"Sister Fenella, who was that lady who was here the other day?"
"Well, I'm not sure, Malcolm. She came to see Sister Benedicta, and they didn't tell me why. I expect she had something to do with Child Services."
"What are they?"
"They're the people who make sure that children are being looked after properly, I think. I expect she came to check on us, to make sure we were doing it right."
"She came to our school," said Malcolm, and he told Sister Fenella all about it. The old lady listened so intently that she stopped grating the cheese. "Have you ever heard of St. Alexander?" Malcolm said to end with.
"Well, there are so many saints, it's hard to remember them all. All doing God's work in different ways."
"But he told on his parents, and they were executed."
"Oh, that doesn't happen anymore. And it's hard to understand some things, dear. Even if it doesn't sound right, it doesn't mean that good won't come of it. These things are too deep for us to understand."
"I've done all these potatoes. Shall I do some more?"
"No, that's enough, dear. If you'd like to polish the silver..."
But the kitchen door opened then, and Sister Benedicta came in.
"I thought I heard you, Malcolm," she said. "May I borrow him for a moment, Sister Fenella?"
"Oh, of course, Sister, yes, do. Thank you, Malcolm."
"Evening, Sister Benedicta," Malcolm said as he followed the nun down the corridor to her little parlor. He listened for Lyra's babbling but heard nothing.
"Sit down, Malcolm. Don't worry--you're not in trouble. I want you to tell me about that woman who was here the other day. I believe she's been to your school. What did she want?"
For the second time that evening, Malcolm told the story of the League of St. Alexander, and the headmaster, and the other teachers who'd gone missing, and the whole affair.
Sister Benedicta listened without interrupting. Her expression was stern.
"So what was she doing here, Sister Benedicta?" he said when he'd finished. "Was she asking about Lyra? Because she's too young to join anything."
"Quite so. Miss Carmichael's business with us is concluded, I hope. But I'm concerned to hear about these children who are being encouraged to behave badly. Why has nobody told this to a newspaper?"
"I dunno. Maybe--"
"Don't know."
"I don't know, Sister. Perhaps the newspapers aren't allowed to print it."
"Yes, possibly so. Well, thank you, Malcolm. You'd better get back to your parents now."
"Can I see Lyra?"
"Not now. She's asleep. But look--come with me."
She led him back down the corridor and stopped at the door of the room Lyra had been in.
"What d'you think of this?" she said.
She opened the door and switched on the light. A miraculous change had taken place: instead of the gloomy paneling, the walls were painted a bright, cheerful cream, and there were some warm rugs on the floor.
"I thought I could smell paint! This is lovely," he said. "Is this her room for good now?"
"It was wrong for a little child as it was. Too dark. This is better, don't you think? What else do you think she might need in here?"
"A little table and chair for when she's older. Some nice pictures. And a bookshelf, 'cause I bet she's going to like looking at books. She can teach her daemon to read. And a toy box. And a rocking horse. And--"
"Well, can you and Mr. Taphouse get on and make some of those things?"
"Yes! I'll start tonight. He's got some lovely oak."
"He's already gone home. Tomorrow, perhaps."
"Right. We'll do that. I know exactly what she needs."
"I'm sure you do."
"Sister Benedicta," he said before she switched the light off, "why is Mr. Taphouse making shutters?"
"Security," she said. "Good night, Malcolm."
--
He had a lot to tell Dr. Relf on Saturday. For a while he thought he wouldn't be able to get to her, though, because the river was so full and fast-flowing that it was hard to make it to Duke's Cut, and then the canal itself was brimful and disturbed by the burden of water that had flowed into it from the heavy rain of the past weeks.
He found Dr. Relf filling sandbags. Several jute bags lay on a pile of sand in her little front garden, and she was trying unsuccessfully to fill the first one.
"If you hold it," said Malcolm, "I'll put the sand in. It's almost impossible for one person on their own. I suppose if you made a frame to hold it..."
"No time for that," said Dr. Relf.
"Has there been a flood warning?"
"A policeman came to the door last night. It seems they expect a flood soon. I just thought it would be sensible, so I got a builder to drop off some sand. But you're right, it's very difficult for one pair of hands."
