Bookweirder (8 page)

“Do you want us to ask Dodgy about your stoat?” she asked helpfully.

“No, thanks,” Norman replied. “I’ll do it.”

Pippa’s face scrunched into a frown. “That’s horrible, someone stealing your pet. Have you reported it to the police?”

George interrupted Norman before he could answer. “A stoat is an unusual pet. Is it tame?”

The question made Norman smile despite himself. He would hardly have called Malcolm tame.

“I’ve known him … I mean, I’ve had him since he was a kit,” Norman said. It was almost true. Norman had saved Malcolm’s life when he was still very young. “He’s good with me, but not so much with other people.”

Dodgeworth returned with the box of mice.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Norman stepped forward as the storekeeper put the cardboard carton down on the counter. “Bursting out of here like that … hiding in here.”

Unconcerned, Dodgeworth shrugged and smiled. “Did you catch our man with the stoat?” he asked.

“I lost him in an alley,” Norman told him. “That’s why I came back. George, Gordon and Pippa helped me find the place again.”

“That stoat was stolen,” George declared. “The ruffian who offered it to you is a thief. It belongs to Norman here.” George had taken Norman at his word and was now prepared to champion him.

Dodgeworth nodded knowingly, as if he had guessed as much. “I’m afraid to say your little stoat was in a sorry state. It’s not been well taken care of.”

Norman bit his lower lip and clenched his fists.

“I was of half a mind to buy it just to save the poor creature, but I’m loath to give my money to villains of his kind. I’ll tell you what, though, if he comes in again, I’ll have it off him and we’ll settle up after.”

“Thank you,” Norman began to say, but George interrupted him.

“What did this fellow look like?”

“He was a big specimen, strong. By the way he swung that cage around I’d say he’s done some heavy lifting in his day. Looked
like he’d been living rough for a while—unshaven, in need of a bath. Wore a long green hunting coat that looks like it’s been doubling as a sleeping bag, filthy red neckerchief. Spoke like an American, but not like this one here.” He indicated Norman. “A harder accent. I’d say New York, but I’m no expert.”

George furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “Red neckerchief and a green hunting coat, you say. What colour was this man’s hair?”

“Grey and black over his chin, but there wasn’t much of any colour on his head,” Dodgeworth replied.

George nodded as if in possession of a great secret. “This sounds uncannily like the poacher who’s been skulking around Kelmsworth Hall.”

Norman hadn’t thought of it before, but it made total sense. Malcolm had been dropped into the Intrepids back at George’s home. Malcolm’s captor and the Kelmsworth poacher were one and the same! Norman thought quickly. He had to go back with them to continue the chase. Malcolm needed him.

“Kelmsworth Hall?” Norman tried to sound surprised, as if he’d had no idea where George lived. “That’s right near where I’m staying. It really could be the same man.”

George and the Cooks stared at him for a moment. “Of course. Your father’s a professor. He’ll be over at the university,” Pippa said thoughtfully. “That’s not far from Kelmsworth Hall at all.”

“I’ll bet it really is the same villain!” Gordon declared with some vehemence.

N
orman was quickly invited to join the Intrepids’ raid on the lawyer’s office.

“Nice to have some reinforcements,” Gordon enthused as they walked. He was by far the friendliest of the Intrepids. There was nothing wrong with the others, but George’s mind was obviously elsewhere. And Pippa … it was hard to tell what she was thinking. Maybe she was just shy, but she looked at Norman so thoughtfully. She seemed to be the only one who thought he might look out of place.

“We’re after the same villain,” Gordon rambled. “You ought to come back to Kelmsworth with us. Shouldn’t he, eh, George?”

George Kelmsworth grunted his agreement. “Yes, of course. You’ll stay at the lodge with me.”

It was all so easy. No one asked if he needed permission, but Norman felt he had to say something. “My dad’s busy at the university on some secret project,” he told them, hoping that would allow him to keep it vague. “I’ve spent most of the summer reading and exploring the countryside with Malcolm.”

