“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” said David. “I’m almost fourteen. People grow up, you know.”
They certainly did. David didn’t even sound like the same person. That neener neener attitude was completely gone. Well, mostly.
Simon waved him away and thought through the logic of the idea. Blixus might or might not be as vulnerable as David thought but what did it matter? They had nothing to lose by trying. If Moriarty figured they were pranking him, nothing would change and they’d have to come up with something else. But if the approach worked they’d be miles ahead.
The history machine was broken and hadn’t worked properly in months. But he was Simon Binkle. Without all the distractions of classes he could work on it full time and fix it. He might even make it work remotely so he could reach Blixus wherever they found him. He’d go home to Cambridge and lock himself in his room and it would be done in no time. No problem.
As for finding Blixus, that was still the sticking point. But David was right: like a bad penny he always turned up. With the ability to generate holograms remotely the way Hugh did, all Simon would have to do was wait. He’d drive the man crazy and call in the troops to capture him. It was almost elegant, this idea of David’s. If it worked he might even tell him so. Or not. He was David Wiffle after all.
“Well?” said David.
“How would you like to learn about my history machine?” said Simon.
David broke into a huge grin. “Told ya.”
16
The Lockup
Gaston Thrillkill was getting tired of cooling his heels in jail but he had never planned on leaving it chloroformed and abducted by thugs wearing gas masks.
They came at night, when it was harder to be seen carrying an unconscious man out of the Windermere police station. They sprayed a chloroform mist that knocked out everyone in the front of the station. Then they dashed into the back where the jail was housed and sprayed again, taking down Thrillkill and two petty thieves. Anyone who had been looking would have seen two figures in black wheeling the headmaster out on a cart, cuffing him and binding his ankles, then lifting him into a dark sedan and whisking him away.
When he came to he had a roaring headache and his hands were stuck underneath him. Wherever he was it was dark and smelled bad, like gasoline, car exhaust, and oil. Was he in a garage? Or perhaps a factory somewhere. He heard a noise like a door being rolled up, and a faint light illuminated the space. He raised his head and looked toward the sound and saw two figures coming at him. One of them switched on a bulb and pulled the door back down.
He could see that he was in some kind of lockup surrounded by vehicle parts and supplies. The place was a mess. Whoever owned it was a slob and then some. But that wasn’t the issue. What hit him was that he was staring into the faces of former Legatum student Harry Sheriff and an attractive young blonde woman. Both were wearing silly black outfits.
“Well hello, Mr. Thrillkill,” said Harry snidely. He glanced around. “Like it? It’s cheap but it’s cheerful.”
“What do you want, Harry?” said Thrillkill.
“You know what I want.”
“You’re not getting back into Legatum,” said Thrillkill.
Harry laughed. “Why in the world would I want to hang around with a bunch of losers?”
“What then?” said Thrillkill. “Wait, you can’t possibly think—“
“But I do,” said Harry. “The metadata, if you please.”
“I have no idea where it is,” said Thrillkill. He was still groggy but he knew that much—Buck kept him apprised of all the goings on—and the theft was bothering him so much he hadn’t been able to sleep.
“Oh, now, Professor, it’s your job to know where it is. And now it’s your job to take me to it.”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Thrillkill. “As you can see I’ve been rotting in jail for weeks now. Things change while one is away.”
Harry turned to his companion and said, “Told you so.”
“Who’s your girlfriend?” said Thrillkill, eyeing the other figure. She looked like Taffeta Tasmania might in a few years.
“None of your business,” said Harry.
Thrillkill studied the girl’s face. No great intellect burned behind those eyes but she was clearly impressed with Harry. The boy did make a good first impression—if you were a young, impressionable female. After that it was all downhill. He could use that.
“I’ll bet you haven’t told her what a loser you are,” he said.
“Nice try,” said Harry. He turned to the girl. “Don’t listen to him. He’s envious.”