"Have you been flooded before?"
"No, but I haven't lived here very long. I think the previous owner was."
"The river's very full."
"Are you safe, in that boat of yours?"
"Oh, yeah. Safer'n being on land. If you float on top of the water, it won't harm you."
"I suppose so. But do take care."
"I always do. You ought to sew up the ends of these. You need a sailmaker's needle."
"I'll have to make do with what I've got. There, that's the last one."
It had begun to rain hard, so having stacked the sandbags neatly beside the door, they hurried inside. Over the usual mugs of chocolatl, Malcolm, who was well rehearsed now, told her of the latest developments.
"I did wonder," he said, "whether it might be a good idea to join this league so's I'd have more to tell you about it, but--"
"No, don't," she said at once. "Remember, I just want to know what you find out in the normal course of things. Don't go looking specially for anything. And I think if you got involved with these people, they wouldn't let you leave. Just talk to Eric from time to time. But I've got some information for you, Malcolm. The person behind the League of St. Alexander is Lyra's mother."
"What?"
"That's right. The mother who didn't want her. Mrs. Coulter, that's her name."
"Maybe that was why Miss Carmichael was at the priory, to see if they were looking after Lyra properly so she could tell her mother....Blimey."
"I wonder. It doesn't sound as if Mrs. Coulter is very concerned about the child one way or the other. Perhaps Miss Carmichael wanted to get hold of her for some other reason."
"Sister Benedicta got rid of her anyway."
"I'm glad to hear it. Any news of the CCD men? Have you seen them around again?"
"No, I en't, and no one at the Trout has either, not since George Boatwright got away."
"I wonder how he's getting on."
"I 'spect he's wet," said Malcolm. "If he's hiding in the woods, he's probably wet through and freezing cold."
"I expect he is. Now, what about your books, Malcolm?"
When Malcolm showed Mr. Taphouse the new tool Mr. Croker had given him, and they'd tried it with the help of the anbaric drill, the old man was impressed enough to let him file down the heads of several screws for use in the shutters he was about to put up.
"They won't get in now, Malcolm," he said, as if he'd thought of the idea himself.
"But who are they?" said Malcolm.
"Malefactors."
"What are malefactors?"
"Evildoers. Don't they teach you nothing at that school?"
"Nothing like that. What sort of evildoers?"
"Never you mind. Get on and do us another dozen screws, will you?"
Malcolm counted them out and put the first one in the vise while Mr. Taphouse put a second coat of Danish oil on the finished shutters to keep them safe from the weather.
"Course, there's other sorts of evildoers than human ones," the old man said.
"Is there?"
"Oh, yes. There's spiritual evil as well. Take more'n an oak shutter to keep that o
ut."
"What d'you mean by spiritual evil? Ghosts?"
"Ghosts are the least of it, boy. Night-ghasts, specters, apparitions--all they can do is say boo and frighten you."
"You ever seen a ghost, Mr. Taphouse?"
"Yes. Three times. Once in the graveyard over at St. Peter's in Wolvercote. Another in the Old Gaol in town."
"What were you in gaol for?"
"I wasn't in gaol, you half-wit. It was the Old Gaol, after they built the new one. I was working there one winter's day, taking down some of the old doors and that so they could paint it up nice and make it into offices or whatever. There was this one room--big tall place, high ceiling, only one window very high up, and that was all thick with cobwebs, and this dismal gray light coming in. I had to take down this big platform, oak beams, heavy stuff, I didn't know what it was. Had a sort of trapdoor in the middle. Well, I was down on the floor, setting up my sawhorse, and I heard this tremendous bang from behind me, where the platform was. So I jumped and turned round, and damn me if there wasn't a rope hanging through the trapdoor with a dead man on the end of it. That was the execution chamber, see, and the platform was the scaffold."
"What did you do?"
"I fell to me knees and I prayed like fury. When I opened me eyes, it was gone. No rope, no dead man, and the trapdoor was closed."
"Blimey!"
"Give me a proper turn, it did."
