Charlie Bone and the Hidden King (Children of the Red King, Book 5) (14 page)

"Just diaries," Charlie said awkwardly. "Well, not just diaries. They were sent to me by someone who collected stories about the Red King."

"Cool!" Olivia grabbed a diary from the top of the pile and plonked herself down on the sofa. "Not so cool," she declared, leafing through the book. "It's a real mess."

Uncle Paton took the diary out of her hands. "Olivia, dear girl, you must understand that real treasures never advertise themselves. This book has been where you can never hope to go; its contents are priceless and may, one day, save your life."

Olivia looked into Uncle Paton's solemn face and blushed. She had a deep respect for Charlie's uncle. In fact, he was one of the few people whose criticism she took to heart. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"I should think so." Uncle Paton replaced the diary. "Now, I am sure Charlie has already told you about his night under the table, so you might as well know what Miss Ingledew and I have discovered while reading through these books." He tapped the pile and said impatiently, "Do sit down, the rest of you. You look most uncomfortable, hovering like that."

Emma and Fidelio moved several files from the sofa and squeezed themselves on either side of Olivia. Charlie sat on the floor and Uncle Paton dropped into an armchair.

"Much has been said of a certain mirror." Paton looked at his audience, but no one said a word. "Charlie heard that it was called the Mirror of Amoret. And it was, indeed, made for the baby who was born nine days before Queen Berenice died. The Red King made it himself. He gave it to his second son, Amadis, to keep for the baby until she was old enough to use it. The mirror has many magical properties; most important of all, it can give its owner the power to travel. . . ."

"Do you mean . . . ?" said Charlie.

"Yes, Charlie. Your sort of traveling. Look into the mirror and the person you wish to see will appear. If you want to find that person, the mirror will take you to them, wherever they are."

"Awesome. I'd like to try that," said Fidelio. "Hey, I could meet Mozart."

"I'm afraid you couldn't," said Miss Ingledew. "The mirror will only work for the Children of the Red King."

"But it worked for the count," Fidelio argued.

"He is an enchanter," Uncle Paton said flatly. "We believe he stole the mirror, partly to prevent others from using it. Though when he buried it, naturally, he hoped that one of his endowed descendants would find it and use it to help him travel out of the king's portrait."

Miss Ingledew gave an involuntary gasp. "Paton, it has just occurred to me that if the count has the mirror, he can travel again." She gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward. "In and out of paintings and photos and, oh dear, I hope he doesn't."

Miss Ingledew had conjured up such a frightening picture, the loud ringing of the doorbell had everyone jumping out of their seats.

Uncle Paton went to answer the door and returned, a minute later, with an extremely glamorous woman.

She was wearing an identical version of Olivia's outfit, except that her hat was red and her boots silver.

"Mom!" cried Olivia. "You're early."

"It's getting so dark," said Mrs. Vertigo. "Unnaturally dark. I'm sorry if I've broken up a meeting, or whatever you clever folks were getting up to."

"You're very wise, Mrs. Vertigo," said Paton. "I don't like the look of it at all. Very unpleasant weather. Perhaps you could give this young man a lift."

Fidelio was about to protest, but Olivia and her mother swept him out of the room. As soon as the pets were retrieved the three of them left the shop. Fidelio shot Charlie a look of bemused surrender before the door closed and the Vertigos bore him away.

"It's time for us to be going," said Uncle Paton, a little reluctantly. "Come on, Charlie."

Emma followed Charlie into the shop while Paton and Miss Ingledew said a private farewell. When Paton emerged his face was pink and there was lipstick on his cheek. Emma raised her eyebrows and grinned at Charlie, who decided not to mention the lipstick.

"We decided the diaries will be safer here," said Uncle Paton, putting on his dark coat. "Rather than at number nine."

Charlie agreed. As soon as his coat was on, he and his uncle set off. They were almost home when Uncle Paton gave Charlie some incredible news. He had found a photo of Charlie's father.

"I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to raise your hopes," Paton explained. "It's not a good likeness, you see. I remembered it when you told me about Bartholomew. There were several photos taken on that climbing vacation. I knew I had one. I've got an old leather case under my bed that I always keep locked. The photo was right at the bottom."

Charlie couldn't walk another step. "Have you got it with you, Uncle P.?"

"Well, no. I gave it to your mother. Told her not to say a word to Grandma Bone, knowing that she'd destroyed every other photo of Lyell that existed."

Charlie began to run.

"Not so fast," called Paton, striding after Charlie. "It won't disappear."

"I can't wait, Uncle P. I just can't," cried Charlie, leaping ahead.

