by Jenny Nimmo
“No. Yes,” Billy blurted. “No. Please, is he here?”
“Of course he is!” Mrs. Kettle plunged her hand into one of her kettles and brought out a glossy black rat.
Billy snatched the rat from her, crying, “Rembrandt!”
Rembrandt, equally pleased to see Billy, squeaked delightedly.
“He loves that kettle,” said Mrs. Kettle. “He’s tried them all, but that’s his favorite.”
Benjamin looked worried. “Um, do you sell your kettles?”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Mrs. Kettle. “I wash them inside out. Rats can be untidy creatures, can’t they?”
Charlie became aware of a drumming sound coming from somewhere behind him. Runner Bean was so excited to see Rembrandt, his big, happy tail was beating a rhythm on two enamel kettles.
“Rembrandt doesn’t want to play,” said Billy, holding his rat very close.
At a command from Benjamin, Runner Bean reluctantly stopped wagging, but the drumming was immediately replaced by a fierce whistle that came from a kettle on the stove.
Mrs. Kettle took off her coat and told the boys to do the same. The temperature seemed to have risen by twenty degrees at least, and Charlie took off his sweater as well as his jacket.
The boys sat down and Mrs. Kettle poured four cups of rather strong tea. Benjamin didn’t like tea but he realized that he was unlikely to get anything else in a place full of kettles. As a matter of fact it was very good tea indeed and, after a few sips, they felt very buoyant, even Benjamin. It was like gulping down air that made you feel exceptionally lightweight and bouncy.
While they drank their tea Mrs. Kettle told them about the fish shop up the street, even though they hadn’t gotten around to asking her.
“There was a butcher there,” said Mrs. Kettle. “A very nice man — gave me lots of free cuts. Well, he just upped and went, overnight. Never said a thing about moving.”
“Perhaps he had an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Charlie suggested.
“Must’ve,” agreed Mrs. Kettle. “But you’d think someone who’d paid over the odds for a place would put something in it. And I’ve never seen so much as a fin in that window.”
“But there is a smell of fish,” Benjamin pointed out.
“Exactly.” Mrs. Kettle leaned forward. “And do you know what? I think they wrote ‘FISH’ over the shop window, just to explain the smell of it, if you get me. And not because they’re selling the stuff.”
“Oh,” said Charlie, when he’d grasped what Mrs. Kettle had implied. “If you mean that someone in there smells of fish, we might know who it is.”
“Really?” Mrs. Kettle’s coppery eyes became as round as oranges.
“He’s called Dagbert Endless,” Charlie told her. “Wherever he goes, the smell of fish follows him. He says he drowns people. His father is Lord Grimwald, and …”
“We knew it!” Mrs. Kettle exclaimed. “Or rather we guessed it. Cook suspected, but she wasn’t sure. Oh, my poor friend, I hope she’s not in trouble. I’ve already warned her not to come here again, and we’re such good friends.”
Charlie said, “But it was such a long time ago when Lord Grimwald did those terrible things …”
“And he must have married someone else,” Billy added, “so he won’t be bothering Cook again.”
“All the same.” Mrs. Kettle drained her cup. The tea didn’t appear to have had a bouncy effect on her at all. In fact, she looked quite dejected. “Cook’s such a good friend,” she repeated, shaking her head.
To cheer her up, Benjamin asked if she had any electric kettles.
Mrs. Kettle looked quite indignant. “Do you call them kettles? I certainly don’t. A kettle boils when a hot stove tells it to, not when a button is pressed.”
Benjamin gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Charlie decided it was time to leave. They had come for Rembrandt and they had got him. He stood up and thanked Mrs. Kettle for the tea.
“You’re very welcome, Charlie Bone,” said Mrs. Kettle. “You’ll come again, won’t you?”
Charlie said, “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. Kettle led the way back into the shop but, just as he was about to pass through the archway, Charlie stopped. He felt something to the left of him, tugging in an extraordinary way. He had to steady himself against the wall, and an odd tickle in his throat made him cough. He turned his head, very slowly, and saw on a round shadowy table, a dark, lumpish thing. Looking closer, he saw that it was an ancient kettle, blackened by smoke.
