Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

by Georgia Byng

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Molly stuttered, her stomach tightening. “This doesn’t sound good, Mr. Black.”

  “Call me Theobald.”

  “Theobald,” Molly said. “How are things going to get worse?”

  Black crossed his arms. “That book held more than just lessons about the advanced hypnotic arts.” He shook his head worriedly. “It held half of a very important key.”

  “A key to what?” Micky asked.

  Black put his hands to his temples and began to massage them.

  “A key that is, I’m afraid, the key to the weather.”

  “The weather?”

  “Yes.” Black sighed. Outside the hotel window, the trees swayed. A strong wind now accompanied the storm. Black shook his head again. “I can’t believe this is happening. I hoped it wouldn’t. But it is happening. I’m afraid Miss Hunroe and her friends may soon have the power to control the weather all over the world! And by the looks of it”—he pointed to the thrashing branches of the trees outside—“the trouble has already started.”

  Leonard stood up. “I’m v-very sorry,” he stammered, his eyes wide and nervous. “But I kinda think I better be getting out of here.” He touched AH2’s shoulder, as if testing whether he was real or not. “It’s all getting a bit too weird.” He eyed Molly and Micky. “I think I need to see a doctor!” With that, he backed himself toward the apartment door and in the next second had opened it and was gone.

  Sixteen

  Outside the French window, yet another flash of lightning lit up the hotel’s winter garden. Hail began pelting down, ricocheting off the mossy paving stones and hitting the statue of the winged cupid in the center of the pond like ice bullets.

  “This is only the beginning of it,” Black declared, sinking his hands into his trouser pockets and gazing up at the sky. A twig struck the window.

  “I don’t believe it,” said AH2, staring at Molly. “You’re not an alien! You’re a hypnotist. I saw. I saw you when you took my head over.”

  Black threw a glance back at AH2. “Is he safe, Molly?”

  Molly considered AH2. He was a fanatical person, but he was also very clever. If things were about to get more dangerous, he might be just the person to have on their side. After all, he had been in Molly’s head, so he understood things. And she had been in his head and trusted him.

  “He’s good,” she said. “Brainy, too. His name is Malcolm Tixley.” She nodded at their new friend. “You might be able to help us, Malcolm,” she said. Then she turned to Black. “So, Mr. Black, you’d better lay it out for us.”

  As if addressing the clouds that hid the sun, Black began. “Hypnotism, Volume Two: The Advanced Arts. Where shall I start? Let me give you its story first. It was written and made by your great-great-grandfather Dr. Logan. It was kept in the library at Briersville Park. Logan died. And the book stayed in the family for years. Secretly. Then it was stolen. Stolen by a family of hypnotists called the Speals.”

  “Speal said it had been stolen from them!” Micky exclaimed, moving closer to the fire to keep warm.

  “Well,” carried on Black, “the Speals kept the book for a while. They were responsible for the terrible storms in England in 1953. Then the book was rescued back by the Logans. Again it stayed in Briersville, this time safely hidden. But next, a bad Logan cropped up—your uncle Cornelius. I knew him at school. That’s where I come into the story. Miss Hunroe knew Cornelius as well, you see. We were all at school together, a long time ago.”

  “Ah! That must have been why Cornelius was so excited when Miss Hunroe arrived at Briersville that night,” Molly said to Micky. Black nodded.

  “When his father died, Cornelius got the run of Briersville Park. I heard of his inheritance and guessed that he would have found the book. I knew it would be a disaster for either him or Hunroe to have access to the book. So…” Black stopped and looked awkwardly at the twins. “So I stole it.”

  “You stole it?”

  “Well, I had to.” Black paused and fiddled with a button on his shirtsleeve. “I had it for years, and no one guessed that it was me who had stolen it. So it was safe with me. In the fabulously secure casino building of my brother’s. Lily said you saw the book. Well then, you must have seen the three flat colored stones in the corners of its front cover.”

