Amanda Lester and the Black Shadow Terror Read online

  “The optical disks with the Legatum data are ready any time.”

  “Good,” said Blixus. “I’ll take them to the repository this afternoon.”

  “I’ll do it if you want,” said Hugh. “I could use a good laugh.”

  “They won’t let you in,” said Blixus. “I’ll have to go myself.”

  Diamond and Scapulus looked at each other again.

  “He’s going in a couple of hours,” she said.

  “To a place Hugh finds humorous but isn’t allowed into,” he said.

  “What could that be?”

  “Dunno. Why won’t they let him in? Because he’s an outsider?” he said.

  “Maybe because he isn’t old enough,” she ventured.

  “Some place where they serve liquor?”

  “Could be. Please tell me he isn’t storing our stuff in a strip club.”

  Scapulus giggled. “Now that would be something.”

  “Yeah. We couldn’t get in,” she pointed out. “Well, I could get us in but you might not like how I did it.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, beaming. “Except Hugh said he’d get a laugh out of going there. I’m not sure laughing is the first reaction I’d associate with a strip club.”

  “A pub then?”

  “Perhaps. In which case we’d need Thrillkill’s help to get in. Or one of the teachers’.”

  “How about if we reset the time on the history machine and restart it a couple of hours later?” she suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  He fiddled with the controls and skipped ahead. Again Blixus appeared on the screen, but this time he was carrying a briefcase and walking toward a large russet-colored building.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he said.

  “It sure looks like it,” she said.

  “The British Library!” they said together.

  As they watched, Blixus entered the building and made his way to the Rare Books and Music Reading Room on the first floor.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny about this,” said Diamond. “Hugh is one strange duck if he finds that humorous.”

  “Let’s just watch,” Scapulus said.

  Blixus approached the desk.

  “I’d like to speak with Gwendolyn Airedale,” he told the librarian with the toothbrush mustache who was standing there.

  “Momentito,” the man said, and disappeared through a door. A second later a petite Asian woman came to the desk, followed by Mustache Man.

  “Blixus,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “How lovely to see you. The usual?”

  Blixus nodded. The woman opened a wooden gate that kept the patrons out of the back and beckoned him to come through. He followed her into a private room full of cabinets. She opened a drawer and removed a huge ring of keys, then went to a low cabinet and unlocked it.

  “What does that say?” said Scapulus, peering at the label on the cabinet. “I wish we could zoom in.”

  Diamond squinted. “It’s hard to make out. Wait, have you got a magnifying glass?”

  Scapulus grabbed his phone and magnified the label on the cabinet. The words were clear: “The Bailiwick Wiffle Personal Papers Collection.”

  “Good grief!” said Scapulus. “He’s using a detective’s private papers as a repository for stolen goods. Bailiwick Wiffle is David’s great-grandfather. No wonder Hugh found that funny. And now I understand. He is too young to be admitted.”

  “That librarian is in on it,” said Diamond. “And you know what? She looks familiar. I just can’t place her.”

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” said Scapulus. “It is damned clever. But quite troubling. A rare books librarian of all people. I wonder if Mrs. Bipthrottle knows her. Gwendolyn Airedale. Did you see her at Taffeta’s school? Did she work there once, or maybe give a lecture?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Diamond. “Her voice is familiar though.”

  “Keep thinking,” he said. “It might be important. We’re going to need to get in there and get those disks. We’re underage too, so that’s going to be harder than it should be. You know, I’m really looking forward to being eighteen.”

  “Don’t wish your life away,” she said. “There are plenty of ways to make this happen. Don’t forget that I used to be a master criminal myself. Well, not really a master, but I was pretty good. Scapulus, are you hearing what I’m saying?”

  But Scapulus was a million miles away. The problem of the Moriarty cartel had just become a lot more complicated than anyone had thought.

  Scapulus walked into Mrs. Bipthrottle’s office and sat down at the chair in front of her cluttered desk. “I need your help.”

