CHAPTER TWO
The Red Doorknocker
Before I go on, I feel obliged to warn you that Milli found no love message in a bottle. Nor did she save the world from a terrible peril. What she did find was a photograph. Yes, a boring old photograph splashed across a tattered page of the Drabville Bugle, which had been used to wrap up shells from last night’s supper of mollusc and turnip broth.
Putting out the garbage was Milli’s chore. In her haste to get it done, she wheeled the cumbersome bin towards its assigned spot next to the picket fence at such a perilous angle that its top flipped open, clonking her on the head and allowing her a clear view of the repulsive contents inside. The bundle of shells was half buried under a pile of mashed potato, the photo just visible. Had it been you or I in the same situation, we may have felt disinclined to rescue the soggy page from under this slimy, greying mound. But Milli glimpsed an opportunity for adventure too tempting to refuse.
Little did she know that the photograph she had found was of immense importance, but then again a photograph stuck under a rotting pile of mashed potato would not usually strike anyone as particularly important.
There was nothing mysterious about the subject of the photograph. It featured a newly erected statue of Mr Mayor, prominently positioned in the centre of Poxxley Gardens. Milli recalled its official unveiling only weeks before. The photograph had clearly been taken from some height as Mr Mayor’s stone face beamed out at her, round as a dinner plate. Below it stood a gathering of townsfolk, come to commemorate the occasion and congratulate the town sculptor, Bernardo Bernardini. Milli was about to dispose of the page, but reconsidered when she spied something fascinating in the background of the picture. Behind the trees, almost indiscernible, stood a grand house with four chimneys. Milli had spent countless idle hours wandering the grounds of Poxxley Gardens or reading under its hundred-year-old oaks. She knew it like the back of her hand, but what this picture showed was like nothing she had ever seen before. Unlike the modest, grey houses of Drabville, this one was set apart by its size, design and undeniable air of splendour. The house would have looked inviting had she been able to ignore the row of thorny, black plants bordering the driveway.
From what Milli could gather, the noble manor was positioned just where Poxxley Gardens blurred into the dense woodland that marked the beginning of the Taboo Territories. From pre-school days it had been drummed into the children of Drabville that the Taboo Territories were an uninhabited and hazardous wasteland. Any who strayed there would more than likely fall into the path of ruthless bandits or wild predators and never return. Who in their right mind would choose to build a house there? And how had its existence gone undetected for so long? This discovery could not be due to mere coincidence. Perhaps, Milli concluded, she was destined to find it. As she headed back towards her house, Milli’s heart was turning cartwheels in her chest and her whole body tingled with a mixture of anticipation and dread. So thrilled was she by her discovery that she momentarily forgot the rule preventing shouting in the streets.
‘Dad!’ she bellowed, tearing inside.
Her father looked up blankly from the kitchen sink he was polishing. ‘Mmmm?’ was his only reply.
‘This house in Poxxley Gardens, who lives there?’ Milli thrust the newspaper at her bewildered father.
‘House? Poxxley Gardens? That’s government property; no house has ever been built there.’
‘But look! It’s here in the photograph.’
Her father shook his head. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘What kind of mistake puts things in a picture that aren’t really there?’ she objected.
‘Milli, sweetheart, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a very important project? Why don’t you run along and play with Stench?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Off you go.’
Milli slammed the front door and stomped down Peppercorn Place feeling outraged. There was only one person who would understand, or at least be prepared to discuss her discovery. Ernest lived just a few streets away in Bauble Lane. As she made her way there, she noticed that people were eyeing her suspiciously and she suddenly realised why. She was wearing a scowl so ferocious it would scare off the foulest of creatures. In Drabville it was considered bad manners not to smile foolishly in public; well, it was included in the Drabville Code of Conduct anyway. (I don’t mean smiling foolishly was included as a rule, but citizens were encouraged to maintain a cheerful demeanour at all times.)
