by Janis Mackay
Feeling a bit of an idiot, I made the bed and tried to put everything back the way it had been. Maybe I’d been thinking in the wrong direction. Why would a German spy come to Peebles anyway?
Just when I’d decided I should really crack on with the window cleaning, I spied a brown envelope sticking out of the grey Stuttgart-labelled jacket that was folded neatly over the chair. My heart raced. Hardly thinking what I was doing I pulled it out. It was addressed to some person in Sweden. I thought about peeling it open then and there, but it was sealed at the back with white candle wax. I dashed over to the window. There was still no sign of him, or Gaunt who I was pretty sure was down at the mill getting ready to make big dosh from the war.
I bolted down into Gaunt’s study, rifled through his writing desk, grabbed a brown envelope and fountain pen and, with shaking hands, managed to copy the writing of the address. It looked almost the same. Then I ran back to the guest’s room, ripped a sheet from the newspaper and slipped that into the envelope. Now all I needed was a bit of candle wax and that was easy enough. There were candles everywhere. I struck a match, held it under the wax till a bit dripped on the back of the envelope. It hardened and that was it sealed. Then I swapped the letters, slipping the one I had made into the jacket pocket on the chair. I grabbed the vinegar and what was left of the old newspaper and hurried out of the room. With my heart banging like a drum, I softly closed the door behind me.
Then I really did clean windows, loads of them, as the sun got lower. The strong smell of hare stew wafted through the house and the letter to Sweden waited in my pocket. The old newspapers I was cleaning with had adverts trying to get people to go and live in America! And adverts for Scotch whisky, and Edinburgh Rock.
From a window on the landing I saw Frank down by the stables with a pole slung across his shoulders, rifle style, marching back and forth over the cobbles. I knew what he was getting in training for. From another window I saw the gardener sitting on a log smoking a pipe. Then from the library window I saw the American (who by now I was convinced wasn’t American) cycling up the driveway. He swung off the bike and there was Gaunt, slapping his thighs and offering his guest a sherry in the drawing room, and there was Frank, running to take the bike like it was a horse. I wondered if he was going to put it in the stable?
By this time, twenty windows done, my arms were aching. I was onto my last scrap of newspaper and was about to scrunch it up and soak it with vinegar when I saw someone had circled an article in ink. It read:
BURIED TREASURE
A veritable treasure trove was recently discovered in Melrose, under a yew tree. After considerable examination, detectives and scholars suggest the box of rubies was put in the earth for safe keeping in the last part of the sixteenth century. The roots of the yew hold fast…
I felt my palms sweat. Someone – Mr Hogg I guessed – had given this article special attention. The same Mr Hogg who had also carefully drawn and painted the yew and its roots and stored the pictures in his treasure chest. Mr Hogg who, Agnes said, called this place ‘Yew Tree House’.
My heart was racing. Suddenly it hit me. I knew where the deeds were! Everything pointed to it. They were in a very special place, sure enough. They were hidden under the yew tree! I wanted to shout out loud. With shaking fingers I put the circled newspaper article in my pocket, next to the letter to Sweden that was never going to Sweden.
“Agnes!” I belted along the corridor and burst into the kitchen. A candle was burning on the table. Elsie was sleeping in her recess bed by the stove and Agnes, dressed like a maid, cabbage all chopped, was knee-deep in old newspapers.
“History is fascinating,” she said, holding up a paper with a photo of a bear. “Can you believe this, Saul?”
Harry the dancing bear delights
the Beltane crowds in Peebles
It looked like she had a whole stack of fascinating history to show me. “And this—”
“Agnes, listen,” I burst out, hunching down next to her. “I think I know where the deeds are hidden, and I think we’ve got a German spy upstairs drinking sherry and pretending he’s American!”
31
Agnes
Dear diary,
It is very late on August 4th, 1914, and I am far too excited to go to sleep. Anyway, head to toe in this little kitchen bed, with Elsie’s feet (a bit smelly I must say) in my face plus her coughing, even if I wasn’t too excited I don’t think I could sleep. That was a very long sentence. And perhaps didn’t make sense. The good news is that Frank sharpened my pencil, believe it or not, with a knife! So now it has ridged ends instead of smooth but I am so happy to have a sharp pencil I feel like writing all night. I am using my torch, which I am glad to say is still going strong.
