Ruby Red: Edelstein Trilogie 01 (11 page)

“Right,” sighed Mr. George. “Exactly! Now my turn again. Can you remember your grandfather?”

“Of course. I was ten when he died. He wasn’t at all like Lady Arista—he was funny and far from strict. He always used to tell my brother and me horror stories. Did you know him yourself?”

“Oh, yes. He was my mentor and my best friend.” Mr. George looked thoughtfully at the fire for a while.

“Who was the little boy?” I asked.

“What little boy?”

“That little boy just now clinging to Dr. White’s jacket.”

“What?” Mr. George turned away from the fire and looked at me, bewildered.

Oh, really! I could hardly have put it more plainly. “That fair-haired little boy, about seven years old. He was standing beside Dr. White,” I said, speaking deliberately slowly.

“But there was no little boy there,” said Mr. George. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” I said. All at once I knew what I’d seen, and I was annoyed with myself for not realizing immediately.

“A fair-haired little boy of about seven, you say?”

“It was nothing.” I pretended to take a burning interest in the books on the shelf behind me.

Mr. George said no more about it, but I could feel his inquiring glance resting on me.

“My turn again,” he said at last.

“This is a silly game. Couldn’t we play chess instead?” There was a chess set on the table. But Mr. George wasn’t going to be put off.

“Do you sometimes see things that other people don’t?”

“Little boys are not
things
,” I said, “but yes, I do sometimes see things when other people don’t.” Even I didn’t know why I told him that.

For some reason or other, he seemed pleased by my admission. “Remarkable, really remarkable. How long have you had this gift?”

“Always.”

“Fascinating.” Mr. George looked around. “Do please tell me who else is sitting here, listening in on us.”

“We’re alone.” I couldn’t help laughing a little at Mr. George’s disappointed expression.

“Oh, dear, I could have sworn this building was teeming with ghosts. This room in particular.” He sipped tea from his cup. “Would you like some Jaffa Cakes?”

“That sounds great.” And then—I didn’t know if it was because he’d mentioned food—I suddenly had that queasy sensation in my stomach again. I held my breath.

Mr. George got to his feet and searched a cupboard. The dizzy sensation was growing stronger. Mr. George was going to get a surprise when he turned around to see that I’d simply disappeared. Maybe I ought to give him advance warning. For all I knew, he had a weak heart.

“Mr. George?”

“And it’s your turn again, Gwyneth.” He was arranging the cookies carefully on a plate, almost the way Mr. Bernard did. “And I think I know the answer to your next question.”

I paid attention to what was going on inside me. The dizziness was dying down a bit.

Okay, false alarm.

“Right, so suppose I traveled to a time when this building didn’t exist yet. Would I land underground and be suffocated?”

“Oh, I thought you were going to ask about the little fair-haired boy. Very well. According to our present state of knowledge, no one has ever traveled farther back than five hundred years. And on the chronograph we can set the date of time travel for the Ruby, meaning you, only as far back as AD 1560, the year when the first time traveler in the Circle, Lancelot de Villiers, was born. We have often regretted these restrictions. One misses out on so many very interesting years.… Here, have a cookie. These are my favorite.”

I reached for the plate, although it was suddenly going all blurred before my eyes and I felt as if someone was going to pull the sofa away from under me.

EIGHT

I LANDED BOTTOM FIRST
on cold stone, Jaffa Cake in hand. There was absolute darkness around me, blacker than black. I should have felt paralyzed with fear, but oddly enough, I wasn’t frightened at all. Maybe that was because of Mr. George’s reassuring remarks, or maybe by now I was just getting used to it. I put the cookie in my mouth (it was delicious!) and then felt for the flashlight hanging around my neck and pulled the cord over my head.

It was a few seconds before I found the switch. Then, in the beam of the flashlight, I saw the bookshelves and recognized the fireplace (cold and without a fire in it, unfortunately). The oil painting over it was the one I’d seen already, the portrait of the time traveler with his curled white wig, Count Thingummy. All the place really needed was a few armchairs and little tables and—of course—the comfortable sofa where I’d been sitting just now.

Mr. George had said I was simply to wait until I traveled back. And I might have done just that if the sofa had still been here. But it couldn’t hurt to peek outside the door.

I cautiously made my way over to it. The door was locked. Oh, well, at least I didn’t need the loo anymore.

I searched the room by the beam of the flashlight. Maybe I’d find something to tell me what year I’d landed in. There might be a calendar on the wall or lying on the desk.

The desk was covered with rolled-up papers, books, opened letters, and little boxes. The beam of my light fell on an inkwell and some quill pens. I picked up a sheet of paper. It had a rough, heavy texture, and the handwriting was so full of ornate flourishes that it was difficult to decipher.

“My dear and highly respected Doctor,”
it said.
“Your letter reached me today, having been on its way for a mere nine weeks. Considering what a long journey your entertaining account of the present situation in the colonies has made, one can only marvel at such speed.”

