"It's not the sort of thing you can forget," muttered Charlie.
Darren thought he knew a Tigerfield Street. He pointed to the cathedral square, telling them it could be one of the small alleys leading off the road at the back. "I can't be sure," he said. "I thought it had another name, like Tigerfield Way, or Steps, or something."
They said good-bye to Lucy, Darren, and Grace and wished them good luck in their new home. Then they made their way up to Cathedral Close. They had to pass the bookstore on the way, and Uncle Paton was about to stop and look in on Miss Ingledew, when Emma grabbed his arm and said, "Not now, Mr. Yewbeam. Let's find the other Mr. Bittermouse first."
Uncle Paton frowned. Emma's tone seemed to suggest that something was amiss. "Is your aunt all right?" he asked.
"Yes, but..." Emma hesitated. "She's been sort of burgled."
"What?" Paton stood stock-still. "How could you forget to tell me? I must go to her at once." He began to stride toward the bookstore.
"NO!" cried Emma, so loudly that Uncle Paton was halted in his tracks. "Auntie doesn't want... doesn't need you right now. She wasn't really burgled, she was just..."
"What?" Paton demanded. "Burgled or not burgled?"
"Not," said Emma lamely. "Just visited by ruffians. But she's OK. Please, can we go on to Tigerfield Street?"
Charlie swung from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. "It's so cold, Uncle Paton. Can we move on?" He began to walk across the wide square in front of the cathedral, with Emma hurrying beside him.
Uncle Paton followed them reluctantly. Glancing back, Charlie saw that his uncle looked troubled, and wondered if it was because Emma had implied that her aunt didn't want to see him.
A small wrought-iron gate led out of Cathedral Close and onto a road called Hangman's Way. Charlie remembered that Billy Raven had once been kept in one of the dark alleys leading off Hangman's Way. Emma remembered, too. She shivered at the thought of poor Billy, held fast behind the force field of a sinister man named Mr. de Grey.
"There it is!" Uncle Paton announced. He pointed to the sign on a wall that curved into a dark gap little more than a few feet wide.
"Tigerfield Street," said Charlie.
"This must be the place," said Paton.
They crossed the road and stood at the entrance to Tigerfield Street.
"It's hardly a street." Emma stared doubtfully at the flight of stone steps that led up into the darkness.
The tops of the buildings leaned so dangerously, they appeared almost to touch one another.
"Come on." Charlie began to mount the steps. They climbed in single file, their footsteps echoing in the confined space, the only sound for miles, it seemed. Charlie counted the numbers on the thick oak doors. Some were missing altogether. There was a sixteen, then nothing until twelve was reached, with an eleven opposite.
"Here!" cried Charlie. "Number Ten."
The single bronze numbers hadn't been cleaned for years and were now green with mildew. Beneath them was a large bronze door knocker in the shape of a tiger's head. Charlie lifted the head and knocked.
There wasn't a sound within the house. Charlie knocked again. And again. After the third knock, something curious happened. The door creaked open, just an inch.
"It's not even latched," Uncle Paton observed, pushing the door until it swung right back, revealing a small marble-tiled hall. "Hello there!" he called. "Anyone home?"
There was no answer.
A tingle of foreboding ran down Charlie's spine. Something had happened in this house. Was there a ghost in the place or was it worse than that?
Uncle Paton stepped inside and the others followed. They opened a door at the side of the hall and looked into a small kitchen, where pots and pans were heaped on the drainboard. A brown teapot was warm to the touch, and there was steam on the window but no sign of the person who had recently made a cup of tea.
On the other side of the hall was a cozy living room where a scuffed leather sofa and an armchair clustered around the fireplace. The embers of a recent fire could be seen glowing in the grate.
"Perhaps Mr. Bittermouse just popped out for a newspaper and forgot to lock the door," Emma suggested.
"Perhaps," said Uncle Paton.
At the end of the hall an uncarpeted wooden staircase led to the rooms above.
"A lawyer usually has a desk," said Uncle Paton thoughtfully. "Mr. Bittermouse's study could be up there."
"And he could have fallen asleep over his books," said Emma, "being so old. Old people often fall asleep like that."