  “Always,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  He fiddled with his hands. “Do you know a librarian called Gwendolyn Airedale?”

  “Oh, her,” said Mrs. B., her face turning sour.

  That answered that, and raised other questions. “What do you mean ‘Oh her’?”

  “She’s trouble,” said Mrs. Bipthrottle disapprovingly.

  “How so?”

  The librarian sighed. “How not? She’s unethical, for one thing.”

  “Sorry to pepper you with questions, but in what way?”

  The librarian smiled. “Peppering, is it? I thought you were just doing the job of a detective.” That got a smile out of him.

  “The way she acquires rare books and manuscripts for a start,” Mrs. Bipthrottle continued. “She extorts her way into getting them.”

  “By . . .”

  “Just what I said. She deals in dark secrets, uses them to extort the owners into giving up their papers.”

  This didn’t compute. Scapulus had had some experience with rare documents because of his family. All the transactions had been perfectly humdrum as far as he knew.

  “But don’t famous people generally donate their papers to libraries?” he said.

  “Yes, but not like this. She forces them to part with embarrassing material by threatening to reveal even more embarrassing material.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  The librarian sighed. “Because she’s a sick individual and because she can.”

  “But I’ve never heard of anyone’s embarrassing papers being reported on. Wouldn’t that be common knowledge?”

  “No, you wouldn’t and it wouldn’t. She plants them in the British Library collection like time bombs. She’s after ruining people’s legacies, not their lives.”

  “She ruins the lives of their descendants. Like you and me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why hasn’t she been caught?”

  “She’s too clever. No one can prove what she’s done. They think she’s brilliant for acquiring so many precious pieces. But no one actually reads them. She leaves that to the scholars who come along later.”

  “Then a collection of papers by, say, Bailiwick Wiffle, might contain scandalous material.”

  “It might. In fact I’d bet on it in his case—with all due apologies to David and Nick.”

  “Oh dear,” said Scapulus.

  “Why oh dear?” said Mrs. Bipthrottle.

  He told her all about what he and Diamond had seen and asked if she’d help them get into the reading room.

  “Absolutely I will get you in,” she said. “But you cannot show interest in the Wiffle papers or she’ll be suspicious. We’ll ask to see some of Charles Dickens’s letters. Everyone looks at those. I will keep Airedale occupied and you can sneak in and get the disks.”

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “But I must warn you that there are cameras,” she said. “It won’t be easy.”

  “We’ll come up with a plan,” he said. “I can probably zap them.”

  “Let’s take the train now and we’ll be there at opening time in the morning. That should give you plenty of time to work on the plan.”

  13

  A Devil’s Bargain

  Nick was frantic. He’d seen the commotion on the other sid
e of the Parrot house but he hadn’t been able to get to Amanda before Lestrade took her away. He ran through the crowd as fast as he could, shoving guests, waiters, and even police aside as he attempted to learn what was happening. The body on the floor, surrounded by onlookers, barely registered. All that mattered was Amanda. He had heard her scream blue murder, then glass shattering as the guests, startled out of their wits, had dropped their champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvre plates. He knew it would happen sooner or later, and mentally thanked fate it hadn’t occurred during the previous night, when their rooms at the boardinghouse were at opposite ends of the hall. He’d lain awake half the night worrying about her, and even gone to check on her at 3:00 AM, but she’d been fast asleep.

  As he neared the scene he could see Lestrade pulling her along, and his heart sank. “Amanda!” he called out, but she was in a trance and couldn’t hear him. Then he noticed that her beautiful lavender dress was covered with red, as was her left hand. Mrs. Fitz’s brown stockings and lovely white wedding shoes were likewise defiled. He saw the plainclothes policeman with the bloody knife, then the body again, and he knew what was happening.

  “She didn’t do it,” he yelled to Lestrade. The policeman ignored him. Nick shoved more guests aside until he caught up with the inspector.

  “That’s my girlfriend,” he cried.

