Wishes and Wellingtons

by Julie Berry

  Mr. Treazleton’s face froze as Mr. Pinagree’s eyes scanned the note. Thoughtful lines furrowed his shiny brow. He pulled another note of his own from a desk drawer and compared it to my letter.

  “That’s Treazleton’s seal, all right,” he said, scratching his bald head. “I’m no expert, but the writing looks like the same hand.”

  He looked quizzically at the giant of commerce. “What’s this about, Treazleton? The note’s rather cryptic. ‘Consider my offer,’ ‘I’m not a man to be trifled with,’ ‘Don’t force my hand’?” He shook his head. “What possible reason could you have for corresponding with this young girl about anything, djinni or no?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing, myself,” my father said. “That’s rather menacing language. Especially to one so young.”

  Mr. Treazleton held up both hands placatingly, and laughed as though this were all just a jolly misunderstanding.

  “Do you or do you not acknowledge that to be your writing and your seal?” demanded Mr. Pinagree. He shoved the two specimens across the desk.

  Mr. Treazleton stopped smiling.

  “Now, there, Edgar,” he said. “Be careful.” There was an edge to his voice. A warning reminder of who was the more powerful in London society. A warning about what a board of directors can do to a bank manager.

  Mr. Pinagree was no fool. He stewed a moment, then pushed the notes away. “If you have some business with this schoolgirl, something involving your daughter and their fairy-tale games, it’s hardly my affair.”

  I felt the floor sink underneath me. How could Mr. Pinagree be so blind, so willfully blind to the truth when it stared him in the face? He didn’t want to offend the All-Powerful Alfred P. Treazleton. That would be bad for business. Bad for keeping his job.

  “It should be your affair,” I said hotly, “when his slanders and lies are the reason you’re about to sack my daddy, who’s never done a thing for this bank that wasn’t right and proper. You’ve always known it to be true. Haven’t you?”

  Mr. Pinagree sat back a bit in his chair. “Well, I…”

  “He threatened me,” I insisted, “because I wouldn’t be bullied into giving him the thing he wanted. It doesn’t matter if it was a magical djinni, or a make-believe one, or a hot pork-pie. He did more than threaten. He’s had someone following me since before Christmas. A tall, frightening man in a black coat, with ginger whiskers.”

  Mr. Treazleton scoffed. “That describes one quarter of all the men in London.”

  I wanted to sock him right in his velvet-vested gut.

  “Maybe so, but the same ginger-whiskered man followed me home to Luton on the train. He burgled our house on Christmas Eve. And he broke into my dormitory room in the middle of the night last night. The police were summoned. You can verify this, if you like.”

  “That’s true,” my father said. “We did have a break-in on Christmas Eve. Only Maeve’s room was entered, and nothing appears to have been stolen. We summoned the police. They filed a report. Someone had come with a ladder and forced the window.”

  Mr. Treazleton shrugged. “One of her hooligan friends, no doubt. I hear tell that she runs about with orphan boys from the charitable home across the street. At her age! What does that say about her character?”

  My father blushed. If he thought I was another Deborah, flirting and chasing shamelessly after brainless young men, I would scream.

  “I fail to see,” said Mr. Pinagree, “how this ginger-whiskered burglar, if he even exists, has anything to do with my friend Mr. Treazleton.”

  His “friend,” now. I’d already lost.

  It’s one thing to lose. Another thing to surrender.

  “The ginger-whiskered man began pursuing me immediately after Mr. Treazleton threatened to steal my djinni.” I stuck my hand back into my pocket. Still there. “And,” I added, “last night, when the man tried again, we tussled with him and managed to get this off his finger before he got away.”

  I produced the ring, handing it first to my father, who passed it to Mr. Pinagree. He adjusted his monocle and peered at its gold face, and at the two pieces of mail. He reached into his desk for his own wax, which he held above a gas lamp until it swam with glistening liquid. Then he dropped a dollop of hot wax onto a piece of paper, blew on it to cool, and pressed the gold ring down into it.

  “Exactly the same,” my father said, peering over his shoulder. “It’s the same imprint.”

