Charlie Bone and the Red Knight. Jenny Nimmo

cause suspicion,’ warned Dr Bloor.

      ‘Rewards?’ piped up Dolores, tossing her red ringlets. ‘What do we get for helping you?’

      ‘Money,’ said Ezekiel. ‘Lots of it. What else would you want?’

      ‘Money’ll do,’ said Dolores. ‘Ten thousand if I find the will.’

      Ezekiel scratched his long nose, wondering if he could eventually go back on his word. ‘Ten thousand,’ he agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

      ‘A thousand for trying!’ demanded a white-haired man in a purple suit; an illusionist by the name of Wilfred Coalpaw.

      Dr Bloor shook his head. ‘Just for trying? It’s rather –’

      ‘Agreed!’ cried Ezekiel, who had decided that going back on his word wouldn’t be too difficult. ‘A thousand for each of you. There’ll be plenty to go round if we find where Septimus hid the rest of his treasure. You can go now.’ He waved his hand dismissively.

      There was a great deal of scraping, stamping and shuffling as the audience rose from their seats and made for the door. A few of them cast curious glances at the white cube. A sound came from it. Waves perhaps. There was the faint rustle of a tide rolling on to a stony shore.

      ‘By the way,’ called Manfred, as though to distract them, ‘Ingledew’s Bookshop. Keep an eye on it. Get in there if you can. Old tomes make good hiding places.’

      The guests murmured among themselves and left the room.

      Six people remained sitting in the front row: Grizelda Bone and her three sisters on one side of the aisle, Norton Cross and the swordsman on the other.

      ‘Bring us some tea!’ Dr Bloor demanded when Weedon poked his head round the door.

      ‘And biscuits,’ added Ezekiel. ‘And cake!’

      ‘For all of you?’ asked Weedon, counting heads.

      ‘All,’ said Dr Bloor. ‘Eleven, to be precise.’

      With a bad-tempered mutter, Weedon withdrew his head and closed the doors.

      ‘At last, the elite.’ Ezekiel beamed down at his six remaining guests. ‘Now we can discuss things more . . . comprehensively. Ashkelan Kapaldi, welcome!’

      The swordsman stood and bowed deeply, first to the stage and then to Grandma Bone and her three sisters. He was a very colourful figure with his wide lace collar and emerald-green tunic, embroidered with gold. His cuffs were made of lace too, and his breeches were green velvet. Wide leather boots reached almost to his thighs, and a scarlet cummerbund encircled his waist. A broad leather belt hung diagonally across his chest from his shoulder to below his waist, and attached to this was a dark green scabbard.

      ‘In the seventeenth century,’ Ezekiel announced, ‘Ashkelan Kapaldi was the greatest swordsman in Europe.’

      ‘Swordsman?’ questioned Grandma Bone.

      ‘Seventeenth . . .?’ murmured her sister Eustacia.

      ‘I did it,’ said Mrs Tilpin. ‘That is to say, I did it with the help of the mirror and my son Joshua, who is endowed with magnetism. Together,’ she made a small circular motion with her hand, ‘they drew Asheklan from his painting. And here he is . . . and his sword!’

      At this Ashkelan withdrew his sword from its scabbard and sent it skimming towards the four sisters. They rose, as one, with loud shrieks and exclamations, and the sword came to a halt, swaying gently on its point. A deep scratch on the polished floor left no doubt as to the sword’s effectiveness.

      ‘Fear not, ladies,’ said Ashkelan as the sword swept back to him. ‘See, it is under my command.’ He grabbed the sword and limped closer to Ezekiel. ‘I have been told, good sire, that every endowed child in this part of the world is within these walls of a weekday.’

      ‘That is so,’ said Dr Bloor.

      ‘Not so,’ stated Ashkelan. ‘I can sense the endowed and I have seen one, not one hour since, in the very courtyard before your establishment. A boy of medium height; a creeping, prying, nasty boy. And he is protected, sir, by none other than the Red Knight.’

      ‘Red Knight,’ breathed Ezekiel, leaning towards Ashkelan. ‘A Red Knight, you say?’

      ‘Aye. His mount is a white mare,’ said the swordsman, ‘his cloak all red, the helmet’s plume a fluttering scarlet. And he wounded me, good sirs and ladies. He wounded me and I cannot let that pass.’

      ‘Of course not, sir!’ Ezekiel was now bent almost in half, his breath rattling in his chest. ‘Whoever this knight may be, we shall put an end to him.’

      ‘First the boy,’ said Manfred coldly. ‘We can’t have an endowed boy wandering the streets without our knowledge.’

      A family tree

      Tancred got to his feet. Had he known it was Charlie’s Uncle Paton standing there in the dark, he wouldn’t have taken fright. He brushed the knees of his jeans, feeling rather foolish. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.

      ‘On the contrary, Tancred,’ Paton said in a low voice, ‘it is I who must apologise. My wretched affliction compels me to walk in the shadows. I’m afraid I’ve already distressed at least three other people tonight.’

      ‘There’s a man with a sword . . . a sword that . . .’ Tancred hesitated, unsure how to describe the scene that had so unnerved him.

      ‘I know, I saw him too,’ said Paton, ‘and the knight.’

      ‘I didn’t know where to go, what to –’

      ‘Come with me.’ Paton took Tancred’s arm and hurried him away from Frog Street. ‘I was on my way to the bookshop. We can discuss things there. Hurry! And tread softly if you can.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      They walked together down the High Street, their footsteps light and brisk. Every so often Paton would stop and hold Tancred still so that he could listen for any following sounds. But there were none. And yet something accompanied them. A hoarse whisper seemed to echo down the street, a faint groan came from a shifting manhole cover, and there was a soft whine in the air above them, either from overhead cables or TV aerials. And then there was the smell, strong and salty, that clung to their hair and faces.

      ‘The father of the boy who tried to drown you is here,’ murmured Paton.

      ‘I know. I can taste him,’ Tancred said.

      They reached a row of ancient half-timbered buildings standing in the shadow of the great cathedral. Ingledew’s Bookshop was one of a dozen small, rather exclusive shops on a paved walk that ran beside the cathedral square. There was a lamp post standing immediately outside the window, but the lamp at the top was unlit. The council had given up replacing the bulb as it exploded so frequently. The councillors were all aware of Paton Yewbeam’s unfortunate talent, and guessed that he was responsible for the power surges. But none of them could bring themselves to mention it, for fear of being ridiculed. They pretended to believe that the constant shattering of glass was caused by hooligans.

      Soft candlelight illuminated the bookshop window, where large, leather-bound books lay on folded velvet. Paton rang the bell and a tall woman appeared so quickly behind the glass in the door it seemed likely that she had been waiting for him. She withdrew the bolts, unlocked the door and opened it, saying, ‘Paton, come in.’

      There was tenderness in the woman’s voice, and the sort of intimacy that made Tancred feel a little uncomfortable. And then she saw him and uttered a little gasp of surprise.