Phyllis’s stomach had been heaving even harder than it usually did when she Transited through a Pocket, and she had thought she was going to be awfully ill before they had arrived. Luckily, she had managed to hold on and now she, too, was starting to settle down.
Only Daisy and Clement had arrived without too much fuss—Daisy snuggling down in the warm darkness of Phyllis’s change bag, and Clement seemingly used to the Transiting. All those hours spent playing his zombie games and being bombarded with quick, bright images and loud, blurting sounds seemed to have given him a sort of vaccination against the discombobulations of Transiting.
Now, as they all began to make their way to the Globe, Phyllis was answering Barry’s questions.
‘A what?’ he asked her incredulously, his eyes throbbing.
‘A Pocket. That’s what we call them. They’re the routes through Time.’
‘Cool, huh?’ said Clement.
Barry shook his head, trying to process what was happening. ‘You’re telling me, Miss Wong, that we have just gone back into the past?’
‘Yep,’ replied Phyllis. ‘Look around, Inspector. This is Jacobean London.’
Barry Inglis stopped walking. He dug his hands deeply into his trousers pockets as he let his gaze wander about him. Weird is not the word for this, he thought. It’s far beyond weird. What the devil has happened? Either we’ve come into some huge, elaborate amusement park that’s decked out to be London four hundred years ago, or what Miss Wong is telling me is correct. And I know her imagination is as wide as a planet, and I know she never lets the unknown hold her back, but . . . he bit his lip here . . . well, even with all the magic she can perform, even she couldn’t mock up an entire city and have it decorated and filled up with people like this.
Then he said out loud, ‘And there’s the wonder of the thing . . .’
‘The wonder of what?’ asked Clement.
Barry blinked. ‘Oh, never you mind, Clement.’
Clement shrugged. He slung off his backpack and started rummaging around in it.
Barry thought he’d better check that he still had everything he’d left with. Quickly he felt inside all the pockets of his blue suit. Wallet: check. Police ID card in its leather cover: check. Neatly pressed handkerchief: check. Keys to his apartment: check. Packet of breath-freshening mints: check. The nine of diamonds playing card he always carried around for good luck: check. His official police-issue pistol in its leather holster, hanging from his shoulder underneath his coat: check.
Phyllis had brought Daisy out of the bag and the little terrier was having a widdle against a lamp post. Barry went over to them. ‘So,’ he said to Phyllis. ‘Putting aside the fact that I am totally dumbfounded by our present situation, and that I have no idea how we got here, I do have one question that I’m hoping you can answer.’
‘Fire away,’ she said.
‘Why are we here? Why did you bring me here? Surely it’s not just for fun, is it?’
‘That’s three questions, Chief Inspector.’
‘Three questions to which I would be greatly pleased if you provided answers, Miss Wong.’
‘Okay.’ She reached down and clipped Daisy’s lead to the back of the dog’s little red-and-purple coat—she figured she’d let Daisy walk the rest of the way to the Globe, even if it was raining. ‘No, it’s not just for fun that I’ve brought you here. You’re here because we have to stop a crime.’
He listened carefully.
‘Remember that auction you took me to, where they sold the last First Folio? Remember the woman sitting across the aisle from us? The one with the long curls and all those gold rings?’
‘The woman whom Daisy went for?’ asked Barry Inglis.
‘That’s her.’
‘I remember her. I’ve seen her at each of the Folio auctions, sitting quietly at the back of the room. I’ve been aware of her for some time.’
‘Well, she’s a Transiter too.’
‘A Transiter?’
‘Like me.’
‘And me,’ Clement butted in.
Phyllis said to him, ‘Clem, you’re my assistant. You’re not a Transiter, not a real Transiter.’
He looked put out. ‘Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, ‘because I’m here. You came along with me. You’ve always come along with me.’
‘It still makes me a Transiter,’ Clement grumbled, returning his attention to rummaging in his backpack.
Phyllis said to Barry, ‘That woman uses the Pockets to go back in Time, and that’s how she’s been getting the First Folios. Her name’s Colley. They call her Mistress Colley.’
Barry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on, Miss Wong.’