  “And we saw the fourth stone,” Molly said, popping a chocolate into her mouth. “Speal had it. It was blue. She treated it like some sort of super-precious thing. Mmm. Toffee.”

  “Ah, so that is where it has been all these years. Well, Miss Speal is right. That blue stone is very precious. And that’s why the book is extra precious. The stones on its cover are the key. Each one of those stones can help change the weather on its own. If I was holding a stone now, for instance, I could change the weather near here. A stone on its own has limited power. All four stones together can make mammoth-scale, worldwide weather changes happen, but to do this the holder of the stones has to be in a very special place.”

  “Where?”

  “And you think that is where Miss Hunroe is going right now?” Micky guessed, opening a smart leather-covered atlas that lay on the table.

  “I am sure of it.”

  Black played with the heavy sashes that tied back the curtains as he spoke. “I think that Miss Speal has been manipulating the weather with the piece of blue stone for a long time. We’ve had monsoonlike downpours in London lately, and do you remember that mini cyclone that went over Primrose Hill?” As he spoke, a massive blade of lightning jagged across the dark sky. “Now Hunroe has the whole book and, so, all the weather stones. She has the power to cause typhoons, hurricanes, high seas, tidal waves, tsunamis, and droughts. She could drown millions in an afternoon. If she decides that the rain should stop, crops die, and then millions of people have nothing to eat. She could cause millions of people to die slowly, of starvation.”

  Black sounded so serious that Petula whimpered and hid her nose in the crook of Molly’s arm.

  “Wow, just think of the good things you could do with the weather stones,” Micky interjected. “You could make it rain where there were droughts. You could make a jungle grow in the Sahara Desert! These stones sound fabulous, Mr. Black.”

  “Don’t they? But remember, there is a flip side to the power of the stones. They can be used for enormous good or enormous evil.”

  “And you don’t have a set of time crystals?” Molly asked him, eyeing his vast collection of pendulums. “Because if you did, well, I could easily sort this all out.”

  Black shook his head. “Sadly, I’ve never had my own.”

  “Hmm.” Molly sighed, thinking how simple everything would be if she could use her time-stopping or time-traveling skills.

  “I wonder whether Hunroe knows how to use your crystals,” Black said. “I don’t think she could, or she would have used them by now.”

  “Maybe, then,” Molly mulled, “we should just call the police and have her arrested. Then I might get my crystals back. And then we could sort everything out.”

  “She’ll be long gone from the museum by now,” Black said knowingly.

  “How are you so sure that Hunroe wants to do bad things with the weather?” Micky said. “I mean, I know she’s not exactly a cuddly doll, but maybe she’s simply hoarding the book and the stones like an evil squirrel might.”

  “I know Miss Hunroe,” Black said. “Believe me, she is as twisted as a person can be. She looks wonderful, like a superstar beauty, but underneath she is as rotten as a gangrenous wound. Underneath she hates everyone. She’s a misanthrope.”

  “A misanthrope?” Molly asked.

  “A misanthrope,” said Micky, “is someone who hates other people.”

  “Yes,” agreed Black. “And Hunroe is that sort of person. When she hates, she really hates. I remember once at school we had a lecturer come to talk to us about the world’s population, about how there were too many people on the planet. And I always remember Hunroe in that class. She must have bee
n about ten. She said, ‘Why don’t governments just poison the water supplies of the major cities?’ She wasn’t joking, though the lecturer thought she was. With the book in her hands, the world is in serious danger.”

  “Let’s go back a bit,” Malcolm interrupted. “All this stuff about the stones on the book’s cover—how do they actually change the weather?”

  Just then, Dot opened the door and came in with a tray of cups and a tall silver pot. On a plate was a pile of buttered crumpets.

  “Hot chocolate and crumpets. You all look like you need it. Don’t mind me,” she said.

  “Ooh, thanks!” said both Molly and Micky, helping themselves.

