hole. The holes make the music.’

  Brodie could hardly breathe. ‘Like the holes on our invitations to Veritas,’ she said. ‘The holes let the light in and told us what to do.’

  She turned to look at Friedman.

  They both turned to look at Smithies.

  Smithies’ face was flushed with colour. ‘Alex,’ he said quietly. ‘She knew. She’d found the pieces of the secret and she knew one day we’d reunite them.’

  ‘Erm, any chance you’ll tell us what’s going on?’ Hunter said. ‘You lost me with the paper and the holes and the music.’

  ‘Not lost,’ Smithies said softly. ‘Found.’ He took his wallet from his pocket and pulled out the long thin strip of paper he’d carried since the death of his best friend. ‘Brodie,’ he said, passing the paper to her. ‘Make the phoenix sing.’

  Brodie fed the paper through the slot in the workings. She turned the handle and she waited. Then, in the silence of the night, a gentle tune began to play. Soft and stirring, the sound of notes rising and falling.

  ‘It’s Elgar,’ Mr Bray said gently.

  Tusia looked confused.

  ‘The tune. It was written by Elgar.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m totally sure.’

  ‘And so that’s the solution to the Firebird Code?’ asked Brodie. ‘Notes of a melody?’

  Smithies smiled. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘It is?’ said Hunter, turning the statement into a question. ‘Because I don’t get it.’

  Ingham grinned. ‘Elgar, my young man, was a master composer.’

  ‘OK. Still not getting it.’

  ‘And more than that. He was a lover of codes.’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘He was. Have you never heard of the Enigma Variations, a whole series of compositions Elgar wrote to include codes?’

  ‘Wasn’t really part of the Key Stage Two curriculum,’ offered Hunter. ‘We were too busy doing songs about recycling and looking after your teeth.’

  Smithies frowned. ‘Well, then I think we’ve some learning to do.’ He ran his fingers along his chin. ‘I think we finally have our answer,’ he said with more than a hint of excitement in his voice. ‘If we’re going to get our copy of the code-book to read the codes of MS 408, then Van der Essen wants us to look at the work of the composer Elgar. I think we can manage that.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Hunter, his eyes twitching rather noticeably with nerves. ‘Have you heard my singing? Music’s not really my thing. Numbers though. I can do numbers. Will there be any numbers in this one, do you think?’

  Brodie didn’t hear Smithies’ answer. She was turning the handle once again and letting the music of the box fill the room. A sense of expectation rose in her. A tune flew free as if the phoenix was rising at last from the flames and sharing with the world her song. The firebird was singing.

  She had her granddad here, Smithies, Miss Tandari and Ingham and all their knowledge about codes. She’d got Friedman, who’d known her mother, and Fabyan, who’d helped see off the Director. And she’d got two of the most annoying but wonderful friends she could ever hope for.

  And they’d got a new code to help them decipher MS 408.

  Whatever Elgar had hidden in his writings, she knew they’d find it. Because that was what they were here to do.

  They’d made a commitment. To each other and to the code.

  And one day soon they were going to find out what the greatest unread code in the world was all about.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you for reading The Power of Three and sharing in its secrets. I’d like to thank here all the people that encouraged me as I wrote it!

  So thank you to:

  Ann Wright; Barbara Large; all my writing friends from MUSE; all the authors from CWISL and Erica Richardson and the late Rosemary Ingham.

  All my friends at Ocklynge School, Eastbourne; colleagues and pupils (especially past and present classes 5BD and 6BD and members of E Plus!); all the team at SLAMS; ‘Bumper Book Shop’ Eastbourne; ‘Stagecoach’, ‘Rattonians’ and the ‘Ratty Mums’; David Cane-Hardy, Pete Gurr and Barney Pout; Matt Keogh, Daniel Trott and all the ‘early draft readers’!

  All the Evason family … you’re wonderful! Andrew and Jane Norriss … I really appreciate all your help and friendship. John Smithies, John Werner, Tusia Werner, Ron Guildford, Malcolm Barton, Richard Crane and Yvonne Lever – you were amazing teachers! Thank you!

  The incredible team at Hodder Children’s Books and Beverley Birch, my fantastic editor.

  And my wonderful family – David, Andy and Rocky for your enthusiasm; Mum for teaching me to love stories and for being my first Secret Breakers reader and Dad for all your support. My fabulous husband Steve, for all your patience and encouragement. And Meggie my wonderful daughter, logbook writer and friend … for inspiring me every day. It was you who taught this firebird how to fly!

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