Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock. Jenny Nimmo

never taken a dog with him before. I didn’t know he could.’

      ‘He didn’t take him,’ wailed Benjamin. ‘Runner Bean vanished long after Charlie went in. At least I think so. But Charlie’s never gone right into anything, has he? He always stays outside. It’s only his mind that goes in.’

      ‘Until now,’ Fidelio remarked. ‘Perhaps his endowment is developing.’

      Benjamin shook his head. ‘Something’s wrong, Fido.’ He got up and walked over to a window that overlooked the square. ‘My stalkers have gone. I think I’ll take a chance and run up to the bookshop. Charlie’s uncle will know what to do.’

      ‘Has he . . . has he . . . has he . . . popped the question?’ sang Mrs Gunn.

      ‘Pardon?’ said Benjamin.

      ‘Uncle Paton, Mr Yewbeam,’ Mrs Gunn dropped her musical tone temporarily. ‘He’s surely going to make an honest woman of Miss Ingledew. How can he resist? He really ought to marry her. The whole city is waiting.’

      ‘You mean you’re waiting, Mum,’ said Fidelio. He turned to Benjamin. ‘I’ll come with you, Ben. Don’t like to think of you alone in this city without your dog.’

      ‘I am eleven,’ sighed Benjamin.

      ‘And I’m twelve,’ said Fidelio firmly. ‘There’s a difference.’

      After weeks of dark skies and frosty winds, today a few rays of frail sunshine had begun to filter into the city. They did nothing to lift Ben’s spirits. He felt quite resentful towards Charlie for doing something so risky. But that was Charlie all over. He was always rushing into situations without thinking them through.

      Fidelio, who seemed to have read Benjamin’s mind, said, ‘It’s possible that Charlie never meant to go into that painting. He might have been sucked in, against his will, just like your dog.’

      ‘Hm,’ Benjamin grunted.

      The boys were now entering the narrow cobbled street that led to the cathedral. On either side of them, half-timbered houses with ancient crooked roofs leaned over the cobbles at dangerous angles. The bookshop stood directly opposite the great domed cathedral; a sign above the door read Ingledews in olde worlde script and, in the window, two large leatherbound books were displayed against a curtain of dark red velvet. Miss Ingledew sold rare and precious books.

      If the boys had paid attention to the gleaming black car that stood outside the shop, they might have had second thoughts, but they were in such a hurry they rushed straight in. A small bell, attached to the inside of the door, tinkled pleasantly as they entered the shop. The sight that met their eyes, however, was not at all pleasant.

      Sitting in a wheelchair beside the counter was Mr Ezekiel Bloor, the owner of Bloor’s Academy. Mr Ezekiel, as he liked to be called, was a hundred and one years old and his head was as close a thing to a living skull as you’re ever likely to see. He was covered in a tartan blanket and wore a red woollen hat pulled well down over his large wrinkled ears. There was very little flesh covering his large nose with its high knobbly ridge, or the sharp cheekbones and long chin. Mr Ezekiel’s eyes, however, were another matter. They glittered beneath the protruding forehead as black and lively as the eyes of a ten-year-old.

      Behind the ancient man’s wheelchair stood a burly, bald-headed man: Mr Weedon was the school porter, chauffeur, handyman and gardener. There was nothing he would not have done for Mr Ezekiel, including murder.

      Fidelio and Benjamin would gladly have stepped backwards out of the door, but it was too late to escape. They reluctantly descended the three steps into the shop.

      ‘Aha!’ croaked Ezekiel. ‘What have we here? Odd customers for a rare book, I’d say. I bet you haven’t got a hundred pounds to spare, Fidelio Gunn, not coming from a family of eight. You can’t even afford a pair of shoes, I’d say.’ He directed his mocking gaze at Fidelio’s shabby trainers.

      Fidelio shifted his feet self-consciously, but he was not the sort to be outdone, even by the owner of Bloor’s Academy. ‘I save my best for school, sir,’ he said, ‘and we’ve come to see Emma Tolly.’

      ‘Girlfriend, is she?’ snorted Ezekiel. ‘The little bird?’

      ‘Not at all, sir,’ Fidelio said calmly. ‘She’s a friend.’

      ‘And who’s the scrawny lad trying to hide in your shadow?’ Mr Ezekiel twisted his head to see Benjamin, who was, indeed, trying to hide behind Fidelio. ‘Who are you, boy? Speak up!’

      Benjamin was now in quite a state; desperate to get help for Runner Bean, he could scarcely concentrate on anything else, yet he knew he couldn’t mention his dog’s disappearance to Mr Ezekiel.

      ‘Come on, you half-wit!’ spat the old man.

      Fidelio said, ‘He’s Benjamin Brown, sir. Charlie’s friend.’

      Mr Weedon decided to enter the conversation. ‘So where’s Charlie Bone today?’ he asked, with a sneer.

      Benjamin croaked, ‘Busy.’

      Mr Ezekiel gave a nasty chuckle. ‘I know who you are. Your parents are private detectives. Hopeless sleuths. Where’s your dog, Benjamin Brown?’

      Benjamin screwed up his face, gritted his teeth and sent Fidelio a helpless look of despair. ‘E – rr . . .’

      Fidelio came to his rescue. ‘He’s at the vet. Benjamin’s very upset.’

      Mr Ezekiel threw back his head and cackled lustily. Weedon joined in with a deep chortle, while the boys watched them in baffled silence. What was so funny about a dog being at the vet?

      The curtains behind the counter parted and an elegant woman with chestnut hair appeared. She was carrying a heavy gold-tooled book, which she laid very carefully on the counter. ‘Hello, boys. I didn’t know you were here,’ said Miss Ingledew.

      ‘They’re after your little bird,’ Mr Ezekiel sniggered.

      Miss Ingledew ignored his remark. ‘I think this might be what you want, Mr Bloor,’ she said, turning the book so that he could see its title.

      ‘How much?’ snapped the old man.

      ‘Three hundred pounds,’ Miss Ingledew told him.

      ‘Three hundred.’ Mr Ezekiel slammed a mottled hand on to the valuable book, causing Miss Ingledew to wince. ‘I only want to know a bit about marquetry. Mother-of-pearl inlaid boxes in particular, dates and sizes, et cetera.’ He began to flip the pages over with his long, bony fingers. ‘Help me, Weedon.’

      While the old man was occupied with the book, the two boys moved swiftly across the shop and round the counter. Mr Ezekiel began to whine about the small print as they stepped through the curtains and entered Miss Ingledew’s back room.

      Here, there were even more books than in the shop itself. They covered the walls from floor to ceiling: old, faded, mellow books; large on the bottom shelves and very small at the top. They gave the room a musty, leathery smell that was rather comforting. But it was, after all, a sitting room, so there were several small tables, a sofa, two armchairs, an upright leather chair and a desk. Hunched over the desk was a black-haired man who, even sitting down, seemed exceptionally tall.

      The man paid no attention to the boys but continued to pore over the papers in front of him.

      Fidelio cleared his throat.

      Without looking up, the man said, ‘If you want Emma and Olivia, they’ve gone to the Pets’ Café.’

      ‘Actually, Mr Yewbeam, it’s you we wanted,’ said Fidelio.

      ‘Ah,’ said Charlie’s uncle. ‘Well, I’m busy.’

      ‘This is urgent,’ Benjamin blurted out. ‘Charlie’s gone into a painting, and