by D D Everest
As well as minding its own business, Folly & Catchpole’s reputation was based on not making mistakes. Prudence Folly, the firm’s senior partner, would be furious with him if she found out. But what could he do about it now?
The train he had boarded was an express train and it didn’t stop until it reached the outskirts of London over an hour and a half away. It would take him the same again to get back to West Wittering – even if there was another train straight away. He couldn’t wait that long. What if the boy opened the package without knowing what the message said?
Sitting and fretting on the train, Horace had no way of knowing how serious his error was, or how costly it might prove, but he knew he had to make amends, and had better do so immediately.
He looked at the scroll in his hands and weighed up his options. It was strictly against Folly & Catchpole’s policy to open clients’ packages or read their letters unless specifically instructed to do so. But Horace decided to take matters into his own hands. If the message was urgent then he would have to turn around and go straight back. A lesser firm might try to contact the boy on the telephone, but Folly & Catchpole valued secrecy above all and only delivered messages in person. Horace took a deep breath and slipped the scroll from its ribbon.
4
The Mysterious Symbol
It was beginning to get dark outside number three, Crabgate Cottages. Under the lamplight, Archie stared at the contents of the open wooden box in his lap. His nose was immediately overcome with a tickling sensation that exploded into a sneeze. Dust. The box was full of a talcum-powder-fine layer of white dust.
When the particles cleared Archie peered inside. The box did not contain any great treasure – no jewel encrusted dagger or gold coins or anything else exciting or dangerous.
‘What is it, Archie?’ Gran asked. She was still standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘It’s a book,’ he mumbled. ‘An old book.’
‘I thought it might be,’ she said, with a resigned look on her face. ‘Who did you say delivered it?’
‘Some law firm or other.’
Gran’s expression turned more anxious. ‘What law firm?’
‘I don’t know,’ Archie replied, distracted. ‘Just some law firm in London.’
Gran’s voice was sharp which meant she was worried. ‘What was the firm called?’
‘Oh, er, yeah. He said it was the oldest law firm in England. That’s right. Two names. Very old-fashioned.’ Archie tried to recall his conversation on the doorstep. ‘Something and Catchpole.’
‘Folly! Folly & Catchpole.’
‘Yes, that sounds right,’ Archie nodded. ‘Why, do you know who it’s from?’
Gran looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I thought I might but I don’t. I was half expecting a book, but not this one. If it came from Folly & Catchpole it could be very important and very serious. Did this man give you anything else? Like a … letter, for example?’
Archie shook his head. ‘Just the package.’
‘Hmmm,’ Gran muttered. ‘That’s strange. Oh well, I’m sure it will all make sense later. And of course, you’ve always loved books.’
It was true; Archie had always loved books. His gran said it was in his blood. But he had never seen a book quite like this one before. There was something very mysterious about it. It was as if it came from another time and place.
‘What sort of book is it?’ Gran asked.
Archie looked at the book’s cover and realised that he couldn’t read the title. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The letters seemed vaguely familiar but every time he tried to put them together to make words, they became indistinct and blurred. It was almost as if they were moving – going in and out of focus so he could never quite see them clearly. It must be the dust in my eyes, he thought. He squeezed his eyes closed, and shook his head to clear it.
When he looked again, the letters appeared bright and clear for a moment but just as he began to decipher them, they faded once more into the background of the dark cover. He turned his head to read the book’s spine but it was blank.
The odd thing was that Archie had the feeling that the writing was somehow familiar, in a peculiar, just-out-of-reach way, like something he knew but couldn’t quite recall.
He reached forward and touched the book for the first time. As his fingers grazed the cover, a sharp pain shot up his arm. He pulled back his hand in surprise.
‘Ouch!’
‘What is it?’ Gran asked.
‘Dunno,’ Archie said, staring at his hand. ‘It felt like an electric shock.’
Tentatively, he reached for the book again and wrapped his hand around the spine. Thankfully, this time there was no shock and he lifted it free from its wooden box. The book was surprisingly light, and bound in a dark leather cover that was stained with age. In one corner it had been scorched with fire, as if someone had tried to burn it and then thought better of it. This would explain the smell of wood smoke.
Archie tried to open the book. But its cover was locked with a silver clasp etched with a strange symbol. Archie thought it resembled a matchstick person wearing a crescent moon crown with talons for feet.
He dug his fingernails under the silver clasp and pulled with all his might, but the clasp was securely fastened. He peered at the lock. When he turned a dial, different icons appeared in a small window. It reminded Archie of the mechanism on an old-fashioned safe. The trouble was that he didn’t know the right combination. He turned the dial clockwise until it made a loud click. A picture of a tree with a bolt of lightning appeared in the window, but the clasp was still shut tight. He turned it until it clicked again. This time a smiling skull appeared in the window, but the clasp would not budge.
Archie turned the clasp once more and a crystal ball appeared. ‘Come on, open,’ he muttered under his breath.
With a dry click like snapping bone, the clasp sprang open. As it did Archie caught a whiff of something sweet, like vanilla, and he thought he heard something. It sounded like an intake of breath, the sort a swimmer might make on surfacing after being underwater for a long time. If he hadn’t known better, Archie might have thought it came from the book itself. He put his ear to the leather cover. Silence.
