The Book of Bones

by Natasha Narayan

  The coach stopped with a jolt. Rachel was thrown against Waldo and screeched. Isaac’s glasses fell off as the horses began to neigh, a high terrifying sound. Odd noises were louder in the silence of the moor: the driver Hodges shouting, the crack of a whip and then another deep voice intermingled with scuffling. I peered through the window but could see only dark shapes through the smudgy pane.

  “What’s up?” I yelped, leaping into action. “Hodges?”

  “Stand back.” Waldo pushed me down.

  “Highwaymen!” Isaac shrieked.

  “It’s nothing, you booby!” Waldo snapped. “Probably just some drunk on the track.”

  Mrs. Glee was the only one not caught up in the commotion. She had retreated from everything into her crocheting, ignoring the horses’ frenzied neighing and the lurching of the coach. Waldo was struggling now with the door handle but quite unable to open it.

  “Let me have a go.” I said. “You have to twist it this way.”

  Sighing, Mrs. Glee put down her crochet. “I doubt that will do any good.”

  “What?” We stopped and stared at her.

  “I am sorry, children. The door is locked.”

  Both Waldo and I were frantically tugging at the door. It was certain now that there was something more than an ale-sodden peasant on the track out there. A sharp crack outside brought us to a stop. A second bang rent the air, followed by a moment’s deep silence.

  Gunshots.

  “I locked the carriage door for your own safety, Kit and Waldo. I really don’t want you to get hurt,” Mrs. Glee murmured.

  “Open it at once.” I exploded. “There’s a highwayman out there.”

  “I’m so, so sorry about this.”

  “She’s raving, Waldo. Smash the windowpane.”

  But Waldo had already taken off his shoe and was thwacking hard at the glass with the wooden heel. Once. No effect. Twice. The glass still held.

  “Hurry,” I yelled, for the noises outside were disturbing. “Look, I’ll smash it.”

  Waldo shoved me away and bashed with all his might. A thin crack split the pane and at the fourth blow it shattered. Waldo was about to put his head through the jagged hole when something appeared at the window. A face. It was of perfect plump roundness, framed by a fringe of blond hair at top and bottom. At first glance friendly. Except for the malice in the piggy eyes and something nasty in the way the glistening rosebud lips were pouting.

  “’Allo, Vera,” the man said.

  Mrs. Glee put her crochet on her lap and looked at the man. “So you’re here, Bert.”

  “Always on time,” Bert said. “You know me.”

  “Go easy on them, Bert.” Her hands, those wrinkled hands holding the crochet, were trembling. Her face, though, was calm.

  “Orders is orders,” Bert shrugged. “No loose ends.”

  The rest of us watched this strange conversation in confusion, for things were happening too fast. Rachel screeched suddenly and Mrs. Glee frowned.

  “Quiet, please,” she said. “For your own good, be quiet.”

  “What’s happening?” Rachel gasped. “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m nobody.”

  “Mrs. Glee?!”

  “I beg you to listen to Bert. It will be better for all of us if you do.”

  I had never been so bewildered in my life. Mrs. Glee was clearly frightened, I could see that in the trembling of her hands and the tautness of her face. But other things were wrong. She knew this thug, Bert. Were they trying to kidnap us? Waldo’s Emily had been right. There was something twisted out of shape about Mrs. Glee. Never mind that now, I had to act.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said, bunching my hand into a fist.

  I thwacked Mrs. Glee with all my might as Waldo picked up a piece of glass and held it to her throat.

  “Call off your men,” I snapped, pinioning her arms. “Or Waldo will cut your throat.”

  Mrs. Glee was shivering uncontrollably. “Stop it, stop it! Please. Someone will get hurt.”

  “Put the glass down, Waldo,” I hissed.

  “No chance.” Waldo barked, his hand quivering at Mrs. Glee’s throat.

  “He has a gun.” I said quietly.

  Waldo turned and saw Bert’s pistol, pointed straight at Rachel’s head. In a flash it was all over. Mrs. Glee stood up and handed something through the window to Bert. He took the key and unlocked the carriage door and then was inside, bringing a rank stench of sweat, grease and gin with him.