‘Oh, but she’s not stealing them. Well, not in the legal sense of the word. See, I came back and visited the guys who printed the Folios and they told me that all the Folios she’s got she’s bought from them. She paid cash for them. Then she’s Transited them back to our time and she’s sold them for a huge profit!’
‘She onsells them,’ muttered Barry. ‘Straight from here. That accounts for the near-perfect conditions of the books.’
‘Yep. But that’s not why we’re here now. Chief Inspector, that announcement in the press that Wendlebury’s is going to auction Cardenio . . .’
In a moment of dreadful realisation, Chief Inspector Barry Inglis of the Fine Arts and Antiques Squad raised his hand to his mouth, clamping it there tightly. A second later he took it away and exclaimed, ‘She’s going to thieve it!’
‘The foul papers,’ said Phyllis. ‘I believe she’s hoping to steal them directly from Mr Shakespeare himself.’
‘Shakespeare,’ repeated Barry in a voice Phyllis hadn’t heard before—a voice that seemed to be coming from a long way away, the way a voice sounds when its speaker has come closer to something truly amazing. ‘Miss Wong, tell me . . .’ he spoke slowly, ‘are we going to meet William Shakespeare?’
‘We already have,’ blurted Clement. ‘That’s why we had to come and get you.’
‘He thinks we’re trying to steal Cardenio,’ Phyllis told Barry. ‘He wants to lock us up so we can’t.’
‘I see,’ Barry mused. ‘Shakespeare himself, eh?’ He tried not to show how excited he was (all he wanted to do at that very moment was to dance a tiny jig on the spot).
‘We need to get back into the Globe Theatre,’ Phyllis explained. ‘Besides Shakespeare and his friends wanting to lock us up, they won’t let kids into the theatre, and they won’t let girls,’ she said that with a shake of her head, ‘on stage. I figure we need to get an adult in there, to try to stop Colley. That’s why I brought you, Chief Inspector.’
‘Do you think this Mistress Colley is here, now?’ asked Barry.
‘I don’t know where she is. She could be anywhere. Any Time, any place.’
‘Any place,’ Barry repeated. His gaze moved warily around the street. ‘Cities,’ he said slowly, with a tinge of bitterness. ‘They never really change all that much over time. Oh, sure, the buildings get higher and the traffic gets louder, but they’re still cities. And where there are cities, there’ll always be low-life. Perfect places for ’em. They can get lost amongst the crowds. They can bleed into the walls and disappear into the alleys and . . . dissolve away. Or so they think . . .’
‘Stupid thing!’ said Clement.
‘What’s stupid?’ Phyllis asked.
‘My phone,’ he said. ‘I wanted to show the Chief Inspector the crazy things it does when we come here, but I can’t find it. I must’ve left it at home. I hope so—I hope I haven’t lost it. I can’t take another one of Mum’s talks about the importance of looking after my valuable possessions and how lucky I am and how there are kids who can never—’
Barry cut him off. ‘Miss Wong, exactly what year are we in?’
‘Last time we came here it was 1612.’ Phyllis pulled her journal out of her pocket and, sliding the loop of Daisy’s lead up her wrist, she opened the journal and consulted i
t. ‘It was December 20th, 1612.’
‘So,’ Barry wondered, ‘is it the same Time now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Phyllis answered. ‘I’m still finding my way with the Pockets. I don’t know yet how to pinpoint the exact Time and date of arrival. There are a lot of things to find out about all these Pockets,’ she added.
‘It’s 1613,’ Clement told them.
‘Huh?’ said Phyllis.
‘It’s 1613,’ he repeated, in an of course it’s 1613 sort of tone.
‘How d’you know that?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m clever,’ he replied. ‘I can tell things that are far beyond the normal reaches of the average person’s brain.’ He said that last bit in what he imagined was the voice of a mad scientist.
Phyllis gave him a hard stare, as if to say, don’t play silly boys with me, Clement!
He sighed. ‘Look.’ He pointed across the street, past a laneway. A small chapel was being built, and it appeared to be nearing completion. A stonemason was carving a date into the lintel above the doors: 1613.
