Vesta emerged onto the ground floor, which was festooned with huge boughs of tinsel and shiny Christmas decorations and many artificial Christmas trees and lavish baubles hanging from the ornate columns that stretched throughout the store. She heard a choir, somewhere at the far end of the floor, singing carols. The sound sickened her, and she hurried in the furthest direction from them she could go.
‘Squeeeeetch,’ squeaked Glory, clinging onto her mink collar. She disliked the music as much as her mistress did.
Vesta ran her hand through her collar, patting Glory soothingly. ‘There, there,’ she whispered. ‘We shall be free of this soon . . .’
She shuddered and looked past the crowds doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. So many people, so many things, so much foolishness, she thought.
Then she spied what she was looking for. Down by the bank of elevators, tucked away to the side of them in a dimly lit place, was an old, wide staircase with a polished dark oak balustrade and grey-and-pink flecked marble steps. Vesta looked hard at it, and a slight shiver of anticipation ran across her shoulders, like an invisible Glory. This staircase seemed forgotten, there in the dimness. No one was using it; she could see that the shoppers were clustering around the elevator doors instead, then flowing into the mechanical contraptions and spilling out of them like a small ocean of eager flotsam.
Vesta sneered and shook her curls. She made her way through the shoppers, barging past their bags and parcels and their shoulders, and went to the base of the staircase.
Looking up the staircase, she saw that it rose for about forty steps before levelling out onto a landing. Then, around a corner of the landing, it ascended again. She craned her head back and looked straight up above where she was standing. She could see the underside of the staircase rising up and up and up. She counted the storeys. Eight.
Vesta Colley felt the shiver of anticipation scrabbling across her shoulders again, and she tingled.
There was a possibility here; she could sense it.
Taking a deep breath, and stroking Glory for luck, she bounded up the stairs in front of her, three at a time, her coat flaring out with her speed.
Maybe this would be the one . . .
Rehearsals were over for the day and Phyllis, Daisy and Clem had made themselves comfortable backstage at the Globe.
They were sitting on the floor, having just finished a big supper of roasted chicken, boiled mutton, turnips and carrots, cheese, bread, apples and some sweet marzipan desserts made in the shape of birds—all generously provided by Mr Shakespeare and Mr Heminges.
‘Man!’ Clement groaned, leaning back against a props basket and holding his stomach. ‘I’m as full as a fat lady’s handbag!’
Daisy was busily licking the grease from Phyllis’s fingers. The little dog, too, looked stouter than normal.
‘We’d better leave the rest for the Chief Inspector,’ said Phyllis.
Through the gaps in the curtained doorways leading onto the stage in front of her, she could see Barry strutting back and forth, practising his lines.
He was reading them from a sheaf of parchment pages that Will had given him, handwritten by Shakespeare himself, with the strict instructions that they had to be returned to him as soon as tomorrow’s performance of Cardenio had finished. (Barry had felt a strange feeling of amazement when he’d realised that he was holding some of the foul papers of William Shakespeare, and he didn’t take the responsibility lightly.)
Phyllis thought he looked funny in his doublet and hose and beard and moustache, and she giggled as she watched him striding along on the boards.
‘Hey, Phyll?’
‘What?’
‘It was nice of old Will and his friend to let us all stay in the theatre tonight, wasn’t it?’
‘They want us to keep watch,’ Phyllis said, wiggling her fingers as Daisy’s tickly tongue darted between them. ‘Tonight as well as tomorrow.’
Clement leant over and unzipped his backpack. He took out his new webPad (his parents had given him yet another, from their latest stock) and switched it on to see if he could pick up any signals. ‘They’re really precious about keeping their play safe, aren’t they?’ he asked, waiting for any sort of image to show up on the screen.
‘They have to be,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s their property and people are taking it and making money out of it.’
‘That’s what people do,’ said Clement.