  Mr. Pinagree examined the pair, then pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “Using your own hand and seal to send a note like this to a schoolgirl leaves a trail that’s hard to overlook, Alfred.”

  “The ring means that the ginger-whiskered man who broke into my room works for Mr. Treazleton,” I said. “Maybe he’s his private secretary.”

  “It means,” said Mr. Treazleton tersely, “someone has enacted a clever forgery.”

  My father frowned. “A forgery,” he repeated, “calculated to persuade the world that Mr. Alfred Treazleton is trying to steal a schoolgirl’s sardine can, when in fact, he’s not?” My father coughed significantly. “That does stretch belief.”

  Mr. Treazleton thumped the end of his cane on the floor. “What stretches belief,” he said loudly, “is the fact that I’m sitting here, being grilled by two puny bankers over the ludicrous accusation that I perpetrated crime and violence to obtain an imaginary creature who lives in a schoolgirl’s sardine tin. I tell you, not only am I insulted, sirs, but I stand in serious doubts with regard to your mental soundness. I shall have to notify the board at our next meeting, Edgar, of these alarming developments.”

  Mr. Pinagree’s stout frame seemed to sag like wet, gray laundry. All his bluster died.

  “Now, come, Alfred,” he said soothingly. “Nobody’s ‘grilling’ anybody, as you so quaintly put it.” He forced a laugh. “I’m accusing you of nothing, naturally.”

  Losing and losing. Again and again. Neither truth nor logic had a candle’s chance against the whirlwind of Mr. Treazleton’s wealth and power.

  “It’s not ludicrous,” I cried, “if I actually have an all-powerful djinni. And I do. Mr. Treazleton knows it, and he wants it, more than anything.”

  My father sighed, and shrank smaller in his suit. Mr. Pinagree took a lozenge from a desk drawer and popped it into his mouth.

  Time to try my last hope: humble surrender. And a trap.

  I took a step toward Mr. Treazleton. “I came here,” I said meekly, though it galled me to do so, “to bring you the djinni. Mermeros.”

  I saw his eyebrows rise, ever so slightly.

  “That’s his name. He’s a djinni of the sea, so he’s rather like a fish himself.”

  Mr. Pinagree and my father begin to look slightly dizzy.

  I pulled the sardine tin from my pocket and held it in my outstretched palm.

  “I came here to give him to you, to stop you from slandering Father falsely to Mr. Pinagree. It appears I was too late.”

  Mr. Treazleton’s eyes bulged at the sight of my fishy treasure. He licked his lips. If he’d been Aunt Vera’s dog, he’d be slobbering. I was on a fishing expedition myself, trying to hook a shark of a businessman with an eight-ounce sardine lure.

  I pulled the sardine tin back. “But since Father’s certain to be sacked, now, I’d better keep this. We’ll need those wishes to get by once Father loses his job.”

  I dropped the tin in my pocket and turned to go. My heart sank at the sight of my father’s forlorn figure. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I told him. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you. I promise, I’m telling the truth.”

  The doorknob was heavy in my hand. I turned it slowly.

  “Wait.”

  All eyes turned to Alfred P. Treazleton. His face shone with perspiration. With eyes darting back and forth between Mr. Pinagree and my father, he let out a booming laugh. “Now, now, come,”
he said. “I may have been too soon to believe my sources, Edgar. Too hasty in coming to the conclusion that Mr. Merritt here, whom, as you say, has been so faithful to the firm, is the source of the ongoing thefts. My sources may have been mistaken. Heaven knows it can happen.”

  Stout Edgar Pinagree leaned back in his chair and watched Mr. Treazleton thoughtfully. “It can happen, indeed.”

  I took a step out through the open door.

  “Naturally I only wanted to be helpful.” Mr. Treazleton’s words poured out in a torrent. “As your friend, I felt it my duty to pass along these reports. But perhaps I spoke too soon.”

  Mr. Pinagree drummed his fingertips against one another, while Mr. Treazleton kept his eyes on me, specifically on the region of my pockets.

  My poor father watched them both.