‘Whillikers!’ said Phyllis. ‘This is cutting it fine!’
Barry frowned and Clement looked puzzled.
‘It was in 1613 that Cardenio was performed,’ she said. ‘Remember? The only Time we know it had a performance. Then it disappeared!’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Barry Inglis. He looked up and down the street. ‘C’mon, which way to the Globe?’
‘Follow us.’ Phyllis led Daisy down the street.
‘Yeah, follow us, Chief Inspector.’ Clement, who’d been rummaging around in his backpack again, gave Barry a wide grin and started off after Phyllis.
‘Bleeergh!’ Barry jumped, and Phyllis looked around at Clem. He was displaying more teeth than a single human being should be allowed to possess.
‘I told you, no disguises,’ Phyllis said to him.
‘They’re just teeth,’ he protested. ‘Not a full disguise. Evangeline says they’re the best and most realistic teeth on the market. They’re even better than my gran’s dentures! Go on, Phyll, what harm can they do?’
‘You look like an overly excited beaver,’ muttered Barry, walking briskly alongside them.
Clement’s grin went wider, and even more teeth somehow appeared at the corners of his mouth. He straightened his glasses and started humming to himself.
Phyllis rolled her eyes as she went with Daisy through the sprinkling rain. The young conjuror hoped, with every ounce of hope she had, that Cardenio had yet to be performed.
‘Through here,’ Phyllis said over her shoulder.
She and Daisy led Barry and the bucky-toothed Clement through the gate in the white wall surrounding the Globe Theatre. She hurried across the courtyard, over to the theatre, and stopped by the wall there, sheltering under the thatched eaves above.
Clement joined her. ‘I wish I’d brought my umbrella.’
‘So this is the Globe,’ said Barry Inglis softly. He stood in the courtyard, looking up at the building. A shiver went through him, but he tried to conceal it.
‘Hopefully Mr Shakespeare is inside, working,’ Phyllis said.
‘Yeah, well if he is,’ Clement said, ‘he won’t recognise me this time. No more red-bearded dwarf. Ha!’
Barry came to join them under the shelter of the eaves and Phyllis explained to him the way Clement had been disguised the last time they were here and how he had played music on the bottles during her audition.
‘I see,’ said Barry. ‘You’re right, Clem; at least today they’ll have no idea of who you are.’
‘I can go anywhere I want and no one’ll ever know me,’ Clement beamed, his fake teeth sticking out.
Daisy pawed at Phyllis’s knee and Phyllis, realising she was really wet now, picked her up. She wiped the raindrops off Daisy’s coat and, with a quick nose-against-snout nuzzle, she slid the dog down into her change bag and shut the top. Then she interlocked her left thumb and right pinkie, clasped her hands around each other, and thought.
‘So, which way in?’ asked Barry, looking around.
‘You know,’ she said, looking at Clem, ‘what he just said makes sense.’
‘Huh?’ said Clement.
‘About people having no idea who you are.’ Phyllis looked at Barry. ‘You can’t go in like that, Chief Inspector.’
‘I can’t what?’ he said, frowning.
‘If Mistress Colley turns up,’ Phyllis explained, ‘she might recognise you. She’s probably noticed you at the auctions—you’ve noticed her, you said so. How many Folio auctions have you been to?’
‘Oh, good lord . . .’ Barry thought. ‘You’re right. At least ten, it must be.’
‘So that’s ten times she’s probably seen you.’ Phyllis nodded. ‘She’d remember your face, for sure.’
‘How could she forget it?’ asked Clement, wiggling his eyebrows.
Barry looked at him darkly.
‘I only meant you’re . . . you’ve got a . . .’ Clement blushed.
‘Never mind what you meant,’ said Barry Inglis.
‘We have to disguise you,’ Phyllis said.
Barry said to her, ‘You have a point. I have always liked your train of thought, Miss Wong.’
She gave a quick smile and said to Clem, ‘Okay, Mr Invisible. What have you got in your bag of disguises to help out the Chief Inspector?’
Clement grinned so widely his teeth popped out onto the ground. He scooped them up and offered them to Barry. ‘How about these for starters?’