  “Room for one more?” he grunted as he heaved his lumbering body into the carriage. Squashed up as we were, we had no choice. The villain sat massive on the bench. The gun lay limp in a fat paw. I saw Waldo eyeing it, but signaled him no. It wasn’t worth taking a chance now, for this was a desperate game.

  “The driver?” Mrs. Glee asked the thug.

  “He’s out.”

  “We bringing him along?”

  “Don’t you worry your soft little head about that. Your business is done.”

  “Please be—!”

  “Shut up.” Bert closed his eyes. I could see him looking at us through his sandy lashes.

  Were they talking about our coach driver, Hodges? The gentlest of men with horses, or indeed anything on four legs. Was he even now struggling, bound, in a ditch, bleeding? Or worse, surely they wouldn’t have murdered him?

  “You’d better not have hurt him,” I burst out. “My father will kill you if you’ve harmed Hodges.”

  The carriage rumbled off. The horses whimpered and neighed, accompanied by the brutal crack of the whip.

  “What is this?” Waldo spat, his eyes red in a furious white face. “Who are you? What are you doing with us?”

  “Questions, questions.” Bert smiled, while Mrs. Glee sat whey-faced.

  “If you’re hoping for a ransom, forget it. Our parents aren’t rich.”

  Bert grinned as though this was a huge joke. “Bit of a long day,” he murmured. “If any one of you pesky brats opens your mouth again, I’ll cuff you.” A set of handcuffs had appeared in his hands, along with the pistol.

  I hoped that something, anything, would happen to save us from this gang. Perhaps the horses would stumble and overturn the carriage, perhaps someone would stop us and prevent whatever dark business was afoot. I glanced over the faces of my friends, shadowy in the gloom of the coach. Rachel, sucking her lower lip. Isaac, pale as chalk. Waldo, eyes glittering with fury. We had to wait, watch, be patient, and when it came, seize our chance.

  Bert seemed to read my mind. He turned to me, his eyeballs barely visible between two rolls of fat. Plump lips opened and a blob of spittle just missed my feet. Shuddering, I sank back in my seat and felt Waldo’s hand gripping my arm. Stay strong, he seemed to be signaling. If we could only be alert, surely our chance to escape would come?

  Chapter Five

  Rough hands shook my shoulders. Despite my best intentions, I must have dozed off because a lantern was dazzling me. Someone trod on my foot. Hands pulled me up and we were led out of the coach. I looked around wildly, but could see little as it was a night for nothing but owls and wolves. Underfoot was wet sand. Dimly I spied the outlines of three men.

  One of them raised the lantern and a pool of oily light spread out about us. We were on a beach stretching for miles. Above us loomed ebony shapes, a denser black against the moonless night. I could not tell if they were cliffs or hills. The distant shriek of a gull and the lap of water was all that could be heard apart from the muffled commands of the men.

  “Get in,” one of them snapped. A small but sturdy rowing boat was moored on the sand. Mrs. Glee was already comfortably seated in the prow and now Rachel and Isaac were herded in. I felt Bert prodding me in the back with the gun and I hastily clambered over the side with Waldo scrambling after me.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel asked. With a pang I remembered that this wasn’t the first time she had been kidnapped.

  “Boating,” Bert replied.

&nbs
p; “Good one, Lips,” a thug hollered.

  The men laughed, as if he had made a witty remark. But Mrs. Glee looked upset. I stared at Bert with loathing. His nickname was quite apt. I could see his pouting lips, moist enough to make one shudder.

  The thugs began to row. Vigorous strokes, moving us quickly through the water. Thoughts of hurling myself overboard flitted through my mind. But I dismissed them quickly. No doubt the men would shoot. Even if it was difficult to hit me in the darkness, my traveling cloak and heavy dress would weigh me down. I am a good swimmer, but I would surely drown.

  Who had captured us in this violent fashion? Of course it could have been a random act. The action of a kidnapper hungry for some bounty he imagined our parents would pay. But there had been such organization in the whole trap. First Mrs. Glee had wormed her way into our home as a governess, then she had organized it so we would travel the lonely moors with only a driver for protection. Yes, there was something deeper, more sinister, in this web of violence.