The Intrepids stared at him with the same blank face. “Who’s Malcolm, then?” Gordon asked, as if he’d missed something.

“That’s my stoat,” Norman explained. It felt weird saying “my” stoat. He could imagine what Malcolm would have to say about that.

“Is it only tame with you?” Pippa asked. She spoke so infrequently that Norman was surprised to hear her voice. “Or would it let us look after it, too? If it’s injured, I should think it would need some expert care.”

Gordon snorted as if his sister had said something funny. “Pippa’s gaga for animals of all sorts. She thinks she’ll be a vet, like Dad. As if a girl could be a vet!”

Pippa just scowled and looked away, a glint of defiance in her pale blue eyes.

“I’m not so sure,” George mused. “Father even says that women ought to be able to vote. I don’t see why they shouldn’t, do you?”

Norman rolled his eyes, imagining what his mom might say to Gordon.

“Girls can do whatever they want,” he replied. “She could be a vet, or any kind of doctor.”

“You must be joking,” Gordon scoffed. “She’s so squeamish. She’s even worried about the mice getting hurt.” He indicated the box that Pippa carried so carefully.

“She’ll probably make a great vet, then,” Norman concluded. It only made sense, but Pippa smiled at him as if it was the kindest thing he could have said.

Emboldened by the smile, he ventured another question. “Are you sure that this plan with the mice will work?” he asked tentatively. He knew very well it wouldn’t—it was going to be a disaster—but thought that maybe he shouldn’t meddle.

“Of course it’ll work!” Gordon insisted, his pale, freckled face flushed, as if Norman had questioned the force of gravity or the might of the British navy. “Mice scurrying every which way underfoot, girls screaming.” He looked meaningfully at his sister. “Those fussy geezers will scatter. While they’re in a tizzy we’ll have a look through that solicitor’s desk for those papers.”

“What if they have a cat?” Norman asked, as if it were just a remote possibility and not a certainty he’d read the night before.

“Why would a solicitor’s office have cats?” Gordon scoffed.

“Maybe they’ve had mouse problems before,” Norman offered. “Mice can’t be all that uncommon in London.”

Gordon’s faith was not to be swayed, but Pippa had been listening thoughtfully. “Maybe it is a bit silly to expect grown men to lose their heads over a few mice.” She looked to George for reassurance.

The dark-haired boy appeared unworried. “Well, it’s the best plan we have at the moment,” he declared, a trifle annoyed that anyone would dare to doubt him. “If it doesn’t work we shall have to try something else. I’m utterly convinced that the key to exonerating my father is in that office.”

Nevertheless, the Intrepids climbed the steps to the lawyer’s office just a little less defiantly than they had when Norman had read this scene. George went ahead into the office while Norman and the Cooks remained outside on the landing, listening at the open door.

“Ah, young Master Kelmsworth. What a surprise. What brings you to the city?” Todd did not sound surprised at all. The lawyer sounded as if he had been expecting George.

“I’ve come about the gamekeeper,” George announced, repeating the words that Norman had read just yesterday. “The grounds at Kelmsworth are not being looked after properly. I came across a poacher myself the other day. We absolutely must have a proper gamekeeper back on the estate.”

Mr. Todd frowned as Norman and the Cooks snuck in through the open door. His eyes shifted to them for only a moment, but Norman was certain that he had seen them. Todd looked directly at Norman and smiled a smug little smile of recognition. Norman ducked behind a desk with Pippa. Neither she nor Gordon realized that Mr. Todd had seen them, and that this was no surprise at all.

“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do on that account at this point,” Todd was telling George. “While we put together the appeal, the grounds are under the jurisdiction of Administrator Hepplewaithe. We’ll sort it out in the end, of course. You know that. But I’m afraid that in the meantime, it is out of our hands.”

“But I nearly caught the poacher myself. We think he’s here in London now. We just missed him at Dodgeworth’s …”

“You don’t say? And what might Dodgeworth’s be?”

Pippa’s high-pitched scream interrupted them.

