The Secret Stealer

by Jess Webster

  “Oh, well, I didn’t really need to pry,” James excused himself – though he still managed to look a little guilty. Suddenly he brightened. “Oh, I get it! It’s because you’re always grumpy after talking to Mr Gables.”

  “James, I didn’t even see Byron yesterday.”

  “Yes, but last night he was in your dreams,” James said.

  “Ugh!” Esther exclaimed, grimacing. “No wonder I feel so violated. He probably made me kiss him again. Thank God I can never remember my dreams.”

  James giggled.

  “Now James,” Esther said, her tone stern, “I’d appreciate some privacy in future – please don’t try to delve into my thoughts. I am your Protector, and that position deserves a little respect.”

  “Yes, Miss Mason-Smith,” James replied, solemnly nodding his head.

  “Now I need you to skedaddle for at least half an hour. I need to get ready.”

  “Alright, but I’ll be back at eight. Then I want to tell you my plan,” James whispered excitedly.

  Esther smiled. “Alright then, eight a.m. Now off you go.”

  James went to the tower and watched the clouds form, then disseminate across the horizon in great white puffs. These clouds seemed so friendly, James thought to himself. But then again, everything seemed friendly today – the happy sun, enthroned upon the pale morning sky; the mingled chorus of bird songs which reached him from all directions; and even that ridiculous Westcott flag, which still bore the smudged ‘Down with James Winchester IV’ because the spare flag was in the wash. He would wait for eight bells to sound… then it would be time to put his plan into action. James felt, for the first time in his life, as light as air. And, in a way, he was.

  “As an apology for the delay of your holiday,” Byron Gables said politely, “I hope you’ll accept a complimentary limousine.”

  “I should think so,” was all Walter Winchester would say to that.

  “Your bags are being transferred to the limo as we speak,” Gables said.

  “The flight was a little bumpy,” Yvette said, darkly.

  “Unfortunately I can’t control the weather. There was a little turbulence over the – ah – Indian Ocean,” Gables replied.

  There was something about the way he spoke, and the way he looked, that Walter Winchester did not like. Something shifty.

  “Would you like me to carry anything for you?” the pilot offered.

  “No, I am quite capable of carrying my own hand-luggage, thank you,” Walter replied stiffly, and led his wife from the plane.

  “Ooh, lovely! It’s so warm for this time of year!” Yvette exclaimed.

  “It has been a warm autumn in the UK,” Byron Gables agreed, escorting them to the waiting limousine, a few metres away from the private jet. “You chose a good time to travel.”

  “Oh look, darling, champagne,” Yvette said, as she entered the cool interior of the vehicle.

  “Also complimentary,” Gables pointed out.

  “I should think so.” Walter Winchester scowled. He was going to get into the car without another word, but upon second thoughts rounded upon the pilot and said, “I would like you to know, Mr Gables, that the delay we were forced to endure was disgraceful. In future we will be taking our business – our considerable business – elsewhere. No matter how much grovelling you attempt.”

  “I understand completely,” Gables answered solemnly. “I do apologise, and hope you will enjoy your holiday, despite the inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

  “Hmm,” Walter grumbled, and got into the limousine.

  “Good riddance!” Gables muttered through his ever-fixed smile, and waved the limousine driver off with a wink. He turned on his heel and walked back to his private jet, swinging a set of keys on his index finger and whistling a cheeky tune.

  It was late afternoon in the suite in Barbados, and the large flat-screen television was still on, playing some black-and-white classic starring Clark Gable. Blythe awoke to the gaudy credits music, feeling stiff and more than a little sore.

  “Ugh,” she groaned, when she realised that their afternoon siesta had turned into a four-hour sleep. Domenic’s arm rested over her shoulders, and his head lolled onto the back of the couch, his mouth open wide. Thank God he doesn’t snore, Blythe thought. She gingerly extricated herself from beneath his arm. Oh God, she suddenly thought, I’m going to – oh God! A foul taste arose in her mouth and she made a dash for it.

  She managed to reach the bathroom before vomiting violently into the toilet.