  “Wait, Maeve,” my father called to me. “Come back.”

  I hovered in the doorway. One foot in, one foot out. Mr. Treazleton inched forward in his chair, all but quivering.

  Father turned back to him with a look of astonishment dawning on his face. “You want that tin of sardines, don’t you?”

  “Well, I…” Mr. Treazleton attempted a friendly smile. “You must admit, the girl’s boasting does give a fellow some curiosity, doesn’t it?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Mr. Pinagree. “It’s pure nonsense.”

  “Just as I thought,” I said. “I’ll be going. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  “No.” Mr. Treazleton blushed pink. “Ha-ha! Let’s make amends. What do you say, Pinagree? Will you take Merritt, here, back into the fold? Reinstate his place in the bank?”

  I held my breath.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Pinagree said gravely. “The accusations you’ve brought me are of such a nature that I can’t, in good conscience, overlook them. At least, not without further investigation.”

  “Come to think of it,” Mr. Treazleton said, with all the poise of a beginning tightrope-walker, “I just remembered something. Yes, of course. How foolish of me! The thing I remembered is… Oh, well, it’s complicated. But the long and short of it is that I, er, just remembered something that proves that my source was wrong. Not even trustworthy. I’ll have to cut him off. No more dealings with his sort, I’ll tell you!” He cleared his throat. “So I feel certain, Edgar, that you can consider those accusations to be completely false. Mr. Merritt here is a man to be trusted.”

  I took another step toward leaving. Mr. Pinagree watched back and forth between the other two men in the room.

  “You want that tin desperately,” he said. “Why, Alfred? Why?”

  Mr. Treazleton sank back in his chair.

  I reentered the room, but stayed with my back to the door and held the sardine can once more where anybody who wanted to could take it. But they’d have to come to me and get it.

  Come on, Treazleton! Come on! Take it!

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. All eyes rested upon the silvery tin in my hand.

  A knock sounded at the door. I stepped out of the way as Smithers entered, followed by another man.

  “A Mr. Rooch to see you, Mr. Treazleton, sir,” was his announcement. “Please pardon the interruption. He said it was urgent.”

  Mr. Smithers bowed and left. The man strode across the room to Mr. Treazleton.

  “Not now, Rooch,” Treazleton said in a strangled voice. “This is not an opportune time.”

  The newcomer paused. “Your message said to join you here if I couldn’t…”

  Mr. Treazleton halted him with a look aimed straight at me. Mr. Rooch turned about and saw me. Saw my face. Saw the tin in my hand. His jaw set, and a muscle popped out in his neck.

  Mr. Treazleton seemed to reach some sort of decision. He nodded to Mr. Rooch, who retreated toward the door, blocking it, and folded his arms across his chest. Only a few feet away from me. My breath caught in my throat.

  It was the ginger-whiskered man. Minus the whiskers.

  He glowered at me. I was glad to see that his fingers were battered and bruised. Good job, Alice.

  But I was fairly certain that when he wasn’t dangling from a windowsill for dear life, Mr. Rooch could do some damage with those hands. To Father, and to me.

  Must I summon Mermeros in order to make it out of here in one piece?

  Mr. Treazleton surveyed the room with a gleam in his eye. With his hired guard, or whatever he was, in the room, a new confidence seemed to fill him.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked the room.

  “You were about to tell us, Albert, exactly why you want that girl’s sardines so badly,” Mr. Pinagree said. “I confess I can’t wait to learn the answer.”

  Mr. Treazleton’s lips curled into a smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Edgar,” he said. “This conversation has grown tiresome to me. Once I have the djinni, I won’t need to bother with explanations.” He pointed at me. “Now, little girl. Are you going to give me the sardine tin, or do I need Mr. Rooch to relieve you of it?”

  My father rose to his feet. “Are you threatening my daughter?”

  I’d never heard that tone from Dad before. I gazed at him in wonder.

  This was the moment. This was the time. I sank both hands into my pockets. Mermeros’s tin squiggled against my fingertips. I took a deep breath just as Rooch shifted toward me.

