The Case of the Spellbound Child Read online

  The work didn’t take long, just bringing in an armful or two of wood from outside.

  And then it was time to take the stops out of the oven, and with her face and hands feeling as if they were aflame, get the bread out and put the new loaves in, dropping the fresh bread into the first basket. Please let them be all right, she thought frantically, as she opened the first oven and shoved the peel into the depths where the loaves sat like inscrutable stones. She actually did sob a little with relief when her bread came out all right.

  “Long as fire’s burnin’, loaves tak a turnit th’ glass,” the thing told her. “So mind th’ glass.”

  When all the bread had baked and was piled up in the baskets, the cot was filled with the glorious smell of fresh bread and her stomach growled. She wanted so badly to break into one of those fresh loaves and bite into it!

  But there was more work, of course; the water barrel next to the big bowl that served as a sink to refill from the pump outside, one laborious, sloshing bucketful at a time. Then taking a cloth and rubbing a coat of linseed oil on the earthen floor, where she’d been walking and spilling water and going to and fro while making the bread.

  All the time the thing just lounged and watched her, never pulling its hood off, that empty darkness more terrifying than a monstrous face could have been. Her resentment of its laziness grew to match her fear of it.

  And finally, when she actually felt faint with exhaustion and hunger, the thing decreed she could feed the others and eat. Robbie took pity on her when he saw how weary she looked and heard her stomach complaining, and apportioned three loaves to her. Then it was the cleaning and the slops, and cleaning up after the Dark One’s supper. There were scraps of ham and the ham grease on its plate, and an end of a loaf, and her hands trembled as she took the plate from it.

  “Tha’ canst hev scraps,” it said, magnanimously, and laughed as she gobbled them down. “Tha’ canst hev pot scrapin’s as well.”

  At long last the rest of the chores were over, and the thing let her go to bed. The last she saw of it was with its feet up, a pipe incongruously sticking out of the darkness under its hood, smoking away.

  She closed the door behind her as she entered the prison room. By this point, she had gotten the feeling that the other children thought of that door more as the thing that kept the Dark One temporarily out, not as something that was locking them in. After all, they couldn’t go any further than the chains on their legs.

  No more can I, she thought, as she wearily dropped down onto her mattress, ignoring Simon’s insistent attempts to talk to her. My chain’s just one ye cain’t see.

  8

  “LET’S stop by the Watsons on our way home,” Sarah suggested, as they left the cool marble environs of the British Museum with Suki in tow. Suki looked up hopefully.

  They had been visiting the Elgin Marbles, now that Suki was old enough to understand the controversy about how they’d come to the Museum in the first place. Nan had thought it would be a good lesson in both history and politics—for both of them. She only wished she had been able to consult someone more involved in the Greek side of things before they visited. The British argument seemed to consist mostly of, “Well, they weren’t taking care of these priceless treasures, and we got permission to take them—”

  The “permission” claim was dubious. The Greeks had not had self-government at the time. The Turks that had been in control had not cared to take care of such things, since human images were blasphemous to their religion, which was hardly the fault of the Greeks. So—well, Nan could almost make a case for Elgin, but surely the Museum could simply have made plaster casts as they had of so many monumental pieces and restored the marbles to their proper owners.

  That subject had never actually come up, however, since on entering the cavernous gallery where the marble frieze was displayed, they immediately encountered a group of artists whom Beatrice Leek numbered among her friends. Nan and Sarah were instantly recognized from their meetings with Beatrice at her favorite tea shop. The artists were there to sketch the marbles, but were . . . easily distracted by the sight of new people whom they knew Beatrice numbered among her other, occult friends—people who might be persuaded to talk about such things more than Beatrice was.

  Beatrice styled herself as “just an old witch,” and never talked about the sorts of things their romantic and over-imaginative minds wanted to hear about. Elaborate occult ceremonies, mystic visions, dramatic visitations by supernatural beings.