  I could think of only two men who would wish us such harm. We had tangled twice with those reclusive millionaires the Baker Brothers. The first time, in the Egyptian adventure, I had thwarted the Brothers’ plan to steal a manuscript of immense age and wisdom—thought to be the oldest book in the world. As a result of their wickedness, ancient forces had cursed them with a mysterious and disfiguring skin illness—“the mummy bite.”

  More recently we had come across the Brothers in India. They had been involved in theft, kidnapping and the murder of a Maharajah, as well as the quest for the fabled elixir of immortality. I had kept quiet about my meeting with the Brothers in the very highest mountains on earth. I intended to keep it that way. But the Brothers had vowed to take their revenge on me. Might their withered hands be behind this?

  I thought of everything I knew about the Brothers. Their immense wealth, their worthy donations to charities including orphanages and hospitals. Their horror of appearing in the newspapers or attracting any publicity at all. Why were they so wary of any attention from the world? There were said to be no paintings of the Brothers in existence. Though they shunned the public, the Bakers moved in aristocratic circles—indeed they were said to be intimate friends of the Prince of Wales. Our Queen’s son was rumored to be a playboy, fond of actresses and “fast society.” Not much in common then with the Brothers, except that they too coveted beautiful things.

  Waldo had clearly been thinking along the same lines. He leaned over to me and murmured below the splash of oars, “The Baker Brothers.”

  One of the men looked up. Casually he flicked Waldo across the face, catching him on the cheek and bridge of the nose. My friend clenched his teeth but didn’t utter a sound or a word of protest. The others laughed, pausing a moment in their work of rowing the boat. I wanted to get up and kick the man in his shin, but with an effort I kept my temper in check.

  Waldo might be pig-headed and obstinate. But he was brave, no one could doubt that.

  Now that we were away from land, surrounded by nothing but black water, the men didn’t bother to keep their voices down. The boat sliced through the heaving sea; the wind howled about us, heavy with the tang of salt and fish. Now and then a spray of water from the oars would land in the boat, close to my gown. I was bone-weary, chilled and damp. I guessed we were being taken to some ship, and my spirits sank for it would be even harder to get away.

  My guesses were wrong for we had been rowing for not more than an hour when I spotted a beam of light playing over the water, directing us through the sea. I realized it was a lighthouse clearing a safe way through the rocks. The men seemed confident, as if they had made this journey many times before. The waves were bigger, sending the boat scudding this way and that, as we neared an island. But the men brought the boat smoothly into a rocky little bay.

  More lanterns were lit, illuminating an empty cove scooped smoothly out of crumbling white cliffs. Just one blue and gray shack, which looked to be newly painted and in good order. Probably a boathouse.

  Having helped Mrs. Glee out of the boat, handling her like a sack of potatoes, Lips leaned over and gestured to us with his gun. We were going to get even rougher treatment. I took Rachel’s hand, which was feverishly hot, and tried to pull her to land. She was limp, unresisting. Her brown eyes were glazed, hair hanging damp and tangled over her cheeks. She looked at me and forced a grin.

  “I’m not a china doll,” she said, scrambling out of the boat.

  The men assembled us into a single file. Mrs. Glee went first, followed by Lips. We followed, two thugs panting in our wake. It was a steep climb up the cliffs and by the end my breath was coming in gasps. Rachel looked truly alarming, her cheeks bright pink. At the end of the climb the path struck left and there was a splendid carriage, decorated with a golden crest. Sleek Arabian mares were pawing the ground, their breath steaming in the night air. We were led into this carriage, and sank onto soft leather seats. Behind us, the headrests were upholstered in velvet. I was thoroughly bewildered. Where were we heading in this magnificent fashion?

  “Bit more like it,” said Mrs. Glee, sinking into the cushions. She glanced at me, her eyes appealing for sympathy. “You’ll see, Kitty, it won’t be all bad once we get to the castle.”

  “The castle?” I wondered. “What castle?”

  “It’s amazing. You’ve never seen anything like it,” she replied.

  “Who lives there?”

  Instantly Mrs. Glee clammed up and would say no more.