‘Yeah, Clem, that’s what people do. But, you know, I’ve been having a good think about it. It doesn’t mean it’s right.’ Phyllis scooped Daisy up and put her on her lap. ‘You heard what Mr S. said, how people were coming in to the audience and copying down the lines the actors were speaking during the performances. Then they’d go and put on their own play, using Mr S.’s script, without paying him for it. That’s . . . that’s almost the same as people going to the movies in our Time, when a picture’s just come out, and filming it on their camera or phone and then giving it away or selling it. Or downloading music without paying for it, or a game or something.’
Clement stopped fiddling with his webPad. He blushed guiltily as he listened to her.
‘Shakespeare has every right to be so guarded about his work. Like, why should he give it away? If someone came into your mum and dad’s store and asked for a free washing machine, or a free webPad, would your parents give them one?’
‘No way,’ answered Clem quickly.
‘So why should people expect to get other people’s things for nothing?’
‘You’ve got a point, I guess.’
‘It’s the same in magic, Clem. So many magicians have stopped creating new tricks because someone comes and copies what they’ve invented without paying them for it. Or someone puts a film of it up on the internet, showing how the trick’s done. That’s the same as taking someone’s ideas and just trashing them.’
Clement said, ‘Yeah. And to think it’s been going on for centuries.’
‘Some things don’t change.’ Phyllis frowned. She looked at his webPad. ‘So, is anything showing up?’
He shook his head. ‘Nup. Not a sausage. Not even those crazy patterns I got on my phone. This is just dead. Maybe I needed to charge it up more before we came.’ He turned it off and slid it into his backpack.
Just then Barry barged backstage. ‘That’s enough practice for today,’ he said, eyeing the leftover food with a hungry interest.
‘Do you know your lines?’ Phyllis asked.
‘Near enough.’ Barry took off his sword and sat on a pile of cushions next to Clement. ‘I just hope I don’t have any wardrobe disasters tomorrow afternoon. These pantaloons are not exactly the most comfortable trousers I’ve ever worn.’
Clement smirked.
Phyllis held out the plate with the rest of the chicken on it. ‘Here, try some of this. It’s good.’
‘Thank you, Miss Wong.’ He picked up a fork and took a piece of breast. ‘By the way, Will and John Heminges said it’s okay for you to sleep here backstage so you can keep an eye on things in case anything unexpected turns up. You should be comfortable . . . they said you can use some of these cushions that the wealthy audience members will be sitting on at tomorrow’s premiere.’
‘Swell,’ said Phyllis. ‘It should be cosy.’
The Chief Inspector chewed the chicken and helped himself to some bread. ‘Will and John are also staying in the Globe, up in two of the boxes. They’ll keep a lookout on things from up there.’
‘Hey,’ said Clement nervously, ‘d’you think there are ghosts in here?’
‘Why would there be ghosts?’ asked Phyllis.
‘Well . . . I mean, the place is so old . . . there’re often ghosts in old places—they like to hang around places like this.’
‘The Globe’s not old, Clem.’
‘Huh? Yes it is. It’s over four hundred years old.’
‘No,’ Phyllis said. ‘It’s only fourteen years old.’
‘She’s right,’ said Barry. ‘Remember
where we are, Clement. And when we are. This theatre was only built fourteen years ago.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah.’ He took off his glasses and polished them on the bottom of his shirt, which was untucked and sticking out from under his sweater. ‘I forgot.’
‘It’s practically new,’ Phyllis said, combing the fur on Daisy’s back with her fingernails.
‘About as new as I am,’ Clement remarked, raising his eyebrows at the realisation. ‘Well, almost.’
Phyllis smiled at him.
‘Anyway,’ Barry said between mouthfuls, ‘I’ll also be stationed in one of the boxes out there during the night. I think, between the three of us out there and the two of you in here—’
‘And Daisy,’ Phyllis added.
‘Rrrruuufff!’ Daisy barked.
‘I sit corrected,’ Barry said. ‘How could I forget those dynamic ears and that snout? Between the three of us out there and the three of you in here, we should have a strong surveillance coverage of the Globe during the wee small hours.’
