The Book of Bones (5 page)

The merry sounds of a polka came drifting out toward us. Lips and his thugs urged us forward and I caught a glimpse of a merry throng—of gay ball gowns and dancers clutching champagne glasses on a green lawn.

“Hop it!” Lips grunted, poking me in the back.

My heart heavy with a sense of evil, I took a stumbling step. Every nerve and fiber in my body was screaming: Stay away, Kit. Fly! But there was nowhere to run, for even now the pistol in my back was urging me forward.

The first person I saw as we were harried past the fringes of the party was a tall woman in flowing white. She wore her toga-like gown with a regal air, her blond hair topped by a helmet, and she was carrying a trident and scepter. A hairy man, covered in yellow fur, hovered at her elbow. They looked very foolish. What were they supposed to be? Then the solution struck me—Britannia and her famous lion, symbols of England's mighty Empire.

Britannia was chatting to a Fearsome Turk, his head swathed in turbans above his coal-stained face. Alongside her was Titania, queen of the fairies, her dress of a silver gauze. Diana, the ancient Greek goddess of the hunt, was chatting to Napoleon Bonaparte, stout in his red breeches.

“What
is
this?” whispered Rachel, looking upon the revelers as if they were mad people.

“A fancy-dress ball,” I whispered back.

I could sympathize with her confusion—the orchestra, the revelers drifting in clumps over the lawn. How utterly strange to find all this here on this windswept island. I wished I could run to the party folk and throw myself on Britannia's mercy. But there was no hope for us; the thugs were quite openly waving their pistols and had surrounded us on all sides as we were led to the huge entrance. Nobody took much notice of us at all, though I heard a rather hearty Robin Hood say to his friend, “Jolly original wheeze, what!” as we paraded by. If I ran and they fired it would be dismissed by the guests as just another masquerade, an original game to tickle their jaded fancy.

The musicians had just struck up Chopin's last waltz as we entered the castle, leaving behind the warmth of the summer's night. The waltz's haunting melody lingered a little and then vanished. We were chivvied up a circular staircase, along a corridor and then through a door into a carpeted room.

A thug lit a brass lamp and then retreated, locking the door. We were alone. I looked around and marveled for we were surrounded on three sides by gleaming gilt frames. I am no expert in the arts but I could tell that here was something special. Mostly, I think, they were Old Masters. Those sketches were perhaps by Rembrandt or Raphael—a pair of gnarled hands, rheumy
eyes in a peasant's head. Here, gorgeous in tones of flesh and crimson, a glistening oil painting. Voluptuous red-haired women, reclining on velvet pillows, their heaving bosoms painted in frightening, fleshy detail.

“Ouch,” said Isaac, catching sight of them, but Rachel shushed him, “It must be a Titian,” she whispered. “Priceless.”

The fourth wall was covered by a maroon velvet curtain. Isaac pulled a cord and the curtains began to swish apart. I was expecting more treasures but they revealed a window, so huge it covered the entire wall. Behind it was a great ballroom, more exotically dressed dancers and shimmering crystal chandeliers. Through the glass I could dimly hear the strains of a polka. In front of us, but tantalizingly out of reach, was a table collapsing under the weight of a mountain of mouthwatering treats.

Fowl, venison and oysters. Roast goose, oozing grease in a heap of browned potatoes. A whole swan pickled in aspic, its noble white neck decorated with strings of berries. Little tartlets, pastries and flans, but it was the puddings that made my saliva run. Nothing had passed my lips since lunch, an eternity ago. Oh, how I longed to pick up a cool pistachio ice. To lick a spoon full of creamy trifle. To feast on great heaps of meringues and strawberries until I was sick. To gorge on blancmange, jelly and chocolate cake.

“Stop dribbling,” Rachel snapped. “We're kidnapped by maniacs and all you can think of is sherry trifle!”

“How do you know it's sherry?” I asked.

“Isn't it?” said Rachel.

“Could be Marsala-flavored or even vanilla.”

“No one makes vanilla trifle.” Rachel's eyes were glued to the pudding, as if she could gobble it up with her gaze.

“Think about something other than your bellies, girls,” Waldo interrupted. “Look over there.”