That made me smile. Nine weeks for a letter to arrive! Okay, so I seemed to be in a period when letters were still delivered by carrier pigeon. Or maybe snail mail—using actual snails.

I sat on the chair at the desk and read a couple of other letters. Rather boring stuff, and the names meant nothing to me either. Then I investigated the little boxes. The first one I opened was full of seals with elaborate designs on them, for sealing letters. I looked for a twelve-pointed star, but there were only crowns, intertwined letters, and organic patterns. Very pretty. And I found sticks of sealing wax in every color, even gold and silver.

The next little box was locked. Maybe there was a key in one of the desk drawers. I was beginning to enjoy my treasure hunt. If I liked what I found in the box, I’d take it back with me. As a kind of test. The cookie had traveled without a problem. I’d bring Lesley back a little souvenir. Surely that was allowed, since the box was neither human nor animal.

I found more quill pens and bottles of ink in the desk drawers. Letters, carefully folded and tied up, bound notebooks, a kind of dagger, a little crescent-shaped knife—and keys.

Lots and lots of keys, of all shapes and sizes. Lesley would have loved this. Probably there was a lock in this room for every one of these keys, and a little secret behind the lock. Or a treasure.

I tried some of the keys that looked small enough for the lock of the little box, but I couldn’t find the right one. What a shame. There was probably valuable jewelry in it. Maybe I should just take the whole box. But it was a rather awkward shape for that, and much too big to fit neatly in the inside pocket of my jacket.

There was a pipe in the next box. A pretty one, elaborately carved, probably made of ivory, but that wasn’t right for Lesley either. Maybe I should take her one of the seals? Or the pretty dagger? Or a book?

Of course I knew I shouldn’t steal, but this was an exceptional situation, and I thought I had a right to some compensation. Also I had to see whether I could take objects from the past back to the present with me. I didn’t have any guilty conscience, which surprised me, since I was usually disapproving when Lesley nibbled more than one of the free samples in the Harrods delicatessen department or—like only the other day—picked a flower in the park.

I couldn’t decide. The dagger looked like it was probably the most valuable thing. If the stones in the handle were real, then it must be worth a fortune. But what would Lesley do with a dagger? I felt sure that she’d like a seal better. Which one, though?

The decision was taken out of my hands, because the dizzy feeling came back. When the desk blurred in front of my eyes, I grabbed the first thing within reach.

I made a soft landing on my feet. Bright light dazzled me. I quickly dropped the key I had snatched up at the last minute into my pocket along with my mobile, and looked around the room. It was just like before, when I was having a cup of tea with Mr. George, and the flickering fire in the hearth made the room nice and warm.

But Mr. George wasn’t on his own anymore. He was standing in the middle of the room with Falk de Villiers and grumpy gray-faced Dr. White (along with the little fair-haired ghost boy), and they were talking quietly. Gideon de Villiers was leaning back casually against one of the bookcases. He was the first person to notice me.

“Hi, Winnie,” he said.

“Gwyneth,” I replied. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to remember? I didn’t go calling him Gilbert or anything.

The other three men turned and stared at me, Dr. White with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Mr. George obviously delighted.

“That was almost fifteen minutes,” he said. “How was it, Gwyneth? Are you feeling all right?”

I nodded.

“Did anyone see you?”

“There wasn’t anyone there. I didn’t move from the spot, just like you said.” I handed Mr. George the flashlight and his signet ring. “Where’s my mum?”

“Upstairs with the others,” said Mr. de Villiers briefly.

“I want to talk to her.”

“Don’t worry, you can. Later,” said Mr. George. “First … oh, I really don’t know where to begin.” But he was beaming all over his face. What was he so pleased about?

“You’ve already met my nephew Gideon,” said Mr. de Villiers. “He went through the experiences that you are now having two years ago. Although he was better prepared than you’ve been. It’s going to be difficult to make up all the ground you’ve lost these last few years.”

“Difficult? Impossible is how I’d put it,” said Dr. White.

“Anyway, there’s no need,” said Gideon. “I can do it all far better on my own.”

“We’ll see,” said Mr. de Villiers.

“I think you’re underestimating the girl,” said Mr. George. Then he said, in a solemn, almost unctuous tone of voice, “Gwyneth Shepherd, you are now part of an ancient mystery. And it’s high time you heard more about that mystery. In the first place, you should know that—”

“We mustn’t go too fast,” Dr. White interrupted him. “She may have the gene, but that doesn’t mean she can be trusted.”

“Or that she has any idea what it’s all about,” added Gideon.

He obviously thought I was dim.

Stuck-up idiot.

“Who knows what instructions her mother has given her?” said Dr. White. “And who knows who, in turn, gave her mother those instructions? We have only the one chronograph. We can’t afford another bad mistake. I’m just suggesting you bear that in mind.”

Mr. George looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. “It’s possible to make things unnecessarily complicated,” he murmured.