Amy Bone was alone in the kitchen when they walked in. Charlie ran straight up to her. "Can I see the photo, Mom, now? Uncle Paton said he'd found one. A photo of my dad."

"Goodness, Charlie, you are in a hurry." His mother unwound a silk scarf from her neck. "I've only just got in."

"Where is it?" Charlie begged.

His mother picked up her handbag from the table. "In here, somewhere." She rummaged around in the bag and took out a small square photograph. "Here." She held it out.

Charlie took the photo. A man dressed for climbing smiled out at him. The man was Bartholomew Bloor. There was someone else standing in the corner, but he had his back to the camera. Only his head and shoulders could be seen.

"Mom, this isn't . . . it can't be." Charlie's voice was thick with disappointment.

Uncle Paton came up behind him and took the photo. "Amy, what's happened?" he demanded. "This isn't what I gave you."

"Of course it is," said Amy. "What's wrong?"

"This isn't your husband." He pointed at Bartholomew.

Amy peered at the photograph. "Isn't it? Oh dear. Do you know I've completely forgotten Lyell's face? I just can't . . . She frowned. "Just can't seem to picture it."

"Mom!" said Charlie in a stricken voice. "You must remember. You MUST!"

"But why, Charlie? I'm sure it'll be better for everyone if your father is forgotten." His mother smiled at him.

"NO!" cried Charlie. "We can't. Don't you understand? If we let go of his memory, he won't be able to come back. EVER!"

THE SHADOW ATTACKS

" It has begun," said Uncle Paton.

"Begun?" asked Charlie.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. A single candle burned in the center and beside it lay the photograph: the image of a man who had been moved by sorcery, so that no one should see his face.

"Count Harken has the mirror." Paton stared moodily at the candle flame. "Who knows what evil he has in mind for us."

To Charlie it seemed that the count had already done his worst. "Uncle Paton, do you think that if a person is forgotten they . . . they die a little?"

"Charlie!" His uncle looked shocked, almost angry. "Your father is not forgotten, and never will be. He was a good friend to so many."

"But Mom . . . ," said Charlie. "If she forgets . . ."

"She
hasn't,
Charlie. She hasn't." Uncle Paton began to pace around the kitchen. "She's been bewitched,

I grant you that, but it's temporary. Somehow we must find a way to undo what's been done. Though, at the moment, I confess I am a little out of ideas."

"I must get the Mirror of Amoret," Charlie stated.

His uncle stopped pacing and looked at him. "A near impossible task, Charlie, but, yes, it would be a start."

"Then I'll go think about it. Good night, Uncle." Charlie picked up the photo.

Night, Charlie. And don't let your thoughts keep you awake. It's school tomorrow." Uncle Paton blew out the candle and followed Charlie upstairs.

As soon as he was in his room, Charlie opened his curtains and sat on the bed. Foggy clouds swirled over the moon, but it was still bright enough to send a beam of light across the wall. Charlie didn't have to wait long for Naren's message. She must have been thinking of him.

The thin, spidery forms came tumbling over the sill as though they were running from something. They piled onto Charlie's bed and raced up the wall, wriggling and churning in a kind of frenzy. Already the message had begun to form.

Charlie, when Meng came into the city, she thinks she was being watched. If she was seen at the bookstore, the owner . . . may . . . be . . . in danger. The diaries tell the truth. The . . . shadow . . . will . . . not . . . like this.

"I'll try to warn her," Charlie whispered. But he had more important things on his mind, just then. "Naren, my mom is beginning to forget my dad. She
wants
to forget him. What shall I do?"

Find him,

said the small, twisting words.

"The shadow has gone into a photo and turned him around," Charlie told the wall of letters. "I can't see his face."

Find . . .

The words seemed to be having trouble in reaching their places. They began to swirl in a great kaleidoscope, a single word popping out of the circle every now and then.

. . . the king . . . I must . . . go . . . Father . . . says danger . . . message . . . caught . . .

For a while, no more words came. Charlie whispered to the fading letters, begging them to form a word, anything to let him know that Naren could hear him. But only one word made itself clear before the moon was swamped by a black cloud.

Go . . .

said the letters.

Charlie lay back on his bed, defeated and afraid. Could the shadow see Naren's message? Could he feel it speeding through the air, like radio waves? Was he everywhere, then, even inside people's heads?

Charlie put the photo on his bedside table and got into bed. Before he closed his eyes he saw the white moth sitting on the photo; its silvery wings shed a gentle light on the man with no face, as though it were trying to keep him alive.

