“Wish you would. Always meant to, but can’t get through ’em. More of a fighter than a reader. Brethren used to have big team of monks for brainy stuff. Just me, now.”
“But why?” I asked as Little Ben eagerly opened up a box. “If London Bridge is so powerful, shouldn’t there be an army to protect it?”
Nostalgia and regret chased each other across Chapel’s face. “Bridge was powerful. Too powerful. Factions always fighting over it. Egalitarians about to gain control, so Inheritors tore down old bridge. Built new one with fewer arches. No magical powers. Brethren shrank. Then: 1960s. Rogue Egalitarian. Managed to activate bridge magically, somehow. Plot foiled. Entire bridge dismantled. Sold to American, sent to Arizona desert.”
“Of course!” Little Ben said, looking up from the papers spread across his lap. “They dismantled a beautiful Victorian stone bridge and replaced it with an ugly concrete one. It makes perfect sense – if you know they had a magical motivation.”
“But what happened to that rogue Egalitarian?” I asked. “And what was his plot?”
“Don’t know,” Chapel said, disappointment radiating from his face. “Before my time. Those records destroyed. Don’t even know name of hero who stopped him.”
“I do,” Dasra said. “It was Lady Roslyn Hill-Haverstock.”
Little Ben looked at Dasra in amazement. I looked at Dasra in amazement. Mom and Chapel looked at Dasra in amazement. Only Hungerford seemed unsurprised.
“Now there, there’s, there’s a name I haven’t heard in yonks,” he rumbled. “A fine, fine woman she was.”
“You know my grandmother?”
“You’re, you’re Lady Roslyn’s grandson? A pleasure to, to make your acquaintance.” Hungerford extended a massive paw, and they shook. “I was by her side in, in, in 1969, when she foiled the nefarious plot against the bridge. What’s she, she up to nowadays?”
“Um, let’s save that for later,” I said. “Let’s start with: I can’t believe Lady Roslyn was a hero.”
“I knew it all along,” Mom said. “Didn’t I tell you, ‘Lady Roslyn is lovely’?”
“You probably did, Mom, but I think that was before she tried to kill you. You’re terrified of her now, remember?”
“That’s what I said, dear. I can’t believe Lady Roslyn was a hero.”
“I don’t see why it’s such a big surprise,” Dasra said. “The anarchists have always been troublemakers. You know Guy Fawkes was one of them, right? And the Inheritors of Order have always stood for … well, order. My grandmother wouldn’t tell me too much, but I do know somebody discovered that London Bridge was the key to retrieving an incredibly valuable artifact. And the only people with knowledge to stop him were my grandmother and –”
He stopped and looked at me intently, as if making a final decision about whether he could trust me. Finally, he went on. “– and Jeremiah Champney.”
That didn’t quite add up. “The historian? But he doesn’t believe in magic.”
“He didn’t then, either. My grandmother consulted with him but let him believe she was just researching folklore. After it was done, she thought it best to drop out of touch with him – if he knew too much, he’d be a danger to himself and others. When she heard someone was stealing stones, she thought he might be at risk, and she sent me to keep an eye on him. That turned out to be fortunate, as you saw.”
I thought back to that morning in Mr Champney’s office. “Minnie Tickle wasn’t escaping with you. She was chasing you.”
Dasra nodded. “I believe this is the part where you apologize for misjudging me.”
“But I didn’t – OK, I did, but I had good reason. I mean, your grandmother —”
He smiled triumphantly. “So you do judge people by their ancestry.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry.”
“We agree, then,” Dasra said. “The next step is to report back to my grandmother and see what she wants us to do.”
“We do not agree,” I told him. “I won’t judge you for your grandmother’s actions, but I sure as heck judge her for them. Maybe she was on the side of good a few decades ago, but she isn’t now. Fortunately, we have somebody here who can tell us everything she could. Right, Hungerford?”
“Erm, well, the thing is, I may have been, been, been moderately sozzled over the course of that adventure and it’s all a bit hazy. We, we went to St Pancras Old Church, and, and, and, and – well, in a nutshell, that’s all I recall.”