When Milli reached Ernest’s house she tapped quietly on his bedroom window with her fingertip so as not to disturb Mrs Perriclof, who was hypersensitive to noise of any kind and constantly inflicting silence games on her children. This was the Perriclof idea of family fun and the winner was usually rewarded with an extra helping of apple compote or pear pudding at dinnertime. After a short interval, the window opened silently. Milli scrambled in to find Ernest sitting cross-legged on his bed, painstakingly categorising a river stone collection. His coffee-brown curls flopped onto his forehead and he occasionally brushed them away in irritation.
‘Hello!’ Milli said brightly. Ernest grunted in reply.
‘What do you make of this?’ She handed him the reeking page.
Ernest raised his eyebrows, grimaced, but said nothing. Then, all of a sudden, he began to frown. He sat bolt upright and squinted at the picture, turning it at different angles. He first looked mystified, then perplexed.
‘What do you think?’ Milli prompted, but still Ernest said nothing. Silence was something that annoyed Milli immensely but she held her tongue. Finally, Ernest slid off his bed and carried the newspaper to his desk where he placed it under a magnifying glass.
‘Wow!’ he breathed, peering through the lens. ‘Milli, come and look at this.’
‘I have seen it,’ she snapped. ‘Remember? I brought it to you.’
‘Oh, flying focaccias, Millipop, look at the doorknocker!’
When Milli did look more closely, her breath caught in her throat. The doorknocker looked quite ordinary except for one eye-goggling difference. Even more startling than the house’s size and location, was a small dot of colour which was the doorknocker. The use of this colour carried the most serious of all penalties—banishment! Brass doorknockers were the only ones permitted in Drabville but this one was RED! Not even maroon, but bright fire-engine red.
Within the space of a few minutes Ernest found himself suspended in a horizontal position and clinging desperately to his bedpost. A relentless Milli tugged at his ankles.
‘Nooooooo!’ he shrieked. ‘I won’t go, Milli, it’s cursed! Have you ever seen a red doorknocker?’
‘Come on, Ernest, we never do anything exciting.’
‘I’m not running the risk of developing pointy ears or furry knuckles just so you can play amateur detective.’
This exchange would have been rather comical had the situation not been about to take a more serious turn. Milli, of course, could see only excitement in the idea of trespassing into a forbidden area to look for a house with a red doorknocker. After all, opportunities like that did not present themselves every day. But as it turned out, she should have paid more heed to Ernest’s apprehension.
When Ernest finally felt as if his feet were about to detach from his body, he resignedly let go of the bedpost and crashed into an undignified heap on the floor. A triumphant Milli began to bustle around the room tossing items she thought might come in handy into his Three Cheers for Drabville backpack. Milli felt quite at home in Ernest’s bedroom even if it did remind her of being in a museum. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows and the faces of famous explorers stared out at her from dusty frames. Although Ernest was scholarly and excelled in all his studies, his great passion was rocks. Immaculate cabinets lined the walls where his most prized specimens were safely displayed away from prying, sticky fingers. Milli’s favourite was the gemstone cabinet. She liked it best because it contained stones with romantic names like lapis lazuli, amethyst, rose quartz and
the silvery-grey hematite. She imagined each one having a different power—always handy when an adventure takes a wrong turn.
‘Stop fogging up the glass!’ Ernest whined as Milli lingered at the cabinet. She scowled and thrust his shoes at him, waiting impatiently for him to put them on. When the last loop was tied, she slung the bag of supplies over her shoulder and clambered out the way she had come in. A jittery Ernest followed, muttering grimly about bad omens, doom and the impending end of life as they knew it.
When the pair finally reached the entrance of Poxxley Gardens it was late afternoon and the wrought-iron gates were closed.
‘Let’s go in,’ Milli said in as confident a voice as she could muster. But Ernest, being the sort of boy who could find a million potential perils in something as simple as opening a bottle of Almond Fizz, was not so enthusiastic.
‘Wish we’d thought to bring coats,’ he moaned. ‘It’s getting quite nippy. I might just dash back for them. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you later.’