But sharp pencils and torches are nothing compared with the really big news WHICH IS… we think we know where the deeds are. Just in case Gaunt snatches this diary, I am not actually going to write down where, but in the morning me and Saul are going to do a recce. ‘Recce’ is from the word ‘reconnaissance’ meaning ‘To check things out’. It is an army word, which reminds me to say we were at a gathering outside the parish church when the actual news of the war was officially announced to the people. It was serious and scary and people kept pushing me and Saul was struggling to keep the crowds off the bike he had just got.
My great-great-great-great Auntie Jean is the nicest person in the whole world and because she is here in 1914 I feel hopeful. If the world was full of Gaunts I would not feel hopeful. But from what I can see, most people are friendly but they are scared of Mr Gaunt. Except not Jean. She isn’t scared of him and when she says his name she spits on the ground, which seems really rude, but what I think is that people just did more spitting in the past.
I have left the biggest news till last. It makes my heart race just thinking about it. I can’t bear thinking that I am under the same roof as a spy! I don’t know how Saul can sleep. He said today felt like the busiest day of his whole life. Well, he deserves a good sleep because he is completely heroic. He actually worked out the code in the letter. It was so exciting. We scurried over to the privy, which is the name of the not-very-nice outside toilet – which is more or less a bucket in a shed. Anyway, ‘privy’ means ‘private’, so if you are in there doing the toilet no one is supposed to disturb you. Saul tore open the envelope and I got out the torch. Then I thought how boring it was – a letter about the number of chimneys in the mansion house and a report on Scottish building styles and a list of trees in the garden. I thought our American guest was writing travel articles for Swedish magazines, but Saul, whispering so quiet I could hardly hear him said, “I don’t think so!” Saul said the trees were the code names for types of ships, and the chimneys were numbers of fleets, and the building styles meant ages and sizes of ships and numbers of sailors and he said a bit about ‘four lost’ meant four ships were being repaired in the docks. ‘Seven out’ meant seven ships from the fleet were setting sail! I shook so much, the torch wobbled. I could never have worked out all that, but when Saul said it, I knew he was right. Saul also worked out that our phoney American was planning a long bike ride to Leith Docks the next day. When I asked him how he knew, he said he overheard the man asking Gaunt how long would it take to cycle to the port at Edinburgh and Gaunt told him if a trotting horse was similar to a bicycle, possibly four hours. The man said he would take his breakfast at nine and Saul said the man asked for smoked kippers instead of porridge!
Now that I have written all this down I think maybe I could fall asleep. Poor little Elsie has stopped fidgeting. Sometimes she lies so still I think she might be dead. I don’t want her to die. I am so happy to have found my Auntie Jean. She is like a mother to me and I think she will be like a mother to Elsie. Maybe to Frank too. Though Frank says he will be a soldier and serve his country but I am going to tell him all the reasons why he shouldn’t go. I hope I don’t catch Elsie’s cough. Jean says from my description it sounds like influenza. Now… I am… so sleepy.<
br />
32
Amazing how well you can sleep on a hard bed with a scratchy blanket, but considering the war, never mind a spy on the second floor, plus the deeds to this land under our yew tree, I slept like I didn’t have a care in the world.
I got up and saw that Frank’s bed was empty. Gaunt, so Frank said, likes to get to the mill early, so no doubt Frank was up saddling his horse.
Pretty easy to get dressed in the morning when you never got undressed the night before. I didn’t care if I looked a mess. This was the second day of the Great War and I was on a mission. I could hear Elsie coughing in the kitchen. I could hear Mrs Buchan clattering about, muttering about kippers and telling Agnes to set a pan of water on for tea. Next thing the housekeeper banged on my door. “You young servant, be getting the coals into the scuttles, you hear. High time you were up and at it.”