Uncle Paton gave her a look that said, "You don't have to be old to do that."
"Let's go up." Emma's foot was already on the first step. "Hello!" she called. "Anyone up there?"
The treads creaked woefully as they mounted the staircase. Charlie came last. His throat felt tight, his ears buzzed, and the icy foreboding that clutched at his stomach got worse and worse.
There were three doors leading off the landing and then the stairs continued up to another floor.
Emma knocked on the door in the center. There was no answer. She opened the door and looked into a bedroom.
The bed was neatly made and a suit of clothes hung on the outside of the closet. She shrugged and closed the door. Beside the bedroom, there was a chilly bathroom with no hint of a woman's touch. No bottles or jars or tubes, just a bar of soap, a razor on the windowsill, and a toothbrush in a glass.
"Third time lucky," said Uncle Paton, marching toward the third door, and Charlie's stomach gave a lurch. He found that he wanted to cry out, to stop the door being opened, to make them all go downstairs again without knowing what was in that third room. But Uncle Paton was already opening the door. He stopped abruptly on the threshold, uttering a strangled cry and then a string of oaths, the sort of oaths that Charlie had rarely heard, and certainly never coming from his uncle.
And so Charlie had to look into the room. Peering around his uncle's rigid form he saw a study that had been utterly ransacked. Bookcases were tipped at an angle, a desk had been rolled onto its side. The floor was littered with books and papers, and in the center of it all lay a very old man. He had a shock of white hair and fine if wrinkled features. He was on his back. His tweed jacket had fallen open, and on his white shirt, just where the heart might be, was a large red stain.
"Dead?" Emma whispered.
"Looks like it. I'll call for an ambulance," said Uncle Paton. "Who could have done such a ghastly thing?"
It was then that Charlie noticed a mark on the floorboards, a long thin scratch as though a knife had been drawn across the floor -- or the tip of a sword. And he felt that he knew who had murdered Mr. Barnaby Bittermouse. But who on earth would believe him?
11
ANGEL IN THE SNOW
A police car arrived soon after the ambulance. They were both too late to save poor Barnaby Bittermouse. He was definitely dead, though the detective wasn't able to confirm what kind of weapon had actually killed him. There was no question that he'd been the victim of a robbery. But what had been taken? His wallet was still in his pocket, his gold watch was on his wrist, and there was a significant sum of change lying in a drawer.
Charlie could see that Uncle Paton was trying to decide whether he should mention the box. If he said too much, he would be taken to the police station for questioning. He would have to sit beneath a light, several lights most probably, and every one of them would explode, to Paton's utter humiliation and embarrassment.
"We should like to leave now," Paton said in a low voice to Officer Singh, whom he recognized from various other encounters. "Would this be convenient?"
"Yes, sir. But we need your address and phone number." The policeman peered at Paton suspiciously. There was something odd about the tall man in his black hat. Hadn't he caused some trouble a few months ago? Lights, that was it. Exploding lights. "Don't leave the city, sir. We might need to talk to you again."
"Oh, but I want..." Paton hesitated. He looked anxious.
"Very well. I'll let you know if I'm thinking of making a journey."
"You do that, sir." Officer Singh took out his notebook. "Now, address and phone number, please."
Uncle Paton gave them, a little reluctantly.
The policeman consulted his notes. "And you didn't know the late gentleman but were just visiting to inquire about making a will, even though it was Sunday" -- he raised his eyebrow a fraction, but continued in the same tone -- "and you found the front door open."
"Yes," said Uncle Paton firmly. "I'm a very busy man and Sunday is the only day I can do these... er, things."
Charlie added, "The door opened when I knocked on it."
Officer Singh ignored this. They had gone through it all before. But not to be left out, Emma said, "And I was the one who went upstairs first."
"You can go now," said Officer Singh, giving a sort of flourish with his pen on the notepad.
They walked down Tigerfield Street in single file. The ambulance and two police cars were parked in Hangman's Way. Uncle Paton strode across the road without even glancing at them. Charlie and Emma ran to catch up with him and when they reached the gate into Cathedral Close, Charlie burst out, "It was Ashkelan Kapaldi. He murdered that poor old man."
