The Maharajah's Monkey (27 page)

COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2010
THE NEXT KIT SALTER ADVENTURE

The Book of Bones

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It was a cheerless day to travel, the wind howling off Dartmoor, buffeting the coach that was taking us back to Oxford. A storm was blowing up: a few fat droplets began to splatter against the windows. The track leading off the moor past the small country villages was rough, full of potholes that jerked us about till our bones ached. I pitied Hodges, our genial coach driver, sitting on his perch high above the horses. He was exposed to the full fury of the elements. Even more, though, did I pity the four poor beasts. Already they were lathered in white froth.

Mrs. Glee had decided we would travel from Merriford House back to Oxford by coach, even though the train was so much more convenient. I had tried to argue, but she had made up her mind. I suspected, frail as she was, she was frightened of train travel. Huddled between Rachel and Isaac, I recalled the old legends that told of great beasts that roamed the moor; of highwaymen
who preyed on unguarded travelers. I shivered a little, thinking of these things, but I got no sympathy from my friends. Indeed the atmosphere inside the coach was as thick as a pea-souper fog. I could have choked on the dark looks, misunderstandings and ill-humor wafting around. Both Waldo and Rachel were furious with your friend, Kit Salter, and had declared they would never speak to me again. Rachel had been especially hurtful:

“You know what your problem is, Kit?” she had spat. “Apart from being downright domineering, of course. Jealousy. Don't look so surprised. J.E.A.L.O.U.S.Y. You don't like your friends having other friends. You want to be number one, the whole time.”

The silence in the coach left me plenty of time to reflect on Rachel's words. Uncomfortably, I had to admit that there might be some small element of truth in what she was saying. But minuscule. Really very small. Truly!

As neither Waldo nor Rachel were talking to me, and Isaac was lost in his own (possibly explosive) thoughts, I turned to Mrs. Glee, who was crocheting a hideous pink bonnet.

“Merriford House was lovely,” I said. “So gloomy. I loved the way the wind from the moors blew past the towers.”

“Wasn't it lovely,” she agreed. “I'm so happy for Miss
Minchin. Marrying a baronet's son. Usually fortune does not smile upon poor governesses.”

There was a wistful look in her gray-green eyes as she said this. I wanted to take her hand and squeeze it, to give her a little of my own courage. Life, I guessed had not been kind to Mrs. Glee. You could see her disappointments in the lines on her face and the anxiety with which she greeted everything. She did try, poor thing, but she just wasn't strong enough for this world.

I had never found out about her late husband, Mr. Glee. I was tempted to try a little probing.

“Is it lonely now?” I asked, gently. “Do you miss Mr. Glee very much?”

To my surprise she went rigid and arched back in her seat.

“Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why do you ask?” Her eyes searched mine.

“I just wondered. I thought—well, I thought you must miss him sorely.”

Mrs. Glee was biting her lip, “He was a brute, Kitty, a brute.”

I didn't know what to say. She sounded so fierce.

“I'm sorry,” I murmured, lamely.

“Not a day goes by, not single day, in which I don't give thanks that I am rid of him.”

There was silence after this. The six horses pulling our coach labored in front of us. All that could be heard was their panting and snorting and the fierce whoosh of the wind outside. I was wearing a thick navy traveling cloak above my serge dress, but I was still chilled inside and out. There were so many mysteries about our new governess. She was an angry person, I'd discovered. At the same time, everything seemed to make her fearful. Why had Mrs. Glee turned down the quick and modern train? Dark shapes loomed against the sinister murk of the moor: wind-blasted trees, the occasional wretched cottage. Howling beasts and our poor horses, dodging potholes in the dusk.

Just as I was marveling thus, the coach stopped with a jolt. Rachel was thrown against Waldo and screeched. Isaac's glasses fell off as the horses began to neigh—a high terrifying sound. Odd noises were louder in the silence of the moor: the driver Hodges shouting, the crack of a whip and then booming voices intermingling with scuffling. I peered through the window but could see only dark shapes through the smudgy glass pane.

“What's up?” I yelped, leaping into action. “Hodges?”

“Stand back,” Waldo pushed me down.

“Highwaymen!” Isaac yelled.

“It's nothing, you booby,” Waldo snapped. “Probably just some drunk on the track.”

Mrs. Glee was the only one not caught up in the commotion.
She had retreated from everything into her crocheting, ignoring the horses frenzied neighing and the lurching of the coach. Waldo was struggling now with the door handle, but quite unable to open it.

“Let me have a go.” I said. “You have to twist it to the right.”

Sighing Mrs. Glee put down her crochet, “It won't do any good.”

“What?” We stopped and stared at her.

“I'm sorry children. The door is locked.”

Both Waldo and I were frantically tugging at the door, as it was certain now that there was something more than an ale-sodden villager out there. A sharp crack outside brought us to a stop. A second bang filled the air, followed by a moment's deep silence.

Gun shots.