Seizing Ernest firmly by the arm, Milli dragged them both through the gates. They were inside Poxxley Gardens.
After wandering the meandering paths for some time and still finding nothing, Ernest began to grow weary and ill-tempered.
‘Look, Milli, there is no house.’
‘I just want to have a tiny squiz around the corner,’ she retorted pleasantly. Ernest let out a groan. The path ahead looked identical to the one they had crossed only minutes before.
‘We’re going in circles,’ he grumbled, but Milli was already past him and heading out of sight. Ernest stood rooted to the spot in protest, glaring after her until all he could hear was the faint crunching of her shoes on the gravel. This might be Milli’s idea of entertainment, but quite frankly he could think of much better things he might be doing right now. There were the newly acquired quartz specimens for one, which still needed to be examined, labelled and catalogued. But when the first cricket chirped, Ernest suddenly realised he was alone in the gathering darkness of a public recreational area at a prohibited hour and scampered after Milli.
He found her quickly enough, head down, inspecting the branches overhanging the path.
‘Look at these ferns,’ she whispered. Still wounded from what he perceived to be his earlier abandonment, Ernest looked away. ‘They hang over the path,’ Milli went on, ‘and the spider webs are undisturbed. No one must ever come this way and that means we’re on the right track!’
‘Hoo-rah,’ said Ernest flatly. ‘We really are going to have to find you a hobby.’
The path grew narrower, choked by undergrowth, as Milli and Ernest picked their way along it. Just when they could scarcely put another foot forward, they came to a towering stone wall barring their way. The wall was almost covered in creepers and there were two gargoyles in pouncing position perched at its top like sentinels. Ernest would have been quite happy to turn back at that very moment, but Milli was already considering their options.
‘The wall is too high to climb.’ she said. ‘We’ll have to find another way in.’
She felt her way along the stones, searching for an opening or crack to look through. There was none to be found. She even attempted to catapult herself over the wall using Ernest’s shoulders as a lever, but only ended up flattening him and gaining a painful gash down her left leg. They had just about given up when Ernest spotted a badger snuffling about at the base of the wall.
‘Look,’ he nudged Milli. ‘What’s that animal over there doing?’
But when Milli turned to look, it had scurried out of sight. ‘Probably just dashing home for a coat,’ she said with a grin.
Ernest’s nostrils flared to the size of bottle caps with indignation. He marched over to the spot where the creature had been seen and started searching. Milli watched him with curiosity. After a moment Ernest let out a gasp. He had found a small burrow at the base of the stone wall, hidden by the creeper. Fortunately, it was just large enough for two small, inquisitive children to wriggle through.
Inspired by his discovery, Ernest went first and Milli followed close behind. They scratched their hands and soiled their clothes but were too gripped by the sight before them to care. Looming behind the tangled, unkempt gardens, shimmering like a mirage in the fast fading sunlight, was the house from the photograph. It was much more imposing in reality and not unlike the old mansions sometimes found in the fairy stories they had read as small children. A circular drive led to the front door and four chimneys puffed smoke of different colours. The house was so imposing that Milli and Ernest could not help but feel dwarfed by it. There were no buildings like it in Drabville and even the Town Hall (Drabville’s most ornate edifice) was modest by comparison. As Milli and Ernest advanced towards its entrance, closer inspection revealed that not only was the doorknocker red, it was also shaped like the head of a boar. But that wasn’t all. Written in black curly script on a plaque above the door were the words ‘Hog House’. At their feet was an unusually large doormat. I am sure you will agree that in average households most front doormats have inviting messages written on them such as ‘Welcome’ or ‘Home Sweet Home’, but the owner of this residence had opted for quite a different approach. The doormat at Hog House simply read ‘Scram!’
CHAPTER THREE
A Close Encounter
An inhospitable doormat was not enough to deter Milli. ‘We should ring the bell,’ she suggested brightly.
Ernest was unable to contain his sarcasm. ‘Why not? We’ll probably get an invitation to tea and scones.’
