Just Dreaming
“I think it would be a good idea for someone to ring for an ambulance,” he said quietly but with surprising composure. “And get someone from the zoo to come and identify the snake. I might need an antidote.”
Oh God, yes. The hand with the snakebite was swelling more and more.
“You have to suck the venom out,” someone called, but I shook my head. From my time in India, I knew that sucking venom out after a snakebite was an urban myth and did more harm than good to the healing process. And Arthur himself didn’t look as if he were going to try. Maybe he was too weak already. But while all around us people were frantically getting out their cell phones, or running for help, he managed to smile at me all the same. “Looks like the demon has demanded his victim after all.”
Yes, it looked very much like that.
17
WHEN I GOT home, the Boker’s Bentley was parked in the drive, and I thought of disappearing straight into my room. My need for excitement had been more than satisfied for today. But first, a delicious aroma was wafting out of the kitchen, and second, the coffee machine was in there. If I wanted to survive the rest of the day, I needed caffeine. So I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. To my relief, the Boker was conspicuous by her absence. Instead, Florence and Mia were sitting at the kitchen table, Buttercup was on the chair between them, and they were all three staring at the baking sheet that Lottie was just taking out of the oven, with their tongues hanging out. Well, only Buttercup’s tongue was really hanging out, but the other two looked at least as hungry.
And there was also someone else in the kitchen: Charles, leaning back against the fridge. “You’re home at just the right moment, Liv,” he said. “Lottie has been baking scones.”
“Not scones—they’re French brioches,” Florence corrected him.
“Oui, ma chérie,” trilled Lottie cheerfully, and Charles murmured, “Just think.”
I went over inconspicuously to the coffee machine, put a cup under it, and pressed the double espresso button.
“Where’s the Bo … er, Ernest’s mother?” I asked as the beans were being ground. “Her car’s outside the front door.”
“She’s in there. With Mom.” Mia pointed to the dining room. “The wedding invitations have to go out today.”
“And then there’ll be no going back,” said Charles in a sepulchral voice.
My coffee had finished brewing, and I pressed the same button again. “So you are here because…?” I asked, not very politely. Since Lottie had put that notice on her door, saying it was closed on account of unrequited love, my sympathy for Charles was well within bounds.
He blushed slightly. “Oh, I … I just wanted to borrow Ernest’s fretsaw, and besides that…” He took a deep breath and looked at Lottie, who was just arranging her brioches on a plate, humming cheerfully. “And besides that, I wanted to ask Lottie whether she’s doing anything tomorrow evening.”
Lottie went on humming to herself for a few seconds. Then she noticed that he was staring expectantly at her, and said, “Oh, was that the question? No, I’m not doing anything tomorrow evening. Why do you ask?”
“Because—because I have a spare concert ticket, and I spontaneously thought you might like to go to the concert with me,” said Charles.
“Spontaneously?” repeated Lottie. “You spontaneously had a spare ticket?”
Charles nodded.
“Meaning that the ticket was originally intended for someone else?” asked Lottie, putting the plate of brioches down on the table. “Someone who maybe spontaneously couldn’t go?”
Charles looked alarmed, but he couldn’t think up a reply.
Lottie energetically wiped her hands on a tea cloth. “No, sorry, it’s a fact that I didn’t have any plans for tomorrow evening, but spontaneously I feel like doing something other than being used as a stopgap. Where’s my cell phone? Oh, I think I left it upstairs. Just a moment…”
“But … but it’s not like that,” said Charles. “I’ve had the tickets for some time, but…”
By now Lottie had left the kitchen.
“But I … somehow forgot to ask her,” concluded Charles sheepishly.
Florence turned her eyes to the ceiling. “You somehow forgot? Aren’t you old enough to know what you want, Uncle Charles?”
“Well, yes.” Embarrassed, Charles rubbed his knuckles. “I just wish everything wasn’t always so complicated.”
“Hmm,” said Florence. “Then you’d better forget about women and concentrate entirely on golf and your dental practice.”