Little Ben looked up from the files in his lap. “Hey, look at these.” He held up two faded drawings. “This one is London Bridge before 1758. It wasn’t just a road – there were houses built along the entire length.”
“There aren’t any houses on Minnie’s bridge,” I said.
“Right.” Little Ben held up the other drawing. “This is London Bridge after they tore all the houses down to speed up traffic. It looks like Minnie’s bridge, but there’s a difference.”
I saw what he meant. “There are alcoves every twenty feet or so, on both sides of the bridge. For people to rest in, I guess, while they were crossing.”
“Those aren’t on the new bridge,” Dasra said, and then corrected himself. “I mean, the old bridge. I mean, the new Old Bridge that Minnie built, next to the old New Bridge.”
“So did she leave those alcoves off on purpose?” I asked. “Or has she not had the chance to get them yet? And if so, where are they?”
“Those alcoves look like, like stone. If they are, and they’re still in London, one of, of, of Mrs Coade’s noble creations will know where. I’ll ask around.”
Chapel sighed, looking disappointed. “I’d better look through our archives, too. Might have that information somewhere.”
“While you do,” I told him, “the rest of us will go to St Pancras Old Church and see what we can find.”
“You’re welcome to do that,” Dasra said. “I’m going to talk to the brave hero who saved London last time there was a plot involving London Bridge. I’m going to ask how she did it.”
“Fine,” I said. “Ask her how she tried to kill my mom, while you’re at it. And this time, don’t let her glasshouse you about it.”
Dasra glared at me. I glared at him.
“Um, guys? You may want to look at this.” Little Ben pointed at the TV in the corner.
On the screen we saw the Thames, showing the new bridge next to the old one – I mean, the new Old one next to the old New one – well, the point is, it showed both bridges.
Chapel turned up the volume. “… still unsure of the motivation behind the bizarre series of events, which began earlier with a battle between security forces and an unknown terrorist organization. Authorities warn that the new structure may be highly dangerous. The public is advised to stay away, and to call the police immediately if they see any of the following suspects.”
Five pictures popped up on screen. One showed Minnie. Her face was framed by the sky, but the photo had been cropped to hide the fact that she was flying.
The other photos showed me, Mom, Dasra, and Little Ben.
Now it wasn’t just Brigadier Beale who thought we were Minnie’s accomplices. It was the whole country.
CHAPTER 45
As we climbed down from the Oaroboarus bus, outside the gates of St Pancras Old Church, we saw two kids squabbling. Something odd happened each time one of them spoke: there was a faint blurp, like a little air bubble popping.
“She hit me first!” the boy said. Blurp.
“I never hit him at all!” the girl said. Blurp.
“If you two don’t settle down,” their father said, “I’m never buying you ice cream again.” Blurp.
“Look,” Little Ben said, pointing at a sewer grate near their feet. A teeny puff of mist rose up from it with each blurp.
“They’re lying,” I said. “Inspector Sands said the reason ancient stones were scattered around London is to absorb magic. That’s why the city doesn’t explode, even though people must be fibbing to each
other all the time. But Minnie stole the stones and smashed them. And now if people tell a lie when they aren’t quite close enough to a river to cause an explosion, you get that mist.”
“Oooh!” Little Ben said, bouncing up and down with excitement. “That’s where London fog comes from. And that must be why there hasn’t been a huge, thick fog here for decades. They must have fine-tuned the location of the stones or something.”
By now, thanks to all the pointing and leaping-in-excitement we were doing, the family was staring at us. Remembering that we were wanted terrorists, I checked my wig, and I saw Little Ben make sure that his rather unconvincing fake moustache was still above his lip. Chapel had managed to dig up a few musty costumes from the Brethren’s supplies, and they were only slightly more plausible than Oaroboarus’s bus outfit.
We hurried into the churchyard, leaving the family behind. Meanwhile, Oaroboarus made a series of not-very-convincing beeping noises as he backed into a bus lane to wait for us.
Surrounding the church was a large graveyard, complete with grass and tall trees and a dozen stone crypts. It was missing only one thing. “Doesn’t a graveyard usually have, you know, gravestones?” I asked.
