Quest for the Secret Keeper (9 page)

“You’ll need to take her back to the portal tunnel,” Ian told him, carefully handing Theo over. “Without a uniform you’d be tagged as a stranger here, which would make people immediately suspicious of you. Especially after all of this.”

Argos nodded and got to his feet, gently cradling Theo in his arms. “I will keep her safe,” he said, turning away and
leaving Ian alone to contemplate whether to go to Delphi Keep or Castle Dover.

The flames at Delphi were nearly out now, and with a great deal of relief, he could just make out the figures of Eva and Jaaved, helping Carl fill buckets of water from the outside pump. The fire at Castle Dover looked far from over, and Ian knew where he was needed most.

Ian then pointed his weary body to the castle and hurried away.

T
he funeral for Madam Scargill was held three days later in the drizzling rain. Hers was one of a dozen burials being held in the small village after the German air raid, and the residents of Dover were numb with both sadness and fear, but they all turned out to attend the funeral of the late headmistress.

With a pang, Ian felt the absence of Madam’s beloved cousin, who was still far too fragile from her knife wound to attend the funeral. The earl himself had delivered the horrible news to Madam Dimbleby when Dr. Lineberry was certain she could survive the shock.

Still, the cries of her anguish could be heard for many hours that day, and Ian wished over and over that there was something he could do to take a bit of Madam’s pain away. But there was nothing for it. Her cousin, who had been like a sister to her, was gone.

Ian himself still found it hard to believe. Madam Scargill had been such a force of nature that the world seemed a
bit muted in her absence. Looking round at the crowd hovering by her black lacquered coffin, he could tell he was not alone in his thinking.

The earl gave the eulogy, which was a touching tribute to the woman who’d spent twenty years in his employ. Ian tried not to stare at the burns on the earl’s hands, or at the way he winced when he stepped to the podium. He’d received a terrible scrape from falling timber while fighting the flames at his home.

Castle Dover had suffered greatly from the fire. A third of its rooms were beyond repair, and still the earl had managed to find the time to write such lovely words about Madam Scargill.

Ian found he admired the earl all the more.

“She was a right good old bird,” whispered Carl as the coffin was slowly lowered out of view.

Ian agreed but thought twice about commenting. His voice had suffered a terrible strain when he’d screamed on the slope after Theo, and every time he talked, his throat burned. Dr. Lineberry had advised him against speaking for the next few days, but he’d cheated now and again.

Next to him, Theo squeezed his hand and sniffled. “If only I’d got to her in time,” she said. “If only I’d realized that the funeral I saw wasn’t for Madam Dimbleby, but for Madam Scargill!”

Eva, who was standing on the other side of Theo, draped an arm about her. “Theo,” she said gently, “it’s not your fault. Your visions come to you in pieces and parts, and sometimes there is no way of knowing who they will involve.”

Ian was grateful to have Eva with them. Even though the poor girl was herself in a rather fragile state after having helped Madam Dimbleby just enough to make it through the night after her surgery and recover, Eva still offered Theo her powers of comfort and healing. As Ian looked on, he could see Theo’s terrible sadness and guilt lift a bit.

Carl put in his thoughts as well. “You did all you could, Theo, and you nearly got yourself killed in the process. It was a miracle that machine gun didn’t finish you off!”

Ian closed his eyes against the painful memory of watching Theo fall amid the hail of gunfire. He would never forget it.

“Why do they not burn the body?” Ian heard a voice ask. He opened his eyes to see Argos bending low to ask Jaaved. In the days since the bombs had fallen, Jaaved had taken to helping Argos acclimate to his surroundings, making sure that Argos did nothing unusual enough to provoke any suspicions.

The Moroccan boy shrugged. “They don’t burn their dead here,” he explained. “Instead, they put them in a box and bury the box.”

Ian wondered if Jaaved was reminded of his grandfather’s funeral pyre, and he felt another pang when he thought about the wonderful elderly man who’d befriended them in Morocco. He had tried to save them from fierce tribal warriors, only to lose his life for his efforts.

Then the services were over, and people began to move away so that Madam Scargill’s final resting place could be properly covered with dirt.

Ian saw Landis, the keep’s groundskeeper, wipe his eyes and don his cap before shuffling away without speaking to anyone.

