THEY LEFT THE SCOTLAND LANDING HOTEL at 7 p.m., when the dark, fog-filled streets were virtually empty of homebound pedestrians.
Peter, with Tink tucked into his coat, led the way. The chilly air made him grateful for the warm clothes and shoes he was wearing, courtesy of Patrick, who’d gone shopping for Peter and Wendy that afternoon. He’d also picked up some special materials Neville had requested.
Peter kept to the shadows and peered around each corner, scouting for bobbies or anyone else of concern. Following a half-block behind were Wendy, Ted, and Neville, who was carrying a small satchel. Wendy had initially suggested that her uncle not accompany them, but he would not hear of it.
“I believe my expertise may prove useful,” he said. “And I do not fear danger. I have faced danger many times.”
Most of it caused by your own experiments, thought Wendy. But she didn’t argue.
The little party avoided the main roads, working its way through the maze of streets and alleys east of Sloane Square, Peter relying on Tink’s flawless sense of direction. Just after 7:30, Peter cautiously emerged from Queensberry Place onto Cromwell Road. Looming out of the fog across the street was the Natural History Museum, a massive, ornate brick structure.
Peter watched the street and sidewalk for several minutes, keeping an eye on the occasional pedestrian and the dwindling Cromwell Road traffic. When he was convinced that there was no trap awaiting them, he turned and opened his coat. Tink emitted three brief flashes of light. A minute later, the other three joined them.
Wendy pointed to the left and said, “That’s Queensgate Mews. Patrick said we go around that way, then knock on the door at the back corner of the museum.”
“Right,” said Peter. “We’ll wait until the road is clear, then cross.” Ted and Neville nodded. A smile twitched Peter’s lips; Ted was a grown man, but Peter, at least at this moment, was still the leader.
When they saw a break in traffic, they ran across Cromwell Road, Neville in the rear, puffing to keep up. They went up Queensgate Mews, along the side of the museum. When Peter was sure there were no guards about, he led them onto the museum grounds. As Patrick had told them, there was an unmarked door near the corner in back of the huge main building. Peter rapped on it three times. There was the sound of a deadbolt sliding, and the door opened.
“Welcome to the museum,” said Patrick, smiling broadly.
They stepped into a long corridor lit by overhead electric lights. Patrick closed the door. “It went as planned,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I identified myself to the museum staff as a Cambridge fellow, giving a false name, and said I wanted to do some research in one of the restricted areas. They weren’t a bit suspicious, as they get many such requests. Just before closing I made a show of announcing I was leaving. Instead I hid in a storage room until the staff had gone for the day.”
“Is there anyone else here?” asked Peter.
“At least one watchman, who is currently snoring loudly at his post in the main hall. There may be one or two others. But I don’t think they’ll be a problem for us. We’re going to a specimen room on the third floor here in the rear of the building. The stairway is this way.”
He led them up the stairs to a long, dimly lit marble hallway lined on both sides with heavy oak doors. About halfway down he stopped in front of one on the left-hand side with a sign that said MINERALOGY.
“It’s in here,” said Patrick.
“All right, then, stand back,” said Neville, starting to open his satchel. Patrick stopped him. “No need for that yet.”
“Then how are we going to open the door?” said Neville.
“With this,” said Patrick, pulling a key from his pocket. “The museum staff keeps the specimen-room keys hanging on a board downstairs. I happened to brush against it as I walked past.” He smiled proudly.
Ted stared in amazement at his light-fingered Cambridge colleague. “You actually enjoy being a criminal,” he said.
“Immensely!” said Patrick. “I think I’m rather good at it.” He used the key to open the door, and the group entered. Patrick found the light switch and flicked it on, revealing a large, musty room with four massive tables in the center, littered with books, scientific instruments, and mineral specimens. Along the walls were rows of cabinets and display cases filled with more mineral specimens of all shapes and sizes.