We found them beneath the leafy branches of a tall ash tree. In tight concentric circles around its trunk, a hundred headstones clustered. Some of them were sunk three-quarters deep in the dirt, with the tree’s thick roots gnarled over and between.
“Did they all die at the same time?” Little Ben asked. “Could it be a plague pit?”
“I can’t make out most of the dates,” I said. The words and numbers had been faded by the years. Some of the stones had been worn completely smooth, while others were partly or even fully legible.
Little Ben gazed intently at one of the headstones. “This one,” he murmured, unusually subdued. “There’s something about it. It makes me feel … I dunno, sad.”
I looked more closely at it. Whatever carvings had been there were almost completely worn away, but when I ran my hand over them, I could feel a slight indentation. “Do you have pencil and paper?” I asked.
Little Ben tore his eyes away from the headstone and rummaged through his carpetbag. He pulled out a small stub of pencil and a huge square of paper and handed them to me.
I held the paper over the headstone, rubbing the pencil back and forth, and gradually a name took shape:
William Franklin.
“Why does that name sound so familiar?” Little Ben asked. He reached out to touch the gravestone …
… and it erupted with light, the letters of the tombstone suddenly vivid and clear:
In Memory of
William Franklin,
patriot,
who departed this world
17 November 1813,
in the 82nd year of his life.
Little Ben gasped but didn’t draw back. The light dimmed until only the a in Franklin glowed. Then the a blinked out, and the light shot around the circle, leaping from letter to letter, gravestone to gravestone, arriving back at the a in Franklin, only to continue circling, again and again.
“I think it’s spelling something,” I said, “but it’s too fast to read.”
“I wonder…” Little Ben said, and slid his hand to a different spot on the gravestone. As he did, the glowing circle sped up. “Oops. Let’s try the other direction.” He slid his hand back, and the circle gradually slowed down until we could make out the letters.
“A … N … S … W … E … R … T … H … E … P … H … O … N … E,” I read. “But where are we going to find a phone in a graveyard?”
“There,” Little Ben said, pointing to a crypt on the other side of the tree. It was a tall rectangle, with a curved roof, and now that I thought about it, it did look an awful lot like a carved stone version of the red telephone booths that dotted London. And as we approached it, we could make out a faint ringing sound coming from within.
I ran my hand over the monument, but I couldn’t find any way of opening it. “How do we get in?”
Little Ben reached out, and the moment he touched it, a heavy stone block swung open. Inside was an old-fashioned telephone. Now that nothing was blocking it, the ring was deafening.
“Looks like it’s for you,” I shouted over the noise. “You’d better answer it.”
CHAPTER 46
He picked up the handset and we all put our ears to it.
“Hello?” Little Ben said.
“Hello,” answered the distant, scratchy voice of a man. I couldn’t place his accent, but it sounded more American than English to me.
“Who is —” Little Ben began, but the voice didn’t stop.
“If this message reached you,” the voice continued, “it is thanks to the combined scientific and magical ingenuity of myself and my friend John Soane.”
“I think it’s a recording,” I whispered.
“We have learned how to use the rivers of this city to grant immortality – but the process unleashes a terrible danger. In time, we might be able to preserve life – or even to create it from nothing – without this cost. Our research may aid mankind, and we must not destroy it; yet it may prove a catastrophe, and we must not let it fall into the wrong hands. Thus, we shall place a history of our achievements in a place that shall be reachable only by the worthy.
“But who are the worthy? There is some disagreement among us. I believe merit must be earned by an individual’s actions; John believes it may be inherited. We have therefore agreed on a compromise – a sort of lock with two keys. The first key is this system of communication, which may only be used by us and our descendants. The second key is the hiding place this message shall guide you to. It can only be reached by the right of a free man, earned by one’s own labour.
“If you are hearing this, you must be my flesh and blood, or the flesh and blood of my close friends. I therefore send you my greetings from across the ages, and urge you to act with wisdom and prudence.
“I remain, yours truly, Benjamin Franklin.”
The message faded out.
“The Benjamin Franklin?” I said.