“I locked the carriage door for your own safety, Kit and Waldo. I really don't want you to get hurt,” Mrs. Glee murmured.

“Open it at once, you fool,” I exploded, not caring about her feelings. “There's a highwayman out there.”

“I'm so, so sorry about this.”

“She's raving, Waldo. Smash the window pane.”

Waldo had already taken off his shoe and was thwacking hard at the glass with the wooden heel. Once. No effect. Twice the glass still held.

“Hurry,” I yelled. I couldn't bear the neighing of the horses. “I'll smash it.”

Waldo shoved me away and thwacked with all his might. A thin crack split the pane and at the fourth blow it shattered. Waldo was about to put his head through the jagged hole when something appeared at the window. A face. It was of perfect plump roundness, framed by a fringe of red-blond hair at top and bottom. At first glance it was friendly. But there was malice in the piggy eyes and something nasty in the way the glistening, rosebud lips were pouting.

“'Allo Vera,” the man said.

Mrs. Glee put her crochet on her lap and looked at the man, “So its you.”

“Not a very friendly greeting.”

“Bert—they're just children.”

“Always liked nippers,” Bert leered. “You know me.”

“Go easy.” Mrs. Glee's hands, those wrinkled hands holding the crochet, were trembling. Her face, though, was calm.

“Orders is orders,” Bert shrugged. “No loose ends.”

The rest of us watched this strange conversation in bewilderment, for things were happening too fast. Rachel screeched suddenly and Mrs. Glee frowned.

“Quiet, please,” she said. “For your own good, be quiet.”

“But what's happening?” Rachel gasped, “Who are you?”

“It doesn't matter. I'm nobody.”

“Mrs. Glee?!”

“I beg you to listen to Bert. It will be better for all of us, if you do.”

I had never been so bewildered in my life. Mrs. Glee was clearly frightened, I could see that. But other things were wrong. She knew this thug, Bert. They were trying to kidnap us. Emily had been right. Our new governess was not who she pretended to be. There was something twisted out of shape about Mrs. Glee. Never mind that now, I had to act.

“I'm sorry too,” I said, bunching my hand into a fist.

I thwacked Mrs. Glee with all my might, leaving a mark on her face. At the same time Waldo seized a splinter of glass and held it to her throat.

“Call off your man,” I snapped pinioning her arms, “or Waldo will cut your throat.”

Mrs. Glee was trembling uncontrollably. “Stop it, stop it! Please. Someone will get hurt.”

Flicking my eyes, I saw that Bert held a pistol, inches from Rachel's head. We were outflanked.

“Put the glass down Waldo,” I hissed.

“No,” Waldo barked, his hand quivering at Mrs. Glee's plump throat.

“He has a gun,” I said quietly.

Waldo turned and saw Bert's derringer. In a flash it was all over. Mrs. Glee stood up and handed something through the window to Bert. He took the key and unlocked the carriage door and was inside, bringing a rank stench of sweat, grease and gin with him.

“Room for one more,” he grunted, as he heaved his lumbering body into the carriage. Squashed up as we were, we had no choice. The villain sat massive on the bench. The gun lay limply in a fat paw. I saw Waldo eyeing it, but signaled him no. It wasn't worth taking a chance now, for this was a desperate game.

“The driver?” Mrs. Glee asked the thug.

“Out.”

“We bringing him along?”

“Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. Your game's done.”

“Bert!”

“Shut up.” Bert closed his eyes. I could see him looking at us through his sandy lashes.

Were they talking about our coach driver, Hodges? The gentlest of men, with horses, or indeed anything on four legs. Was he even now struggling bound, in a ditch, bleeding? Or worse, surely they wouldn't have murdered him?

“You better not have hurt him,” I burst out. “My father
will kill you if you've harmed Hodges.”

Abruptly, the carriage rumbled off, jerkily and swaying side to side. The horses whimpered and neighed accompanied by the brutal crack of the whip.

“What is this?” Waldo spat, his eyes red in a furious white face. “Who are you? What are you doing with us?”

“Questions, questions, questions,” Bert smiled, while Mrs. Glee sat whey-faced.

“If you've hoping for a ransom, forget it. Our parents aren't rich.”

Bert grinned as though this was a huge joke. “I've had enough of you,” he murmured. “Any of you pesky brats opens your mouf again, I'll cuff you.” In his hammy hands, a set of handcuffs had appeared, along with the pistol.

My gaze flickered over the faces of my friends, shadowy in the dark interior of the coach. Rachel, sucking her lower lip in agitation. Isaac, pale as chalk. Waldo, eyes glittering with fury. We had to wait, watch, be patient and when it came, seize our chance.

Bert seemed to read my mind. He turned to me, his eyeballs barely visible between two rolls of fat. Plump lips opened and a blob of spittle just missed my feet. Shuddering, I sank back in my seat and felt Waldo's hand gripping my arm. Stay strong, he seemed to be signaling. If we held our nerve, surely our chance to escape would come?