Phyllis stopped grooming Daisy. ‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, Miss Wong?’
‘If she comes . . . you won’t be far away, will you?’
‘I will be here,’ he answered. ‘You can always count on me.’
‘And me, Phyll,’ added Clement. ‘I never let you down.’
Phyllis smiled, but she couldn’t keep the feeling of uncertainty and the small fear of the unknown from clouding her thoughts about what was to come.
Time out of joint
The department store’s gloomy stairs had been just what she needed, and Vesta Colley was now striding determinedly through the rain-washed streets of Jacobean London.
Her good eye blazed with triumph—a small triumph, for the greater triumph was yet to come—and her other eye, green and glowing, stared blankly ahead as she made her way through the dark city. Glory rode on her shoulder, twitching her whiskers against the snowflakes.
Not long now, Vesta thought. Just slip in, grab the play, slip out again. And destroy all that created it.
She stopped in the doorway of a milliner’s shop and pulled out her small Date Determinator—a thumb-sized copper and brass implement that had three rows of engraved and geared brass numbers set into it, and three faceted emerald and yellow sapphire lights. This she had stolen from another Transiter, on a trip she had made in 1884. It had always been accurate and had never let her down.
She pressed a tiny button at the end of the Date Determinator, and the brass numbers started spinning around. Vesta held the Determinator steady as the numbers clicked away. Then, after half a minute, the gears slowed, and the three lights glowed—two of them bright green, and the other an intense, dazzling yellow. There was a loud CLICK, and the numbers came to a sudden stop.
Vesta inspected the rows of digits.
The first row showed 28.
The second row showed 06.
The third row showed 1613.
She was here. She was where she wanted to be.
She was pleased.
She pocketed the Date Determinator and zipped it securely in. She leant back against the door frame of the closed shop and contemplated her plan. Tomorrow would be the performance. Tomorrow, Shakespeare would be at the Globe with his box containing the play. That was when she would be able to find it. Not until then. This evening, she would find a comfortable inn where she would spend the night. Then, tomorrow morning, before Cardenio was due to commence, she would go to her favourite goldsmith’s in Gutherons Lane, and to some of the better jewellers in Cheapside. It would be good to collect a few more trinkets, she thought. A few farewell souvenirs from her trips to this place and Time.
After all, she did not intend to return here again. Her eyes had had just about enough.
There was also some powder she needed to buy. Some special, hard-to-come-by powder . . .
She patted Glory, who was nestled in her fur collar. She was just about to go in search of an inn, when something caught her eye.
Something on the ground, half-submerged in a shallow, muddy puddle.
Something dark, sleek and shiny.
Vesta’s good eye narrowed. As she looked at this thing, her heart contracted, as though a steel clamp had closed around it. This thing in the puddle, this was not a thing that should be in this place and Time . . .
She bent down and picked it up and shook the water and mud off it. And the steel clamp around her heart tightened hard.
‘What manner of intrusion is this?’ she whispered, her eye filling with the unwelcome sight of Clement’s cell phone. Her face became a pattern of horror as she clutched the phone. She shook it—violently, as though it were a living thing and she wanted to break the life out of it—but there was no power or life left in it.
‘Squeeeeeetch!’ Glory squeaked loudly, as she sensed her mistress’s alarm.
‘We are not alone, Glory,’ Vesta muttered gravely. ‘Someone else has come. Someone else is here in my shadow . . .’
‘Squeeeeetch!’
‘That is why we had such a difficult time finding the Pocket,’ Vesta said softly. ‘The more the Pockets are used, the less apparent they become . . .’
Her anger became stronger. ‘Someone is here to try to stop me, my sweet Glory. To prevent me from pulling off the greatest plan of my life. No, they shall not. They shall not succeed! I will take Cardenio! With vengeance I shall take it!’
A new sense of purpose swelled within her—and it was savage. ‘Now, because of this—’ she flung the phone to the ground and smashed its screen with the hard, tall heel of her boot—‘I will show the world my true power. I shall present my final act of brilliance in the most spectacular way!’
