Dr Bloem (it rhymed with “room”) was a short, serious woman in a white coat. She had a neat clinic lined with cages of various sizes, and it was easy to see that she was married to her work. Her best man had probably been a goat.
There were pictures of animals everywhere — even in the frames on her desk. She had only agreed reluctantly to treat a human being. And she had fed me two lumps of sugar first.
Sure enough there was a moment of excruciating pain as she probed my wound with a pair of tweezers but then she was backing away with a red, glistening bullet firmly trapped between the prongs.
“You are feeling all right?” she asked. Her English was accented, not as good as her surgical skills.
“Well, I’m still a bit faint…” Tim began.
She glared at him. “I mean your brother.”
I flexed my arm. “I’m OK, Dr Bloem,” I said.
“You are lucky, I think.” The doctor dropped the bullet into a kidney tray. It hit the bottom with a dull clang. “A centimetre to the left and it would have hit an artery.”
“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “And it could have been worse. A centimetre to the right and it would have hit me!”
Dr Bloem unwrapped a packet of bandages. “You know, I think you are not telling me the truth,” she said as she did it. “How did the bullet get into the arm?”
“Well…” I began. This was tricky. We hadn’t had time to make up a sensible explanation and our story — like my arm — was full of holes.
“Your brother said you were hurt in a car accident,” Dr Bloem went on.
“It’s true!” Tim explained. “It was the driver of the car.”
“Yes,” I added. “He accidentally shot me.”
Dr Bloem didn’t believe us but she wrapped the bandage round my arm and tied a knot. “It is finished,” she said. “You should be OK now.”
“Thanks, Doc.” I tried the arm again. It was throbbing but most of the pain had gone.
“So how will the two of you get back to town?” Dr Bloem asked. “I would take you but I have another patient. He’s a little horse.”
“Has he tried gargling?” Tim said.
Dr Bloem ignored him. “You can walk — but it’s a long way. So maybe you should ask for a ride. There’s a big house just one kilometre up the road. Near a windmill.”
“What’s it called?” I asked.
Dr Bloem smiled at me. “It’s called the Villa de Winter,” she said. “The Winter House.”
I’d never seen a house quite like the Winter House. It was built out of red and white bricks but not with any pattern. The colours seemed to zigzag across the walls, colliding with each other, then bouncing away again. The whole building could have been put together by a thief. The towers had been stolen from a castle, the windows from a church, the grey slate roof from a railway station.
The house was set back from the road. Tim and I had climbed over a fence to get in and we were squatting some distance from the building itself, spying on it through a bush.
“Do you think this is where Charon lives?” Tim asked.
I nodded. “This is where McGuffin came before he was killed.”
“Right.” Tim gazed at the house. “If only we could see through the wall.”
“We can!” I said.
“How?”
“The window…”
We broke cover and sprinted across the lawn to the side of the house. Our shadows reached it first. There was nobody in sight, but now I could hear the sound of a piano drifting out of one of the windows. I recognized the music — but only just. It was Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”, but played very badly. It occurred to me that the pianist might be missing a finger.
“Listen!” I nudged Tim.
“Is it a record?” Tim asked.
“Yes. Nobody’s ever played it that badly.”
Tim’s mouth dropped open. “Charon!”
“It figures. He killed McGuffin. And now he’s murdering Beethoven.”
We had both been crouching down but now I straightened up and tried to lever myself onto the window sill above me. Tim was horrified. “What are you doing?”
“It could be our only chance to see what Charon looks like,” I said.
And it could have been. But just as my fingers grabbed hold of the woodwork I heard a car. It was coming up the drive, heading for the main entrance. I dropped down again and squatted next to Tim. At the same time the piano playing stopped and I heard a door close. There were two dustbins just beside us. I edged closer to them, using them to hide behind.
The car had stopped. Two men got out. I recognized them, although I had only seen them once before. They had faces you were unlikely to forget. Scarface and Ugly — the two men from the skating-rink. The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked towards the door. The noise made me think of the skates in Rushmore’s back, and I swallowed hard.
Tim was staring after them. I tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go in,” I whispered.
He opened his mouth to argue but I didn’t give him time. There was a door just on the other side of the window and, for once, luck was on our side — it was open. Making sure that Tim was still following me, I went in, up a short flight of steps and into a corridor paved with black and white tiles — like in one of those old Dutch paintings. The corridor must have led into a hall. I could hear voices in the distance, the two guests being welcomed. There was another door on our left. It opened into a large room with a desk, four or five antique chairs and a grand piano. It had to be Charon’s room. I slid across the polished floor and found my feet on a Chinese rug.
“What are we doing?” Tim hissed.
What were we doing? Already I could hear the rap of footsteps making their way back along the corridor. Charon was about to come in with his two friends. If they found us there, I doubted they’d invite us to stay for tea…
“Quick!” There was an alcove to one side, half-covered by a heavy, ornamental curtain. We ran behind it and pulled it the whole way across. A second later, Charon and the two new arrivals walked in.
I heard them close the door and come into the room. Someone was talking in rapid Dutch. I couldn’t understand a word of it, nor did I recognize the voice. A second person spoke. I didn’t recognize his voice either. But this time I did understand one word of it. The name Waverly. Why were they talking about the head of MI6? Rushmore had told us that there was some sort of secret connection between them. Was that what they were discussing now?
It was infuriating. I was stuck behind the curtain with Tim. I couldn’t understand a word that was being spoken. And I couldn’t see anything either. Why had we even bothered to come in? I glanced at Tim. There was a tiny chink of light on one side of his cheek. I followed it back to the curtain. The curtain was torn! I hadn’t noticed it before but there was a small hole, right in the middle. I leaned forward and put my eye against it, trying not to move the material. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. At last I was going to see Charon!
But it wasn’t to be. Charon had chosen the antique chair that had its back to the curtain. Looking through the hole I could see Scarface, smoking a cigarette in the chair opposite him, and Ugly, standing to one side. But Charon was concealed.
And then he spoke. It was a single word and I didn’t understand it, but at least I had heard his voice. It was a chesty sort of voice, not deep. Had I heard it somewhere before?
His hand stretched out and I saw the four fingers open in a palm-up gesture. At the same time, Ugly hurried forward with a small white hammer. It was another antique, probably made of ivory. What were they doing with it? Ugly jabbered away for about one minute and I got the sense that they were wrapping things up. If only Charon would stand up… every nerve in my body was screaming at him to get out of the chair.
It was Scarface who got to his feet. He walked across towards the curtain and I was forced to retreat from the eyehole, away into the shadow. There were more mutterings behind him. The door opened and I knew even