“It would make sense,” Little Ben said. “I mean, as much as magic ever makes sense.” He started off slowly and thoughtfully, growing more excited as he went along. “Franklin was born in America, but he lived in London for sixteen years. Plus there’s my name. Plus he was a printer, and there’s a massive printing press in my underground lair! Plus there was a lot about Ben Franklin in my dad’s files!! Plus I felt sad about William Franklin’s gravestone, and based on the dates, he could have been Benjamin Franklin’s son, and maybe the reason I could get the message is that William was my ancestor!!! Maybe I’m Ben Franklin’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson!!!!”
“There’s another possibility,” I said. “Oaroboarus told me there used to be an old man in your lair. What if Ben Franklin made himself immortal, and that old man was Ben Franklin himself? And Oaroboarus never saw you as a baby – he found you there, already a kid. What if Franklin was right, and whatever he had figured out about the rivers, it let him create life as well as preserve it? What if he had been working on it for hundreds of years, and finally he made you from scratch? That would be why you don’t remember anything from the past – you don’t have a past to remember.”
“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Little Ben said. It was the longest “oooh” I had ever heard him say. “That would be the coolest thing ever.”
“The part about you is cool, but if this is tied in to whatever’s happening with London Bridge, then Minnie Tickle may be after the secret of life and death itself. And if she —” I began, but Little Ben was too excited to listen.
“Do you think he made me a normal kid, or do you think he gave me superpowers?”
“I don’t know —”
“Maybe that’s why I can speak so many languages. Maybe I’m Language-Man! Oooh, Ben Franklin was big on lightning. Do you think he used lightning to bring me to life? Am I the fruit of dang
erous scientific knowledge, shocked into existence by a mighty storm? Maybe I’ve got lightning powers! Kra-kow!” He pointed at a nearby tree. Nothing happened to it. He pointed harder. It failed to burst into flames. “Aw, man.”
“It’s probably just as well,” I said. “You don’t want to go burning down forests every time you sneeze.”
“EXCUSE ME, FELLOW PASSERBY,” a voice said, loudly. I turned around and spotted an extremely tall woman wrapped in a cloak, her face shadowed by a hood. “IT IS A PERFECTLY NORMAL THING FOR TWO PEOPLE TO CONVERSE,” she said in the same loud voice. Then she leaned forwards, so that I could see under her hood. She was made of stone, with a strong, broad face, and the top of her head was flat, as if it usually supported a roof. Underneath her real cloth robe, she was carved to look as though she were wearing Greek clothes. “I’m not actually human,” she whispered. “I’m a Coade stone caryatid.”
“I gathered,” I whispered back.
“Hungerford sent me. This church doesn’t have any Coade stones, so he contacted me on the stone network and asked me to sneak over from my church a few blocks away. Do you think anybody noticed?”
The graveyard was mostly empty, and the few other visitors were looking the other way. Either they hadn’t heard her shouting, or they had heard it and were trying to ignore the crazy woman. “I think you’re good,” I told her.
“Wonderful,” she whispered. “SHALL WE HAVE a CASUAL CONVERSATION?” she shouted, then kept alternating between loud and quiet. “Hungerford says there were four alcoves from the bridge still in London. IT IS A LOVELY DAY AND THE WEATHER IS UNREMARKABLE. Two of them were taken already. I EXPRESS FOND WISHES FOR THE SUCCESS OF YOUR CHOSEN FOOTBALL TEAM.”
People were starting to notice us and edge away. She was probably being as subtle as an eight-foot-tall statue could be, so I didn’t bother trying to hush her. Instead, I did my best to move her along. “That leaves two alcoves?”
“That’s right. I FEEL FAVOURABLY TOWARDS DOGS AND HUMAN INFANTS. Both alcoves are in Victoria Park. He’s spoken to Chapel Lock and they’ll meet you there. I AM SUPPORT PERSONNEL IN A CHURCH PROFESSION. TELL ME OF YOUR OWN OCCUPATION. This subterfuge is exhilarating! I’m going to have to try it more often. Do you have any missions for me? HA HA HA I EXPRESS AMUSEMENT AT YOUR WITTICISM!”
The City of Guardian Stones Page 13
