****
Once I stopped worrying about Harley chasing us, the tour was really neat. It was an interesting place. The buildings were ancient and decrepit, but the collections inside were the kind of wonderful old things that most museums replace with glitz and bling in an attempt to lure young people. Faded seaweed collections were parked next to musty stuffed birds from when taxidermy was king. Inside glass cases were hand-lettered yellowed cards, usually written in Latin, which identified the rocks, butterflies, and skulls of dead animals. I could have spent a year in there. Brother Matthew countered that thought right away, as though he were reading my mind, saying, “This area is off limits to the regular student body, unless a student has a special project to be researched.”
I could see why he might worry that rowdy boys could do serious damage. The windows of the natural history building were so old they were wavy with age. You could do damage to those old windows with a strong wind, not to mention with a careless elbow.
Each building was separated by a brick courtyard that was overgrown with what I thought were messy borders of small plants, and hedged with shrubbery and creepers and vines. Brother Matthew must have seen us eying what looked like weeds. He explained, “This is, in fact, a vast collection of plants that provides seeds to programs for heirloom herbs and antique garden restoration and historical landscaping projects.”
He pointed to one particularly untidy plot. “Here is the Heritage Medicinal Herb Garden I was talking about earlier.” I squatted to look at the plant tags. It was like reading an old herbal manual from the Middle Ages: aconite, digitalis, comfrey.
Brookie stood up and turned around, gazing at the towering sides of the building. There were a few windows along the eaves that he was paying particularly close attention to. He didn’t miss much with those pale blue eyes of his. What was he thinking? Another look at that book? No way!
We walked farther down the path until we came out of the shelter of the older building. In the distance there were long rows of plants growing in a cultivated field bordered by trees. Brother Matthew pointed to a newer brick building in the foreground. That is, the small brick building he was pointing to was newer than the others by a century or so.
“This is St. Rupert’s production facility, where our brotherhood makes our Monastery Nostalgic Foods products: St. Rupert’s Best Dandelion Wine and Abbot’s Choice Gooseberry Jelly.”
There was sniggering in the back of the group. I already knew that everybody’s mom and dad would be bullied into buying as much of that stuff as they could carry home during Parents’ Weekend. It was a major fund-raiser for the Order of St. Rupert, which even had a mail-order catalogue to sell the stuff. We walked back toward the Head’s office to finish the tour.
“Father Dell, our abbot, is out of town this week, but I want you to see the admin offices. I will be available to all students in his absence.” He walked us over to a cluster of suites.
“This is my office, right next to Father Dell’s. Here are my regular office hours.” He pointed to a notice on the door. “I’m available at other hours, if it’s important.” He kind of glanced at Brookie. Discipline for the troublemaker, uh-huh. Brother Matthew cleared his throat.
“Ahem, the tour is over, and thank you for coming and showing so much interest in your school. St. Rupert’s is an institution to be proud of. Take the time to learn as much as you can about it while you are here, boys. You’ll never be sorry you did.”
Oh, yeah. He might be sorry, though. I’m afraid Brookie was already learning a lot more than Brother Matthew expected us to, about how to sneak in and photograph that book.
As the crowd broke up and headed back to their dorms, Brookie turned to zoom off with his usual just-shot-out-of-the-rocket speed. I was feeling pretty worried, so I ran after him. I grabbed him by the sleeve to stop him as I caught up with him.
“Brookie, I’ve just thought of something.” I paused, uncertain whether to go on.
“Don’t strain anything, man.” He was impatient and ready to leave.
I turned and faced him with both feet planted squarely to keep him from haring off.
“No, listen.” My voice felt strained, like I was going to choke. “If Harley is so persistent, if he is willing to risk getting caught like that, dressed up in a monk’s robe, if he is so touchy about getting his picture taken by a couple of kids . . . there’s no client buying any art object.” I paused to swallow.
Brookie stared at me hard as he waited for me to get to the point.
“Harley’s got to be trying to steal the thing for himself, Brookie.”