"Whatever gives you that idea?" Uncle Paton marched across the cobblestones, his face set in an angry frown.
"Because of the scratch on the floorboards. The sword can do that. It scraped along the road when it was chasing me."
Uncle Paton slowed down, then he stopped altogether and looked at Charlie. "You have a point," he said.
"I saw the police staring at the scratch," said Charlie. "They must have been wondering what had made it."
"Then why didn't you tell them about the sword?" asked Emma.
Charlie gave her a disappointed look. "How could I, Em? How could I say, "Excuse me, but there's this man at our school, who came out of a painting, and he's got this sword that works on its own'?"
Emma pouted. "You could have," she argued. "They might have gone and questioned him."
"I doubt it, Emma," said Uncle Paton. "The police don't like delving into the paranormal."
Emma shrugged. "I'm going home," she said.
They watched her run across the square and disappear into the bookstore.
"They were looking for the box, weren't they?" Charlie asked his uncle. "Whoever murdered Mr. Bittermouse was working for the Bloors."
"Could have been. But did they find it? And why kill the poor old man?" Uncle Paton cast a lingering look at the bookstore and then resumed his loping stride toward High Street.
As soon as they were home, Uncle Paton rang Mr. Silk and told him the news. Charlie could hear the excitement in the room where Mr. Silk had taken the call. It was lunchtime, and knives and forks were clattering on plates, Mr. Onimous was exclaiming very loudly, and then Gabriel's voice sang out, "Is Charlie all right, Dad? Who's been murdered?"
When Uncle Paton had said all he needed to, Charlie took the receiver and spoke to Gabriel. He wanted to know what the important meeting had been about.
"Not much, really," said Gabriel. "We just thought we should work out some kind of strategy for dealing with the swordsman. Emma told us pretty much everything that happened to you, so we reckoned you'd be spending the morning in bed."
"No such luck," said Charlie. "Em dragged me around to see this old lawyer. She thought he might have the box that everyone is looking for. That's when we found him -- murdered." Charlie lowered his voice. "It was the swordsman, Gabe, I know it. There was a scratch on the --" He was cut short by someone opening the front door.
Grandma Bone walked in. "What are you doing?" she demanded, glaring at Charlie.
"Sorry. Got to go, Gabe. Grandma's here." Charlie put down the receiver.
"I hear you've been involved in a murder." Grandma Bone stared at Charlie accusingly.
"How do you know?" asked Charlie. "It's only just happened."
"I want to know what you were doing on Tigerfield Street."
Charlie didn't answer. He watched his grandmother pull off her black gloves and put them in her pocket.
Next she took off her hat with the purple feathers sticking up in the back, unwound a lavender-colored scarf from her neck, and shuffled out of her black fur coat. When she had hung all these garments on the coatrack, she said, "Well?"
Charlie walked into the kitchen, where Uncle Paton, having heard everything his sister had said, was making himself yet another cup of black coffee. "It's amazing how word gets around so quickly in your nefarious underground, Grizelda," he said, dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee. "There is a network of spies in this city that I find truly repellent."
"What are you talking about? Where's lunch? I'm hungry," she said, all in one breath.
"We are all aware that you are part of a scandalous conspiracy to defraud Billy Raven of his rightful inheritance." Uncle Paton's dark eyes never left his sister's face as he slowly stirred the spoon around and around in his cup. "Even if it means drowning your own son. The question I have often asked myself is, why, Grizelda, why? Now I believe I know."
Grandma Bone stared at her brother with a mixture of contempt and hatred. "You have no idea what you're up against this time, Paton Yewbeam," she snarled, and left the room.
Charlie pulled out a chair and sat beside his uncle. "What did you mean, Uncle P.?" he asked. "Have you really found out why Grandma Bone's the way she is?"
Uncle Paton was silent for a while. He continued to stir his coffee, almost as if he were unaware of his actions. Charlie began to smell the leg of lamb that Maisie was roasting in the oven. He thought of the crisp roast potatoes that she always cooked with lamb, and the rich, brown gravy. And because he was still so tired, the thought of the wonderful meal ahead filled his mind like a dream, and he forgot that he'd asked a question until his uncle began to speak.