As he drifted off to sleep, Charlie had a vague feeling that there was something he should have done. Something important. Whatever it was he was too tired to remember it now.

Julia Ingledew had been working late. There were books to unpack before Monday morning. There were accounts to be done and labels to be marked. At ten o'clock she finished her work and went up to bed. The stairs creaked and the windows rattled more than usual, but she thought nothing of it. The house was very old, and time had warped the ancient beams and window frames.

When Julia got into bed, the rattling grew louder, until it became a heavy, insistent banging. She realized that someone was shaking the store door.

Flinging on her bathrobe, Julia ran down into the shop. By the light of the streetlamp, she could make out two dark forms standing motionless outside her window. Grasping the edge of the counter, Julia froze.

And then the voice came.
Give me the books.
It was hardly more than a whisper, but the words reached into her very soul. Deep and dark and terrible.

She mouthed the words, "What books?" but, of course, she knew the books he wanted. Bartholomew's diaries were lying on the counter; she had meant to take them upstairs with her but had been too busy to remember. Gathering them up, she backed away from the light.

The books of lies.
This time the words were roared at her.
Give me those lies.

Clasping the diaries even tighter, Julia ran through her sitting room and began to climb the stairs. The awful voice followed her.
Give them to me. Give them, give them. Lies, lies, lies, all lies.

"They tell the truth," she muttered. "And you shan't have them."

There was a deafening crack, as though the door was being torn off its hinges.

"Auntie, what's happening?" A terrified Emma stood outside her door.

"They want the diaries." Miss Ingledew bundled Emma back into her room. "Stay there, darling. I'm going to get my cell phone." She put the diaries into Emma's arms and ran to fetch her phone; on her way back to Emma, she dialed the police station but the voice at the other end wasn't reassuring.

The police had been called to every part of the city. There had never been a night like it. A power failure had caused five traffic accidents; there had been nine robberies and eleven fights in pubs. Footsteps had been heard in empty rooms. Basements had been flooded, and a fire had broken out in the council offices. "So I don't know when we'll be able to get to you," the police receptionist told Miss Ingledew. "I suggest you . . ."

Julia was already redialing. She sat beside Emma on her bed as a familiar voice said, "Hello, Julia."

"Paton, we're being broken into. It's, well, I think it's . . ."

"Good grief!" came Paton's voice. She could hear him running down the stairs with his cell phone still pressed to his ear. The door of number nine slammed shut. Footsteps pounded up the street. "Hold on, my dear. Hold on! I'm coming!"

"Oh, Paton," cried Julia. "Hurry, please. They're . . . oh, Paton, I can smell burning."

Paton Yewbeam's legs were probably the longest in the city, but that night they must have stretched another six inches. Everyone who saw him storming through the streets swore that he was seven feet tall. And did he care about exploding lamps? Not a bit. One by one, they broke into a thousand pieces as he raced beneath them.

A police car, responding to yet another robbery, drove past Paton as his tenth light shattered.

"Did you see that?" asked Officer Singh, the driver. "A guy just knocked a lamp out."

"I saw it," Officer Wood confirmed. "Better make a left, soon as you can. That maniac's going to do some damage."

When Paton burst onto the cathedral square he saw flames leaping around the door of Ingledew's. In front of the store a violent fight was taking place. An unfair fight, by the look of it. Paton ran up to the group and recognized Manfred Bloor. The streetlamp exploded just as Manfred lifted his head. He gave a shriek of pain and retreated into the square, holding his face.

The other character wasn't such an easy target. He was kneeling over his victim with his hands around the man's throat. His long, hooded cloak covered both himself and the man on the ground. With the streetlamp gone, all that could be seen in the gloom was a mop of silver hair.

Bending over the hooded man, Paton seized him by the shoulders. The bones he grasped felt like iron. Try as he might, he couldn't loosen the man's grip. The silver-haired victim gave a stifled groan as the iron fingers continued to choke the life out of him.

Paton swung around frantically. "Sorry, Julia," he muttered, staring at the soft lights that hung above the books in Ingledew's window. With an explosive crack, the shatterproof glass broke into pieces and fell to the pavement. "I bet you couldn't do that, enchanter!" Paton reached in and lifted out the heaviest book Julia had ever displayed.

Lifting the book as high as he could, Paton brought it down with all his strength onto the head of the hooded man.

There was a muffled growl of fury as the man loosened his grip and fell sideways. He began to roll over the cobblestones of the square, wrapping himself in his cloak until only a pair of shining eyes could be seen, glaring out from the dark hump of his body.