  “That is just what the doctor ordered,” said Black as Dot handed out linen napkins. “Hmm. Yes, where were we? Well, the book’s stones, once taken from their places on the book’s cover, can be rubbed, and as I said, the weather about them where they are changes. Each stone represents one of the elements. The blue stone represents water; the orange, fire and heat; the gray, wind; and the green-and-brown stone is earth. Each one of these stones affects the weather, but used in any old place like this the effects are haphazard. For controlled weather changing—to change weather in different countries thousands of miles away—there is a special place where these weather stones have to be taken. And this is where Miss Hunroe will be heading. In the chapter of the book called ‘The Logan Stones,”’ Black continued, “where weather manipulation is explained, Dr. Logan refers to this place. Dr. Logan found the Logan Stones, obviously, for they bear his name. They are great rocking stones, huge things. One is orange, one gray, one blue, one green.”

  “Like the chips of stones on the book’s cover?”

  “Exactly. Logan describes in the book how the miniature pieces of stone dripped off the big Logan Stones. Apparently the giant stones are hard as diamond. Little pieces cannot be chipped off them. But he managed to cause the rocks to ‘drip’ to produce the little stones for him. I have no idea how. But what I do know is this. In Hypnotism, Volume Two: The Advanced Arts, he states that if you stand in the very center of the ring of the stones, in the very center of the force field that the four big Logan Stones make, with the four colored stones in your hand, and if you rub the stones with your fingers, using your imagination, and going into a hypnotic trance to think up the weather that you would like to see in the world, that new weather will happen.”

  “It sounds out of this world,” Molly said. “Amazing that our great-great-grandfather found this place a hundred years ago. It sounds like it’s from the future.”

  “Yes, or like some ancient place from the beginning of time,” Black remarked.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Micky asked, with a mouth full of crumpet. “Why don’t we just go there?”

  Black looked beaten.

  “The book doesn’t hold exact directions,” Black said. “It simply has a clue in it. A riddle.”

  “A riddle?”

  “Yes. In the back of the book there is a line that says, ‘Where there is a quill, there is a way. Muse o’ life, and you will find.’ Muse means ‘think’ in Old English. Muse o’ means ‘muse on.’ In other words, ‘Muse o’ life, and you will find’ means ‘Think about life, and you will find the answer.’ It could be anywhere.”

  “No,” said Micky, wiping his mouth. “It couldn’t be anywhere. That riddle must mean something extremely specific.”

  “Yes, well, you’re probably right,” Black admitted. The hopelessness that he felt was evident in his voice.

  “And lucky for you, Mr. Black,” said Micky, “I happen to have a fondness for riddles.”

  “He does,” Molly agreed, stroking Petula. “Micky’s really into crosswords and word puzzles.” Black gave a halfhearted smile.

  “In fact,” Micky went on, “half of the riddle is obvious to me already.”

  “What half?” Black asked, perking up.

  “The second part.”

  “What, ‘Muse o’ life, and you will find’? What does it mean to you?”

  “Well,” Micky went on. “I think you’ve got the O wrong. You think it means ‘muse o’ life,’ as in ‘muse on life,’ as in ‘think about life.’ But I think the O means ‘of,’ and it says ‘muse of life.’ And I think muse is short for museum.” Micky bit his lip and smiled. His smile was infectious. “What museums are there?” he asked.

  “Art museums,” Molly suggested. “Science museums, history museums…and…”

  “And?”

  “And natural history museums!”

  “Yes. They have the history of the planet, of animals and minerals, and of humans, don’t they? A natural history museum is a museum of life, isn’t it? Yes, I think, ‘muse o’ life,’ Mr. Black, might be the same thing as ‘museum of life.’ I wonder, is it one big coincidence that Miss Hunroe and her horrid cronies hang out in the natural history museum?”

  “You’re a genius!” Molly exclaimed. Quickly she cast her mind back to Miss Hunroe’s library. She remembered the painting that hung above the fireplace. She had thought it of a strange, uprooted, pointed poplarlike tree. “The picture!” she said. “The picture over the library fireplace! It wasn’t of a tree—it was of a feather quill! What was the first line of the clue, Mr. Black?”