“Exactly,” Mia agreed. “He can put all his sadism into that without having to break anyone’s heart.”
“I haven’t broken anyone’s heart,” Charles began, but he fell silent when all three of us rolled our eyes.
“Not intentionally, anyway. I’m just a bit slow on the uptake sometimes,” he said remorsefully.
“Very slow on the uptake is more like it,” said Mia.
“Irresolute, cowardly, no finer feelings at all,” added Florence.
“Woof,” agreed Buttercup. If she could have rolled her own eyes, I bet she would have joined us there too.
I was beginning to feel sorry for Charles. “If I were you, I’d go after Lottie right away and talk to her before she makes a date with that Pascal,” I suggested.
Charles looked doubtful. “But suppose she’d sooner spend her time with that grinning Frenchman? I’m not the fighting sort, you know.”
“Good heavens!” Florence was looking daggers at him. “Then it’s high time you tried to be. If you don’t fight for Lottie, she’ll be off and away, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
I stared at her, astonished. Well, well! Florence, of all people, who hadn’t even wanted Lottie in the house at first, standing up for her now? Could be that my stepsister had a heart.
At least her words took effect. Charles straightened his back. “I don’t really have anything to lose, do I?” At the door, he turned back once more. “If it works, I’ll show you my gratitude, girls.”
“And if it doesn’t, we’ll change our dentist,” said Mia when the door had closed.
Florence helped herself to a brioche and moved Buttercup, who was wagging her tail hungrily, off the chair. “I’m so glad I’m not a man. They’re all so silly.”
“My own opinion exactly.” Mia opened Lottie’s iPad, but after a brief glance, she closed it again.
“Nothing new on the Tittle-Tattle blog?” I asked, and Mia shook her head. “Do you think Arthur’s still alive?”
“If he wasn’t, we’d have heard by now,” said Florence. “That kind of news spreads like wildfire.” She rubbed her arms. “I still can’t believe it—a venomous snake in the school lockers. I just hope the police are searching all the lockers thoroughly, or I’m never going to open mine again.”
Yes, I felt the same. In fact, it had been one of my first thoughts as I crouched beside Arthur waiting for help: had the de … had someone left snakes in our lockers as well? If so, I was really glad Arthur had held me up making that speech of his and had opened his locker before I opened mine.
Maybe that was why I’d stayed with him until the doctor arrived. All the time—it was only a few minutes, really—I was expecting Arthur to say something else, something dramatic like “Tell Henry and Grayson I always loved them,” or even “Liv, I swear that if I survive this I’ll be a better person!” But he just sat there perfectly still, clutching his hand, with his head against the wall. He was obviously in great pain. I could imagine what that felt like; I had once been stung by a scorpion in India.
“Anyway, we know now that Arthur isn’t Secrecy,” said Mia. “Unless he wrote up his blog from intensive care.” She opened the iPad again. “Have you noticed how inconsistent Secrecy is these days? Today, for instance, she seems to have been watching the eclipse of the sun both from the roof and from the schoolyard. See that? The photo of the sky dated 10:05 in the caption was taken from the yard. You can
see part of its fence at the edge.”
“Where?” Florence leaned over the display. “But that could be all kinds of other things.”
“No, it’s the fence, I’m sure. I magnified it a lot.” Mia was wearing her best Sherlock Holmes expression. “Later, in the account of the eclipse, at about the time Arthur was bitten, there’s this picture of Mr. Osborne’s behind sticking out when he had the black cloth over himself and his camera obscura. Watch your ass, says the caption.”
“Someone else could have taken it and sent it to Secrecy,” I said, and Florence nodded vigorously.
“Yes, but the whole account reads as if it’s by someone who was on the roof—and what’s more, whoever wrote it seems to know physics pretty well, which brings us to the next inconsistency.” Mia ran her finger down the screen. “Here, on February 20, Secrecy posted a piece calling physics a subject for mentally disturbed nerds who like to show off. And she says she’s glad she gave it up. That was what she said about French, too, last Monday. But apparently it was her favorite subject back in January.”
