by Kim Newman
No. 347, Piccadilly.
Scratched into the plate was a sentiment: ‘Keep Out – Beware of the Bad Bat!’
‘Bats is ’orrible,’ said H’Alfie. ‘Nasty great flappity fings. Gets in yer ’air… goes fer yer froat.’
Amy raised a hand to her neck.
Beyond the fence was an overgrown garden. Trees as tall as any in the park across the road spread to obscure the unlit house front. The gates were shut, but fresh marks in the gravel driveway showed they had been open recently. A coil of chain, shiny and new, lay on the pavement. Someone had picked the padlock.
Larry saw something peeping out from under the chain and tugged.
Amy was about to warn her about booby traps, but it was a rolled-up magazine. Larry opened it to a page with a turned-down corner. Halfway through ‘Sally the Stowaway’.
Poppet Dyall’s Girls’ Paper.
That meant Haldane was here, with Knowles and Devlin. They must have solved the riddle of the Villa DeVille.
It was a good thing Amy didn’t have to show her workings-out, because she was here under false pretences. She had no idea how ‘Villa DeVille’ led anyone to this address.
Frecks, Kali and Light Fingers would be in SW2 – foraging in Lauriston Gardens.
Amy wished it were the other way round. Not so her friends were caught in Quell’s trap, but because she knew she could rely on them in a tight spot. The Moth Club were better set up to deal with whatever Draycott’s sprang on them than Haldane’s crew.
She’d have had Devlin pick the padlock with flexible fingers – Stretch practised that – and waltzed up to the front door.
They’d have fallen through a trapdoor or been walloped by a bucket on a rope.
Being befuddling, stretchy or know-all wouldn’t serve them against a Draycott’s faction. Quell would have terrors in reserve. Bigger guns than Swift, Sterlyng and Sparks.
Amy remembered the Knout’s keeping-mum expression.
A set mouth that was like a smirk. She’d nearly given the game away.
Just as Amy was supposed to give the Great Game away.
She had to go into the Villa DeVille. The last toby didn’t really matter, but she was obliged to rescue teammates. Even ones she didn’t like much.
She saw no reason to put Larry at risk. Or the prizes she held.
This was where she undid Quell’s plan.
She bent down and talked to the Third.
‘Venetia, this is important. I’m going to go into the dark house. If the jug’s there, I’ll snag it – but never mind if it isn’t. Thanks to you, we’re already primus. Three is a winning score. I want you to go with Mr Hampton and hide somewhere. Out of the fog. Keep the tobies safe. Have a nap if you can. Then he’ll escort you to the Finish for sunrise. At six. If I’m not there – and I hope I will be – then Frecks will be waiting…’
Larry, dull-eyed as if in a lesson about the imports and exports of Peru, perked up at the mention of Frecks.
‘Serafine,’ she said.
She might be swayed by H’Alfie ’Ampton, but remained true to her first crush.
‘Yes, Frecks. She’ll be at the Finish – with the jug from Brixton, I expect – and will be ever so pleased when you present her with three more. You’ll have come through for the school and saved the day. Miss Gossage will be cock-a-hoop. Dr Swan will be happy, if that’s possible. Frecks, most of all, will be over the moon.’
Larry couldn’t suppress an excited smile.
Again, Amy worried about leading Larry deeper into an emotional minefield. There’d be consequences. A mess to be cleared up another day. After Victory and – preferably – a three-day snooze.
‘Are you clear on what you must do, Alfie?’
H’Alfie touched his greasy forelock.
‘Clear as a clockfice, Miss Glory. See yer at Big Ben, rahnd abaht sun-up.’
‘Before dawn. That’s important. A second after and it’s too late.’
‘I’m an abbycuss, Miss.’
Amy was baffled.
‘Yer can count on me,’ he explained.
She held out her hand, palm flat against the air, and gave a push.
The gates swung open.
H’Alfie, not used to her Abilities, whistled in astonishment.
XI: Adventures of the Amphibaeopteryx
AMY STEPPED ONTO the driveway. Gravel crunched under her boots. Fresh tracks led into darkness.