  So they found themselves besieged by questions. Were they Magickal? (Nan could practically hear the capitalization and extra “k”). Oh, they were Psychical? (Nan sensed their disappointment with some amusement. They could see “Psychical” people any time they wanted for a shilling, and they all knew how to hold a seance.) Was the adorable little girl as well?

  At least they had the good manners not to ask for a demonstration, but then the questions veered off into another path, triggered by Suki, who had gotten bored with the questions, trying to imitate the poses of the statues. Would they be willing to pose for sketches or paintings? And would their little ward pose as well? It was hard to find child models. They (the artists) could pay—

  “I can’t promise anything,” Nan had replied. “We’re actually employed irregularly, and might be called away at any moment. Just now we’re between commissions and enjoying a bit of a holiday.”

  “If you would be satisfied with sketches only, for single days at a time, we could manage that,” Sarah had offered, seeing their disappointment. She had looked down at their ward. “Suki, could you be very still for half an hour at a time?”

  Suki had looked utterly scornful, and had taken great care with her pronunciation in her reply so as to leave no doubt that she was a very superior person indeed. “I can sit so still and for so long a wild bird will come to eat from my hand,” she had retorted. She hadn’t been lying or exaggerating either; Nan had seen her do just that, and in fact, the local starlings and sparrows would eat from her hand as she sat at the window of her room. Puck had probably taught her that level of patience, as he had taught her and Sarah at that age.

  They had exchanged addresses, Nan with some doubt, Sarah with amusement, and Suki with impatience. And by the time they had finished with all of that, there was just time to explain the figures to Suki—a task one of the grateful artists gladly undertook—before they needed to leave if they were to catch their ’bus back home.

  “I think dropping by Baker Street is a capital idea,” Nan agreed, as Suki pranced in glee at the prospect of going to see the Watsons. Nan whistled and held out her arm, and Neville flew down from the top of one of the famous lions guarding the entrance to land on it, as Grey came down from where she was hidden between the ears of the other. “What do you think?” she asked Neville.

  “Supper sooner,” Neville said with a nod.

  Nan wasn’t worried about putting out Mrs. Hudson with unexpected supper company. Fortunately, like Mrs. Horace, the Baker street landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was very understanding about unexpected company. On the other hand . . . Nan was well aware that Holmes and the Watsons were not behindhand in making that understanding worth her while.

  Nan took out her notebook again, and wrote a quick note to Mrs. Horace and gave it to Neville. “Go let Mrs. Horace know we won’t be home for supper, oh pirate,” she told him. He took it in his beak, nodded, and flew off. Nan readied herself for the thankless task of trying to hail a cab in front of the British Museum, which was not an easy thing for a woman to do. Men—either outright rude, or simply thoughtless scholars with their minds on getting home to their work—tended to nick them right out from under Nan’s nose, and cabbies, who thought women didn’t tip well, let them.

  Just at that very moment, a hansom stopped practically in front of them, dropping off three young men who looked rather like university students, who had somehow managed to squeeze themselve
s into a space meant for two. Nan moved quickly to claim it before a rather officious-looking and somewhat overweight man came puffing up to grab it for himself. Nan took that as a good omen.

  When they got down at 221, Neville was waiting for them on the rooftop, and flew down to Nan’s arm with a note in his beak. Nan took it and read it right there on the street. “Mrs. Horace thanks us, and says she’ll leave ‘a little something’ for us when we get home.”

  Sarah shook her head. “That woman spoils us,” she declared as Nan rang the bell. “Well, that means if we catch the Watsons as they finish dinner, we can just ask Mrs. Hudson for tea and bread and butter and not put her out.”

  Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and actually looked pleased to see them as she let them in. “My word, you young ladies must have magical powers!” she exclaimed. “You’re wanted just this very moment! The doctor just got a letter, and was writing out a message for one of the lads to take to you! That’ll save a shilling,” she added, frugally.

  “Shall we go on up, then?” Nan asked politely.

  “Certainly. I’ll bring up dinner for all of you.” Nan winked surreptitiously at Sarah, and they gathered up their skirts and climbed the stairs up to 221C as Mrs. Hudson retreated to her own little flat.