  “Uooogh,” she groaned loudly, and was forced to vomit again.

  “Blythe?” A hoarse whisper came from Domenic. “Are you alright?” And a moment later, “Ugh!” Several hurried footsteps later, Domenic joined the vomiting party in the bathroom.

  “What did we eat?” Domenic groaned as he rolled sideways onto the cool, tiled floor.

  “It must’ve been that salad we had for lunch,” Blythe said. “Never trust salad washed in local water!”

  “Can’t you do something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know – with your – your magic!” Domenic vomited a second time.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m only good at screwing people up, not fixing them,” she muttered. A moment later, she admitted, “Esther’s the one who can fix people. She’d deal with this in a heartbeat.”

  “Why didn’t you ever learn how?” Domenic demanded.

  “Truth is,” Blythe continued groggily, “it’s easier to wreck things. I always take the easy way out. She’s better than me at fixing things, and I’m better than her at wrecking things.”

  “Some twins you two are.” Domenic chuckled weakly.

  Blythe laughed too.

  “Blythe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I guess this means we’re not getting married tomorrow morning either.”

  “Not unless you want the celebrant in here, and that couple from the lobby.”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad–”

  “Shut up, Dom. You know damn well I was kidding. We both smell like puke.”

  “And vomit – along with bird poo – doesn’t go with your ideal wedding aesthetic?” Domenic Mancini asked with mock seriousness.

  “Certainly not – ooooh.” Blythe heaved again, then slumped to the floor.

  Domenic laughed. “Look at us. We’re on our very first holiday. First we’re detained by police, then you get crapped on in the middle of your aisle-walk, then we both manage to get food poisoning! Some luck…” He sighed heavily.

  Blythe squinted against the bright bathroom lights, feeling a headache coming on. “What if it’s not just bad luck?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we’re being punished? I mean, we have done a pretty bad thing.”

  “Who’s to say it’s not for the greater good, huh?” Domenic objected, his speech slurring a little – presumably from weariness. “All we ever did was bribe people and get heinously rich. With James as the Secret Stealer and your sister as his guide, some good might actually come out of that curse.”

  Blythe sighed. “You make a good point. I suppose I never thought of it like that. But James… We really did take advantage of the poor kid. I wrote a note of apology, but it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.”

  “Wait… do you seriously think that this – right now – and earlier, is all some kind of divine retribution?” Domenic scoffed. “You don’t even believe in God.”

  “Well… Either way, I’d like to do something nice for James.”

  Domenic smiled and ran his fingers through his fiancé’s hair. “I’d like that too. I guess you could say we owe him everything, after all.”

  Contrary to Blythe and Domenic’s expectations, James Winchester IV was not feeling the slightest bit sorry for himself. He was dictating blackmail notes as Esther typed and attempted to smother her smile. Occasionally she failed, but managed to cover it up with a feigned cough or sneeze.

  The ge
neral formula for the four notes, made out to Nadine, Madison, Ophelia and Lucy, ran as follows:

  Dear [insert name],

  Stop being mean to Lilith Palmer or I’ll tell EVERYONE your deepest, most darkest and most sacredest secret (which is [insert respective secret]).

  I know your secret because I stole it (it’s mine now, so you can’t say anything about it, even if you tried). So don’t try anything funny.

  I’ll be watching you.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Ghost of Westcott

  “There, that’s pretty good, don’t you think? Can we print it now?” James asked eagerly.

  “Gosh, James, not yet,” Esther scolded. “You can’t leave a blackmail note from a Ghost in Times New Roman – it’s the most overused font in the history of computing.”

  “Mmm…” James frowned. He hadn’t a clue what she was on about. He looked at the document on the computer screen. It looked fine to him. Eventually he nodded and lied outright, saying, “I see what you mean.”

  “Let me just make it look a little prettier,” Miss Mason-Smith murmured. She gave it a border, with little spiral-and-leaf motifs in the corners, and changed the font to some curly-looking script that James could barely even read. He drew the line at that. Eventually they reached a compromise: Lucinda Calligraphy it would be.