  “I feel sorry for you,” said Lestrade.

  “You don’t understand,” said Nick. “Amanda could never kill anyone.”

  “They all say that,” said Lestrade. “If I had a shilling . . .”

  “No, it’s true,” said Nick. “I’ll bet I know who did do it though.”

  “Father Christmas?” said Lestrade sarcastically.

  “Professor Moriarty,” said Nick.

  Lestrade froze in his tracks. “What did you say?”

  “James Moriarty,” said Nick.

  “Oh?” said Lestrade. “And what makes you think a thing like that?”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” said Nick.

  Lestrade peered at him with his ferret eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Nicholas Muffet, sir,” said Nick. “Amanda’s young man.”

  Lestrade gave him a stony look. “In that case, Mr. Muffet, I suggest you find your friend here a good solicitor.”

  Nick clutched Lestrade’s arm. The policeman removed his hand.

  “Please,” said Nick. “It doesn’t need to go that far.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to bribe me, would you?” said Lestrade snidely.

  “Of course not,” said Nick. “I’m simply trying to get you to see that Amanda can’t possibly have killed Mrs. Parrot.”

  “She was caught red-handed,” said Lestrade. “Now out of my way.”

  Nick realized that Lestrade was deadly serious. He also realized that he had to find Amanda a solicitor right away, but he didn’t have much money left. He vowed that if he ever got back to the twenty-first century he would always carry lots of money with him in case he was whisked away to the past again. Old currency, not the modern-day stuff, which would do no good in Victorian times.

  “Come on, Simon,” he said under his breath. “Now would be a good time to bring us back.”

  But Simon didn’t swoop in, and Nick found himself hailing a hansom and instructing the driver to follow Lestrade’s wagon. When he arrived at Scotland Yard Amanda had awakened from her trance.

  “Nick! “She called out across the room.

  “Quiet,” said Lestrade, taking her by the shoulder.

  “But that’s my boyfriend,” she said, chin motioning toward Nick.

  “I don’t care if he’s Julius Caesar,” said Lestrade. “You’ll see him if and when I say so. For now, however, you’re going to enjoy the peace and quiet of our luxury accommodations.”

  He whisked her out a door and Nick was left standing there. Panicked, he surveyed the room, then dashed after Amanda. A big, burly constable stepped in front of the door.

  “No visitors,” he said.

  “I’m not a visitor, I’m her brother,” Nick improvised.

  “Brothers is visitors,” said the cop. “No brothers.”

  “But she’s innocent,” said Nick.

  “She’ll get her day in court,” said the man.

  Nick briefly entertained the idea of charging him and getting through the door, but he realized that would only cause harm to Amanda. What he needed was a lawyer. Or physical evidence that cleared Amanda’s name. Or a confession from Moriarty. Yeah, right.

  “I say,” he said to the cop. “If I were to produce evidence that proved Amanda didn’t kill this Mrs. Parrot, would you let her go?”

  “That depends,” said the man.

  “On what?” said Nick.

  “How much we trust it, for a start,” said the man, suddenly garrulous. “Lots of people try to plant evidence. Don’t go getting no ideas.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Nick.

  “See that you don’t,” said the cop.

  “What would you consider trustworthy evidence?”

  “Eyewitness accounts,” said the man.

  Nick wanted to laugh. Since when were witnesses credible? Forensics had changed a lot in the last hundred-plus years.

  “What else?”

  “Footprints, fingerprints, fibers. Objects linking the perpetrator to the crime.”

  “Things the criminal left behind then?” said Nick.

  “What am I, a teacher?” said the cop, losing his patience. “Get outta here, punk.”

  Nick knew better than to push.

  “Thanks,” he said, and went to sit on a bench in the waiting area. He needed to get back to that crime scene and scour it for clues. Chances were that he would find things the police missed. Anyone who watched cop shows could, but he had another advantage. He had been trained in what not to leave at a crime scene from the age of two. Most criminals didn’t have that knowledge even in the twenty-first century. Almost no one would have it in this time. Except, perhaps, for the most talented criminal of them all: Moriarty.

