***
Edmond tested the weight of the thing in his palm. It was heavier than its size, similar to a big marble, suggested. Round and copper, with two hinged silver rings that spun headlong around the sphere in opposite directions, it was like a broken version of Planet Saturn, whose rings, everyone knew, were flat and didn’t move. He spun the rings. Static energy began to creep and crackle across his palm.
“I’ll take that, thanks.” Mr. Mulqueen snatched it up and stuffed it into one of his belt pouches, then fastened the stud. It bulged the leather slightly. Edmond noticed the three other side pouches also bulged. The urge to ask the old soldier what they were, why he was so protective of them, vanished when he saw the man’s intense scowl. He recoiled, felt he’d betrayed Mr. Mulqueen, abused his trust somehow.
“I didn’t mean to find it. It just rolled out.”
“No harm done, lad.” Mr. Mulqueen’s scowl didn’t lift, but at least he focused it on his clockwork joint instead. Clickety-click, click. He used the bed to support his rise. “It’s a little dangerous is all, and not what you’d expect. I’d rather you didn’t let on you’ve seen it. Is that all right?”
“Perfectly.” And even more mysterious.
“Good. That’s our new bargain then. Your discretion for my Admiral Hood intervention.”
Wait a minute... “How did you guess I attended Admiral Hood? I didn’t mention it by name.”
The old soldier glanced around the room, as if he hadn’t heard the question, or pretended he hadn’t.
“Sir, did you get the school’s name from the letterhead?” Edmond knew he hadn’t—he’d not even opened the envelope, and Admiral Hood was not legible through the scribbled ink.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. From the letterhead. What do you say we return to the living room, and that festive atmosphere? I’ve never seen that many presents for so few people. You’re sure to have a whale of a time tomorrow.”
“What about you? Are there gifts at the emporium?”
“I dare say, yes.”
Two lies in two breaths. Who is he? What’s he really up to here in London?
Downstairs, Mr. Mulqueen drank brandies and smoked cigars with Father. Mother steered the conversation away from politics, and instead talked about the intrepid Professor McEwan and his incredible subterranean discoveries, a hot topic in the newspapers right now. Edmond had read all about them in his latest copy of Explorers’ Weekly—the adult edition, mind you, not the junior—and probably knew more about them than all three grown-ups put together. Instead, he pretended to read H. Rider Haggard’s The People of the Mist on the dining table, glancing up occasionally at Mr. Mulqueen, who appeared more and more relaxed as the evening went on.
Finally, the old soldier peered at the vintage chronometer clock in the display case and said, “Regretfully, it’s time for me to leave. My colleagues at the emporium will be waiting, and I don’t wish to intrude on your Christmas Eve any longer.”
“Nonsense, old chap. You stay as long as you like. It’s a treat to have such an erudite guest, and after all, we wouldn’t have had a Christmas but for you. Will you not stay for another drink?”
Mr. Mulqueen politely declined and, after a long, gentle gaze around the room, during which he seemed to soak up the homely ambience for the last time, took his leave. Father accompanied him to the door, while Edmond trailed, already eyeing his own hiking boots in the vestibule.
“And this is for you.” Mother handed the old soldier a green Christmas package wrapped with a red bow, and kissed his cheek. His good eye misted. His bottom lip began to quiver. “It can never repay your kindness,” she said, “but I hope it reminds you that there is at least one place in the world where you’ll always be welcome. Merry Christmas, Red.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “And a merry Christmas to you...all of you. It’s cold out. I’ll not feel it, though—not now.” He held the present to his breast and gave Father a nod. “All the best, sir. Take care of them.”
“And to you, Mulqueen. I hope we’ll meet again.”
“Bye, Master Edmond.” He leaned past Father to get an obstructed view. He held it for a beat, then he turned and left.
“Goodbye, sir,” Edmond shouted after him.
And just like that, he was gone, the clack, click-click, clack of his gait disappearing behind the tall privet hedges that lined this end of Randsdell Avenue. Mother and Father held hands and kissed, then went back inside.
That was the last they ever saw of Mr. Mulqueen.