“Nice try yourself,” said Thrillkill. “Did you tell her you failed most of your classes?”
The girl looked at Harry quizzically.
“I had better things to do,” said Harry. “My motorcycle for one.”
“You have a motorcycle?” said the girl. “Oooh, I love motorcycles.”
“I’ll take you on a ride, baby,” said Harry, nuzzling her neck. “Just as soon as we’re done with this clown.”
“Is it a big one?” the girl gushed.
“You know it, sweetheart,” said Harry, kissing her on the lips. Thrillkill rolled his eyes. Harry turned to him. “Round one goes to me. What else have you got?”
“I don’t ‘got’ anything,” said Thrillkill. “And either do you because you squandered the opportunity to acquire an excellent education.”
“You think that wreck of a school is excellent?” said Harry. “You’ve got delusions of grandeur.”
“I’ve obviously failed you,” said Thrillkill. “For that I am sorry.”
The girl looked from one of them to the other and suddenly slapped Thrillkill in the face.
“Your punishment,” she giggled, looking to Harry for approval. The boy nodded.
“Look, Thrillkill, it’s getting past my bedtime and I’m tired,” said Harry. “Just tell me where the metadata is and we’ll be on our way.”
Still smarting from the slap Thrillkill kept mum.
“Want me to hit him again?” the girl gushed.
“Yeah, honey,” said Harry. “You do that.”
The girl raised her hand to slap Thrillkill again when he said, “She looks a lot like Taffeta.”
The girl stopped in mid-slap and said, “What? Who’s that?”
Harry got all red and said, “No one. Hit him.”
“Don’t you see the resemblance?” said Thrillkill. “Although Taffeta is much more beautiful.”
“Who’s this Taffeta person?” said the girl.
“No one,” Harry rushed to say, to no effect.
“Is she one of your girlfriends?” the girl said narrowing her eyes.
“Just a fellow traveler,” said Harry.
“A fellow thief,” said Thrillkill.
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” said the girl. “But was she your girlfriend?”
“She was indeed,” said Thrillkill. He was beginning to see a glimmer of hope. He just needed to drive the wedge a little deeper. “She wore a very interesting perfume. It drove you mad, didn’t it, Harry? That’s how the two of you stole the secrets. She still has them, doesn’t she?”
“Shut up,” said Harry. He lifted his hand to his mouth and bit a nail.
“What perfume?” said the girl. “You didn’t tell me she stole the secrets with you. You said you did it all by yourself.”
“It was nothing,” Harry fumed. “She didn’t do anything. She just stood by and watched.”
“Oh, it was something,” said Thrillkill. “She made it herself, didn’t she, the scent? And it opened the locks. You couldn’t have done it without her.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry practically screamed. “I don’t love her anymore.”
“You loved her?” said the girl.
Harry faced her, frantic. “Well I don’t anymore, now do I?”
“That’s not what she told me,” said Thrillkill diabolically. “She said you told her you’d never be free of her.”
“You still love her?” the girl shrieked.
“No!” Harry yelled. “I do not love Taffeta Tasmania anymore.”
“Yes you do,” said the girl. “You love her and you think she’s prettier than me.”
She picked up the huge purse she’d been carrying and bashed Harry with it. He was so surprised he lashed out and socked her—hard enough that she fell onto the floor and hit her head. A moment went by, then several, but she didn’t move. With horror in his eyes Harry ran to the door, flung it up, and dashed off.
Thrillkill sat up and looked around. He was still woozy, but if his legs would hold he could slip off the table he was lying on and jump to the door. Just a few seconds more and he should be fine.
He gulped in the night air. Yes, it was helping. He could feel his head clearing. He wriggled to the side of the table and was about to push himself off when he heard a moan. The girl was awake.
She looked up at Thrillkill and rubbed her head. “Where’s Harry?”
“What’s your name?” said Thrillkill.
