Tony’s house would be demolished, and the safe lost forever, crushed under tons of rubble.
He had to sneak back into the museum. Secretly.
He had to sneak back, undo a couple of screws on one machine, and then swing an enormous great hammer in order to ring a very large bell on the other. Secretly.
And if he didn’t manage it he would never find the workshop, and more than that, he would never find out what had happened to Great-Uncle Tony or to Lily.
It was then that he remembered the scrapbook Leonora had given him. He reached down and pulled it out from under his bed, brushing dust balls from the cover.
He looked again at the first photograph, of Great-Uncle Tony holding the threepences, and then he began to turn the pages. The first few pictures were all of children: of Lily, presumably, and her little sister Leonora, of Tony and his big brother Ray— Lily and Tony always grinning, fighting, shouting, jumping, a blur of energy and action, Leonora always holding a book, looking shyly at the camera from behind thick spectacles, Ray always serious and slightly disapproving.
Photograph followed photograph; gradually the children grew up. The boys acquired mustaches, Lily smoked a daring cigarette, Leonora held up a certificate from Saint Cuthbert’s Training College, showing that she’d qualified as a teacher. There were flyers from Tony’s magic shows and ecstatic reviews of his performances, and pictures of Lily in glamorous costumes, and on the final page of the book, crumpled and slightly torn, was the yellowed newspaper clipping that had fallen onto the road the day before.
Stuart smoothed it out. It was the top half of a page from the Beeton Advertiser of September 1940.
It showed a photograph of Great-Uncle Tony and Lily, holding hands and grinning hugely at the camera. He was wearing a tin helmet with a W on the front, and she was in nurse’s uniform.
BEETON CELEBRITY TO MARRY
“Teeny-Tiny” Tony Horten and his lovely assistant Lily Vickers pose together after announcing their engagement. Speaking to our reporter yesterday, Mr. Horten (who is also a volunteer air-raid warden for the Beeton Park area) said—
Stuart heard a soft noise, like a sharp click. And then another. And another. Stuart hauled himself up and went over to the window. April Kingley was standing on the sidewalk holding a handful of pebbles.
“ Go away ,” he mouthed through the glass.
She shook her head and threw another one.
Stuart opened the window. “What do you want?” he asked as rudely as possible.
“Did you know you’re being watched?” asked April.
“Yes,” he said. “By you.”
She shook her head. “Seriously. There’s a man about forty years old, a bit fat, dressed in green trousers, with no distinguishing features apart from a white dove that keeps flapping around wherever he’s hiding. Which is currently behind the hedge at number twenty-two. He turned up not long after you got home covered in mud again. And then when you went off with your dad a bit later, he was sneaking along about fifty feet behind. Incidentally, why were you covered in mud for the second day in a row?”
“It wasn’t mud. It was soot.”
“All right, why were you covered in soot?”
“It’s none of your business,” said Stuart, annoyed to learn that Clifford was still following him. He closed the window.
A few more pebbles smacked against the glass. He opened the window again. “Stop it,” he said.
April folded her arms and looked at him with her head tilted to one side. Her expression was incredibly irritating, a mixture of condescension and sympathy. “I think you’re in some kind of trouble,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“And I really think you should tell someone about it. Me, preferably, because I’m really good at keeping secrets, and because I’m quite brave, and also because my journalistic contacts—”
“You don’t have any journalistic contacts,” Stuart said. “ You’re ten years old
He had to sneak back into the museum. Secretly.
He had to sneak back, undo a couple of screws on one machine, and then swing an enormous great hammer in order to ring a very large bell on the other. Secretly.
And if he didn’t manage it he would never find the workshop, and more than that, he would never find out what had happened to Great-Uncle Tony or to Lily.
It was then that he remembered the scrapbook Leonora had given him. He reached down and pulled it out from under his bed, brushing dust balls from the cover.
He looked again at the first photograph, of Great-Uncle Tony holding the threepences, and then he began to turn the pages. The first few pictures were all of children: of Lily, presumably, and her little sister Leonora, of Tony and his big brother Ray— Lily and Tony always grinning, fighting, shouting, jumping, a blur of energy and action, Leonora always holding a book, looking shyly at the camera from behind thick spectacles, Ray always serious and slightly disapproving.
Photograph followed photograph; gradually the children grew up. The boys acquired mustaches, Lily smoked a daring cigarette, Leonora held up a certificate from Saint Cuthbert’s Training College, showing that she’d qualified as a teacher. There were flyers from Tony’s magic shows and ecstatic reviews of his performances, and pictures of Lily in glamorous costumes, and on the final page of the book, crumpled and slightly torn, was the yellowed newspaper clipping that had fallen onto the road the day before.
Stuart smoothed it out. It was the top half of a page from the Beeton Advertiser of September 1940.
It showed a photograph of Great-Uncle Tony and Lily, holding hands and grinning hugely at the camera. He was wearing a tin helmet with a W on the front, and she was in nurse’s uniform.
BEETON CELEBRITY TO MARRY
“Teeny-Tiny” Tony Horten and his lovely assistant Lily Vickers pose together after announcing their engagement. Speaking to our reporter yesterday, Mr. Horten (who is also a volunteer air-raid warden for the Beeton Park area) said—
Stuart heard a soft noise, like a sharp click. And then another. And another. Stuart hauled himself up and went over to the window. April Kingley was standing on the sidewalk holding a handful of pebbles.
“ Go away ,” he mouthed through the glass.
She shook her head and threw another one.
Stuart opened the window. “What do you want?” he asked as rudely as possible.
“Did you know you’re being watched?” asked April.
“Yes,” he said. “By you.”
She shook her head. “Seriously. There’s a man about forty years old, a bit fat, dressed in green trousers, with no distinguishing features apart from a white dove that keeps flapping around wherever he’s hiding. Which is currently behind the hedge at number twenty-two. He turned up not long after you got home covered in mud again. And then when you went off with your dad a bit later, he was sneaking along about fifty feet behind. Incidentally, why were you covered in mud for the second day in a row?”
“It wasn’t mud. It was soot.”
“All right, why were you covered in soot?”
“It’s none of your business,” said Stuart, annoyed to learn that Clifford was still following him. He closed the window.
A few more pebbles smacked against the glass. He opened the window again. “Stop it,” he said.
April folded her arms and looked at him with her head tilted to one side. Her expression was incredibly irritating, a mixture of condescension and sympathy. “I think you’re in some kind of trouble,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“And I really think you should tell someone about it. Me, preferably, because I’m really good at keeping secrets, and because I’m quite brave, and also because my journalistic contacts—”
“You don’t have any journalistic contacts,” Stuart said. “ You’re ten years old
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