Paton was deciding whether to pursue his quarry when he heard an approaching police siren. The next minute, a police car roared into the square and when Paton looked for the hooded figure, it had vanished.

Two policemen jumped out of the vehicle and raced toward Paton, yelling, "Don't move. You're under arrest."

Flinging open her smoldering door, Julia Ingledew cried, "That man saved our lives. The villains are getting away."

"Who's this, then?" Officer Singh pointed to the man on the ground.

"I've no idea," said Paton.

"By the look of it, you've killed him." Officer Wood grabbed Paton's arm.

"He didn't!" cried Julia. "He saved his life."

"Seems to me you've got it all wrong, madam." Officer Singh sighed irritably. "We witnessed this man" - he pointed at Paton - "breaking a streetlamp. And who broke this window, I'd like to know."

"Ah. I did that," Paton confessed.

"You did?" Officer Singh frowned. "Wait a minute.

This glass is supposed to be shatterproof, bulletproof, unbreakable. It's in a hundred pieces."

"That's true," Paton said nonchalantly. "But I broke it."

"And saved our lives," said Julia. "I saw it all. Oh, Paton!" She flung her arms around his neck.

Paton, smiling shyly, said, "Ah well."

"So where are these other villains?" asked Officer Singh suspiciously.

"I told you, they ran off," said Julia. "You won't catch them now. But could you help stop my door from burning down?"

"It's all right, Auntie!" Emma emerged with a bucket of water, which she flung at the door.

"Well done, Emma. You've saved the day," said Paton.

Officer Singh had just opened his mouth when a voice from the ground said, "Good lord, Paton Yewbeam."

Paton peered down at the man on the ground. "Bartholomew?" he said, in disbelief.

"It's not like you to stick your neck out," Bartholomew grunted as Paton helped him to his feet.

"I've changed," said Paton gruffly.

The two police officers began to make notes. They took phone numbers and wrote down addresses, but Bartholomew Bloor refused to give them any information. The officers decided that the incident was not as serious as many others in the city that night, and drove away. Officer Singh even gave the group a friendly wave.

The four survivors retreated into the shop. To Julia's relief the thick oak door had survived the fire. It was scarred and scorched and its creak was worse, but the bolts and hinges still worked perfectly.

"I'll make some tea," Emma suggested. Her long blond hair and red bathrobe were soaked from a giant splash, but she was flushed with excitement.

Bartholomew refused to stay another moment. "I never meant to come into the city, but I was anxious," he explained. "My wife was watched; the shadow's spies are everywhere. I knew he'd want the diaries and I realized that I'd put you in danger, Miss Ingledew."

"Just stay a moment . . . ," Julia began.

"I must be gone," Bartholomew insisted. "Where are my diaries?"

"I'll get them." Miss Ingledew ran upstairs and Emma went to put the kettle on.

When the two men were alone, Bartholomew asked, "What made you change, Paton? You were always such a ninny."

Paton winced. "The boy," he said simply. "I had to help him."

"Ah, Charlie." Bartholomew smiled at last. "His father was the best and bravest man I ever knew. You were a poor friend to him, Paton."

"Here they are." Miss Ingledew returned with the diaries. "I'll put them in a book bag."

"Good," said Bartholomew. "Paton, you must give them to Charlie. Tell him to take them into the past."

"What?" Paton took the bag from Julia and stared at Bartholomew in perplexity.

"He's the only one who can put them out of harm's way." Bartholomew's tone was cold and commanding. "Don't you understand? He has the gift. Tell him to take them where the shadow can never reach them."

"But where . . . ?"

"How do I know?" Bartholomew said roughly. "He must decide. Charlie's a clever boy. He knows that my diaries hold a secret that will help rescue his father. I'll bid you all good night." He turned to the door.

"Wait," Paton begged. "Can't we talk? It's been so long. Once you saved my life."

"And you have just saved mine. It changes nothing. Good night, Miss Ingledew." Bartholomew gave a curt nod and swept out.

"What a strange man," Miss Ingledew remarked. "So unfriendly. Come into the back room, Paton, and have some tea before you go."

Paton shook his head. "No, I must leave. It's all my fault, Julia. On Saturday night, after you'd gone, I left the diaries on the kitchen table. My sister must have seen them when she came home from the ball. What a fool I am."

"That's not true. You couldn't have known."

Paton opened the heavy door. "Good night, my dear. Take care."

Across the square, the great cathedral clock began to strike midnight. Paton closed the bookstore door and stood for a moment, staring into the moonlit square, the place where his greatest friend had been lost.