“Summer,” she said. “I want to talk to Harry.” She slowly got to her feet, still rubbing her head. “Ugh. It’s like an egg up here.”
“He ran off,” said Thrillkill. “I suspect he thought he’d killed you.”
“That swine,” she said. “He told me I was his partner.”
“He tells many girls many things,” said Thrillkill.
“Who’s that Taffeta person you were talking about?”
“His old girlfriend, and a murderer and a thief,” said Thrillkill. “If it’s any comfort she despises him.”
Summer laughed. “I can see why. What a coward. And here I thought he was a knight in shining armor.”
“He’s hardly that,” said Thrillkill.
“He was going to take me away from my boring old life at the bank,” said Summer. “We had big plans, him and me.”
Thrillkill winced at her bad grammar. “I think you’d better make new ones.”
“Oh, I am,” she said. “I want those secrets.”
“But you have them,” said Thrillkill.
“You mean the ones in the safety deposit box? Those were fake. Blank paper.”
Thrillkill couldn’t believe his ears. What had Trixie Sidebotham been up to anyway, spiriting the secrets away the way she had? The monkeys, the secure storage, all that just as some kind of diversion? If that was the case where had she put the real ones? The crisis was even worse than he’d thought.
Summer wasn’t as dumb as she’d been acting though. “You thought they were real, didn’t you?” He just looked at her. Who had been playing who? Once again Harry had got himself in over his head. “This Taffeta has them, doesn’t she?”
“Some of them,” he said. “The rest appear to be lost. They won’t be of any use to you in bits like that.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Thrillkill,” she said. “Where is Taffeta Tasmania?”
“Do you really think I would tell you?” he laughed. “Anyway, I don’t know.”
Then she shocked him even more. “Tell me where the metadata is.”
He stared at her. “He really threw everything away, didn’t he? His education, his future.”
“Harry?” she said. “That’s not how he sees it.”
“Evidently not,” said Thrillkill. “Well, I hate to disappoint you but the metadata has been stolen. I have no idea where it is.”
Summer peered at him and made a noise deep in her throat. “You’re not much good, are you? Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?”
“I guess I’m not a very good one. But I suppose Harry’s told you that already.”
He slid off the table, turned, and head bashed her. Then he kicked her feet out from under her and she lost her balance. She fell to the floor again, twisting her ankle and landing on her tailbone. She shrieked in pain and held her ankle.
“Help me,” she said, her voice going all squiggly.
Thrillkill stared down at her and raised his cuffed wrists. “How?”
“Oh all right,” she said.
She crawled to his feet and untied the rope that was binding them, then rubbed her tailbone. He’d fallen that way once. It had taken a week for the pain to subside. She wouldn’t be going anywhere.
He let the rope fall from his legs, shook them out, and kneeled down next to her rather shakily.
“I presume you have the key?” he said, displaying his wrists.
“It’s in my bag,” she said.
“Good girl.”
He stood and reached for the bag. It really was heavy. What did she have in there anyway? He threw it down next to her and it made a huge thunk. She rummaged around, found the key, and unlocked the cuffs. Then he grabbed her phone and called the police. When they arrived they found Summer trussed up like a pig with Thrillkill sitting next to her lotus style cracking jokes.
17
Victor
Amanda knew she needed to get to Taffeta but she had no idea where the girl was. Elusive criminals. That seemed to be the story of her life. The good news was that she was becoming expert at finding them and she knew just where she would start looking.
Apparently Taffeta had a father who was an undertaker in London. There was no way the man would tell Amanda where his daughter was, but she could spy on him and potentially find out covertly. Her dead bodies class had desensitized her to corpses—well, sort of—and she wasn’t put off by the prospect of snooping around his mortuary. So it was off to London for her.
But ugh, another train ride. What would it be this time: a stroppy monkey, nasty clowns, unruly children? As it turned out it was none of those, but something rather pleasant, or it would have been if she weren’t in love with Nick. The most gorgeous boy she had ever seen sat down next to her and said hi.
