The Children's Book

the corridor, which was obstructed by a forest of imitation marble pillars, made to support busts or vases. A wild face, under a mat of hair, appeared at knee height, framed between fake basalt and fake obsidian.

“You’d better come out and explain yourself,” said Julian, with complete certainty. “You’re trespassing. I should get the police.”

The third boy came out on all fours, shook himself like a beast, and stood up, supporting himself briefly on the pillars. He was about Julian’s height. He was shaking, whether with fear or wrath Tom could not tell. He pushed a dirty hand across his face, rubbing his eyes, which even in the gloom could be seen to be red-rimmed. He put his head down, and tensed. Tom saw the thought go through him, he could charge the two of them, head-butt them and flee down the corridors. He didn’t move and didn’t answer.

“What are you doing down here?” Julian insisted.

“I were hiding.”

“Why? Hiding from who?”

“Just hiding. I were doing no harm. I move carefully. I don’t disturb things.”

“What’s your name? Where do you live?”

“My name’s Philip. Philip Warren. I suppose I live here. At present.”

His voice was vaguely north country. Tom recognised it, but couldn’t place it. He was looking at them much as they were looking at him, as though he couldn’t quite grasp that they were real. He blinked, and a tremor ran through him. Tom said

“You were drawing the Candlestick. Is that what you came for?”

“Aye.”

He was clutching a kind of canvas satchel against his chest, which presumably contained his sketching materials. Tom said “It’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? I hadn’t seen it before.” The other boy looked him in the eye, then, with a flicker of a grin.

“Aye. Amazing, it is.” Julian spoke severely.

“You must come and explain yourself to my father.”

“Oh, your father. Who’s he, then?”

“He’s Special Keeper of Precious Metals.”

“Oh. I see.”

“You must come along with us.”

“I see I must. Can I get my things?”

“Things?” Julian sounded doubtful for the first time. “You mean, you’ve been living down here?”

“S’what I said. I got nowhere else to go. I’d rather not sleep on t’streets. I come here to draw. I saw the Museum was for workingmen to see well-made things. I mean to get work, I do, and I need drawings to show… I like these things.”

“Can we see the drawings?” asked Tom.

“Not in this light. Upstairs, if you’re interested. I’ll get my things, like I said.”

He ducked, and began to make his way back amongst the pillars, crouching and weaving expertly. Tom was put in mind of dwarves in mine-workings, and, since his upbringing was socially conscientious, of children in mines, pulling trucks on hands and knees. Julian was on Philip’s heels. Tom followed.

“Come in,” said the grimy boy, at the opening of a small storeroom, making a welcoming gesture, possibly mocking, with an arm. The storeroom contained what appeared to be a small stone hut, carved and ornamented with cherubim and seraphim, eagles and doves, acanthus and vines. It had its own little metal gate, with traces of gilding on the rusting iron.

“Convenient,” said Philip. “It has a stone bed. I took the liberty of borrowing some sacks to keep warm. I’ll put ’em back, naturally, where I found them.”

“It’s a tomb or shrine,” said Julian. “Russian, by the look of it. There must have been some saint on that table, in a glass case or a reliquary. He might still be in there, underneath, his bones that is, if he wasn’t incorrupt.”

“I haven’t noticed him,” said Philip, flatly. “He hasn’t bothered me.” Tom said “Are you hungry? What do you eat?”

“Once or twice I got to help in the tea-room, moving plates and washing them. People leave a lot on their plates, you’d be surprised. And the young ladies from the Art School took notice of my drawings and sometimes they passed me a sandwich. I don’t beg. I did steal one, once, when I was desperate, an egg-and-cress sandwich. I were pretty sure the young lady had no intention of eating it.” He paused.

“It isn’t much,” he said. “I’m hungry, yes.”

He was rummaging behind the tomb in the shrine, and came out with another canvas satchel, a sketch-book, a candle stub and what looked like a roll of clothing, tied with string.

“How did you get in?” Julian persisted.

“Followed the horses and carts. You know, they turn in and drive down a ramp into these underground parts. And they unload and pack things with a deal of bustle, and it’s easy enough to mingle wi’ them, wi’ the carters and lads, and get in.”

“And the upstairs door?” Julian queried. “Which is meant to be locked at all times.”

“I came across a little key.”