“I told you my best kettle was behind the scenes,” Mrs. Kettle said softly.
“THAT’S your best kettle?” Charlie moved closer to the blackened thing.
“Oh, yes, by far.” Mrs. Kettle spoke so quietly Charlie could barely hear her, and yet he sensed her excitement. “It was made by my ancestor Feromel more than five hundred years ago. Feromel was a blacksmith and a magician. He made many magical iron pots. Goodness knows where they are now.” She came and stood directly behind Charlie. “You’re a traveler, aren’t you, Charlie? I wondered if you would feel it.”
“Feel it?” Charlie ran his hand over the charred, rusty-looking handle. The lid had a round polished knob in the center. Charlie gently lifted it. He gazed into a circle of dark liquid. “It’s full,” he said.
“It’s always full,” said Mrs. Kettle. “Always. It can’t be emptied. It can only boil dry. But the day when that happens will be the end …”
Billy crept up to them. “The end of what?”
“The world?” Charlie’s gaze was held by the smooth black water.
“The end of a life,” said Mrs. Kettle. “Put the lid back, Charlie, and take it with you.”
“Me?” Charlie quickly replaced the lid. “It’s yours, Mrs. Kettle. I can’t take it.”
“Just for a while,” she said gently. “You must, Charlie. Feromel would want you to.”
“But why?” Charlie stared at the round, black thing, his hands at his sides, his fingers twitching anxiously. He didn’t want the ancient kettle with its ability to foretell a death. How many lives had been lost, he wondered, while it boiled away, merrily, in dark, smokey places, poisoning the air with its sinister steam.
“It’s not a bad thing, Charlie.” Mrs. Kettle lifted her precious heirloom and held it out to Charlie. And then his tingling fingers had closed around the handle.
“I hope it will never boil dry for you, Charlie,” said Mrs. Kettle. “These are dangerous times for people like you, especially with that fish boy around, so it’s bound to get warm. It has no need of a stove. It will sit wherever you want. If there is a hint of danger in the air it will heat up. The hotter it gets, the more you will need to look out for yourself.” She smiled at everyone. “Now get along with you, my dears. And I’ll keep an eye on the fish shop.”
They thanked Mrs. Kettle for the tea and, a few moments later, Charlie found himself walking down Piminy Street with a black kettle swinging from his hand.
At the end of the street, they turned a corner and ran straight into Emma and Olivia, with two very small children.
“Oh, no, not Charlie Bone,” said Olivia, and she ran off in the direction of High Street.
Olivia was starting to annoy Charlie. “Why did she flounce off like that?” he said.
Emma gave him a sulky look. “Why do you think?”
Charlie was exasperated. “She can’t believe I said those things about her. Dagbert made it up. He lied. YOU didn’t believe him, did you, Emma?”
“Well …,” she said awkwardly. “I always believe it when people say I … don’t look nice, or I’m stupid, or …”
“You shouldn’t, you stu —” Charlie stopped himself. “I mean you mustn’t.”
“Dagbert lies all the time,” said Billy.
“He called Billy a freak,” added Benjamin.
“And Billy wasn’t upset,” said Charlie.
“I was,” muttered Billy.
Charlie pretended he hadn’t he
ard. “And I really like the way you’re doing your hair, Em.”
Emma looked more cheerful. She almost smiled. “I’ll explain it all to Liv. She’s very sensitive about her appearance. But, to tell the truth, I think she enjoys a bit of drama. She’ll soon get bored with being angry, and then she’ll act like it never happened.”
“I hope it’s soon,” said Charlie.
The small boy by Emma’s side had been staring at the black kettle. He suddenly said, “What’s that?”
“This?” Charlie swung the kettle self-consciously. “It’s just an old kettle I’m borrowing.”
“Very, very, very old,” the boy observed.
Emma cried, “I’m sorry, I forgot! These are your cousins, Charlie.”
“You mean Great-aunt Venetia’s … children?” Charlie began to take an interest in the waiflike pair. “I’m Charlie.” He grinned at them. “So — my great-aunt is your new mother.”
“We know,” said the girl. “I’m Miranda and this is Eric. We’re going to get our dog.”