“There’s thousands of rocks here,” said Wendy. “How are we supposed to find the one we’re looking for?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Patrick. “We’ll just have to—”
He was interrupted by a chime from Tink, who was hovering next to a massive steel cabinet at the far end of the room.
“She says it’s in that box,” said Peter.
“But how would she know that?” said Patrick.
“She knows,” said Peter.
“All right, then,” said Neville, bustling over with his satchel. He examined the cabinet, then said, “I don’t think I can get enough explosive into the lock mechanism itself. But I can blow the hinges. The door should come right off.” He opened the satchel and set to work.
The others waited in silence. The minutes crept past.
Tink emitted a low chime.
“What?” said Wendy, looking at Peter.
“She hears somebody downstairs,” said Peter.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Patrick.
“Tink has very good ears,” said Peter.
“Maybe we ought to leave,” said Ted.
“Not without the stone,” said Wendy. “We might not have another chance to get it. Uncle Neville, how much more time do you need?”
“Almost done,” said Neville, working furiously.
Peter opened the door, stuck his head out and looked both ways. “There’s nobody in the hallway,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I say we light the fuse, get the stone, and run,” said Wendy.
Nobody argued.
“There are two stairways,” said Patrick. “The one we used, and another at the far end of the hall. The explosion will bring them running. Whichever hallway they come up, we’ll go down the other.”
Peter, Wendy, and Ted nodded.
“Shall I light the fuse?” said Neville.
“Yes,” said Wendy.
“Gather in the far corner, then,” said Neville. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
They huddled in the corner near the door. Peter tucked Tink into his coat. Neville struck a match and touched it to the fuse. A shower of sparks erupted. Neville rose and, carrying his empty satchel, puffed across the room, dodging the big tables. As he reached the others, he shouted, “Turn around and cover your ears!” They did, and waited.
And waited.
And …
BOOM!
The concussion knocked them over as the room roared with deafening noise, then filled with smoke. Peter was the first back on his feet. He stumbled through the acrid-smelling haze to the metal cabinet. As Neville had promised, the door had been blown off its hinges; it lay bent on the floor a good ten feet from the cabinet. The rest of the cabinet was also blackened and badly damaged. But inside it, looking unharmed, was a lump of metal. It was roughly the shape of a potato but about twice the size, with an uneven silvery surface that seemed to shimmer in the smoke.
Peter reached in and picked it up. It seemed unusually heavy. Peter’s fingers tingled where they touched it.
“Is this it?” he asked the others, who had come up behind him.
“That’s the Mansfield Stone,” said Patrick.
Tink, emerging from Peter’s coat, chimed urgently.
“Somebody’s coming up the stairs,” said Peter. He grabbed the satchel from Neville and dropped the stone into it. “Who’s going to carry this?” he said.
“You should,” said Wendy. “If the rest of us get caught, you can fly away.”
“I’m not going to leave anybody,” said Peter.
“Yes you are,” said Wendy firmly. “If we don’t keep the stone from von Schatten, all of this will have been for nothing.”
Tink chimed again.
“We have to go,” said Peter. Holding the satchel, he ran for the door, with the others right behind. When they reached the hallway, it was still empty, but they could hear loud footsteps coming from the hallway to the right, the same one they had used to come up to the third floor.
“This way,” said Peter, running to the left, with Tink zooming ahead.
As he reached the far stairway, Peter looked back. Three figures had reached the top of the other stairs. In the dim lighting, Peter couldn’t see them clearly, but somehow he knew they weren’t museum guards. Whoever they were, they had spotted Peter and the others and were running toward them.
“Hurry!” Peter shouted, starting down the stairs. He glanced back. Wendy and Patrick were right behind, followed by Ted, followed by Neville, who was moving more slowly on the stairs. Peter turned back to help, joined by Ted; each took one of Neville’s arms so he could move a little faster. But the three pursuers were gaining. Peter heard footsteps thundering close behind as he and the others reached the ground floor. Two corridors met here; Patrick pointed at one and said, “This way!”