  “I say, Treazleton!” cried Mr. Pinagree. “This is most astonishing! Explain yourself, sir.”

  I stepped forward, holding out my sardine tin once more. My father stood behind me with a protective hand on each of my shoulders.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Pinagree, Father,” I said. “So long as Father won’t lose his position at the bank, I’m satisfied.”

  “That he won’t,” declared Mr. Pinagree.

  “Good girl, Maeve,” my father said softly.

  “Though I’m beginning to think,” Mr. Pinagree went on, “that some alterations would be advisable in our board of directors.”

  I addressed Mr. Treazleton meekly, submissively. Once more, I held the tin just out of his reach. “Don’t make your ginger-whiskered man take the tin,” I told him. “I’ll give it to you myself.”

  Take it, you villain. Take it now.

  He lunged for the tin and snatched it from my hand, ignoring the protests of the bank men. With trembling fingers, he wrenched the key from the bottom, fitted it over the flap in the tin, and cranked open the top of the can.

  Nothing happened.

  He brought the tin closer to his face, peering, sniffing, tilting it this way and that. Sardine-smelling oil dripped from the tin onto his gray trousers. Silvery fish slipped out onto his waistcoat and flopped down to the Persian rug.

  God bless Alice and her illegal morning trip to the local grocer’s.

  There was silence in the room.

  Mr. Treazleton seemed to have turned an aquatic shade of green. Just like Mermeros.

  Mr. Rooch wouldn’t look his employer in the eye.

  Mr. Pinagree slowly shook his head.

  “Come along, Maeve,” my father said gently. “It’s time I took you back to school. With your leave, Mr. Pinagree?”

  The bank manager nodded absently.

  “Treazleton, my good man,” Mr. Pinagree began. “The rigors of business can wear anyone down. What you need, Alfred, is rest. I know a lovely place, out in the country, where they specialize…”

  I never heard what they specialized in, out in the country. Just then, we passed by Mr. Rooch. Something poking from his outer pocket caught my eye. Before he could stop me, I snatched it out and held my itchy prize high.

  “Here, gentlemen, are the ginger whiskers.”

  Pinagree and Treazleton gaped at the ratty clump of hair as though it were the much-anticipated djinni.

  I dropped the ghastly thing on the floor and left with my dad.

&nbs
p; Chapter 37

  We rode in silence back to Miss Salamanca’s School for Upright Young Ladies. Sarah got out there, with my father’s thanks, and returned to her post in the kitchen. Before he could usher me out of the cab, I made my request. It was time, and if I didn’t do it now, I might lose my resolve and never do it.

  Some things mattered more than wishes.

  “Please, Dad,” I begged. “I have one more stop I must make. But I can’t do it alone. Will you take me? I promise to make it quick.”

  Ordinarily, my father would decline, citing the pressing demands of work waiting for him back at the bank. But, this time, he nodded and repeated the address I gave him to the driver. He’d said not a word the entire drive, but only watched me curiously. It was strange, in a way; comforting as toast with tea, having the father I’d always known see me as if for the first time.

  Soon we arrived. Dad paid the fare, then turned to see where we’d come. I gulped back the memory of meeting Mermeros’s father here, right on the very pavement beneath my feet.

  “The Oddity Shop,” my father read aloud. “Mysteries, Marvels, and Wonders from Beyond the Seven Seas. We Buy and Sell Rare and Wondrous Things.”

  I nodded. “Marvelous, isn’t it?”

  “Maeve?”

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Please tell me you’re not planning to try to sell another businessman a phony djinni in a can?”

  I squeezed his hand. “Definitely not,” I said. “Well, mostly definitely not.”

  I hurried down the steps and through the door before Father could stop me.

  The bell on the door tinkled. Morris the owl hooted a hello. Father jumped.

  Mr. Poindexter stood behind his counter, poking away with a brush at the grooves of some old carving.

  “Miss Maeve,” said the world traveler, chief buyer, and proprietor. “Twice in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  My father groaned. “Twice?”

  “This is my father, Mr. Poindexter,” I said. “Mr. John Merritt.”