“I’ll take you to my consulting room now,” said Dr. White. “No offense, Thomas, but there’ll be time for explanations later.”

I felt a cold shudder run down my spine at his words. Going into a room alone with Dr. Frankenstein was the last thing I wanted. “I’d like to see my mum,” I said, taking the risk that the rest of them might think I sounded like a toddler.

Gideon scornfully clicked his tongue.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Gwyneth,” Mr. George assured me. “We just need a little of your blood, and Dr. White will also be responsible for your immunizations and general health. I’m afraid there are all kinds of dangerous infections around in the past, things that the human organism never encounters these days. It will all be over soon.”

Did he have any idea how awful that sounded?
We only need a little of your blood,
and
it will all be over soon.

“But I … I don’t want to be alone with Dr. Franken … Dr. White,” I said. I didn’t care whether the man thought I was being rude or not. He had no manners himself. As for Gideon—he could think whatever he liked about me!

“Dr. White isn’t as … as heartless as he may seem to you,” said Mr. George. “You really don’t have to—”

“Oh, yes, she does!” growled Dr. White.

I was beginning to lose my temper. Who did this pompous guy think he was? Why didn’t he go and buy a suit in a nice color instead of tormenting me?

“Do I, though? What will you do if I refuse?” I hissed, noticing at the same time that his eyes were red and inflamed behind those black-rimmed glasses.

Much to my relief, before Dr. White could think what he would do to me if I refused (and my imagination was coming up with some unappetizing ideas at the speed of light), Mr. de Villiers interrupted us. “I’ll ask Mrs. Jenkins to go with you,” he said. “And Mr. George will stay with you until she arrives.”

I cast the doctor a triumphant glance, the kind that’s like sticking out your tongue, but he ignored me.

“We’ll meet in the Dragon Hall in half an hour’s time,” Mr. de Villiers went on.

I didn’t mean to, but as I was on my way out I turned back once, quickly, to see if my triumph over Dr. White had impressed Gideon. Obviously not, because he was looking at my legs. Probably comparing them with Charlotte’s.

Hers were longer and thinner, dammit! And she certainly didn’t have scratches all over her calves from clambering about last night among a lot of old junk and a stuffed crocodile.

*   *   *

DR. WHITE
’
S CONSULTING ROOM
looked like any other doctor’s. And when he put a white coat on over his suit and washed his hands thoroughly for a long time, Dr. White looked like any other doctor I’d ever seen. Only the little fair-haired ghost boy beside him was rather unusual.

“Jacket off, sleeves up,” said Dr. White.

Mr. George translated for him. “Would you please be kind enough to take your jacket off and roll your sleeves up?”

The little ghost was watching, interested. When I smiled at him, he hastily hid behind Dr. White, only to peer out again a second later. “Can you by any chance see me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Don’t look,” grunted Dr. White, tying a bandage around one arm.

“I don’t mind the sight of blood,” I said. “Even when it’s my own.”

“The others can’t see me,” said the little ghost.

“I know,” I said. “My name’s Gwyneth. What’s yours?”

“Dr. White to you,” said Dr. White.

“I’m Robert,” said the ghost.

“That’s a very nice name,” I said.

“Thank you,” said Dr. White. “I’ll return the compliment by saying you have very nice veins.” I’d hardly felt the needle prick me. Dr. White carefully filled a little tube with my blood. Then he exchanged the full tube for an empty one and filled that too.

“She isn’t talking to
you
, Jake,” said Mr. George.

“She isn’t? Who is she talking to, then?”

“Robert,” I said.

Dr. White’s head jerked up. He looked straight at me for the first time. “What did you say?”

“Oh, never mind,” I said.

Dr. White muttered something to himself that I couldn’t make out. Mr. George gave me a conspiratorial smile.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Jenkins, the secretary with the big glasses, came in.

“Ah, there you are at last,” said Dr. White. “You can clear out now, Thomas, and Mrs. Jenkins will see to the proprieties. You can sit over there,” he told her. “But keep your mouth shut.”

“Charming as ever,” said Mrs. Jenkins, but she obediently sat down on the chair he pointed out.

“See you soon,” said Mr. George to me. He held up one of the little tubes with my blood in it. “I’ll just go and put this in the tank,” he added with a grin.

“Where’s the chronograph kept? And what does it look like?” I asked as the door closed behind Mr. George. “Can you sit in it?”

“The last person to question me about the chronograph stole it nearly two years later.” Dr. White took the needle out of my arm and pressed a piece of gauze on my skin to stop the bleeding. “So I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m reluctant to answer such questions.”

“The chronograph was stolen?”

Robert, the little ghost boy, nodded vigorously.

“By your delightful cousin Lucy herself,” said Dr. White. “I remember the first time she sat here. Apparently just as innocent and naive as you seem now.”

“Lucy’s nice,” said Robert. “I like her.” Being a ghost, he probably felt as if he’d last seen Lucy only yesterday.