The other four followed him as he ran down the corridor. He jogged right, then left; Peter realized he was leading them along the rear of the building, back toward the door through which they had entered. Peter stayed at the rear, the heavy satchel banging against his legs.
They rounded a corner, and Patrick, still in the lead, stumbled over something. Peter heard gasps, then saw what had tripped Patrick: a museum guard. He lay on the floor, hands and feet bound, eyes wide with fear. He was trying to say something, but all that came out was “He…he …”
Wendy knelt to untie the guard. The sound of running feet grew louder.
“Wendy,” said Patrick urgently, “we don’t have time.”
Reluctantly, Wendy rose. Patrick started running again, followed by the others, with Peter the last to leave the terrified guard. The man looked in the direction Peter’s group was going, then met Peter’s eyes, shook his head, and said, “No. No.” Peter hesitated.
“Peter, come on!” called Wendy.
Peter turned and ran, haunted by the look in the guard’s eyes.
They continued to follow Patrick through the maze of hallways, turning left, then right, then left again. The last turn brought them into a long corridor. Peter’s hopes rose as he recognized this as the corridor they’d been in when they first entered the museum. At the far end was the exit door—and escape.
Led by Patrick, they started running toward it.
Tink, flying just above Peter, emitted a sharp chime.
Suddenly, Patrick stopped.
Peter froze as he saw the reason. A dark figure had just stepped out of a shadow at the far end of the corridor. It was a man wearing a cloak with a hood that shrouded his face. But Peter had seen that awful face, and felt the excruciating pain that the man could inflict with the merest touch of his clawlike hands. Remembering that agony, he felt his legs weaken, his stomach roil.
The hooded man started walking toward the group. Behind them, they heard the sound of their pursuers, getting closer in the maze of corridors.
“What do we do?” said Ted.
“There’s only the one in front of us,” said Patrick. “We can rush him. He can’t stop us all.”
Yes he can, thought Peter. But he kept silent, ashamed to show his fear.
“The important thing is the stone,” said Wendy. “Peter, you must escape. Fly if you can. Leave us behind if you have to. Just don’t let him get the stone.”
Peter nodded, staring at the oncoming figure.
There were shouts behind them. Peter looked back. The pursuers had entered the long corridor. Peter saw there were two large men and a woman.
“Now!” shouted Patrick. He started running toward the hooded man, followed by the others. Behind them they heard the shouts of the three pursuers. As they neared the hooded figure, Peter caught a glimpse of the face—more skull than face—and the lone yellow eye. Somehow Peter knew the eye was looking straight at him.
They were twenty feet from the hooded man…Ten …
The man’s left claw-hand shot out, reaching for something on the wall.
The corridor went completely dark.
Peter ran into Ted, who had stopped. They both stumbled forward. An urgent chime came from Tink. Peter felt Ted’s body stiffen, then heard Ted scream, his voice impossibly high-pitched. Peter knew why. He turned and crawled the other way in the blackness, still holding the satchel. Footsteps—the three pursuers—clattered toward him, past him, the pursuers missing him in the blackness. He huddled against the wall. Behind him he heard shouts, grunts, yells, the sounds of struggle. He could make out Patrick’s voice, and Neville’s. He debated what to do. He remembered Wendy’s words. Leave us behind if you have to. Just don’t let him get the stone.
He started to crawl back the way he and the others had come, away from the struggle. Slowly, he rose to his feet and shuffled forward, feeling for the wall in the utter blackness. Behind him the shouts continued. He heard Wendy scream. And then an odd sound, a deep rumbling, then a fearsome roar. The sounds of struggle increased, a confusing mix of shouting and banging. Peter listened for a minute, paralyzed, then again started shuffling away from the noise.
STOP!
Tink’s urgent chime was right in his ear. Peter froze.
Close your eyes.