‘We’ve come too far to turn back now,’ Milli declared and reached for the knocker. But before she could take hold of it, something even more unexpected than the hostile doormat or pig-headed doorknocker happened. The boar’s mouth began to widen and, before they had time to jump back, a gale-force wind blew from it, so powerful it knocked them clean off their feet, flinging them as far as the lawn, several metres away. The wind continued for what seemed an inordinate amount of time and both Milli and Ernest had to shield their faces to prevent being pounded by flying gravel.
When the wind finally did die down, Milli got up, more determined than ever, and approached the door again. This time, just moments before her hand touched the knocker, the ground beneath them began to tremble. It started as a tremor but soon the earth was shuddering so violently that Milli and Ernest had to clutch one another to keep from falling. They even found themselves playing something like hopscotch to avoid their feet falling through the deadly cracks now appearing around them.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only minutes, the shuddering came to an abrupt halt. The children looked at each other, too stunned for words. Ernest placed a hand on Milli’s shoulder indicating that a retreat might be in order. Milli looked as though she was about to comply and even went so far as to turn her back on the door. But then, at the last minute, she decided on a surprise attack and lunged one last time for the doorknocker.
From the boar’s mouth there erupted a growl so low and terrible it made the birds in the nearby trees squawk away in alarm. I, for one, know that if I heard a sound as bone-chilling as that I would run for all I was worth and not stop until I reached the security of people and buildings. But, alas, this story is not about me, and Milli and Ernest held their ground. Well, if truth be told, it might be more accurate to say that Milli held her ground and Ernest’s too.
‘I suppose you’re going to suggest we camp outside until they let us in?’ Ernest suggested testily.
‘It is a great shame, Ernest Perriclof,’ Milli replied, ‘that you do not put that great intellect of yours to better use.’
‘And by better you mean…?’
‘Think of a plan!’
Now, Milli may have been the bravery behind their adventures, but Ernest was definitely the brains. He even knew how to introduce himself in eight different languages and had invented several secret codes, including one that relied on ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Just at that momen
t Ernest’s scientific brain kicked in and, striding purposefully down the driveway, he began peering around.
‘What are you doing now, Yolk Brain?’ Milli snorted.
‘Actually, Yolk Brain, I’m looking for the letterbox. Letterboxes and rubbish bins can tell you an awful lot about people.’ The letterbox was not that difficult to find, being a decorative pillar positioned near the house adjacent to the driveway.
‘And what does this one tell you, Nancy Drew?’
‘Whoever lives here has put a “No Folly Mail” sticker on their letterbox,’ Ernest explained, as if speaking to a very small child. ‘We both know that folly mail advertises cheap gadgets and second-hand goods. The owner of this property must be wealthy enough not to need the discounts.’
Milli looked at him blankly.
‘You see,’ Ernest continued, ‘wealthy people are used to comfort and wouldn’t like to be locked out of their homes. So, if I am not mistaken, there should be a spare key hidden not far from here. We can get into the house, simple as meringues. All we have to do is find the key.’
‘Wealthy people can also be quite unimaginative,’ Milli added competitively. ‘We need to look in the most obvious hiding places.’
As she spoke, both their eyes turned to the doormat. Hurrying back, they knelt down and lifted the mat into the air. Underneath, the clean rectangle of stone was quite empty. Ernest peered closer in case the key was so small they had missed it at first glance, but Milli had turned her attention to an empty clay pot behind a well-tended shrub sprouting the daintiest of butter-yellow flowers. The pot looked so conspicuously like a hiding spot for a key that, in her zeal to reach it, Milli plunged her arm straight through the bush with the yellow flowers which just happened to be poisonous.
The moment her fingers connected with the petals, a dozen thorns as black as liquorice shot from the centre of the flowers and lodged themselves in Milli’s forearm. She recoiled from the bush and screamed in horror. Ernest screamed too, because he did not really know what else to do.
The Shadow Thief Page 2