The Chief Inspector pulled a sour-lemon face. ‘What else have you got?’ he asked.
‘Oh, have you come to the right guy today,’ said Clement. He squatted down and pulled out a long, flattish case from his backpack. He unclasped the case, lifted the lid, and three hinged trays rose up like a miniature staircase. The trays were filled with all manner of things hairy, rubbery, wobbly and generally bizarre-looking.
Phyllis said, ‘Gee, you are taking this seriously.’
‘Of course I am. Evangeline has instilled into me how important it is to do the best—’ ‘Cut to the chase,’ said Barry. ‘We’re wasting time here.’
‘Right, then.’ Clement started speaking like a whirlwind as he pulled things out of his disguise box: ‘This is the Robber Baron Deluxe—it’s a real hair beard and moustache, all hand-knotted onto the gauze, as the best false beards and tashes always should be—I got it in grey, for that older look—and we can add a zigzag scar up on your forehead and some warts if you like and—oh, yeah, these are great, look at these really cool latex bits that stick on to your earlobes and give you old-man’s ears, all long and droopy, and I’ve got this wig—I haven’t tried it yet but Evangeline said it’s the latest thing from Germany and I’m the first one to buy it and look, here it is, see how it’s got a high forehead and then the hair just sprouts out of it from the top of your head and all around the sides and you can look like a college professor just by sticking that on and maybe a pair of specs as well, and—oh, man, I’ve got three different false noses and one’s—’
‘I think just the beard and moustache,’ said Barry, picking them up and sniffing them.
‘The Robber Baron Deluxe,’ said Clem approvingly. ‘Excellent choice, Baz . . . I mean, Chief Inspector. Hey, I’ll just get the spirit gum and you’ll look completely different in no time!’
‘Yeah,’ said Phyllis as Clement dexterously started sticking the beard and moustache to Barry’s face. ‘That’ll work. It looks like the sort of beard men wear in this day and age.’
‘I have never had to do this in my line of work,’ said Barry as Clement brushed a smelly smear of the spirit gum under his nose. ‘Dressing up, I mean. Some of the men have to, when they go undercover. Pinkie Chatterton often puts on a wig or such stuff when he doesn’t want to be recognised. He even dressed up in women’s clothing on one occasion that I’m aware of . . . said it was to infiltrate a department store where there was a spate of designer handbag robberies. I did have my suspi
cions about the whole thing, I must admit . . .’
‘Hold still,’ said Clement.
‘Hurry up, Clem,’ urged Phyllis.
‘There,’ Clement said, pressing the moustache firmly onto Barry’s face. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. ‘Not bad. Your own mother wouldn’t recognise you, Chief Inspector!’
‘I am very glad she wouldn’t,’ said Barry Inglis.
Clement held up a small mirror, and Barry turned his head this way and that as he studied his bearded reflection. ‘Hmm. Good work, Clement,’ he said.
Clement smiled and nodded. He never had this sort of feeling of accomplishment when he played his games.
Phyllis smiled too; Clem had done a good job. More than good; Barry looked almost totally different now.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Time to go in.’
‘And face the music,’ added Clement, packing up his paraphernalia and following her and Barry to the big oak doors.
The play’s the thing!
When they entered the theatre, there was drama on the stage, but no play was being performed.
Phyllis stopped her friends in a shadowy corner at the back of the groundlings’ pit. ‘Look,’ she whispered to Barry. ‘That’s Shakespeare, the guy pacing back and forth.’
‘Well, I’ll be handcuffed!’ gasped the Chief Inspector, stroking his new beard. ‘The Bard himself.’
‘He’s upset,’ Clement observed.
Up on the stage, William Shakespeare was speaking angrily to a man who was half-lying, half-sitting in a crumpled heap on the boards. John Heminges was there also, looking worried, as were eight other people, all of them men. Some were dressed in fancy clothes, some were dressed in women’s fancy clothes, and others were dressed more simply in dark clothing.
Phyllis whispered, ‘It must be a rehearsal. Some of them are actors and the others are probably stagehands. And look, up there in the gallery at the back of the stage. They’re the musicians.’
Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror Page 20