Here was an opportunity to practice her acting. Of course it would be only that. She wasn’t interested in him that way, even if she had vowed to stop loving Nick. She could be her usual awkward self with this amazing dark-haired boy and put him off within two seconds, or she could be someone else, someone he would find attractive and fascinating and mysterious. It would be a diverting way to pass the time at any rate.
She felt her hair. It was a disaster area but so what? She was a good actor. She would use it as part of her character.
“Hey,” she said nonchalantly.
“You’re American,” he said.
She turned and looked into his deep brown eyes. She didn’t have to act. They made her just about swoon. “Yes, from L.A.”
He held out his hand. “Rhys Cowsill.”
She clasped it and felt electricity. “Amanda Lester. And you’re from Wales,” she said.
“That’s right!” He seemed astonished. “You can tell?”
“I’ve been making a study of UK accents,” she said. “I have a friend who can practically tell what block you’re from. She’s been teaching me.” She wasn’t lying. It was one of Ivy’s many freaky talents.
“Go on then,” he said flashing a grin that was almost like Nick’s. “Where in Wales am I from?”
“I said she could tell you,” she laughed. Was she sparkling? She hoped so. It was hard to tell without watching yourself. “I can’t.”
“But that was brilliant,” he said. “Actually I’m from Cardiff.”
He looked like he was from heaven. He was so nice, and he obviously thought she did sparkle so she must have been doing something right. But as it turned out he was more than nice. He was an actor. She couldn’t believe her luck.
“I’m heading down to London for an audition,” he said. “I’ve been staying with my aunt in Kendal. I’m going for James Bond’s nephew.”
She looked him up and down. He would totally get the part. He was perfect for it, at least looks-wise. But was he any good?
“Read for me,” she said, forgetting to be the cool chick.
His jaw dropped. “What?”
“I want to hear you read. The script.”
<
br /> Rhys hesitated, then tentatively pulled a screenplay out of his backpack and began to read naturally in his rich, sonorous voice, with Amanda taking the part of James Bond. He kept glancing at her to see how he was doing but within two seconds she knew he was talented. Very talented.
She touched his arm and he stopped. “Have you ever heard of Darius Plover?”
“Of course,” he said. “He was my favorite director. Right shame losing him.”
Amanda grinned. “Well then, have I got a surprise for you.”
She hadn’t expected to do anything with Darius’s production company. She hadn’t even thought about it since the Pashminas had told her about her inheritance. But here she was, facing an unbelievably talented actor, and if she passed up the opportunity to cast him she didn’t deserve to be called a director. She had no script, no plan, no business card, no anything, but she knew she had to make a movie with this boy. It had nothing to do with romance or even attraction. She loved Nick and knew that despite her efforts to forget him she’d never stop. It was all about talent, and Rhys had it oozing out of his pores.
She got so excited she could barely speak. She didn’t want to alarm or overwhelm him and he might not even believe her, so she simply said, “When you’re done with your audition look me up. I’m not hitting on you. I just want to discuss something about films with you. I am absolutely serious. Please.”
The boy gawped at her as if she were a little green alien, nodded his head, and said, “Right. I absolutely will.”
Amanda hadn’t made a film in a long time and was walking on air at the prospect of getting back into that life. But first she had a few things to accomplish, starting with Victor Tasmania.
When she arrived at the funeral home she was in luck. A family of mourners was entering the building and she was able to tag along pretending to be one of them. They were so full of grief they didn’t even notice her. She felt a little guilty using them like that, but if they didn’t mind her being there she’d avail herself of the opportunity.
The room had been darkened, probably as a sign of respect for the dead. Why the dead would care whether it was dark or light she didn’t know, but the place did feel peaceful. It was full of flowers—gorgeous blooms in impossible colors, but sad. There was always something grave about lilies and she wished Taffeta’s father had selected something more cheerful, like poppies or ranunculus.
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