“Maybe she was just trying to create confusion,” said Florence. “Seems to work, too, from the way you talk.”
Mia shook her head. “No, if anyone is confused, it’s Secrecy. Analysis of the different style and content of parts of the blog shows that quite clearly.”
“Analyzing the posts in the blog stylistically? Who on earth would do a thing like that?” said Florence scornfully.
“I would,” said Mia. “A good detective has to follow every trail—and most of them are left by Secrecy herself in her blog. Until a little less than a year ago, it was all consistent in style and content, but recently Private Detective Silver has found clear differences. Secrecy is always malicious, but sometimes her style is witty and elegant, sometimes more ponderous and stilted; sometime she likes French, sometimes she doesn’t; sometimes she’s still studying physics and makes herself out the guardian of our morals, and so on and so forth.”
“Sounds kind of schizophrenic,” said Florence.
“That hits the spot, I’d say,” replied Mia, looking Florence in the eyes.
Florence shook her head. “I mean you and your detective act, Private Detective Silver.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Not even the IT specialist brought in by the headmistress has managed to find out who’s writing that blog and is, therefore, Secrecy. So don’t waste your time.” Florence grabbed another brioche and left the kitchen.
Mia watched her walk away. “Did you get the feeling she’s mad about something? I did.”
“Yes, a bit. When did you analyze all that, clever little sister?” I asked curiously. I had a feeling that she was keeping something important from me.
Mia grinned. “You know, there are great advantages to steering clear of boys. It gives you much more time for other things.”
“So who do you think Secrecy is? Is Florence still on your list of suspects?”
Mia made a great business of closing the iPad and looked at me intently over the rim of her glasses. “Let’s say the list has narrowed down quite a bit now,” she said, lowering her voice. “Given the present state of my investigations, I can say no more just yet, but you will be the first to know when the time comes.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Judging by the expression on her face, she was longing to tell me all about it, and I knew that if I really pressed her I could get some information. I was about to say, “Oh, come on, we don’t have secrets from each other.” But then I realized that wasn’t true. In fact, I had any number of secrets from Mia, dark secrets, and my laughter faded when I thought of her reaction if she knew that Arthur had been spying on her in her dreams so that he could pass information about me on to Secrecy.
“Do be careful, Mia,” I said. “Secrecy knows all kinds of tricks—she’s an unscrupulous snake, and directly or indirectly she has methods that … well, that maybe you can’t even dream of.”
“Don’t worry.” Mia spoke in her normal voice again. “I’m always reckoning with the impossible, whenever and wherever it turns up. Secrecy may be cunning and malicious, but at least Private Detective Silver is brighter than she is. So far I’ve solved all my cases.” She seemed to listen for a moment. “Hey, don’t you think it’s rather quiet here? Maybe we should check that Mom is still alive, in case the Boker tried clocking her with the guest list.” She picked up a brioche, divided it accurately into two, and gave one half to Buttercup, who was sitting patiently beside her, panting. “Do you think Lottie and Charles have made up?” she asked with her own mouth full.
“You tell me, Private Detective Silver.” I finally took a gulp of my coffee. What with all the excitement, I’d forgotten to drink it, and now it was cold. Never mind, the caffeine was still in working order.
18
“A WHAT?” ANABEL’S eyes were open wide. We had met her, as so often, in the corridor, where she had obviously been waiting for us, this time in the shape of a letter box on Mrs. Cook’s door.
“A Malayan pit viper,” repeated Grayson, who had come out of his door at almost the same moment as me. He had jumped even more nervously than I did when the mailbox began talking.
“Very venomous,” he said. “So the police will probably investigate it as a case of attempted murder.”
Really? Or was Grayson just making it up to make Anabel drop her guard?