5
A Special Instruction
Holding his breath, Horace Catchpole slowly unrolled the scroll, taking care not to tear it. The parchment was dry and brittle and he knew that it was very delicate. As he unwound it, his eyes were fixed on the writing that gradually came into view. Horace gave a start. It was written in the alphabet of the Magi, a language used by magicians and alchemists. There were few people left who could decipher it. Certainly the boy would not have been able to, but fortunately for Archie Greene, Horace Catchpole could: Folly & Catchpole specialised in rare languages.
Horace was feeling better about his decision already. His language skills may have been a bit rusty, but he was determined to right his wrong and give the boy the translation. Taking out the pen and notepad he kept in his breast pocket, Horace began to translate a message that had not been seen for centuries. By the time he had finished it was very late.
*
Archie was just dozing off to sleep when he heard the commotion outside. It sounded as if someone had run into a dustbin in the dark at high speed – and that was because someone had. There was a howl of pain and a crash as the wheelie bin went over. Then a brief silence and a scraping sound as the bin was picked up again, followed by a loud knocking on the door.
By the time Archie had thrown on his dressing gown and raced downstairs, Gran was already at the front door and framed in the doorway was a very out of breath Horace Catchpole.
‘That’s him!’ Archie cried. ‘That’s the man who delivered the package!’
‘Yes … yes …’ wheezed Horace, bent double to catch his breath. ‘I have to … tell you … something … I have a message …’ he panted.
Gran looked from the man to her grandson.
‘I thought ther
e was something missing,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in and explain what’s going on.’
At that moment, the grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ muttered Horace. ‘I just hope it’s not too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ asked Gran.
‘When I delivered that parcel, I was supposed to give you a message that went with it. The instruction was very clear.’
‘This is exactly what I was worried about,’ sighed Gran. ‘Some packages have special conditions attached to them.’
‘That’s right,’ said Horace.
‘And this package is one of them,’ Gran continued.
‘Ye-es. And, well,’ Horace said, ‘the thing is, the message with this package is written in a very old language and it took me a while to translate …’
‘Really … ?’ said Archie, suddenly very interested. ‘What does it say?’
‘It says that you have to take the contents of the package to the Aisle of White. Immediately.’
‘The Isle of Wight?’ Archie asked hopefully. ‘Gran and I went there on holiday once.’
‘Er … no, not that Isle of Wight. This Aisle of White is a bookshop in Oxford,’ Horace interjected.
‘Oxford!’ Gran muttered. ‘I might have known.’
‘Might have known what?’ Archie asked. Gran definitely knew more than she was letting on.
Gran tutted. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later. The Foxes live in Oxford – your Aunt Loretta and her brood.’
This was news to Archie. He wasn’t aware that he had any relatives except Gran.
‘The Foxes?’ he said.
Gran’s face creased. ‘Yes, Loretta and Woodbine Foxe. Sorry, I should have told you before, but it’s been difficult. Loretta is your dad’s sister.’
Archie looked shocked. ‘So, you mean she’s …’
‘Yes,’ nodded Gran. ‘She’s my daughter.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s a long story … but if you’re going to Oxford then you should meet them.’ She paused, and looked at Horace. ‘I suppose he will have to go to Oxford?’
Horace nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You see it’s a Special Instruction so there’s no getting out of it. It means that whatever was in the package has to be brought on a given day …’
‘I thought so,’ said Gran, shaking her head. ‘And in this case, it is when?’
Horace gulped. ‘Er … that’s the problem, you see. This Special Instruction was for today.’
Horace glanced guiltily at the clock, which now showed just after midnight. ‘Or rather, it was for yesterday,’ he added, apologetically.
Archie took a moment to let Horace’s words sink in. ‘So, you mean we’ve missed it by a day?’ he asked. ‘Does it matter?’
‘It might matter a lot,’ Gran said, gravely.
Horace looked at the two worried faces in front of him. ‘There’s just one other thing,’ he said. ‘You didn’t open it, did you … ?’
6
The Aisle of White
Archie caught a bus to Oxford to find the Aisle of White. Gran had packed him off early that morning with a flask of tea and a bacon sandwich. She’d also given him a bag of clothes and suggested he might want to stay with his newfound cousins. Archie had been surprised that his usually cautious grandmother was sending him off on his own, but she had just told him that she ‘couldn’t wrap him up in cottonwool forever’.
‘And besides,’ she’d added, planting a peck on his cheek, ‘there’s something I need to take care of and it will be easier without you under my feet. Now off you go … and remember your manners.’
Gran seemed to know the Aisle of White bookshop well and had given him directions, along with the Foxes’ address and a letter of introduction for his aunt. She’d also told him a bit about his cousins – unusual names, she said. Archie wished he could remember what they were. They sounded like something from the woods – Hedge and Ditch or something like that. Archie had wanted to ask more questions but there hadn’t been time.