I was up. Pretty soon I would be at it. “Yes, Mrs Buchan,” I said, slipping my blistered feet into the clompy clogs then taking them out again. For my spy-catching plan, bare feet were better. I slunk out the back door then ran over to the stables. It looked like Gaunt had already left. His horse had, and there was Frank with a big broom sweeping the dung aside. Like I thought, the bike was in the stables with bits of mud and hay sticking to the tyres.
“It’s a bike, Frank,” I said, “not a horse. The mud clogs the chain.” Like I was suddenly feeling all responsible for this bike, which was funny considering how I was about to tamper with it.
“Keep yer hat on,” Frank said. “Course I know that. I didn’t know where to put the blinking thing, did I?” He went on sweeping up the dung and more specs of dirt splatted onto the new bike. I wheeled it outside and rubbed off the dirt with my sleeve. Frank had come to the stable door and was leaning on his broom, watching me. “I wis thinking,” he said, “how you and me could take a wee wander down the green. See the tents going up. They’re calling up the reservists for the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. I thought – when the work’s done – we could take a look.”
I went on polishing the handlebars. I wasn’t an expert on hundred-year-old bikes, but the mechanics looked pretty simple. The metal brake levers were attached to rods. These metal rods operated the front and back brakes. My mind raced. “Got a spanner?” I asked, casual like, “So I can check the wheel nuts.” Frank looked impressed, like he’d never heard of wheel nuts, or rods, but he shook his head. There probably wasn’t much need for a spanner in the stables. “Or pliers?” I said, lowering my voice. I reckoned pliers were old fashioned enough to have been invented. Thankfully he ran off and was back a minute later with an old pair of pliers. Anybody watching from the house would think I was just polishing the handlebars. But I wasn’t. I slightly loosened the holding nuts on the front and rear brakes, which were next to each other below the handlebars. If the phoney American pulled on the brakes going along a flat road they would work, but going down a hill where you need more pressure, they wouldn’t. I slipped the pliers into my pocket.
“Frank?”
“Whit?”
“Where’s the police station?” I asked him, running the duster along the heavy black frame.
“Down by the church. Why?”
“Could you go round there? Tell them there is an enemy alien who is going to cycle from Peebles to Leith Docks” I lifted my eyebrows, meaning the second floor, meaning our very own American guest.
“I wouldn’t put n-n-nothing past Gaunt,” Frank stammered. The poor guy had turned white.
“The spy is having breakfast at nine,” I went on. “I’m to have this bike ready by the front door for him at half-past nine. Tell the police to be at the bottom of the steep road by the river,” I lowered my voice, “two minutes after half-past nine. The corner where the road turns sharp onto the High Street. If my calculations are right, that is the first place he will slam on his brakes. Or… try to.” Frank’s eyes widened in amazement. “Then,” I said, flicking the duster across the saddle, “he’ll fall flat on his face.”
I slipped my hand in my pocket and fished out the foreign coin and the coded letter. “Show them this. Tell them if they want to save the Royal Navy they better get a move on. I think the coin is German but I’m not sure. Oh, and Frank – leave the gate unlocked”. Frank saluted me, slipped the letter in his pocket and ran off.
Whistling the latest Biffy Clyro song, I carefully wheeled the bike round to the front of the house. This time I didn’t get on it. In the distance I heard the church bells chime for nine o’clock. The spy – because by now I was convinced that’s what he was – would be munching kippers in the dining room right now. I ran back round to the kitchen where Agnes was washing dishes and Elsie was drinking tea and singing to herself.
“Mrs Buchan is serving him breakfast,” Agnes whispered. Dripping soapsuds onto the floor, she pulled at my sleeve. “Let’s run down to the yew tree now.”
“The deeds aren’t going anywhere, Agnes,” I whispered. “They’ve been hidden for years. Trust me. They’re not going to suddenly disappear.” It felt like I’d been whispering for days. But Elsie didn’t seem interested in what me and Agnes were up to. “And from what I know of time travel,” I said, louder now, “we can’t take anything with us. We’ll get the deeds in 2014.”