  There was no time to lose. He hailed a cab and raced back to Mrs. Parrot’s house. But the place was surrounded by police and they wouldn’t let him in. He tried every entrance with the same result. He could not get into the house. He was sure if he waited long enough he’d somehow manage it, but by then it might be too late. What should he do? He paced about until one of the cops told him to be on his way. But to where? There was no point going back to the boardinghouse. Nor would sitting at Scotland Yard do any good. Perhaps that lawyer, although how he’d pay he had no idea. There was no one about this time of night to pickpocket, and a solicitor would be a fool to drop everything to help a kid like him without a show of some silver. No, there was only one solution to this problem and its name was Sherlock Holmes.

  Nick ran from Scotland Yard to Baker Street as fast as he could. He was certain Holmes wouldn’t mind the hour. If the case was interesting enough he’d probably accept visitors at 3:00 in the morning, although Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be pleased. As he approached the corner of Baker and Weymouth, however, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. One of the shadow monsters, fog swirling around it, was menacing a rich-looking couple—a man and a woman—and the man was lying on the ground. The smell was horrendous.

  Nick sprang into action. He ran at the monster and kicked, but his foot went right through it and the specter grew larger. The woman screamed and he yelled, “Run!”

  She glanced from Nick to the monster to the man. “But Efrem!” she cried.

  “He’ll be all right,” Nick said. “Go!”

  That was easier said than done. The woman’s high heels made it difficult to run, let alone walk, and she kept stumbling. Finally, after a few more futile kicks, Nick picked her up and carried her.

  “My husband!” she cried.

  “I’ll get him,” Nick said looking around. The monster was nowhere to be seen so he put her down. “Stay here,” he instructed her.

  H
e ran back to the man but the monster was gone. He bent down and felt the man’s pulse. He was alive. He picked the man up—much more difficult to do than the woman—and was beginning to carry him out of the street when he stirred.

  “Who are you?” he said, coughing. “Where’s Daisy?”

  Nick put the man down gently. He was a bit wobbly but otherwise seemed fine.

  “Efrem!” came the wife’s voice as she jerkily made her way to them.

  “Daisy!” cried the man, hobbling to her. “What’s happened? Who is this man?”

  Daisy ran into her young husband’s arms and he held her tight.

  “He saved us,” she said, smiling at Nick. “It was the shadow monster.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” said Efrem.

  “They destroy people’s memories, remember?” she said. She stepped out of his arms and began to wipe off his clothing, which had gotten all kinds of icky stuff on it. He was so dazed he didn’t seem to notice.

  “You saw it then?”

  “I did. It was awful. This nice fellow tried to fight it. He carried me to safety.”

  Efrem turned to Nick and with a rather wet hand of his own, shook his hand.

  “Thanks very much,” he said. “You saved our lives.”

  “And our valuables,” said Daisy. “Everything is still here.”

  Efrem dug into his pockets. “Here too. Well, er, uh . . .” He looked at Nick helplessly.

  “Muffet,” said Nick. “Nicholas Muffet.”

  “Well, Mr. Muffet,” said Efrem. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t suppose you would accept a reward.”

  Nick desperately wanted to but didn’t feel right taking the couple’s money.

  “Thanks, but no,” he said. “However, you could do me a favor if you’d accompany me to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes and tell him your story.” Why not? Two interesting mysteries would intrigue Holmes more than one and the couple could provide eyewitness detail.

  “We’d be delighted,” said Efrem, who seemed to be recovering his upper-class manners.

  Now that Nick had a chance to look at him, he noticed that the man was even younger than he’d thought—early twenties, perhaps, and his wife younger still, not much older than he was. The man was blonde and skinny, the woman brunette and about the same height, maybe five foot eight in her shoes. They were obviously well to do, although why they weren’t riding rather than walking he didn’t know. The man quickly answered his question however.