Their own group moved off too, with Ian leading them away from the cemetery to the main road. Argos and Jaaved were deep in discussion, and Ian thought it fitting that the soldier was being shown the way of things by the only other soul in Dover who’d never seen a motorcar before coming to England and had to learn all about the modern world after coming from his own rather humble origins.

As they moved along the road, Ian lost himself in melancholy thoughts but was soon aware of the loud horn of a car. Still holding tight to Theo, Ian stepped closer to the edge of the lane, thinking the driver wanted them to move over, but in the next moment the car pulled up next to them and someone rolled down the window. “I say!” cried a familiar and welcome voice. “But you lot are looking a bit dreary!”

“Mr. Goodwyn!” Theo shouted, pulling out of Ian’s grasp and hurrying to the side of the car.

Thatcher Goodwyn, their friend and schoolmaster, beamed out from the interior, looking dapper in his military uniform. He and his twin brother, Perry, had joined the military shortly after England had declared war. Perry was deeply entrenched in military intelligence and was often called away to London, but his brother was usually stationed at Dover as an aide to Admiral Ramsey.

Ian remembered when he saw his schoolmaster that Thatcher had been dispatched to Plymouth for the past
several days and likely had no idea what had happened to Madam Scargill.

“Why the sad faces?” Thatcher asked, looking round at their group.

And then he took in their clothing; they were dressed in their Sunday best, and with their proximity to the cemetery, he seemed to put it all together. “Oh, heavens,” he said, his jovial smile vanishing. “Who have we lost?”

“Madam Scargill, sir,” Carl answered. “She was killed in the air raid.”

Thatcher’s visage became pale. “That can’t be!” he gasped, but one look at their faces told him the truth of it. “Why, that’s terrible!” he said before taking note of the drizzling rain. “Come, come,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Let me drive you back to the keep at least.”

Theo hurried round to the door and got in, followed by Eva and Carl, but Argos held back and so did Jaaved. Thatcher noticed the muscular man in their midst and said, “Oh, hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Thatcher Goodwyn.”

Argos eyed Thatcher’s motorcar doubtfully. “I’m Argos.”

Thatcher’s face registered confusion. Ian said, “There’s a great deal we should explain, sir.”

“Well, then, by all means, get in and tell me!” Thatcher insisted. “We’ll go to my home, where we’ll have some privacy.”

Ian attempted to smile reassuringly at Argos. “The motorcar won’t hurt you,” he said. “I promise. It’s a bit like riding in a covered carriage.”

“But where are the horses?” Argos asked, his eyes still wary.

“This kind of carriage doesn’t need horses,” he explained patiently.

“It runs on magic?” Argos asked.

Ian scratched his head, trying to decide what answer might satisfy the warrior. “In a way,” he said. “But it’s a type of magic that everyone can use.”

When Argos made no move to get into the car, Ian took him by the arm and said, “I promise, you won’t mind it a bit.”

Ian discovered quickly just how wrong he was. Argos gripped the back of the seat so tightly his knuckles were white, and it was all Ian and Jaaved could do to keep him from leaping from the motorcar during the short trip to Thatcher’s home.

“Is everything all right?” their schoolmaster asked, looking a bit nervously in the rearview mirror.

“Fine, sir!” Jaaved told him. “Our friend has just never been in a motorcar before.”

“Never been in a …?” Thatcher repeated as if he was having trouble keeping up with the conversation.

“We’ve a lot to explain, sir,” Theo reminded him.

Once the seven of them were out of the motorcar and inside Thatcher’s small home, Argos seemed to relax again. “Would everyone like a spot of tea?” their schoolmaster asked.

“I would like wine,” said Argos.

Thatcher smiled politely at him, and again it appeared
as if what Argos had said took a moment to register in his mind. “Er … but it’s ten o’clock in the morning, my good man.”

“What is ten o’clock?” asked Argos innocently.

Thatcher looked at Ian as if he needed help translating. Keeping his voice to a whisper, Ian said, “Sir, Argos isn’t from England.”

Thatcher’s brow rose. “Oh?” he said, looking merrily back at Argos. “Where are you from, exactly?”

“Phoenicia.”

Thatcher’s brow furrowed. “Greece?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re a long way from home, my good man!” Thatcher said as everyone looked at him expectantly. “How did you manage to find your way to Dover?”

