Gammon hustled the pair towards the study.
Professor Slocombe sat at his desk, quill pen poised above a sheet of vellum. “I didn’t expect you back,” said he.
“We came at once,” said Omally. “As soon as we could.”
“Very good. And you put the scrolls somewhere very safe?”
Jim Pooley groaned.
“Why are you groaning, Jim?”
“The casket was empty.”
Professor Slocombe laughed. “A most convincing ruse, you will agree.”
“What?”
“An illusion,” said Professor Slocombe. “A little magical camouflage. It obviously had you convinced. Let’s hope it does the same should anyone else take a look in the casket. So where did you put it? In the priest hole?”
John looked at Jim.
Jim looked down at his empty hands. “Aaaaaagh!” went Jim.
The garden gate opened without difficulty from the inside. Jim plunged through it and out into the street. And stared down at the place where he had put the casket.
“Aaaaaagh!” went Jim again.
17
“Aaaaaagh!” went Professor Slocombe behind him. “You fool, Jim. You craven buffoon.”
“How was I to know? The casket looked empty. You should have told us.”
“Yes.” Professor Slocombe nodded. “I suppose I should. Professional vanity got the better of me again. The watchword of magic is secrecy. The magician never divulges his knowledge.”
“We wouldn’t have cared how you did it,” said John. “Only that you had.”
Professor Slocombe shook his head sadly. “Well, we will now have to see what we can do about recovering the scrolls.”
“There was no one about,” said Jim. “Not a soul.”
“You might well have been followed.”
“I’m sure we weren’t.”
“I could have followed you,” said the Professor. “You wouldn’t have seen me.”
“John said he thought these lads might have magic too. What do you think, Professor?”
“I think it more than likely. These are not just businessmen we’re dealing with. These people kill without pity.”
“It’s the dark side of the force then, is it?” Jim asked.
Professor Slocombe raised an icy eyebrow.
“Sorry,” said Jim. “But what are we going to do?”
Professor Slocombe shook his head sadly. “I wish I knew,” said he. “I really wish I knew.”
Dr Steven Malone had a smile upon his face. It was a big smile, a broad smile, a real self- satisfied smugger of a smile. No normal fellow could have pulled off a smile like that. It takes a real mad bastard to do the job properly.
And now he chuckled. Like they do. And then he laughed. (Joe-Bob wasn’t in there with a chance.) And then he tapped his fingers on the item that lay before him on his dining table.
And that item was, in case you might not have already guessed it, Pooley’s casket.
What a joke. By sheer chance he’d been looking out of the window and seen that Irish lout who had stitched him up for fifty quid go running by with his mate. And his mate had put down the casket. And Dr Steven had crept out and filched it away.
Dr Steven examined the casket. He lifted the lid. Empty, but evidently a thing of great age. An antique and in good condition. There were jewels on this casket. They looked real enough. Dr Steven laughed again.
And then he took the lid in one hand, put his knee upon the casket, applied pressure and ripped the lid right off.
And then he laughed again.
And then he left the room.
And then he came back again, carrying something wrapped in a towel. “Here you go, little one,” he said. “Away in a manger, no crib for his bed.” And he placed the baby in the casket.
A soft and golden glow surrounded the child as it stirred from its sleep. Its eyes flickered open and stared up at the gaunt figure all in black and white.
The eyes were golden, shining as though lit from within.
And the child’s mouth moved. A gurgle and a little cough.
“Dada,” said the baby.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Dr Malone. “I am your dada. Go to sleep now.”
“Good night, dada.”
“Good night, little boy.”
“Good afternoon,” said Fred. “Any progress to report? Teatime looms; I trust you have everything under control.”
“We do,” said anonymous fellow one.
“We don’t,” said his companion. “But we’re getting there.”
“Hm,” said Fred. “I like not the sound of this. Where are the scrolls?”
“Where indeed,” said the first anonymous fellow.
“I have the fire stoked up,” said Fred. “I can add you to it. I’m not at all bothered.”
“We do have the situation under control,” said number two. “Which is to say that we are certain the scrolls are still in Brentford.”
“But you don’t actually have them.”
“Not as such, no.”
“All right,” said Fred. “Tell me all about it.”
“Well,” said number two. “Derek here…”
“Who’s Derek?”
“I’m Derek,” said Derek.
“Oh,” said Fred. “I didn’t know you actually had a name.”
“Oh yes,” said Derek. “I’ve had it since I was christened.”
“Don’t use that language in here. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you have a name too.”
“I just did,” said Derek. “It’s Derek.”
“Not you. Him.”
“Clive,” said Clive.
“Derek and Clive.”
“Live,” said Derek and Clive.
“Go on then,” said Fred. “Tell me it all. And then I’ll decide which of you I throw on the fire.”
“Derek here,” said Clive, “drugged the council chamber. It was a real hoot. I was looking in through the window. A lady in a straw hat got bonked by these stoned councillors. One of them stuck his…”
“What about the scrolls?”
“Couldn’t find them,” said Clive. “Went round to the Professor’s house, donned the old cloak of invisibility the way one does and had a good shufty about. The casket was there but it was empty. Later the two louts took it round to the local pub. Probably to sell it. We jacked it in then and came back here.”