It was just after noon when Archie arrived. Compared with West Wittering, Oxford felt big and full of importance. There were lots of people on bicycles whizzing around in a hurry. He walked down the high street and turned left into a large cobbled square. His directions said the Aisle of White was across the square and down some narrow lanes.
He found the old bookshop in a small courtyard, wedged between a shop selling crystals and one that hired out fancy dress costumes. It was much smaller and shabbier than either of its two neighbours.
Above the green front door, in faded white and gold paint, a sign read ‘The Aisle of White: Purveyor of Rare Books. Proprietor: Geoffrey Screech.’ Archie felt a tingle of excitement. This was definitely the place! Another sign in the shop window, written in a spidery hand, declared: ‘We Buy Rare Books. Enquire Within.’
Encouraged, Archie pushed on the green door. As it opened an old-fashioned bell clanged loudly, announcing his arrival. He felt as though he was stepping back in time. The shop was bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, but it was by no means large. Dark wooden bookcases stood in columns dividing the shop into a series of passages.
Archie couldn’t imagine many people being interested in old books, so he was surprised to find three other customers queuing in front of him – a man, a woman and a girl about his own age.
The shopkeeper facing them from behind a counter was a short, rather plump woman, deep in conversation with the man at the front of the queue. The shopkeeper regarded the man, who was tall and stooped, through a pair of spectacles with lenses as thick as the bottom of beer bottles. They seemed to be having a disagreement.
The woman in the queue was fussing around the girl at her side and Archie thought from the way they were behaving that they must be mother and daughter. Not having a mother of his own, Archie tended to notice such things. The mother was tall, with jet-black hair underneath a wide-brimmed hat. The girl wore an expensive-looking green waxed-cotton coat that came to her knees and her hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. In her hands, she was holding an old book with a cover almost as battered as Archie’s own.
No one noticed Archie because the stooping man and the shopkeeper had started to argue loudly.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it,’ the man said. ‘I tell you it’s here somewhere! We’ve been waiting a long time for that book.’
‘Well, Dr Rusp, I can only repeat what I have told you already,’ said the shopkeeper apologetically. ‘I have no idea what book you are referring to. I will talk to Geoffrey – Mr Screech, that is – when he returns and see what he says, but I can assure you that no books arrived yesterday.’
Archie gripped his book and wondered if it was the one the stooping man was expecting. He was on the point of saying something, when Dr Rusp spoke again.
‘I will have words with Screech about this!’ he growled. ‘Where is the wretched man?’
‘He … is … er … temporarily unavailable,’ the shopkeeper stammered.
‘Pah!’ spat Rusp. ‘He better have a good explanation for this outrage, or he will be permanently unavailable!’
As Dr Rusp turned abruptly and swept out of the shop, Archie hid his book behind his back. He didn’t want to hand it over to this bad-tempered man. He noticed that the shopkeeper’s hands were shaking, although she tried to regain some composure by pushing her curly hair back into the confines of its bun and attempting a smile at the mother and daughter waiting for her attention.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said.
‘We have come to see Screech,’ the other woman said forcefully. ‘He is expecting us.’ The girl didn’t look in the least bit interested and turned sulkily away from the counter, looking at Archie suspiciously as she did so.
‘As I just explained to Dr Rusp, Mr Screech is not here at the moment,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Can I help?’
‘And who might you be?’ the girl’s mother asked with no ef
fort to disguise her irritation.
The woman behind the counter made another attempt at a smile, but it was less convincing than the last one. ‘I am Marjorie Gudge, senior assistant to Mr Screech,’ she declared. ‘I am in charge in his absence.’
The girl’s mother frowned. ‘Well, this is most unsatisfactory. We were told that Screech would be here in person to meet us. We came yesterday but the shop was closed. It is a very important matter. I am Veronica Ripley and this is my daughter Arabella.’
Marjorie Gudge blinked nervously. ‘Oh, yes, of course I know who you are Mrs Ripley. May I say what an honour it is to meet you and your charming daughter,’ she simpered. ‘It’s so rare that I work in the front of the shop.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Veronica Ripley dismissively. ‘We’ve brought the book!’
Marjorie Gudge looked mystified.
‘The b-o-o-k,’ Veronica said, spelling out the letters for effect and nudging her daughter forward.
Arabella placed her book on the counter and gave a bored sigh. Marjorie Gudge picked it up and peered at it. ‘Gracious me,’ she said. ‘I wonder if that’s the book Dr Rusp was asking about?’
‘Certainly not!’ Veronica raised her voice. ‘It is for Screech. It’s a Special Instruction.’
Marjorie regarded her over the rims of her glasses. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Mr Screech keeps a log of all his appointments. Perhaps it’s in there on another day?’
She opened a leather-bound book on the counter and thumbed through the pages.
‘Ah, here is this week’s entry.’ Marjorie held the book up to her face. ‘Yes, you are correct. There’s her name, Arabella Ripley, right on yesterday’s date.’ She turned the book around so the girl and her mother could see. ‘And there’s a star next to it. Good for you!’
‘But what does that little scribble in the margin say?’ Veronica Ripley asked. ‘Maybe it was your meeting time, darling. Arabella, can you see?’