“You wouldn’t come with us, would you, Charlie?” Emma smiled persuasively. “I don’t like Darkly Wynd, and now Olivia’s gone …” She hugged herself and shivered.
“Of course we’ll come,” said Charlie.
Darkly Wynd was not the sort of place people liked to visit on their own. A dark, narrow alley led into a courtyard where tall, gray buildings gathered around a square of rough cobblestones. Most of the houses were boarded up, their doors nailed shut and their windows barred.
At the end of the courtyard a block of buildings stood facing the alley. They had tall pointed turrets, iron-framed balconies, and long windows, their pediments adorned with strange stone figures: trolls, goblins, dwarves, demons, and unlikely beasts.
Aunt Venetia’s house, on the right, had a shiny new roof; it looked a lot cleaner than Aunt Eustacia’s house, in the middle, or Lucretia’s, on the left.
“Great-aunt Venetia’s had her house done up,” Charlie remarked. “It looked awful after the fire.”
“Fire?” Miranda’s small face puckered with fear. “How did it happen?”
“Oh, er, just an accident,” Charlie replied evasively.
Emma gave him a look that said “thank you for not going into detail.”
Three sets of steps led up to three black doors, and a number thirteen, in polished bronze, was fixed to the center of each door.
“Three thirteens,” Billy whispered. (It was the sort of place that made you speak very softly.) “Doesn’t the mailman get confused?”
“Probably,” said Charlie.
A sudden, frantic whining came from inside the third number thirteen, and Miranda cried, “It’s Chattypatra! You can hear her.”
They ran across the courtyard and stopped at the foot of the steps. Runner Bean began to bark excitedly. His tail wagged so fast you could hardly see it.
“Your uncle said the key was under the troll,” Emma told Charlie.
“What troll?” And then Charlie saw it. A squat, evil-looking lump of stone standing in a dark corner of the porch.
“We’re coming, Chattypatra,” called Miranda. “We’re coming.”
The whining increased. It grew into a stream of delirious barks, while Runner Bean joined in with his own special brand of yelping.
“SHUT UP!” cried Charlie, glaring at the big dog.
Benjamin clamped his hand around Runner Bean’s nose. “You don’t have to talk to him like that,” he said in an offended tone.
“Sorry, but I just can’t think.” Charlie stared at the troll.
“What’s there to think about? The key’s under the troll.” Emma began to mount the steps.
“No, Em.” Charlie grabbed her arm. “Take this.” He handed her the kettle.
“Wow, it’s heavy.” She touched the blackened side. “And it’s warm.”
“I know.” Charlie had noticed the kettle getting warmer. Did it have something to do with Great-aunt Venetia’s house? He climbed the steps while the others remained on the sidewalk, watching him silently. He bent toward the troll and stopped. The troll had blinked. Could it have been a trick of the light? Charlie’s own shadow passing over the stone? No. He was quite certain that one of the troll’s stone eyelids had closed over its round, malevolent eye. It had happened so fast, Charlie barely had time to register it. But it HAD moved.
Charlie turned to the group behind him, all looking up expectantly, except for Eric who was gazing at the troll with an odd, distant expression.
Charlie took a breath, bent down very quickly, and pushed the troll backward. And there was Great-aunt Venetia’s front door key. He picked it up and flourished it at the others.
Everyone cried, “Hooray!” and rushed up the steps.
Charlie fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and the door swung open without so much as a squeak, let alone the sinister creak that he expected.
A small, white dog shot out of the house and leaped into Miranda’s arms.
“Oh, Chatty, Chatty!” Miranda’s eyes were in danger of overflowing.
Eric merely smiled in an offhand way.
Runner Bean was beside himself with joy. He tore away from Benjamin and leaped at Miranda, nuzzling the dog in her arms. Chattypatra had no objection; in fact, she nuzzled him back and yapped very sedately into one of his ears.
“A marriage made in heaven.” Benjamin sighed contentedly. “I knew Runner would find a girlfriend one day.”
Miranda gave him a serious look.