Knowing what was coming, Peter shut his eyes tight. Through his eyelids he saw the brilliant flash. He opened them just as the flash ended, and saw the reason for Tink’s alarm.
The hooded man was in front of him, not three feet away.
His back was to Peter.
Either he had been looking the wrong way, or he had somehow known that the flash was coming. It had not blinded him.
He was turning around.…As the last of Tink’s light faded, Peter saw the gaping hole where a mouth should have been, the empty socket, the lone yellow eye …
The claw-hand reaching out…
Peter screamed, and turned. In the blackness, he stumbled away from the hideous thing. He started running blindly. He fell over something; it moaned, and he realized it was a person. He struggled to his feet. Strong hands grabbed him, and he screamed.
“It’s all right, Peter,” said a gruff voice. “It’s me.”
Magill.
The big man held Peter’s arm and half pulled, half carried him down the corridor, then through the door.
“This way,” said Magill, taking off at a run. He led Peter away from the museum through a maze of streets, Peter running behind, his mind too numb to think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. After ten minutes they ducked into an alley so dark that at first Peter didn’t realize there was anyone else there. As his eyes adjusted, he could just barely make out the silhouettes of five figures—Wendy, Patrick, Neville, Ted, and the huge, hairy figure of Karl, in an overcoat and hat.
“Found him,” said Magill.
“Thank goodness!” said Wendy. “Peter, we were so worried!”
“A very close thing,” said Neville. “If Magill here hadn’t appeared …”
“I thought I’d follow you—just in case, as Lord Aster would say,” said Magill. “But it was Karl here, old as he is, who turned the tide.”
“Indeed!” said Patrick. “Karl is a good man—that is, bear—to have on your side in a fight.”
“But who were those people?” said Ted. “They clearly weren’t museum staff. What were they doing there?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Wendy. “I think they were there for the same reason we were.”
“To get the Mansfield Stone?” said Patrick.
“Precisely,” said Wendy. “They must have been sent by von Schatten.”
“If that’s true,” said Ted, “we got there just in time.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “It was a near thing, but the stone is ours.”
Peter cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he could barely choke out the words.
“I…I don’t have it,” he said.
“What?” said Wendy.
“The stone,” said Peter. “I dropped it when he…when he …” He looked down, his eyes burning.
The dark alley fell into a silence that, to Peter, seemed to go on forever. It was Ted who finally spoke. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Peter,” he said softly. “I felt just a little of the pain that thing could cause, and I screamed like a baby. Nobody blames you. You’re a brave person; you’ve shown that many times.”
Not tonight, thought Peter. Tonight I was a coward. He looked around at the group. He saw that Wendy was looking at him, but in the darkness he couldn’t see her expression. He looked down again, willing himself not to cry in front of everyone.
There was another uncomfortable silence, and then Patrick, trying his best to sound cheerful but not quite succeeding, said, “I suppose we should make our way back to the hotel. We’ll get some rest, and we’ll come up with a new plan in the morning.”
“Follow me,” said Magill. He started toward the entrance to the alley, the others following.
“Wait a moment,” said Peter. “Where’s Tink?”
“Isn’t she with you?” said Wendy.
“She was,” said Peter, “but she…that is, I thought she must have …”
“Must have what?” said Wendy. “She’s always with you, isn’t she?”
Peter’s mind went back to the terrifying moment when Tink had flashed in the museum. The flash would have left her weak, perhaps unconscious. Of course. He should have grabbed her, should have protected her the way she had protected him. But he had been too terrified to think of saving her, or the stone. He had thought only of himself.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
“Tink’s a strong little lady,” said Ted, patting Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“Nothing to be done about it now,” said Magill. “We have to go.”
They started out of the alley, Ted holding Peter’s arm. All the way back, Peter’s eyes searched the sky, looking for the familiar darting point of light. He saw only darkness, and the occasional streetlamp, blurred by his tears.