The Mystery of the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks Page A

secret annoyance, it was decided next morning that they would all go down to the Red Lion together, for Sunday lunch.
    â€œThey’ve got a good carvery, I’ve heard,” said Omri’s father. “Cut-and-come-again, boys, you’ll like that!”
    â€œThe bottomless plate,” put in Tony’s father. “Sounds good to me, this country air gives me an appetite.” He’d been up early for a walk and to inspect the thatch more closely. “Wonderful craftsmen! The patterning on the peak of the roof, and over the eaves — all traditional, I guess — kind of woven into the straw. Love it!”
    â€œReeds,” said Omri, “not straw.”
    â€œOh, yeah, thanks, must get it right,” said Tony’s dad seriously, making a note in his notebook.
    They walked into town along the lanes between the tall Dorset hedges. The four boys dawdled, picking late blackberries. Omri was quiet while the others chatted. This wasn’t what he’d planned. He would have to find a way to get this Tom to himself or Tony’s dad would monopolize him. Journalists didn’t chat to people. They interviewed them.
    Omri had lain awake a long time the night before, trying to figure things out in the light of some of the ideas Patrick had come up with. If what he had said was right, and the key of the cupboard (which had also worked on his seaman’s chest) would fit the cashbox, then he might have to break his promise to himself and get the key, at least, out of the bank. He couldn’t just leave the cashbox locked for ever!
    Because it had suddenly flashed upon him what was in there.
    The earrings!
    Where else would Jessica Charlotte have put them? It was obvious! And this certainty Omri felt about their whereabouts added a bit of ordinary treasure-hunting excitement to the whole business. They were not only valuable in themselves, they were invested with mystery. With history. A family heirloom! And they would belong to him, because he would have found them!
    Of course he’d give them to his mother. She had only recently had her ears pierced and now loved dangly hook-on earrings. Omri could hardly wait to see her face when he handed her these beautiful precious jewels.
    But it was Sunday. Even if he’d absolutely made up his mind to go against his strongest intention and get his secret package out, the banks weren’t open. Good, really. It meant he couldn’t do anything on impulse.
    The Red Lion had a largish garden at the back, with wooden tables and benches under coloured umbrellas with the brand names of drinks emblazoned on them. Lots of families were there already, having lunch, with kids running around. There was quite a festive atmosphere, which normally would have been fun, but just now all Omri wanted was a word alone with this Tom Towsler. A long talk, in fact.
    Omri’s father went into the bar to order drinks and Omri went too. He looked all round for a man of the right age to be Tom. There wasn’t one — they were all either too young or too old. Anyway, none of them looked right.
    While his father was occupied, Omri slipped through into the public bar. Here there were several older men who looked like locals. He summoned up his courage and approached one of them.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Tom Towsler.”
    â€œDon’t know ’im,” said the man grumpily.
    â€œHe used to be a thatcher,” persisted Omri.
    â€œYou should be outdoors, not in ’ere. What’s the world comin’ to, kids in pubs, I dunno.”
    Omri looked anxiously over his shoulder at the bartender. He was looking at him all right, but not crossly. He beckoned him over.
    â€œLooking for Tom?” he said. “He ent been in today. Ent been too well these last months.”
    Omri’s heart gave a lurch.
    â€œHe’s ill?”
    â€œYeah, sort of.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œWho