"You never knelt down and prayed--you fainted clean away," said the old man's woodpecker daemon from the workbench.
"Well, you may be right," he said.
"I remember, because I fell off the sawhorse," she said.
"Cor," said Malcolm, deeply impressed. And then, ever practical, he said, "What did you do with the wood?"
"I burned it all. Couldn't use it. Soaked in misery, it was."
"Yeah, I bet....And where was the third ghost you saw?"
"Right in here. In fact, now I think of it, it was right where you're standing. It was the most horrible thing I ever saw. It was indescribable. How old d'you think I am, eh?"
"Seventy?" said Malcolm, who knew well that Mr. Taphouse had had his seventy-fifth birthday the previous autumn.
"See, that's what terror does to you. I'm thirty-nine, boy. I was a young man till I saw that apparition right there, exactly where you're standing. Turned me hair white overnight."
"I don't believe you," said Malcolm, half sure.
"Suit yourself. I shan't tell you any more. How you doing with them screws?"
"I think you're just making it up. I've done four."
"Well, get on with--"
But before he could finish, there came a furious knocking at the door, and a desperate fumbling with the handle. Malcolm was already primed for fear and felt his skin prickle all over and a lurch in his stomach. He and the old man looked at each other, but before either could say a word, Sister Fenella called, "Mr. Taphouse! Come quickly! Please come and help!"
Without hurrying, Mr. Taphouse picked up a stout hammer and opened the door. Sister Fenella stumbled into the workshop and seized him by the arm.
"Come quickly!" she said, her voice high and quavering, every limb trembling, her face white.
She didn't see Malcolm standing behind him, file in hand. He followed the two of them out quietly.
"What's the trouble?" said the old man as she hurried him along the path to the priory kitchen.
Malcolm's first thought was that a pipe had burst, but that wouldn't account for the old nun's terror. Then he thought there must be a fire, but there was no smell of smoke, no glare of flame. She was gabbling something to Mr. Taphouse, but he couldn't make it out either, because he said, "Slow down, Sister. Slow down. Take a breath and speak slowly."
"Some men--wearing uniforms--they came in and they want to take Lyra away--"
Malcolm could hardly stifle a cry. They probably wouldn't have heard him anyway, over the sound of their feet on the gravel path, and Sister Fenella's panic, and Mr. Taphouse's hearing wasn't all that good in the first place; but nothing was going to prevent Malcolm from following. He wished he'd picked up a hammer like the old man.
"They say who they were?" said Mr. Taphouse.
"No--or at least I didn't understand--like soldiers, or police, or something--oh, dear--"
They were entering the kitchen as she said that. She clutched one hand to her heart and felt around with the other, and Malcolm darted to bring her a chair. She sank onto it, her breathing fast and shallow. Malcolm thought she might die, and he wanted to do something immediately to save her life, but he didn't know what he could do; and in any case there was Lyra....
Sister Fenella gestured shakily towards the corridor. She couldn't say anything.
Mr. Taphouse set off, slow and steady, and he didn't seem to mind Malcolm coming too. In the corridor outside the room that was now Lyra's, there was a group of nuns, all of whom Malcolm knew well, and they were crowding nervously around the door, which was closed.
"What's going on, Sister Clara?" said Mr. Taphouse.
Sister Clara was plump and red-faced and sensible. She jumped slightly and turned round to whisper, "Three men in uniform--they say they've come to take the baby away. Sister Benedicta is talking to them...."
A man's voice was rumbling behind the door. Mr. Taphouse moved towards it, and the nuns all shuffled out of his way. Malcolm went with him.
The old carpenter knocked firmly three times, and then opened the door. Malcolm heard a man's voice saying, "But we have all the authority we need--"
Mr. Taphouse said, "Sister Benedicta, do you need my help?"
"Who is--" the man began, but Sister Benedicta spoke over him.
"Thank you, Mr. Taphouse. Please stay outside, if you'd be good enough. But leave the door open, because these gentlemen are about to go."
"I don't think you quite understand the situation," said another man's voice, educated and pleasant.
"I understand it perfectly," she said. "You are going to go away, and I don't expect you to come back."