Charlie replaced the key and they left Darkly Wynd as quickly as possible. Charlie felt sorry for the two children who would have to return to the company of his awful aunt Eustacia later. He wondered if he should ask them to stay at number nine, but something stopped him — perhaps it was the cool look in Eric’s eyes and the way the small boy kept glancing at the kettle.
“Here!” Emma passed the kettle back to Charlie. “That has to be the weirdest kettle ever. It’s gone cold now.”
Charlie’s fingers closed over the freezing handle. He didn’t mention the kettle’s strange history.
The two groups of children parted when they reached High Street. Charlie, Benjamin, and Billy turned left toward Filbert Street, while the others headed back to the cathedral.
Benjamin needed Charlie’s help to drag Runner Bean away from his girlfriend, and Chattypatra, now walking obediently beside Miranda, kept stopping to look wistfully in Runner Bean’s direction.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” said Billy. “Those dogs would much rather be together than with us.”
“Are you going to tell us what they were saying?” asked Charlie.
Billy went pink. “Oh, just love stuff.”
Benjamin raised his eyebrows and looked at his dog. “Like what?”
Billy cleared his throat. “Like, er, you’re the best thing I’ve seen since breakfast.”
“BREAKFAST?” questioned Charlie. “Do you call that ‘love stuff’?”
“It was his favorite,” Benjamin said thoughtfully. “Leftover steak.”
Charlie didn’t ask what Chattypatra had said. He thought he’d probably be disappointed. He reckoned Billy was keeping a whole lot to himself. He would be too embarrassed to repeat anything very lovey-dovey.
They reached number nine and Benjamin was invited in to lunch. Billy looked anxious. As soon as they were inside he carried Rembrandt up to Charlie’s room. He didn’t want Runner Bean chasing his rat all around the house.
Maisie had prepared one of her usual, mammoth lunches. “You got into number thirteen, then?” she said as the boys dug into their roast beef. “Paton told me all about it.”
“We found the dog and Runner fell for her.” Benjamin glanced fondly at his dog, who was sitting in a corner not even touching the bone that Maisie had put down for him.
“He has got it badly,” Maisie observed. “That’s a real lovelorn look.” She suddenly noticed the black kettle on the floor beside Charlie’s foot. “And what’s that, may I
ask?”
“It’s, um, a kettle,” said Charlie. “I got it at the shop on Piminy Street.”
“Whatever do you want an old thing like that for?” asked Maisie. “Isn’t my nice electric kettle good enough?”
“That one’s special,” said Billy.
“Oh!” Understanding dawned in Maisie. “I suppose Mrs. Kettle is one of those Red King people.”
“Her ancestor was a kind of magician-blacksmith,” Charlie told her. “He made the kettle and — well, it might be helpful to me.”
“Hmph.” Maisie was proud of Charlie’s endowment, but there were times when she considered it a terrible misfortune. So often it had led him into danger, into situations where he’d been lucky to survive.
The front door slammed, and heavy footsteps could be heard marching across the tiled hall. Charlie tried to move the kettle farther under the table with his foot. But he was too late. The next minute the door flew open and Grandma Bone stood there glaring at them. Her eyes immediately fell on the black kettle. It was uncanny how she always noticed the things that Charlie didn’t want her to.
“What’s that?” she demanded.
“Nothing, Grandma,” said Charlie foolishly.
“Don’t be stupid. I can see it isn’t nothing. It’s a filthy old kettle. Take it out. I don’t want it in my house.”
Maisie pulled back a chair, saying, “Do you want some lunch, Grizelda?”
Without raising her eyes from the kettle, Grandma Bone said, “I’ve had lunch, and don’t try and distract me.”
Charlie was suddenly inspired. “It’s for school, Grandma. We were told to find ancient artifacts for history. I feel rather proud of myself.”
Grandma Bone’s face softened a little. School work was a priority in her book. She wasn’t entirely put off the scent, though. “Why did you say it was nothing if it’s for school?”
Charlie was stumped. He looked at Billy and Benjamin, hoping for assistance. They stared back, in helpless silence.
Charlie was saved by Runner Bean. The big dog hated Grandma Bone. The very smell of her was enough to bring a great, grumbling growl out of him.
“I thought I told you not to bring that dog in here.” Grandma Bone turned her attention to Benjamin.