  “Now, I know I have some nice paper in this desk somewhere,” Esther said and began fishing through her drawers.

  In the end the final product was printed elegantly upon smooth, creamy paper, inserted into a personally labelled enveloped and enclosed with a waxen seal. James thought it was all a little over the top, but Miss Mason-Smith had insisted that elegance in the note would lend extra weight to the threat. James decided simply to agree with her and move on[78].

  Even Esther felt a certain juvenile thrill when she took the four envelopes, slipped them under their correct doors and played a quick game of knock-and-run. Nadine, Madison, Ophelia and Lucy simultaneously opened their doors, just as a near-breathless Nurse Esther dashed out of sight, fighting off the urge to giggle. She chanced a glance around the corner and saw the four girls snatch up their notes as if they had been invitations to High Tea with the Queen of England. But jaws dropped and colour vanished from their faces as they read the contents.

  “Fan-tastic!” James grinned at Esther, and the two retreated to the infirmary.

  “James, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Esther began, once seated behind her desk and having regained her breath. “Why Lilith?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” James said excitedly and quickly related the events of the night before.

  “Well…” Esther sighed. “If she can’t see you, she’s not a Potential. She must be a Sensitive, then.”

  Miss Mason-Smith said the word ‘Sensitive’ as though it had a capital letter, and James knew she meant something terribly impressive by it. Consequently he felt a little embarrassed that he didn’t know what it meant.

  Sensing the correct reason for James’ vague and unconvincing ‘oooh’, Miss Mason-Smith continued. “‘Sensitive’ is the title we magicians give to people who can hear, feel, see, know – and sometimes all four – things that normal people can’t.”

  James nodded, understanding. “Anyway, I’d better go see how the plan is working.”

  “I’ll be here.” Esther smiled as she watched him go. “As always.”

  In the classroom that day things had seemed to go according to plan. James had observed the four girls carefully, as well as their interaction with Lilith, and was quite satisfied with their behaviour. But there was only one true indication of success: how Lilith herself felt about her day.

  So, as on the previous evening, James read Lilith’s diary as she wrote – feeling only slightly guilty about spying on her in such a way. He was only trying to help, after all.

  Lilith Palmer sat at her desk, a perplexed frown upon her face. She certainly wasn’t as upset as yesterday, but James did not like the way she stared at the blank page before her. It reminded him of the way he often stared at the roof of the infirmary. Something was still not right.

  Dear Mr Magic Bumblebee[79],

  Nadine and Ofelia and Madison and Lucy all seem afraid of me and I cant figure out why! I havent done anything to them and they look at me as if im about to … i dont know… read their diary out to the whole class or something!

  Well… Hopefully they will be nice to me tomorrow and not look so scared all the time. Goodnight, Mr MB.

  This would not do, James thought. This would not do at all. The notes from the Ghost of Westcott would just have to be revised!

  Approximately half an hour after their private flight had landed, Yvette and Walter Winchester’s formidable-looking limousine came to a halt.

  Walter exited first, and handed Yvette out – ever the gentleman. It certainly was warmer than one would expect for an English autumn. More humid too. Walter frowned as he observed his surroundings. “Excuse me, driver,” he said, his tone curt. “We are obviously not at Thornbury Castle. You have taken us to the wrong place.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not it, sir,” the driver said, shaking his head. “We just needed to make a small stop. The rear right tyre is flat. You can wait in the lobby there, if you like. It’s air-conditioned.”

  “Hmm…” Walter muttered dubiously, but opted to follow the driver’s advice. He eyed the establishment with some measure of disgust as he entered and was almost loathe to sit on the nearby lounge, for fear it would dirty his new suit[80] .

  The concierge (if that was what the man behind that desk could be called, Walter thought, frowning at his Hawaiian shirt and genuine-seeming smile) observed them enter and quizzically asked, “Mr and Mrs Winchester?”

  Yvette looked blankly at her husband. Walter’s frown deepened. “Do we know you?” he demanded brusquely.

