بخش 27

CHAPTER 52

THE LETTER

WHEN PETER FELT HE HAD flown a safe distance from the chaos on the courthouse steps, he landed on a rooftop amid a clutter of rundown homes. After looking around to make sure nobody was watching, he dropped to the ground in an alley. Tink, following him, landed on his shoulder.

You smell terrible, she reminded him, in case he had forgotten.

“I know,” he said. “I was in a jail. It was…pretty awful. How did you get out of that cage?”

The canaries helped me, she said. They’re not too bright, but they’re brave, once you tell them what to do.

Peter smiled despite the sour smell of his clothes, the penetrating cold, and the gnawing emptiness in his belly. “Well,” he said, “I’m very glad you got out. You saved me, Tink. Again. Thank you.”

You’re welcome, said Tink, literally aglow with pride, filling the dark and filthy alley with warm, golden light.

“Now we need to find Molly,” said Peter.

Instantly the alley went dark.

“What’s the matter?” said Peter.

Tink made a sound that cannot be translated into acceptable English.

Peter blushed. “Tink!”

Why do we have to find her?

“Because,” said Peter, “she’s my friend, and she’s in danger.”

You’ve had nothing but trouble since you started looking for her.

“She’d do the same for me.”

You don’t know that.

“I do know that. When we were on the ship, she—”

Peter was interrupted by another unprintable burst of bells. Tink hated—hated—to be reminded that Peter and Molly had known each other before Tink existed, at least in her current form.

“Well, you can say what you want,” said Peter, when she was quiet again, “but I’m going to look for her.”

He walked resolutely out of the alley. After a moment of fuming, Tink followed him, as he knew she would. When she landed on his shoulder, he gently caught her in his hand and tucked her under his shirt, an action that resulted in a predictable outpouring of complaints about his aroma.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you saw what happens when people see you. I’ll get clean clothes as soon as I can.”

He tried to sound confident, but he wondered how he would find clean clothes when he’d been such a miserable failure at finding Molly’s house. He wandered the busy streets aimlessly for close to an hour without any workable plan presenting itself. He was walking numbly, head down, slowly being overcome by the now-familiar feeling of hopelessness, when he literally bumped into the solution to his problem.

“Here now!” said a gruff voice.

Peter, bouncing back from the collision, found himself looking up at a tall man in a bright red coat, with a sack slung over his shoulder.

A postman.

“Sorry!” said Peter.

“Mind where you’re going!” barked the postman, striding off briskly.

Peter turned and followed, a few paces back, formulating a plan while half trotting to keep up with the postman’s lengthy stride. Peter had never sent a letter, nor received one. But in his years at St. Norbert’s Home for Wayward Boys, several of his friends had received letters, and as Peter hurried along behind the postman, he tried to remember precisely how they worked. He knew you had to write the person’s name on the envelope. But would that be enough?

Peter didn’t know Molly’s address; all he knew was that she lived in London.

The postman, after a dozen quick, efficient stops, strode around a corner and entered the side door of a brick building. Peter went to the front and saw a sign over the door that said ROYAL MAIL. He entered and found himself in a quiet, high-ceilinged room. Along one wall was a long desk, at which several customers were writing; along the other wall were four windows, three of which were manned by clerks. Peter studied them and decided the one on the far right—a portly man with a large red nose and watery eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles—looked the least threatening. He waited until the man wasn’t busy, then approached him.

“Sir,” he said.

The clerk peered at him over the spectacles. “Yes, lad?”

“I need to post a letter,” said Peter.

“All right,” said the clerk. “Let me see it.”

“I don’t have it,” said Peter.

The clerk removed his spectacles, massaged his forehead, then replaced the spectacles.

“You wish to post a letter,” he said, “but you have no letter.”

“Yes,” said Peter.

The clerk glanced around the office; the other two mail clerks were both busy with customers. The clerk ducked down behind the counter, and Peter heard the sound of liquid being swallowed. The clerk reappeared; he seemed surprised to see Peter still standing there.

“Young man,” he said, once he’d got his eyes refocused. “Here is the thing: we cannot post a letter if we do not have the letter. Or, to put it another way, we must have the letter in order to post it. Do you see?” By the time he said “have,” the air around Peter was filled with a strong, sweetish smell.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” said Peter. “What I was wondering was, could you write the letter for me?”

The clerk narrowed his eyes. “You want me to write the letter for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you want this letter to say?”

“Oh,” said Peter, “it doesn’t much matter.”

“You want me to write a letter,” the clerk said, speaking very slowly, “but you don’t care what the letter says.”

“Exactly!” said Peter, glad the man finally understood him.

“Just a moment,” said the clerk, ducking down again. Peter heard another swallowing sound, then a sucking sound, then “Drat!” Then there was a thunk as the clerk, coming back up, struck his head on the counter, followed by another “Drat!” Then the clerk reappeared, rubbing his head. He looked at Peter, closed his eyes tight for several seconds, then opened them. He seemed disappointed to see Peter still standing there.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The clerk stood rubbing his head, looking at Peter. Then he had an idea. Peter could see the formation of this idea on the man’s face: it started as a frown, then turned into what the clerk apparently believed was a shrewd smile. The clerk glanced at his coworkers, then leaned forward through the window and beckoned to Peter.

“Come here,” he said.

The “here” sent powerful fumes wafting Peter’s way, but Peter held his breath and stepped forward.

“I’ll make you a bargain,” the clerk said. He disappeared for a few seconds. After another thunk and another “Drat!” he reappeared with an object concealed in his hands. After glancing around the room, he pressed the object into Peter’s hands. It was a dull gray metal flask.