  Nan tapped at the door, and Watson opened it immediately, already saying, “I hope you found Tom—” and his eyes lit up when he saw it was them. “By Jove, I was just about to send for you! Come in!”

  “So Mrs. Hudson told us,” Sarah replied, and they all followed him into the Watsons’ airy and cool sitting room.

  “Oh!” Mary Watson exclaimed. “Let me get the stands for the birds.” And from the broom cupboard she brought out two smoking stands that had been converted to perches, and spread the morning’s newspaper beneath them.

  The table was already laid for dinner for two, but Mrs. Hudson bustled in before they could settle themselves, with more place settings, and dishes of water and fresh peas for the birds.

  “I’ve gotten a letter—well, actually, Sherlock got a letter, but I’ve been reading his mail in case there was anything in it for us,” Watson continued, as Mrs. Hudson brought up supper (which was centered around cold sliced beef and ham) and left them to their own devices. “And it’s a good thing I did. The moment I opened the letter, I sensed the hint of Earth Magic on it!”

  “Why would an Earth Magician write to Holmes?” Nan asked in astonishment, serving fork pausing in midair.

  “Her children are missing!” Watson exclaimed. “Well, wait, let me just read it to you—take care of my plate, would you, my dear?” he added to Mary, who chuckled a little, but did as he asked.

  “Dear Master Sherlock Holmes,” he read. “My husband and I are writing to you in some desperation. I sent my two children out to forage on the moor, and they have not returned. We have searched as far as Sheepstor, without success. I beg of you to help us! Yours truly, Roger and Maryanne Byerly.”

  “Well, I don’t know what she thought Holmes could do for her,” Nan replied, “And that letter is uncommonly short on details. We don’t know when the children went missing, nor how long they’ve been gone. We don’t know how old they are. Or if this is the first time their mother sent them out on the moor alone, or the first time they haven’t come home. Isn’t it supposed to be dangerous?”

  “It can be,” Watson replied. “As for why—well, Holmes gets letters like this all the time, and usually he just answers that the person in question must go to the local constabulary—” He rubbed the back of his head. “—and that he gets them is mostly my fault, what with all the stories I write about him. But the point is, this is one of our people, and I feel obliged to at least—” Now he stopped, clearly feeling helpless to further explain himself.

  “Can I see that?” Sarah asked, reaching for the letter.

  Watson handed it to her.

  She didn’t read it. Instead, she held it in her hand, her forehead furrowed in a little frown of concentration. “I think the woman wrote this, but the man is the one with Earth powers, and I honestly don’t think he’s aware of them,” she said, finally. “John, I know you’re bored with your practice and looking for a case, and I understand that you miss the excitement of running off with Sherlock into the unknown at frequent intervals, but—this probably isn’t a ‘case’ at all. For all we know, the ‘children’ are fourteen or fifteen and ran off on their own, or they’ve come home or been found already.”

  Mary Watson had that look on her face that told Nan she’d already said as much to her husband. John Watson just sighed.

  “I know it seems thin—” he began.

  “It’s thin enough to read the newspaper through,” Sarah corrected him.

  “But I just have a feeling. And yes, I am bored. I’m beginning to understand why Sherlock indulged in cocaine when he hadn’t had a case in too long. Not—” he added hastily, “—that I’m in any danger of doing likewise. But I can sympathize, now that I myself am experiencing the discomfort of a buzzing brain with nothing to work on. Even Suki has had more exercise than Mary and I have had.”

  “An’ yew has them Elementals t’play with, all the time,” Suki piped up. “An’ I don’t. So I reckon it’s fair.”

  “She’s got you there, John,” Mary said, smothering a laugh with her hand.

  John Watson changed the subject, but Nan could tell he was still thinking about it. And after they set the dishes out on the landing for Mrs. Hudson to clear away, he brought it up again.