The light from the street lamp didn’t reach far into the garden.
She looked back at the gates.
H’Alfie and Larry were gone. She’d asked them to leave, and was – of course – happy they’d not put up a fight about it and insisted on coming with her into danger. Plans must be stuck to. But she was on her own again.
Striking on, with boldness… but wary at all times, showing mistrust.
There could be a balance.
She had a battery torch clipped to her waistcoat but didn’t want to use it yet. No need to present a target.
She’d been wrong. There were lights in the house. Not bright, and behind thick curtains – but enough to give an impression of the building. Like most houses seen front-on, Number 347 made a face. Doors for a mouth, windows for eyes – an array, like a spider’s – and a sloping roof hat with decorative chimneys. Some houses had a bland, benign aspect. Some frowned, warding off hawkers and circulars.
Villa DeVille smiled, but not pleasantly.
It was the face of a cruel, confident tyrant.
The Devil, or a close relative.
Houses often look like their owners – or their tenants.
Her first thought was that no one was home. Judging from the state of the garden, no one had lived here in a long time. The only new-bought thing was the chain on the gates. Whoever had lived here could not be entirely got rid of. His sweat – she sensed it was a man, or at least male – had seeped into the bricks.
Thick, viscous stuff dripped on the grass in front of her.
She heard mewling overhead.
Were a family of cats stuck in a tree? Or the proverbial Bad Bat?
A bulky, unlikely shape was wedged into the branches of a gnarled oak. A very big roost for bad bats? A nest for giant wasps? Fresh, raw wounds – bark scraped away from wood flesh – showed the structure was a relatively recent addition. The noise was coming from inside.
Curiosity got the better of her. She unclipped her torch.
After pressing the switch several times and shaking the whole doodad, the lamp came on. The torch smelled funny. She needed to replace either the battery or the bulb or both. Or go back to lighting matches.
Her up-shone beam played across metal – burnished copper or brass – and flashed off portholes. A metal plate was studded with rivets. How had a diving bell or a tank got stuck in a tree?
Amy floated up to investigate.
The shrilling became more urgent. Small faces pressed against windows, mouths a-gape. Muffled thuds and yelps of frustration. Little fists hammered padded porthole rims.
It was a Heath Robinson contraption. Literally neither fish nor fowl, with bent fins and wonky wings. She saw bare struts and torn fabric, like a giant umbrella rendered useless by an unexpected gale. Spindly mechanical legs tipped with iron shoes. Two or three moved feebly, leaking oil from the joints. Others dangled, interior wires cut.
She swam around the tree, examining the marvel from all angles.
Clearly, it was a conveyance. A land-sea-air craft.
The work of several geniuses, but not a patch on Rattletrap. The charabanc had never landed them in a tree.
The metal gondola was fairly small. An enclosed capsule.
Not many sailors or airmen or whatever could fit in. The crew were cramped. Even if they were all titches.
She knew who was inside.
Richard Cleaver – Clever Dick – and his teammates. The Brain-Boxes.
This machine was more elaborate than their jug-gathering automaton. What did they call it? The Flying Spi
derfish? The Underwater Locust?
The rapping and wailing grew even more insistent.
She saw why. A mess of tangled tubes – including gramophone horns copied from Dr Shade’s nippier, less crash-prone autogiro – was squashed against the tree trunk. A buckled wing jammed the access hatch. The prodigies were trapped in their upside-down wondercraft, running out of air.
It was a shame Miss Vernon wasn’t here to see this.
Amy couldn’t let children suffocate, but it was best the Splendid Swots stay stuck for the moment. Out of harm’s way. And out of the Game.
She picked a porthole even the tiniest titch couldn’t wriggle through and reached out with a mentacle. Remembering Stephen Swift struggling to thumb-pop a goggle lens, Amy imagined a big thumb, exerting pressure. This wasn’t something she’d tried before. She’d broken things with her Abilities, usually by dropping them – but never on purpose. She got a solid handhold on sturdy branches, then concentrated, pushing as she had with the gates but focusing, feeling for a flaw in the pane.