Leaning close, the clerk whispered: “Take this next door to the Dog and Cabbage. Give it to the barman. Tell him it’s from Henry next door at the mail office. Tell him to fill it back up, and I’ll be ’round after work to pay him. You understand, lad?”

Peter nodded.

“Run along, then,” said the clerk.

Peter trotted next door and into the Dog and Cabbage, a dark, seedy pub with a few scattered customers staring silently at pints of bitter. A man stood behind the bar, watching Peter approach.

“You’re a bit young to be in here,” he said.

Peter set the flask on the bar. A hint of a smile formed on the bartender’s face.

“Henry,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Peter.

“Did Henry send any money with you?” said the bartender.

“No, sir,” said Peter. “He said he’d come ’round after work.”

The bartender sighed, then picked up the flask, filled it from a bottle behind the bar, and handed it back to Peter.

“Thank you,” said Peter, getting a nod in return.

Peter tucked the flask under his shirt with Tink, who, of course, complained. Ignoring her, Peter trotted back into the post office. He stood off a little way while Henry waited on a customer; then he went to the window and, making sure he was unobserved, handed the flask to Henry, who immediately ducked below his counter for several lengthy swigs.

When he reappeared, Peter said, “Now will you write my letter?”

“What letter?” said Henry, blinking.

“The letter you said you’d write for me, if I went to the pub and—”

“Yes, yes, all right,” said Henry, looking around nervously. “No need to shout! Do have paper and pen, then?”

“No, sir.”

Henry sighed. “And I suppose no envelope or stamp?”

“No, sir, but you said if I went to the pub you—”

“Yes! Yes! Shhh!” said Henry. He fumbled around his desk and produced a piece of paper. Dipping a pen in his inkwell, he looked at Peter and said, “Go ahead.”

“With what, sir?”

“With the letter!” said Henry, much too loud for the post office. Every head turned his way; his two fellow clerks glared at him.

“Sorry!” he said. “Just a bit of…that is, I mean…Sorry!” To Peter, he hissed, “What am I supposed to write?”

“Just write anything,” said Peter. “Write hello from Peter.”

“All right,” said Henry, hastily scrawling Hello from Peter. “Is that it?”

“And now if you could address it.”

Sighing, Henry folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and sealed it with a blob of wax and metal stamp. He took a tuppence from his pocket and dropped it into a box on the counter. Picking up the pen again, he said, “Who is the addressee?”

“The what?”

“The addressee,” said Henry. “The person to whom the letter is to be posted.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “Lord Aster.”

Henry looked up, pen poised. “Lord Aster?” he said. “Lord Leonard Aster?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him, to be sure,” said Henry.

“And you know where he lives?” said Peter eagerly.

“Of course,” said Henry.

“Then, please address the letter to him.”

Henry sighed, then wrote Lord Aster, Kensington Palace Gardens, on the envelope.

“All right,” he said, “that’s—”

“And please put an X on the back,” said Peter. “A big one.”

Shaking his head, Henry drew a large X on the back of the envelope, then tossed it into a bin behind him. “There,” he said. “Done. Good-bye.” He started to duck beneath the counter.

Peter’s voice stopped him: “And now the letter will go to Lord Aster’s house?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Good-bye.”

“When will it be delivered?”

Henry looked at the clock. “The postman for that route will leave in one hour,” he said. “Last delivery today. Goodbye.”

“Which postman will it be?” said Peter.

Henry blinked. “Which postman?” he said.

“Yes,” said Peter.

“What difference does it make which…” Henry stopped, realizing that, in a contest of wills, he was overmatched. “The postman is Hawkins,” he said. “The very tall one.” He waited, resigned, for Peter’s next question.

“Thank you,” said Peter, turning to go.

Henry, startled, mumbled “Good-bye” as he watched the very strange, very determined boy leave. He spent a moment trying to fathom what on earth the boy was trying to do with his ridiculous letter. Then he shrugged, glanced around the post office, and returned to his faithful flask. CHAPTER 53

POTATO SOUP

THE ASTER HOUSEHOLD had eight servants. This was a small staff for a family as wealthy as the Asters, with a house so large. But the Asters valued privacy, and the larger the staff, the more prying the eyes, the more gossipy the tongues.

So the Asters got by with just eight. There were the three maids—Mary and Sarah, both of whom had been with the Asters for ages; and Jenna, who recently replaced another longtime family servant, a girl who had suddenly developed a mysterious ailment and had gone off to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. There were three men on the staff—Paul, the family’s longtime manservant; Patrick, the coachman; and a young groom named Ben. The cook was a Spanish woman named Sierra; she had an elderly and somewhat cranky assistant, called Mrs. Conine.

On this evening, as usual, the three maids and the three men had gathered for supper in the big room at the rear of the house, next to the kitchen. When everyone was seated around the table, Paul, as was customary, said the blessing. Jenna rose and went into the kitchen, returning with a tureen of potato soup. Although usually quiet, Jenna declared loudly that the soup was delicious, and insisted that each person try some. She even returned to the kitchen and insisted that Sierra and Mrs. Conine taste it, though they both said they already had.

“Oh, please, you must try some more,” said Jenna. “It’s delicious!”

“It’s just potato soup,” said Sierra. But in the end, she and Mrs. Conine yielded to Jenna’s enthusiasm and took a few spoonfuls each.

So all of them began the supper with a helping of potato soup.

All of them, that is, except Jenna.