Malcolm marveled at the clarity and calm in her voice.
"Let me explain again," said the second man. "We have a warrant from the Office of Child Protection--"
"Oh, yes, the warrant," said Sister Benedicta. "Let me see it."
"I have shown it to you already."
"I want to see it again. You didn't give me a chance to read it properly."
There was the sound of a piece of paper being unfolded, and then a few seconds' silence.
"What is this office, of which I have never heard?" she said.
"It's under the jurisdiction of the Consistorial Court of Discipline, of which I expect you have heard."
And then Malcolm, peering around the edge of the door, saw Sister Benedicta tear the sheet of paper into several pieces and throw them into the fire. One or two of the nuns gasped. The men watched, narrow-eyed. Their uniforms were black, and two of them hadn't taken their caps off, which Malcolm knew was bad manners, apart from anything else.
Then Sister Benedicta picked up Lyra with the utmost care and held her tight.
"Did you seriously think for one moment," she said, sounding fierce now, "that I would let this little baby, who has been given into our care, be taken away by three strangers on the strength of a single piece of paper? Three men who practically forced their way into this holy building without any invitation? Who frightened the oldest and the least well of us with threats and weapons--yes, weapons--waving your guns in her face? Who do you think you are? What do you think this place is? The sisters have been giving care and hospitality here for eight hundred years. Think what that means. Am I going to abandon all our holy obligations because three bullies in uniform come shouldering their way in and try to frighten us? And for a helpless baby not six months old? Now go. Get out and don't come back."
"You haven't heard--"
"Oh, now, go on--tell me I haven't heard the last of it. Get out, you bully. Take your two thugs and go home. And you might think
of praying to the good Lord and asking for forgiveness."
All this time Malcolm had heard Lyra and her little daemon chattering away in their pidgin English. Now, for some reason, they stopped, and a thin, uncertain sobbing began to come from her instead. Holding her tight, Sister Benedicta stood firm and faced the men, who had no choice; they turned sullenly and came towards the door. Mr. Taphouse stepped back to make room for them, and so did Malcolm and the nuns, so that there was almost a guard of dishonor for the men to walk through.
Once they'd gone, all the nuns flooded into the baby's room and surrounded Sister Benedicta, uttering little words of sympathy and admiration, stroking Lyra's head. Her crying stopped, and Malcolm saw her smile and laugh and preen herself, as if she had done something splendid.
Mr. Taphouse took him by the shoulder and pulled him gently away. As the two of them made their way back to the workshop, Malcolm asked, "Were they malefactors?"
"Yes, they were," the old man replied. "Time to clear up now. Leave them screws till next time."
He wouldn't say any more, so Malcolm helped sweep up and tidy, and fetched a bucket of water for the rags Mr. Taphouse had been wiping the Danish oil on with, to stop them spontaneously combusting. Then he went home.
--
"Mum, what's the Office of Child Protection?"
"Never heard of it. Eat your supper."
In between mouthfuls of sausage and mash, Malcolm told his mother what had happened. She had seen Lyra herself now--had even held her--and so she realized what it would have meant for the nuns to be deprived of her.
"Wicked," she said. "What happened to Sister Fenella?"
"She wasn't in the kitchen when we went back through. She probably went to bed. She was well scared."
"Poor old lady. I'll take her round some cordial tomorrow."
"Sister Benedicta didn't budge an inch. You should have seen the malefactors when she tore their warrant up."
"What d'you call 'em?"
"Malefactors. Mr. Taphouse told me that word."
"Hmm" was all she said to that.
While Malcolm and his mother talked, Alice had been washing the dishes in her silent, sullen way, and she and Malcolm had been pointedly ignoring each other, as usual. But just then Mrs. Polstead left the kitchen to fetch something from the cellar, and to Malcolm's great surprise, Alice's daemon growled.
Malcolm looked up, astonished. The daemon was in the form of a big rough-coated mongrel, sitting behind Alice's legs. The hair on his neck was bristling, and he was looking up at Alice, who wiped a wet and soapy hand on her dress before stroking his head with it.