A line of guests were heaping their plates with food; a red-faced perspiring man had more on his plate than I would have thought it was physically possible to eat. Boar, quails eggs and flan, with a large slice of swan. It was the middle-aged lady next to him who had caught Waldo's attention. She had a serene face with drooping eyebrows, and severe brown hair topped with a lace cap. The woman had a dignity about her that set her apart from the other guests, but maybe that was partly because she hadn't bothered with a ridiculous costume.

“Who is it?” I asked. “I think I've seen her somewhere before.”

“Don't you know?” Waldo teased. “I'd have thought you'd have her image engraved on your womanly heart.”

“What?”

“The Lady with the Lamp.”

“Florence Nightingale,” I gasped and it was true I did
admire her deeply. She had treated the sick in Crimea, fought for the rights of women to go to the battlefield, to be useful and not just stay home knitting socks for the soldiers. She was a great heroine—but what on earth was she doing here?

“Over there!” Rachel murmured. “It can't be.”

She was pointing to a portly man wearing feathers and carrying a tomahawk decorated with black ribbons. A Red Indian clearly, but who was the owner of the chubby face so crudely daubed with red and yellow war paint. Could it be?

“Tum-Tum,” Waldo blurted. “It's old Tum-Tum.”

“Don't talk of the Prince of Wales like that,” Rachel said. “He
is
going to be king one day.”

“I'm an American, remember,” Waldo said. “I'm not impressed by all that royal nonsense.”

“You could show a little respect,” Rachel said.

“Anyway, hope he goes easy on the cakes before that. Otherwise he'll keel over stomach first,” Waldo retorted rudely.

“It's not Tum-Tum I'm worried about,” I interrupted. “LOOK!”

Partly hidden by the portly Red Indian was a woman, dressed as a squaw. She had clearly buttonholed the Prince and was bending his ear about something. My friends stared at the comical figure—stout, determined, looking most alarming in her leather fringed dress,
boots, feather and paint-covered face.

“Don't you know who it is?” I asked.

“No idea!” Waldo shook his head. Then he peered more closely. “It can't be.”

“It is,” I murmured.

Now all my friends were staring at the small figure, who was gesturing forcefully to the Prince as she spoke.

It was Hilda Salter, lady explorer, patriotic spy, sharpshooter and the terror of native tribes from the Amazon to the Kalahari. The smooth talker who could part a Maharajah from his crown, a Khan from his camels and a prospector from his gold. She could even, I believed, have relieved a sheikh of his harem.

“Your aunt!”
Rachel spluttered. “What is
she
doing here?”

I shook my head. “Playing some deep game, no doubt. She won't leave this castle empty handed.”

“But Kit, these people—whoever they are—they're kidnappers! They've—”

“Clearly rich kidnappers!” I interrupted. “Kidnappers with royal friends.” I didn't say so to Rachel, but I was becoming increasingly sure it was the Baker Brothers behind all this. But what was my aunt doing in the home of our sworn enemy?

“It doesn't matter what she's doing here,” Isaac interrupted. “We have to get a message to her.”

“Hammer on the glass!” Waldo bellowed. He rushed
up to the pane and beat on it. “Oi! Oi!” he yelled as we all followed his lead.

We banged on the window as hard as we could, screaming to attract the attention of the revelers standing just inches away from us. To no avail. We might as well have been invisible.

“It's a game,” I said, as exhausted we fell back. “Our kidnappers are taunting us with that scene. The Prince, my aunt, Florence Nightingale.”

We were interrupted by a knock at the door and two white uniformed waiters pushed a trolley into the room. A most delicious smell wafted from a silver tureen. One of the waiters proceeded to set the table, which stood in the corner of the room, with four plates, knives, forks and glasses, while the other unpacked the trolley. Mrs. Glee had appeared and watched in silence, a frail figure hovering uncertainly by the doorway. Behind her were two burly guards.

“I told you they would treat you well,” she murmured. “I apologize for Lips on the way here—but—”

“No more excuses,” Waldo cut in.

“Vera,” I said, “if you are really sorry, can you just tell us—what on earth is going on?”

Mrs. Glee blanched and backed out of the door without speaking. In an instant she was gone.

“No use looking for answers in that quarter,” Isaac said.