It happened just the way it had in the book. Pippa climbed onto a chair and continued to scream as twelve grey and white mice scurried from beneath the desk where Gordon had set them free. Norman stood and watched in silence. They made a pathetic sight, quickly disappearing into the wainscotting and under cabinets.

Mr. Todd stood up at his desk to observe their escape. “Shhhh,” he scolded Pippa warily, whose screams had quickly become less shrill. She blushed, got down off the chair and looked meekly at her shoes.

Gordon, for one, was not giving up so easily. “Rats!” he bellowed. “Rats! We’ll all get the plague!”

Mr. Todd turned to stare at Norman, rolling his eyes as if inviting Norman to share the joke. The lawyer tilted his head to indicate the large ginger cat crouched behind a nearby column. The cat sprang with a ferocity and velocity that belied its round belly and complacent smile. Beneath one ginger paw it held a single stunned white mouse.

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Todd. It was the exact bored, arrogant tone that Norman had expected when he’d read it. “I do hope that wasn’t a special mouse. I doubt that Vilnius will be persuaded to give it up now.”

Hearing his name spoken, or half of it at least, Norman looked up reflexively. There was something about this Todd character, something familiar. The lawyer’s long face and sunken cheeks were framed by ridiculous sideburns that reached down to his chin. They made him look like some sort of felt puppet, but Norman was sure he knew the face under all that hair.

“You know, Master Kelmsworth,” he was lecturing now, “I must ask you not to go chasing suspected poachers around the grounds of the estate, or here in London. It isn’t safe at all.” He was speaking to George, but his eyes were fixed on Norman all the while.
Perhaps it is my clothes
, Norman thought.

“If there was a poacher on the estate, what could he possibly take of any value? I doubt there is any real game on the estate, except for a few pheasants, perhaps the odd rabbit.”

“That’s not true,” Gordon argued. His voice became shrill and indignant. “Kelmsworth estate is full of valuable game, not just rabbits. There are badgers and foxes and—”

“Foxes, you say? Well, that is an outrage.” Mr. Todd winked at Norman. “I’m very much opposed to the fox hunt.”

With that wink Norman recognized him. It was Fuchs. Norman knew him by many guises and names, but he would always be Fuchs, the mysterious librarian from his local library. Fuchs was the only person from the real world that he had ever met in a book. He had turned up as the fox abbot of Tintern in Undergrowth and had once saved Norman from a murder mystery. It was Fuchs who had explained the bookweird, as much as it could be explained. Norman stood there, his jaw hanging, trying to imagine what he should say. Nothing came to mind.

Mr. Todd smiled with satisfaction. Now that he was sure Norman recognized him, he turned away and spoke directly to George. They spoke for a few more minutes about the problems at the estate. Todd was sympathetic but unhelpful. George was quickly frustrated, and they were soon trudging down the steps again. Norman trailed behind the other three, deep in thought.

He stopped as they reached the door. “Just a minute,” he said. “I have to ask your Mr. Todd something.”

He ignored the inquisitive looks from the Intrepids and dashed back up the stairs before they could object.

“Why am I here?” Norman asked, placing his palms down on the massive oak desk.

Mr. Todd signed a paper with a flourish, then looked up. He placed his fingers together in front of his face and considered the question seriously for a moment, “It is a difficult question, one better suited to a priest or a philosopher than a lawyer.”

Norman was used to this sort of obtuseness from Fuchs—or Todd, as he now called himself. “No. Why am I
here
, in this book?”

“Why are you ever here?” Todd replied distractedly. Even as he pulled the sleeves of his suit jacket over his white shirt cuffs, he looked just a bit animal-like. In Undergrowth he was the fox abbot of Tintern and chaplain to the stoat princes.

“But I didn’t do it. I didn’t eat any of this book,” Norman pressed. “I haven’t eaten a book since the last time.”

Todd stroked his ridiculous mutton-chop sideburns in mock contemplation. “You haven’t? Are you sure?”

Norman thought momentarily but nodded, convinced he hadn’t so much as nibbled the corners of a page. He had cured himself of the habit that had unlocked the bookweird for him. He knew he couldn’t risk it.