Midnight for Charlie Bone. Jenny Nimmo
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at all.
‘Use your loaf, Charlie. That’s an enlargement, isn’t it? Find the original and you’ll find a name and address.’
‘Will I?’
‘Without a doubt.’ Mr Onimous smoothed the pile on his coat, turned up his collar and made for the front door.
Charlie stood up, uncertainly, questions bubbling in his head. By the time he reached the open door, all that could be seen of his visitor was a small disappearing figure, followed by a flash of hot colours, like the bright tail of a comet.
Charlie closed the door and ran upstairs. Seizing the orange envelope, he shook it fiercely and out fell a small photograph; the original of the enlargement downstairs. He turned it over and there, sure enough, was a name and an address, written in bold, flowing letters:
Miss Julia Ingledew 3, Cathedral Close.
Where was Cathedral Close, and how was he to get there? He would have to leave the house before Maisie and his mother got home. They would never agree to his roaming off on his own, to a place he didn’t know. And if he didn’t act now, he might not get back in time for Benjamin’s party. But he’d have to leave a message, or his mother would worry.
As far as he could remember, Charlie had never been inside his uncle’s room before. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung permanently on the door. Recently, Charlie had begun to wonder what Paton did inside all day. Sometimes a soft tapping could be heard. Usually there was silence.
Today, Charlie would have to ignore the notice.
He knocked on the door, hesitantly at first, and then more vigorously.
‘What?’ said a cross voice.
‘Uncle Paton, can I come in?’ asked Charlie.
‘Why?’ queried Paton.
‘Because I have to find somewhere, and I want you to explain to Mum.’
There was a deep sigh. Charlie didn’t dare open the door until his uncle said coldly, ‘Come in, then, if you must.’
Charlie turned the doorknob and peered inside. He was surprised by what he saw. His uncle’s room was overflowing with paper. It hung from shelves, dripped from piles on the windowsill, covered Paton’s desk and lapped like a tide round his ankles. Where was the bed? Under a blanket of books, Charlie guessed. Books lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, they even climbed round the desk in tottering towers.
‘Well?’ said Paton, glancing up from a mound of paper.
‘Please can you tell me where Cathedral Close is?’ Charlie asked nervously.
‘Where d’you think? Beside the cathedral of course.’ Paton was a different person in daylight. Chilly and forbidding.
‘Oh,’ said Charlie, feeling foolish. ‘Well, I’m going there now. But could you tell Mum. She’ll want to know, and . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Paton, and with a vague wave, he motioned Charlie away.
‘Thanks,’ said Charlie, closing the door as quietly as he could.
He went to his room, hurriedly pulled on his anorak and tucked the photos, in their orange envelope, into his pocket. Then he left the house.
From his bedroom window, Benjamin saw Charlie walking past with a determined expression.
Benjamin opened his window and called, ‘Where are you going?’
Charlie looked up. ‘To the cathedral,’ he said.
‘Can me and Runner Bean come?’ asked Benjamin.
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m going to get your present, and it’s got to be a surprise.’
Benjamin closed the window. He wondered what sort of present Charlie could buy in a cathedral. A pen with the cathedral’s name on it? Benjamin had plenty of pens.
‘Still, I don’t really mind,’ he told Runner Bean. ‘As long as he comes to my party.’
Runner Bean thumped his tail on Benjamin’s pillow. He was lying where he wasn’t supposed to, on Benjamin’s bed. Luckily, no one but Benjamin knew about it.
The cathedral was in the old part of the city. Here the streets were cobbled and narrow. The shops were smaller, and in their softly lit windows, expensive clothes and jewellery lay on folds of silk and velvet. It seemed a very private place, and Charlie felt almost as though he were trespassing.
As the ancient cathedral began to loom above him, the shops gave way to a row of old half-timbered houses. Number three Cathedral Close, however, was a bookshop. Above the door a sign in olde worlde script, read INGLEDEW’S. The books displayed in the window were aged and dusty-looking. Some were bound in leather, their leaves edged in gold.
Charlie took a deep breath and went in. A bell tinkled as he stepped down into the shop, and a woman appeared through a curtained gap behind the counter. She wasn’t as old as Charlie expected, but about the same age as his mother. She had thick chestnut hair piled up on her head, and kind brown eyes.
‘Yes?’ said the woman. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I think so,’ said Charlie. ‘Are you Julia Ingledew?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded.
‘I’ve come about your photograph,’ said Charlie.
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Goodness!’ she said. ‘Have you found it?’
‘I think so,’ said Charlie, handing over the orange envelope.
The woman opened the envelope and the two photos fell on to her desk. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to have these.’
‘Have you got mine?’ asked Charlie. ‘My name’s Charlie Bone.’
‘Come through,’ said Miss Ingledew, motioning Charlie to follow her through the curtain.
Charlie walked cautiously round the counter and through the curtain in the wall of books. He found himself in a room not unlike the shop. All books again, packed tight on shelves, or lying in piles on every surface. It was a cosy room, for all that; it smelled of warm, rich words and very deep thoughts. A fire burned in a small iron grate and table lamps glowed through parchment-coloured shades.
‘Here we are,’ said Julia Ingledew, and from a drawer she produced an orange envelope.
Charlie took the envelope and opened it quickly. ‘Yes, it’s Runner Bean,’ he said. ‘My friend’s dog. I’m going to make a birthday card with it.’
‘A lovely idea,’ said Miss Ingledew. ‘More personal. I always like “personal”. It shows one cares doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie uncertainly.
‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, Charlie Bone,’ she said, ‘I feel you should have a reward of some sort. I haven’t got much cash about, but I wonder . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Charlie, a little embarrassed, though he could have done with some money, to buy Benjamin’s present.
‘No, no really. I think you’re just the person. In fact I feel that these have been waiting just for you.’ She pointed to a corner and Charlie saw that his first impression of the room had been mistaken. It was not filled entirely with books. A table in one corner was piled high with boxes: wooden boxes, metal boxes and big cardboard cartons.
‘What’s in those?’ asked Charlie.
‘My brother-in-law’s effects,’ she said. ‘All that is left of him. He died last week.’
Charlie felt a lump rising in his throat. He said ‘Um . . .’
‘Oh, dear. No, not his ashes, Charlie,’