A crack sounded like a pistol shot.
The glass, thick enough to withstand water pressure five fathoms deep, splintered but wasn’t smashed. Remembering Swift’s hammer blows, Amy tried to punch with a mentacle. It felt wrong and made her wobble. The tree creaked and shook.
Faces crammed close to the cracked window.
‘Get back,’ she said. ‘Beware of broken glass.’
There was scurrying. Someone got stepped on.
Amy whirled in the air and kicked the porthole. Chunks of glass fell out. She got a whiff of what it must pong like inside the capsule.
Someone very clever had wet himself.
High-pitched shouts issued forth.
‘You, flying girl, open the hatch…’
‘I want my mummy!’
‘It’s your wesponsibility, Wodgers. I instwucted you not to interfere with the contwols.’
‘It’s not my fault! It’s you, Dick. You’re not Clever, you’re only a Dick.’
‘Please, Miss, can I go home. I’m awfully sleepy.’
‘Wahhhhhh.’
‘You take that back, Wodgers you wotter… or… or…’
‘Or what? You’ll piddle yourself again, Wichard!’
‘That wasn’t me. That was Wude Twude!’
‘Smarthe’s not here, wetty-pants. You wouldn’t let her in, remember! You said the Amphibaeopteryx was a “no girls allowed” invention!’
Amy thought The Flying Spiderfish was a better name.
‘She… she… she…’
‘She saw you’d got your sums wrong,’ Rodgers continued, needling. ‘The wings should have been fixed, not foldaway! Anyone could see they’d crumple.’
‘Tweachewy and sabotage, I tell you!’
‘Wichard Wetty-pants… Wichard Wetty-pants…’
‘You’re asking for a bunch of fives, Wodgers! A wight woyal walloping!’
Slapping sounds came from inside the Amphibaeopteryx, which rocked alarmingly. The Brain-Boxes were long on thinking power, short on team spirit.
‘Now,’ Amy said, lowering her voice, trying to sound like Miss Borrodale, ‘is anyone sensible in there? A fellow not fighting or crying or trying to blame someone else. A fellow interested in getting home safely.’
The rocking didn’t stop. Or the yelling.
‘No one?’ said Amy. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. I’ll count to five, then leave. While you’re in this tree, you may mull over the distinction between very very foolish and too too clever.’
A pause.
‘Please, Miss,’ said a high, firm voice. ‘There’s me, Miss.’
‘Who might you be?’
‘January, Miss. Jonathan January. They call me the All-Powerful Jupiter Girl…’
‘He calls himself that, Miss,’ said a new voice. ‘No one else does.’
‘Shush,’ she said, ‘I’m talking with… the All-Powerful Jupiter Girl.’
The handle showed ambition, if not practicality. However, if she’d come up with a trade name at six or seven she expected she’d have picked something sillier than Kentish Glory.
‘Can you all breathe in there?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Are any of your friends injured?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Are you injured?’
‘I bumped my head… but it’s not hurting now.’
‘Brave soul.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
‘Thank you, Jon… All-Powerful Jupiter Girl.’
‘Please, Miss… are you a Drearcliff Grange School girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘What house?’
‘Desdemona. Fourth.’
‘Viola is my favourite,’ he said. ‘I want to go to Drearcliff Grange when they’ll let me.’
Groans from his teammates.
‘Um,’ said Amy.
‘I’m awfully intelligent,’ said January.
‘Obviously.’
‘And I can be a girl, if I want.’
Jeers from the other Brain-Boxes. And slapping and crying. Branches shook. Amy had to float back to avoid being whacked.
‘Calm down in there,’ she warned. ‘Or you’ll tumble out of the tree!’
‘I can be a girl,’ insisted January. ‘You’ll see. There are ways.’
‘Maybe there are,’ said Amy, hoping to settle the children. ‘All-Powerful Jupiter Girl, I’m leaving you in charge…’
Wails and complaints.
‘You others, listen to the sensible one.’
‘Sensible!’ squeaked Clever Dick, who then ouched.