Her mind was all at once ablaze with her plan. ‘After all,’ she whispered to the rat, ‘with that upstart Shakespeare out of the way once and for all, there will be no more plays issuing from his quill. Cardenio will be all the rarer for that, Glory, all the more special! And tomorrow afternoon will be the perfect opportunity to leave the mark of Vesta Colley on the smudged pages of History so that no one can rub it out!’ She laughed—a low, deep peal of malevolence. ‘And no one will ever know that it was even me!’
It was well after midnight, but, backstage at the Globe, Phyllis couldn’t sleep.
Daisy and Clement were out to it, Clement sprawling out on a bed of cushions he’d made in the corner and Daisy snuggling into the crook of his back. Clement’s disguises box was open by his feet, and various things were half-in and half-out of it: beards, moustaches, false ears, fake noses and other strange and curious items.
By the light of a thick candle burning steadily on a box next to her, Phyllis watched Daisy’s legs doing little dream-kicks as the terrier slept. She’s chasing the tigers again, Phyllis thought. Lucky girl.
Phyllis tucked her knees under her chin. She thought about her dad, and realised she was missing him. She was looking forward to being home again, after all this business was done and dusted. All this business . . .
A line of concentration emerged on her forehead as she thought about the next day.
Anything could happen. That Colley woman could come here, sneaking in unseen somehow, and thieve the play. Or she could arrive and be seen by Clem and me and then Clem would sound the alarm, and then . . . Phyllis put her hands on her knees and joined them intertwiningly. What would happen then? What exactly—?
Suddenly there was a noise on the stage. Phyllis sprang to her feet and moved back into the shadows, away from the candlelight. She could hear footsteps.
They were coming backstage.
Her heart started racing. She felt her palms getting wet, and she wiped them on her jeans. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.
The footsteps were approaching, quietly but steadily.
Phyllis stayed perfectly still. She could hear her heart hammering away against her ribcage, sounding like muffled drumbeats in her head . . .
Then the curtain separating front-of-stage fro
m backstage was pulled swiftly aside, and a tall figure appeared.
‘Miss Wong?’ whispered the Chief Inspector, peering into the darkness. He was wearing his dark blue suit again. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here.’ Phyllis came forward, her legs shaking as the relief surged through her.
‘Good,’ said Barry. ‘Just thought I’d do my rounds. Make sure everything’s okay.’
‘Yeah, everything’s fine.’ She went and sat by the candle again.
‘And I thought I’d get my costume ready for tomorrow. While no one’s watching.’ He gave her a wink and went quietly over to the costume rack by the back wall. From this he took down a big hanger that held his doublet and hose, his vest, his shirt with the ruffled collar, his short cloak, his pantaloons and his hat with a big plume in the hatband.
‘Is that beard and mo itchy?’ Phyllis asked as she watched him laying out the costume on a trunk.
‘Surprisingly not,’ he said. ‘I’m very grateful that young Clement bought a fine quality set of facial hair. If this was synthetic, I’d be scratching myself silly.’
He took out of his suit pockets his essential belongings and began tucking them into the folds and pockets of his stage costume: his wallet, his Police ID card in its leather cover, his apartment keys and the nine of diamonds playing card. He had kept that ever since Phyllis had given it to him after she’d performed a flabbergasting card trick for him some time ago.
‘You still carry that card around?’ Phyllis asked.
‘Always, Miss Wong, always. It reminds me that things are often not what they seem.’
‘Often,’ Phyllis agreed.
Finally he took his pistol out of the shoulder holster under his coat. He quickly checked that it was fully loaded, then he started looking for a place where he could hide it securely in the folds of the red velvet pantaloons he would be wearing over his hose the next afternoon during the premiere.
‘Do you think you’ll have to use that?’ asked Phyllis, intrigued. She’d seen Barry Inglis with a pistol before, but she’d never been there when he had to fire it.
Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror Page 22
