Next morning, the boys had breakfast in their rooms: toast and jam and little packets of cornflakes and orange juice, all laid out for them on a tray and left by their door by the motel manager. It was quite a treat to sit at the little motel table together – just Tommy and Martin – and eat their breakfast. When they had finished and brushed their teeth, they got ready to go.
Tommy combed his hair and washed his face, in the hope that looking clean might make people take him more seriously. They put some muesli bars in their pockets – that was Martin’s idea, and Tommy thought it an excellent one – and Martin took his smartphone. Then Tommy picked up his hat, and Martin put on his socks and pulled his old leather knee-high boots out of his suitcase. Then on the count of three, Tommy slapped the hat onto his head and Martin slipped his feet into the boots – and they were off!
They found themselves back out on the street. Horse-drawn carts clattered along the dirt track, and men strode about in old-fashioned suits and hats. Clearly they were back in the past … but the place seemed different from before.
‘What is it?’ Martin wanted to know. Tommy frowned, trying hard to work out what had changed. Then it came to him: the air was fresh and sweet, not sharp with chimney smoke as it had been on his last visit. And the trees that lined the street were no longer bare, but bright with red and yellow leaves, and the sun shone gentle and warm. When he had come back before, it had been almost winter; now summer had only just ended. He had returned at a different time of year. Maybe even a different year.
How long had passed? Tommy wondered. It couldn’t have been long; the shops on each side of the road seemed much the same.
‘Martin,’ he said. ‘Check your phone. Let’s see what the date is.’
Martin pulled his phone out of his pocket and woke it up. He jabbed at the screen a few times and frowned. ‘It’s gone weird,’ he said. ‘No internet.’
Tommy sighed. He hadn’t thought of that: mobile coverage probably wasn’t great back in the nineteenth century.
As Martin tucked his phone back into his pocket, Tommy saw a familiar face.
‘Mr Bruun!’ he cried. Dragging Martin after him, he ran up to the man who was stepping out of the bakery.
‘Tommy Bell!’ the man replied. ‘Good day.’
Tommy introduced Martin. He was almost too afraid to ask how Ludwig was; what if he was in jail? But the old man brought the subject up himself. ‘You must come and see my boy, Ludwig,’ he said. Tommy exhaled in relief. So he wasn’t in jail, then. But Ludwig’s father went on: ‘He iss very troubled, my boy.’
The boys followed Mr Bruun down the road to his home. It was a neat little timber cottage with a verandah and a chimney and a pretty garden. Mr Bruun led them inside and into a cosy but dim little lounge room. In the shadows, a young man rose to greet them. It was Ludwig. Tommy was shocked to see how he had changed: his smooth pale cheeks were now bearded, and his face was paler than ever. There were dark smudges under his worried blue eyes.
His greeting was friendly but his voice was tired. ‘It’s been a long time, Tommy,’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ Tommy replied. ‘Remind me … exactly when was the robbery?’
‘Eighth of May, 1869,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Almost three years ago.’
Three years! Tommy wondered what had happened in all that time.
‘I suppose you heard that they arrested me,’ Ludwig said, and Tommy nodded. ‘The police thought that I’d stolen the gold and made up the whole story about the armed robber. They also arrested my friend the schoolteacher, James Simpson.’
‘But why?’ Tommy asked. ‘Why would they think you did that?’
Ludwig shrugged. ‘I suppose my story was a bit confused. I was so terrified! I got a few of my facts muddled up when I was telling the police about it. There were no rope marks on my wrists so they didn’t even believe that I’d been tied up. And the note – remember the note? They said that the writing looked like James Simpson’s. They thought we cooked up the whole thing so we could get money from the bank and blame it on Scott. Why would I do that? I had a good job; I didn’t need to steal money! He’s the one who needed money!’
Ludwig was pacing around the room and his pale face had flushed a deep red. He clutched at his hair, making it stick straight out in straw-like spikes. Poor Ludwig, Tommy thought. He’s a mess.
Mr Bruun hushed his son and told him to sit down.
‘The case went to court,’ Mr Bruun said, pouring Ludwig and the boys cups of tea. ‘But zey found my Ludwig not guilty.’
‘Well, that’s great, then!’ Tommy cried, and Martin agreed.
‘But it iss not over,’ the old man continued. ‘My Ludwig hass suffered terribly. Hiss reputation has been spoiled. Ze man who did ziss to him must pay for it!’
Just then there was a knock on the door.
‘Ah,’ Mr Bruun said, as if he had been expecting a visitor.
He marched to the door and came back with his guest. The newcomer was snappily dressed in a suit and waistcoat with a silver watch-chain across his chest. He had a thick moustache that was waxed to a point at each end.
Mr Bruun introduced the stranger. ‘Zis is ze private detective zat ve have hired to investigate ze crime,’ he told the boys. ‘Hiss name iss Mr George Sly.’
Tommy held back a snort. A private detective called Sly? He tried not to meet Martin’s eye; it would be rude to laugh.
‘Mr Sly hass discovered