  “Where there is a quill, there is a way.”

  “Your turn to be a genius,” Micky said. The twins looked at each other. This was turning into a treasure hunt. And both knew that venturing back to the museum and sneaking about in Hunroe’s rooms was a job that would be best done by them alone.

  “Hopefully,” Micky said, “Hunroe and her friends are already miles away from London, on their way to these Logan Stones.”

  Molly nodded. “The rooms in the museum will be empty. I don’t expect they will have left the book behind, but maybe the next clue to where the Stones are will be there.” Molly sighed. “Only a few days ago I was wishing my life was more exciting and adventurous.”

  “You have to be careful what you wish for,” Micky said.

  Molly gave Petula a squeeze. Outside, a rumble of thunder boomed out of the now charcoal sky, making the windows of the hotel rattle.

  Seventeen

  “Do you really think Petula needs to come?” Black asked.

  It was properly dark now. Micky, Molly, and Petula were sitting in the backseat of Black’s old Mercedes that was parked by the corner of the natural history museum, near its second entrance. Malcolm Tixley was in the passenger seat beside Black. His eyes followed the journey of the half-bent wipers as they swept left and right at the sloshings of water that pelted down on the windshield.

  “Petula’s good luck,” Molly explained. “She’s like a mascot. In fact, she has often helped me. She’s been all over the world with me, forward and backward in time, too. She’s part of the team, isn’t she, Micky?”

  “Absolutely,” Micky replied. “Wow, it’s wet out there.” A rumble of thunder rolled through the sky as if in agreement.

  Black turned off his engine. “Here are a couple of flashlights for you. You may need them. We’ll wait for you here.” He consulted his watch. “Remember, if you’re not back by midnight, I’m coming in.”

  Molly read the luminescent clock on the dashboard. It was ten fifteen. “We’ll be fine,” she said, far more confidently than she felt. “Don’t worry about us. Anyway, Malcolm, your red box can still track me, right?”

  “Yes,” said Malcolm, pulling his gadget out of his pocket and switching it on. It bleeped reassuringly.

  “Good. And you never know, we may find my time-stopping crystals and time-traveling gems in there somewhere. Then, wow, everything would be really cool. Ready, Micky?”

  Standing in the rain outside, Micky rang the bell. Water seeped under the elastic wristband of Molly’s jacket. She held Petula tight.

  A light came on inside the building and the night watchman, an elderly, whiskered man with a blue uniform, came through the inner safety door of the museum and peered out through the
football-sized peephole of the main door. He couldn’t see much as the glass was so wet, but it was clear that the two people outside were children. He knew how dangerous the London streets could be at night, so he reached behind him to lock the safety catch of the inner door, and then he reached for the bolt of the main door.

  “Hello, are you two all right?” he asked. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

  The little girl came forward.

  “We’re lost,” she said in a wobbly voice. “We’re lost. We ran away from home, see, and now we’re lost.”

  “Ran away from home? Lost? Dear me!” The night watchman glanced out at the empty, black, glistening street that bounced with rainwater. Then he looked at the two straggly, sodden children and their black pug. They were harmless.

  “Come on in, then,” he said kindly, beckoning them inside.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Molly as the old man led them through the second door into the museum, toward his office. “And thank you very much.”

  “What on earth are a nice couple of kids like you doin’ runnin’ away from home?” the watchman asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Molly considered the man. Hunroe would have definitely hypnotized him, she thought. Hypnotized him not to be hypnotized by anyone else. Hunroe would have locked her hypnotism in with a password. But if Molly found out the password, then she could override Miss Hunroe’s hypnotism. So, using the skill that no one else knew she had, she opened a thought bubble over the man’s head, and she asked him, “What is the password that Miss Hunroe used to lock in your hypnotism?” The old man frowned.

  “I’m sorry? I don’t think I understand your question, dear. Come into the office and have a hot chocolate or a cup of tea or something. We’ll sort everything out there.” But as he spoke, a picture of an apple appeared above his head. Then she switched on her eyes.