  “No, I just assumed. We’ve been expecting you, that’s all. Bungalow Three is all ready and waiting,” the man assured them.

  “Oh, we’re not staying.” Yvette waved the man off with a smile. “We’re just waiting for the–”

  Walter turned from the concierge to his now-silent wife.

  “Walter, where is our limousine?”

  Walter Winchester sprung from his seat, and upon discovering the limousine gone and seeing no luggage to speak of, he rounded on the concierge. “I demand to know the meaning of this!”

  The man appeared somewhat amused by this outburst. “We have a booking for a Mr and Mrs Winchester, made yesterday evening.”

  “I made no such booking! Where are we? Your accent – it isn’t English!” Walter was almost shouting, now.

  “No, it isn’t. Why should it be?”

  “Where are we?” Walter demanded.

  “Windang,” the man replied.

  Walter shook his head, not comprehending. “Where is that?”

  “Close to Shellharbour.”

  Walter gave him a blank, though somehow furious, stare.

  “Twenty minutes south of Wollongong.”

  “Wollongong – Australia?” Yvette Winchester gasped, and fell onto the couch.

  “Wollongong,” Walter continued, “as in… as in… the city which is a two hour drive south of Sydney?”

  “Yup,” the Hawaiian-shirted man replied, mystified by the angry looks he was receiving. “Well, 90 minutes if you go at the right time, take the right turns. How long did it take you guys?”

  “You mean to say that Byron Gables flew us around in circles for 24 hours, stole our luggage and stranded us somewhere it would’ve taken us only two hours to drive to?” Walter was definitely shouting now.

  “Well,” Yvette interjected, “technically it couldn’t have been circles, Walter dear. We did stop in Bangkok.”

  “Conceptual circles, my darling, conceptual circles,” Walter seethed through clenched teeth.

  The concierge chuckled. “Look, I don’t know who Byron Gables is, and I don’t really mean to say anything, except that you’re in Wi
ndang, and you have a booking.”

  “Perfect!” Walter yelled. “Just perfect!”

  “Do you want the bungalow or not? It’s already dark,” the man said, still appearing to Walter to be infuriatingly amused by the whole situation.

  “Fine,” Walter snapped, “but only for one night. We’re going home tomorrow.”

  “The booking’s only for one night anyway,” the concierge answered, fished a key from the board behind him, and handed it to the livid Walter Winchester.

  “Do you think there will be rats?” Yvette huddled close to her husband.

  The concierge rolled his eyes as he watched them go, inwardly tipped his hat to this Byron Gables fellow and prayed that, whoever he was, he had a good solicitor.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Esther Mason-Smith ventured the following morning at precisely eight a.m., as she and James considered their next move.

  James nodded. Miss Mason-Smith was one of the smartest ladies ever, he was sure.

  “The thing about the threatening notes is that… well…” She sighed, mentally searching for the best words to explain her thoughts. “It’s easier to reason with people when they’re not scared.”

  James nodded. “Meaning?”

  “Think of it like this, James. You see a spider. What do you do? You stomp on it. Why? Because you’re scared of it.”

  “But no one can stomp on me, I’m invisible. And for that matter, I’m not a spider and even if I was–”

  “It’s a metaphor, James. My point is, you need to be subtle. You need to make them be nice to Lilith without them even realising that they are being tricked into it.”

  James shook his head. “I don’t understand at all, Miss Mason-Smith.”

  Esther frowned slightly, thinking quickly. “You need an example. Alright. Do you remember the time when Andrew couldn’t come to class for a week because he was sick?”

  “He ate some bad sweets, the teacher said. That was the week he’d given me a black eye for accidentally bumping shoulders as I walked past. He said he didn’t like the way I bumped. But how else can you bump? Is there more than one way to bump, Miss Mason-Smith?”

  “Bumping technique is beside the point, James. Andrew was just being a little wretch. Anyway, yes, he did eat some bad sweets. But he wouldn’t have eaten them if I hadn’t planted an irresistible chocolate craving in his mind. He was throwing up for a day or two after he punched you.”