  The horses were off, at a brisk pace. Lips squatted in one corner, like an enormous mouthy toad, his pistol covering us all. We galloped through whispering darkness—down below was the wash of the sea. We were lost, far from help, from civilization even. This island did not seem to be inhabited for we did not pass a single village. But I had scarcely a glimpse through the windows. Before long we came to a stop and were prodded from the carriage. As I stumbled out, I could not help but catch my breath in wonder.

  Gaslights? On this remote, forsaken island? It made no sense. The most powerful lights I had ever seen glowed, turning the skies golden. Arising like some fairy-tale dwelling in their enchanted arc was the castle. Thick granite walls bristled with battlements, turrets and watchtowers. One could imagine archers loosing their arrows on the enemy, soldiers pouring boiling oil on marauding invaders. The castle should have been green with moss and age but confusingly the stones gleamed with newness. A drawbridge cranked down over the moat and as if by magic the thick oak doors swung open.

  The merry sounds of a polka came drifting out toward us. Lips and his thugs urged us forward and I caught a glimpse of a merry throng—of gay ball gowns and dancers clutching champagne glasses on a green lawn.

  “Hop it!” Lips grunted, poking me in the back.

  My heart heavy with a sense of evil, I took a stumbling step. Every nerve and fiber in my body was screaming: Stay away, Kit. Fly! But there was nowhere to run, for even now the pistol in my back was urging me forward.

  Chapter Six

  The first person I saw as we were harried past the fringes of the party was a tall woman in flowing white. She wore her toga-like gown with a regal air, her blond hair topped by a helmet, and she was carrying a trident and scepter. A hairy man, covered in yellow fur, hovered at her elbow. They looked very foolish. What were they supposed to be? Then the solution struck me—Britannia and her famous lion, symbols of England’s mighty Empire.

  Britannia was chatting to a Fearsome Turk, his head swathed in turbans above his coal-stained face. Alongside her was Titania, queen of the fairies, her dress of a silver gauze. Diana, the ancient Greek goddess of the hunt, was chatting to Napoleon Bonaparte, stout in his red breeches.

  “What is this?” whispered Rachel, looking upon the revelers as if they were mad people.

  “A fancy-dress ball,” I whispered back.

  I could sympathize with her confusion—the orchestra, the revelers drifting in clumps over the lawn. How utterly strange to find all this h
ere on this windswept island. I wished I could run to the party folk and throw myself on Britannia’s mercy. But there was no hope for us; the thugs were quite openly waving their pistols and had surrounded us on all sides as we were led to the huge entrance. Nobody took much notice of us at all, though I heard a rather hearty Robin Hood say to his friend, “Jolly original wheeze, what!” as we paraded by. If I ran and they fired it would be dismissed by the guests as just another masquerade, an original game to tickle their jaded fancy.

  The musicians had just struck up Chopin’s last waltz as we entered the castle, leaving behind the warmth of the summer’s night. The waltz’s haunting melody lingered a little and then vanished. We were chivvied up a circular staircase, along a corridor and then through a door into a carpeted room.

  A thug lit a brass lamp and then retreated, locking the door. We were alone. I looked around and marveled for we were surrounded on three sides by gleaming gilt frames. I am no expert in the arts but I could tell that here was something special. Mostly, I think, they were Old Masters. Those sketches were perhaps by Rembrandt or Raphael—a pair of gnarled hands, rheumy eyes in a peasant’s head. Here, gorgeous in tones of flesh and crimson, a glistening oil painting. Voluptuous red-haired women, reclining on velvet pillows, their heaving bosoms painted in frightening, fleshy detail.

  “Ouch,” said Isaac, catching sight of them, but Rachel shushed him, “It must be a Titian,” she whispered. “Priceless.”

  The fourth wall was covered by a maroon velvet curtain. Isaac pulled a cord and the curtains began to swish apart. I was expecting more treasures but they revealed a window, so huge it covered the entire wall. Behind it was a great ballroom, more exotically dressed dancers and shimmering crystal chandeliers. Through the glass I could dimly hear the strains of a polka. In front of us, but tantalizingly out of reach, was a table collapsing under the weight of a mountain of mouthwatering treats.