  “I have to tell you, I have the strongest feeling that it’s important that we follow up on this letter,” he said. “I can’t tell you why, because I don’t know myself. I know for a fact that Holmes gets at least one ‘please help me find my child’ letter a week and almost never does anything about them. And even though he’s supposed to be dead, he still gets them, from people who seldom see newspapers, I suppose. And you’re right about it having so little detail as to make it fundamentally useless. But this one . . . just feels different to me. And I don’t know why.”

  Nan exchanged a look with Sarah, then with the birds. The birds didn’t show any interest in joining the conversation, instead sitting on one leg on their perches, stuffed full of new peas, and content to drowse. Nan shrugged, and nodded to Sarah.

  “Well,” Sarah said slowly. “It can’t hurt to forward it to Lord Alderscroft and tell him about your strong feelings. For all we know he’ll be able to pick out more from the letter than I can. Or there might be something moving out in Dartmoor that none of us have been privy to. Besides, he has his entire network of Elemental Masters and the Hunting Lodge, and he’s in a position to undertake a quick investigation without even leaving London.”

  As John sighed again, the girls and Mary exchanged another of those looks that said this was precisely what Mary had advised. But he also nodded. “I’ll do just that in the morning,” he said. “And thank you for talking sense into me before I ran out and booked tickets for some remote village none of us has ever heard of.”

  “Sheepstor does not have a name that inspires visions of comfortable inns with ample accommodations,” Nan agreed. “But I will tell you this. We’ve just started Suki’s Summer Holiday, and if he sends you out and wants us to come with you, we’ll make a family party of it. Peter ought to be able to come as well, since it’s the Long Vac at University.”

  Watson perked up at that. “That would be splendid!” he replied.

  “It would be cooler and healthier than London,” Sarah pointed out with a laugh. “And we’ve never visited Dartmoor.”

  The look on Mary’s face told Sarah that in Mary’s opinion they hadn’t missed anything, but she didn’t comment aloud.

  It was still light enough when they left to let the birds fly home while they took a hansom. They would have taken the ’bus, but John Watson insisted, and went out and fetched one himself.

  “Oi
’d loike a bird loike Neville or Gray,” Suki said sleepily, as the hansom took its time navigating the streets back to their flat. It was an indication of how tired she was after their long day that she let her speech slip so far back to the streets.

  “Well,” Sarah said slowly. “Gray was given to me by a wise man in Africa, and her mother gave the shaman permission to take her to me when she was very young. I don’t think you’d want a parrot that comes to England by the usual way, which is to be kidnapped out of its home by cruel men and taken away from its flock and friends.”

  Suki sighed. “No,” she agreed. “But . . . I’d loike one if it could come to me. Loike Neville came to Nan.”

  “Nobody can make that happen, Suki,” Nan reminded her. “But the next time you see Robin, you might ask if he can do anything about that. He’s in charge of all the wild things of England, and if anyone knows how, he does. If we go to Dartmoor, we’ll be on Robin’s ground, and you’ll probably see him if you call him.”

  “And if we don’t go to Dartmoor, we’ll go to Hampton Court Palace again, and he’ll likely come to you there,” Sarah added, and looked out the front of the cab as it pulled to a stop. “And here we are, and meanwhile, Neville and Grey are very much your friends.”

  Suki went to bed immediately. She didn’t even stay up to share in the lemonade and digestive biscuits that Mrs. Horace had left for them.

  “So, do you think we’ll be going to Dartmoor?” Nan asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “I have no feelings about it. But what I do know is that if we do, I want Lord Alderscroft to be paying for the trip, not us.”

  Nan burst into laughter at that, and Sarah smiled. “Do you blame me?” she asked.

  “Not a bit,” Nan replied. “And I completely agree with you!”

  * * *

  The next morning, Nan and Sarah moved around the flat, aided by Suki, making a thorough cleaning of it. Nan found herself whistling “The British Grenadiers,” and Suki responded happily by marching in time as she beat a cushion held up by Nan, or brought Sara a whisk or a dustrag.