‘Thank you, Rodgers,’ agreed January. ‘Well thumped. Now pay attention. Show fortitude.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Amy. ‘Fortitude, Spirit, Boldness… You’ll have to sit tight for a bit. I have to go into the house…’
‘Miss… don’t,’ said January. ‘There are dangerous girls in there. And other things.’
‘I have to find my friends,’ she said. ‘I can’t get you down by myself…’
She thought she probably could – but remembered Dr Swan’s watchword… mistrust. The Brain-Boxes’ wheedling gratitude would evaporate if they saw a chance to get back in the Game.
‘I will come back. I promise.’
‘Who are you, Miss?’
‘You can call me Kentish Glory.’
‘She’s not a weal Miss,’ said Richard Cleaver, ‘she’s one of them… from that twivial school, the one for girls.’
Another slap, another ouch.
Not all Brain-Boxes were contemptible squirts. That gave Amy hope for the future of mankind.
‘Shall we sing a song,’ piped the All-Powerful Jupiter Girl. ‘I know one about green bottles that’s super jolly.’
On the whole, Amy would prefer being caught in Miss Steps’ Duck Press to spending a night in the Amphibaeopteryx with Clever Dick and Co, even with the All-Powerful Jupiter Girl in charge.
However, the Brain-Boxes were safe, tidied away in their fantastic pranging machine. After the Finish, she’d let Miss Vernon know what had happened. Hired men with ladders and hammers could fetch the children out of their tree.
XII: House of Dracula
AMY ROSE ABOVE the treetops. The roof of Villa DeVille was moonlit. She saw a tempting skylight. Quell knew she might make an aerial approach, knocking one of her advantages out of the game. Maybe the Draycott’s team would be surprised if she walked up the garden path and knocked on the front door? If she kept pondering her next move, she’d be up here come the dawn – with frost in her eyelashes and an icicle on her nose.
‘Eeny meeny mackaracka,’ she said, pointing first at the front door, ticking off windows with each syllable, ‘air eye dominacka, downhill davy, Drearcliff gravy, om pom push!’
She was pointing at the front door again, which she didn’t like the looks of, so she continued…
‘Penny for the ice cream, tuppence for the tea, thruppence for the hurdy-gurdy… out go
es she!’
A window on the second floor, on the far left.
Better.
Draycott’s couldn’t know she’d settle on that spot to break in. Quell didn’t have enough teammates left – six at most, and some must be in Brixton skirmishing with the Moth Club – to post guard at every entrance.
‘Over the top, ladies,’ she said to herself.
She floated close to the house, pushing back at the last moment so as not to smack into the wall.
The dusty window was fastened on the inside.
She twisted the latch with a mentacle – a simple use of her Abilities – then scrabbled at the edge of the window. For some fiddly tasks, fingers were best. Long-unopened, the stiff sash window eventually gave and she lifted it. Musty black material barred the way. A curtain pinned up to keep lamplight in or sunlight out. She punched through near the top and ripped the cloth from its pins down one side, then eased herself under the flap. Her boots set down on spongy carpet.
The room smelled of old clothes.
She got her torch working again.
Man-sized bats hung sleeping from a pole.
She held her breath, then aimed the beam at the creatures.
The bats were old black cloaks on a dressing rail. She touched one. Its mottled silk lining was a dull crimson, with a few scarlet streaks to show its original colour. It wasn’t entirely a calumny when damage to stored clothes was blamed on moths… but mites and weevils foraged in neglected wardrobes too, and mucoid moulds were unconnected with insecta of any class.
In a hinged frame atop a Victorian dressing table was a dented wooden oval. On the tabletop were shards of silvered glass mixed with little dead bats that turned out to be pre-tied dicky bows and an untempting strew of dull green coins. Thick dust lay over everything. Whoever broke the vanity mirror had run through the seven years’ bad luck a long time ago.
No one had been here recently.
She took one of the cloaks off the rail and flapped it, shaking off the dust. She whirled like a matador and settled the cape on her shoulders – a carapace for her own wings. Indoors, bat black was better protective colouring than rust brown. She fastened a tarnished clasp in the shape of a wolf’s head.