“So what about the key?” Agnes asked, patting her pocket. “If we can’t take things with us, what are going to do with it?”
“We can hide it in the yew tree,” I said, then I pulled her by the sleeve. “But right now, do you fancy seeing something way better than a dancing bear?”
“You bet,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. She tied a shawl around her shoulders and said bye to Elsie.
“What’ll I say to Mrs Buchan?” Elsie called.
“Tell her… um…”
“We’ve gone to buy you oranges,” I said, and Elsie laughed and wheezed like oranges were precious jewels. I slipped into my clogs. It was time to catch a spy.
Thankfully Frank had remembered to leave the gate unlocked. Opening it slowly so it wouldn’t creak, we slipped through, shut it, then ran as fast as we could into town. The church clock chimed for half-past nine. The spy would be opening the front door. Agnes and me hurried along the road. The spy would be swinging his leg over the bike. I hoped like mad he wouldn’t test the brakes before he set off. Me and Agnes reached the market cross on the High Street. The spy would be pedalling along the flat track, away from the house. We ran to the corner of the High Street, to where the road swoops downhill from the bridge. On the pavement there was a man selling ice cream from a box. He had a horse tied up next to him. Agnes and I positioned ourselves beside him. I looked anxiously around for signs of policemen but couldn’t see any. I glanced up at the church clock. It was already twenty-five minutes to ten. Maybe Frank hadn’t told the police? Maybe the spy had taken another road? Or maybe he discovered the brakes were faulty? “They’re saying they might have need of him,” the ice cream man was saying, patting his old horse and looking really sad. “They’re saying every good horse will be needed in the war.” The horse shook its mane and the man fed it a scoop of ice cream. “Vanilla’s her favourite,” the man said, then he turned to a group of ladies strolling by. “Ices! Penny ices! Delicious, mouth-watering, sweet on the tongue and all for a penny. Ices!”
I was so busy gaping up at this ice cream man and feeling sorry for his old horse that I practically missed the American guest cycling across the bridge.
“I think that’s him!” Agnes grabbed me by the arm.
33
I saw him. The spy. He was gathering speed coming down the hill. His grey jacket was flapping out behind him. He was going to have to brake any moment to turn the corner. In a panic I looked about for signs of police. Where were they? The man on the bike sped to the corner. He was getting faster and faster. “He’s trying to brake,” Agnes said, sinking her fingers into my arm.
“Yeah,” I said, “and he can’t!” Sure enough the man on the bike stuck his legs out. I could see pan
ic on his face. He was wobbling out of control. A tall man dressed in black stepped out of the crowd. He had a rounded black helmet on. From the other side of the street I saw another man dressed the same. Then another one ran out of the sweetie shop. The police were everywhere. Frank had done it! The bike crashed into the back of a fruit cart then careered off to the side. The spy on the bike cried out as he flew over the handlebars. The fruit went flying as the cart toppled over. The fruit splatted onto the cobbles and so did the spy. He’d hardly hit the ground when the police were on him.
“A few questions, if we may, sir,” I heard one of them say and next thing they lifted him up and carted him off to the police station. They even took the bike. The whole exciting operation took about two minutes. I so wished I’d had my camera with me.
The man with the fruit cart was complaining loudly about his bruised and scattered fruit, so not knowing what else to do, Agnes and I ran across and helped him. We scooped up apples and blackberries, plums and pears. “For yer very kind efforts,” the man said, “an orange for each of you.”
“Thank you very much,” we chimed, then turned to each other, oranges like trophies in our hands. “I know who would appreciate these.” I said. “Elsie Noble.”
We met Frank down by the river. I guessed he would be there. So was a long queue of men, all signing up to join the war effort and go to France to fight. But they were much older than Frank. He threw stones into the river while we told him the whole story: how the bike wobbled and our guest crashed into a fruit cart and how the fruit spilled everywhere. “We caught a spy,” Frank said, shaking his head like he didn’t believe it. “And now, hark you, here you come with blinking oranges. Wonders will never cease.”