“Arthur was lucky that they knew what to do at the hospital,” he went on. “In Thailand, a great many people die from the bite of this snake every year.” He shook himself. “You don’t ever want to Google images of snakebite.”
“So he’s going to survive, is he?” asked Anabel, who of course was no longer a letter box. She was twirling a strand of golden hair in her fingers.
Grayson nodded. “Yes,” he said, and an unfortunately almost escaped me. Horrified, I gasped for air. So it had come to this: I’d rather have seen Arthur dead than able to go on where he had left off.
Anabel’s expression was one of neither regret nor delight. “But how did the snake get into Arthur’s locker?” she asked, and for the first time since I’d known her, she seemed a bit slow to catch on. Grayson and I exchanged a brief glance.
“Yes, that’s the question,” I said slowly. “Whoever put it there must have known the numerical combination to the locker, because the lock hadn’t been broken open.”
“Yes, but … I mean, where would anyone get a poisonous snake like that from? Can you just buy one in a shop?” asked Anabel.
Grayson shook his head. “No. Normally anyone keeping poisonous snakes would have to show a certificate saying he was fit to be in charge of them, and what’s more, no one seems to be missing a snake, not the zoo or in any other collection of reptiles in and around London.”
“That’s odd.” Anabel was biting her lower lip. “Because…” She fell silent and briefly looked around.
“Because you’re the only one who knows the combination to Arthur’s locker?” I completed her sentence. “That’s what Arthur says, anyway,”
“What?” Anabel looked confused. “Yes, I do know the combination, unless he’s altered it. But what’s that to do with … oh, I see what you mean!”
Thank goodness. It had taken her long enough.
“Was it you?” asked Grayson straight out.
“No, of course not,” replied Anabel. “My goodness, I have a snake phobia, I could never bring myself to touch one! I wouldn’t know how. Honestly, to think you’d believe that!” She shook her head vigorously.
“Well,” said Grayson slowly. “You might not do it of your own free will, but if the de…” He cleared his throat. “If someone ordered you to do it, someone that you, er…” Grayson had lost the thread. He didn’t notice a change in the light or the black feather floating down from the ceiling.
Oh no, not again! I didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or frightened. Unfortunately my body decided on fear: at the sight of the feather, I got goose bumps all over, and my heart began beating faster
.
“It wasn’t me,” repeated Anabel. “Not even in his service.”
The light dimmed even more.
“Maybe…” Grayson hesitated. “Maybe you just don’t know it anymore.”
“What don’t I know anymore?” asked Anabel, irritated. “You mean I don’t know I stole a venomous snake from somewhere or other and took it for a walk in my old school to attack my ex-boyfriend?” She snorted briefly and tossed back her long hair. This was the Anabel we knew. “I don’t think I’d have forgotten a thing like that.”
“But wouldn’t it be in line with the symptoms of your sickness?”
“I don’t have brainstorms!” Anabel angrily interrupted Grayson. Then she went on, a little less furiously, “Don’t you two understand? If I’d done it in his service, I wouldn’t deny it. Why should I?”
More feathers were drifting down, and Anabel caught one on the palm of her hand. The sight seemed to both soothe and please her, because now she was smiling. “The Winged Commander has incalculable power—when will you finally grasp that? If he wants to send a snake to punish Arthur, he doesn’t need anyone else to help him.” She put back her head and raised her hands, and her voice grew louder and more solemn. “For he is lord and master of the creatures of the night, snakes grow upon his head…”
“That was Medusa,” murmured Grayson, but I urged him to walk away. I’d been in this damned corridor with Anabel in her psychotic mood once too often, and the way she was now working herself up, in her sermon about the demon, suggested that the situation might well escalate. Which presumably meant that it would then rain snakes instead of feathers.
Grayson, too, seemed to have noticed that this was not the best moment for a sensible conversation. He willingly followed me around the next corner, where we started trotting along, as if by mutual agreement.
“If he has shown Arthur mercy, there may also be hope for you two unbelievers,” Anabel called after us. “You can still repent.”