“I walked.”

Thatcher blinked rapidly. Then he seemed to make the connection, and he eyed Ian, directing his next question at him. “Through the portal?” he asked, his voice no louder than a whisper

Ian—and everyone else at the table—nodded.

“From where, again?”

“Phoenicia,” Theo said, repeating what Argos had already told him. “And from the time of Laodamia.”

Thatcher’s mouth now hung open and he stared in disbelief at the stranger at his table. “But … but … but …,” he stammered. “You look, and you sound, so … so … so … 
normal
!”

“The earl’s loaned him some clothes,” Carl explained. “And Ian’s loaned him his bit of the Star.”

Thatcher sat back in his chair and swiped a hand through his hair, obviously struggling with the news of the stranger’s origins. After a moment, he got up and loaded the stove with wood, lit it, then set a kettle on for tea. When he next took his seat, he seemed to have composed himself. “You knew Laodamia?”

Argos smiled. “I
know
her well,” he said. “And you will forgive me, sir, but to me, she is still very much alive.”

Thatcher shook his head and closed his eyes. “Right,” he said, holding up a hand in apology. “Quite right. Forgive me. You must be most anxious to get back to your home, I’d imagine.”

Argos’s smile turned melancholy. “Oh, I am, Thatcher. I am. But these young people have shown me Laodamia’s prophecy, which says that the portal will not open again until we venture across the sea to rescue an ocean.”

Thatcher blinked rapidly again and turned his attention back to Ian, looking most confused. In any other circumstance, Ian would have laughed, but the past few days had sucked the humor right out of him. So he explained to his schoolmaster how the earl’s dear friend had been captured and likely killed by the Germans in Belgium, leaving his wife and daughter, Océanne, trapped and unaware of his fate back in Paris.

He then pulled the translated version of Laodamia’s prophecy out of his pocket and read it through for Thatcher.

“My, my,” said the schoolmaster when he was finished. “It does seem as if she is being quite specific this time, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Ian agreed. “And I don’t believe we have much time to waste. King Leopold surrendered to the Germans this morning.”

Ian had heard the news buzzing on the lips of most of the funeral attendees. Everyone speculated that it was only a matter of days before the Nazis broke through the French lines, especially with the full retreat of British soldiers on the move. Ian could feel the anxious knot in his stomach tighten at the prospect of having the Germans so close to his homeland, and it tightened even more when he thought of them marching into Paris and discovering Madame Lafitte and Océanne. He shuddered to think what might become of them at the hands of the Germans.

“How are you planning to get to Paris?” Thatcher asked next.

“We’re sailing,” Theo told him, revealing the plans they’d finalized only the day before. “On the earl’s yacht. We’re to leave tomorrow before dawn and sail to Boulogne.”

Thatcher frowned. “The earl’s yacht will make a large target if you get caught behind enemy lines, Theo.”

“That’s why we have a plan,” Ian told him. “Jaaved and Argos will helm the ship from Boulogne farther down the coast to Le Havre, where the earl has a good friend who will make sure to keep his boat safe. Then Jaaved and Argos will meet us in Paris at the …”

Ian couldn’t remember the name of the fountains, so he looked to Jaaved, who smiled and said, “Fontaines de la Concorde.”

“Yes, the Fontaines de la Concorde,” Ian repeated, attempting to commit it to memory.

“Why aren’t Jaaved and Argos staying with the earl’s yacht?” Thatcher asked. “What I mean is France could be overrun in a matter of days, my friends, and it might be safer for both of them if they stay with the earl’s yacht and wait for you.”

“No,” said Theo with that faraway look in her eyes. “They
must
come to Paris. It’s very important, in fact.”

“Why, Theo?” Thatcher asked.

Theo’s look grew pensive, and she focused on her schoolmaster’s face. “I’ve no idea, Mr. Goodwyn, but I do know it’s terribly important.”

Thatcher nodded, satisfied with her answer, and Ian marveled at how much trust Theo’s word had among the adults who knew her well. “Has the earl gained permission from the admiral to launch his boat tomorrow?”

All boats coming into and leaving Dover port were now required to gain permission from the office of the admiral. It was the only way to control the heavy wharf traffic and ensure that those boats coming in weren’t filled with spies or saboteurs.