Charlie had heard the story of Uncle Paton's mother, slipping on the steps of Yewbeam castle and cracking her head on the stones. He knew that Paton's four sisters had remained in the castle after their mother's death, while Paton and their father had left. The castle belonged to an aunt: Yolanda, the notorious shape-shifter. It was she who had turned the girls against their father and their brother. All this Charlie knew, but it didn't explain why Grizelda, the oldest, had turned against her only son.
"It has to do with love, Charlie." Uncle Paton stared at the window. Snowflakes were tapping gently against the pane, and the room was filled with a soft opalescent light. "Grandma Bone's husband, Monty, fell out of love with her. Who wouldn't have, the way she behaved: jealous, domineering, humorless, greedy.... Monty would never have married her, but he was trapped, spellbound if you like, probably by Venetia with one of her magic garments. She was good at that even as a child. Poor Monty didn't stand a chance. Grizelda had always wanted to marry a pilot, and she got one. But not for long."
"What happened?" Charlie stared at his uncle's angular profile, expecting to hear why Monty's plane had crashed. He had often asked how it had happened, but no one seemed to know. Charlie was hoping his uncle had found out at last, so he was disappointed when Paton said nothing about the crash but began to describe a meeting he'd had with a woman called Homily Brown, who lived in the far southwest.
Homily Brown had been a great friend of Monty's. They'd been in school together. It was James, Uncle Paton's father, who had remembered that Monty had been born in a little hamlet called Neverfinding. And that's where Uncle Paton had been on one of his recent trips as he tried to piece together the troubled history of the Yewbeams and the Bones.
"Monty returned to his old home a week before he died." Uncle Paton's tone was almost melancholy. "He went to make a will. Homily found a lawyer for him, and she and a friend were witnesses. He left everything to his only son, Lyell. But that wasn't all.
He wrote a letter, a sad, tragic message to be given to Lyell on his eighteenth birthday. He told his only son never to trust the Yewbeams, never to let them rule his
life and" -- Paton paused and drew a deep breath -- "Homily read this letter, but Lyell has never spoken of it and, I have to admit, I found the last part rather shocking."
"What did it say?" asked Charlie, bracing himself for a dreadful revelation.
Uncle Paton glanced at him, and for a moment, Charlie thought that his uncle could not bring himself to repeat the last part of Monty Bone's letter, and then out it came, on a long sigh. "Monty told Lyell to put an end to the Yewbeams, before they destroyed him."
It was Charlie's turn to stare at the snowflakes falling past the window. So many questions filled his head, but before he could even utter them, Maisie came bustling into the kitchen, talking about snow and overcooked potatoes and uncooked carrots, and Grandma Bone sulking in her bedroom.
Before they knew it, lunch was on the table, and Uncle Paton was carving the lamb. But the rich smells and a yearning, empty stomach couldn't dislodge the thought of Monty Bone's letter from Charlie's mind. He was told to take a tray of food up to Grandma Bone, and as he carried it carefully across to the table in her room, he couldn't stop himself from thinking, She knew about that letter and she doesn't want Dad to come home, ever.
"You've spilled the water," the old woman grumbled as Charlie left the bedroom.
"Sorry," Charlie closed the door while his grandmother was complaining about dry potatoes and not enough gravy.
"Are you going off again?" Maisie was asking Paton when Charlie returned to the kitchen.
"Not until Monday night," said Uncle Paton. "I'll have to inform the police, of course."
"But..." Charlie stared hard at his uncle. "Haven't you found out enough?"
"No, Charlie. I'm on the trail of something else.
It's all connected, I suppose, but we need to know the whereabouts of that pearl-inlaid box."
"Maybe they found it in Mr. Bittermouse's study," said Charlie.
Uncle Paton shook his head. "In that case, why kill him?"
"The sword did it. It acts on its own, you know."
Maisie's knife and fork clattered onto her plate. "Please," she begged. "You're putting me off my lunch. Can't we talk about something pleasant for a change?"