It seems odd in the light of our serious situation, but my eyes were on the trolley. We hadn't eaten for hours—the coach ride, the grueling journey across the sea. I was famished, that's my excuse. Scrumptious dishes were on display, including many of the dainties we had spied through the window. My stomach was rumbling.

Isaac and Waldo were already at the trolley, scooping food onto their plates. Isaac had forgotten his plan to contact my aunt. I followed their example. There was a choice between ginger ale and lemonade. I filled my goblet with lemonade and it slid cool and tangy down my parched throat. Heaven! Then I took a small selection of flan, boar and guinea fowl in honey sauce. Well, fairly small. I didn't leave much room on that plate.

I intended to save myself for the trifle. Someone had to investigate if it was sherry flavored!

With a troubled look Rachel followed our lead and was soon wallowing in chicken pie. Yes, maybe this feast had been provided by an enemy. Did it matter? With my spoon heaped with boar and potato, I was able to take a more mellow view of out captors. Was it just possible that I had been wrong to sense evil in the castle? Perhaps our kidnappers were not the Baker Brothers? Perhaps this was all some sort of extravagant jest.

Certainly whoever had snatched us off the moors had a good cook.

“Definitely sherry.” I licked my lips of the last spoonful of creamy, spongy trifle and sank back in my chair. Eating, especially in large quantities,
can
be exhausting.

“I feel bad,” murmured Rachel. “My mother always used to say, ‘You should know a man before you sup at his table.'”

“It hardly matters what your mother thinks,” I blurted, then immediately felt guilty. Rachel's mother was dead, like my own poor mama. We never talked of it.

Isaac glared at me and put a comforting hand on his sister's arm.

“I didn't really mean …” I muttered. “I just meant, it's too late for second thoughts now that we've filled our bellies.”

“Hear, hear,” someone murmured. In unison we turned to the door. But the man wasn't there; he had materialized, ghostlike, in our midst, though no one had heard the sound of the key turning or the door opening.

“Your mother was an uncharitable woman, Rachel.
She should have heeded the Jewish proverb: ‘If your enemy be hungry, give him food to eat.'”

It was a Baker Brother, standing so close I could feel the chill. He put his hand, which was encased in a white glove, on my shoulder and I flinched as if I'd been struck. A stray ribbon—black, I noticed—tickled my cheek.

He was handsome, this man, with golden skin, fair wavy hair and the palest of pale blue eyes. Walking down a street, he would have drawn admiring glances, with his youth and air of well-being. I knew this beauty was a mask—I'd seen the real man in the Himalayas. His voice was reedy and he gave off an unwholesome smell. Something of the grave, of decomposing bodies. And when I looked at him more closely, I saw a peculiarity about the skin on his face. Too taut, too stretched—all wrinkles and marks of character had been blanked, like an alabaster statue of a Greek god.

“Which one are you?” Waldo asked coldly.

“A strange question, though fair, I suppose,” he replied. “After all, we've never been properly introduced.”

The Baker Brother removed his hand from my shoulder and extended it to Waldo. I could see my friend struggling with the question of what to do: shake the loathsome glove or spit on it.

“Pity.” The man recalled his hand with a sour smile. “I am Cecil Baker, precisely thirteen and a half minutes
older than my brother Cyril, whom you've already met. If you look through the window you will see him in the ballroom, playing the gracious host to our future king.”

We all stared through the window and saw a strange sight. Another pale handsome man, with the same rubbed out and remodeled look as his brother, was standing in a group around Albert, Prince of Wales, uncomfortably close to Aunt Hilda. He was laughing, sharing a joke with our future king. As if he knew we were talking about him, Cyril Baker turned his head toward us and a look passed between the two men.

Or seemed to.

“You need not be afraid that any of our distinguished guests will see you.” Cecil Baker strode up to the window and tapped it playfully. “This is a one-way mirror. We can see through it, but all our guests can see is a shiny mirror reflecting their pretty costumes back at them. I assure you, Cyril and I find this jolly useful, not to say amusing.”

“Spying on your guests,” Waldo said. “Hardly the behavior of gentlemen.”

Ignoring him, Cecil pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Is this your new business plan?” I asked. “Are you adding kidnapping to murder and thievery?”