Peter and the Shadow Thieves (29 page)

The postman, after a dozen quick, efficient stops, strode around a corner and entered the side door of a brick building. Peter went to the front and saw a sign over the door that said ROYAL MAIL. He entered and found himself in a quiet, high-ceilinged room. Along one wal was a long desk, at which several customers were writing; along the other wal were four windows, three of which were manned by clerks. Peter studied them and decided the one on the far right—a portly man with a large red nose and watery eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles—looked the least threatening. He waited until the man wasn’t busy, then approached him.

“Sir,” he said.

The clerk peered at him over the spectacles. “Yes, lad?”

“I need to post a letter,” said Peter.

“Al right,” said the clerk. “Let me see it.”

“I don’t have it,” said Peter.

The clerk removed his spectacles, massaged his forehead, then replaced the spectacles.

“You wish to post a letter,” he said, “but you have no letter.”

“Yes,” said Peter.

The clerk glanced around the office; the other two mail clerks were both busy with customers. The clerk ducked down behind the counter, and Peter heard the sound of liquid being swal owed. The clerk reappeared; he seemed surprised to see Peter stil standing there.

“Young man,” he said, once he’d got his eyes refocused. “Here is the thing: we cannot post a letter if we do not
have
the letter. Or, to put it another way, we must
have
the letter in order to post it. Do you see?” By the time he said “have,” the air around Peter was fil ed with a strong, sweetish smel .

“Yes, sir, I understand,” said Peter. “What I was wondering was, could you write the letter for me?” The clerk narrowed his eyes. “You want me to write the letter for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you want this letter to say?”

“Oh,” said Peter, “it doesn’t much matter.”

“You want me to write a letter,” the clerk said, speaking very slowly, “but you don’t care what the letter says.”

“Exactly!” said Peter, glad the man final y understood him.

“Just a moment,” said the clerk, ducking down again. Peter heard another swal owing sound, then a sucking sound, then “Drat!” Then there was a
thunk
as the clerk, coming back up, struck his head on the counter, fol owed by another “Drat!” Then the clerk reappeared, rubbing his head. He looked at Peter, closed his eyes tight for several seconds, then opened them. He seemed disappointed to see Peter stil standing there.

“You’re stil here,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The clerk stood rubbing his head, looking at Peter. Then he had an idea. Peter could see the formation of this idea on the man’s face: it started as a frown, then turned into what the clerk apparently believed was a shrewd smile. The clerk glanced at his coworkers, then leaned forward through the window and beckoned to Peter.

“Come here,” he said.

The “here” sent powerful fumes wafting Peter’s way, but Peter held his breath and stepped forward.

“I’l make you a bargain,” the clerk said. He disappeared for a few seconds. After another
thunk
and another “Drat!” he reappeared with an object concealed in his hands. After glancing around the room, he pressed the object into Peter’s hands. It was a dul gray metal flask.

Leaning close, the clerk whispered: “Take this next door to the Dog and Cabbage. Give it to the barman. Tel him it’s from Henry next door at the mail office. Tel him to fil it back up, and I’l be ’round after work to pay him. You understand, lad?”

Peter nodded.

“Run along, then,” said the clerk.

Peter trotted next door and into the Dog and Cabbage, a dark, seedy pub with a few scattered customers staring silently at pints of bitter. A man stood behind the bar, watching Peter approach.

“You’re a bit young to be in here,” he said.

Peter set the flask on the bar. A hint of a smile formed on the bartender’s face.

“Henry,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Peter.

“Did Henry send any money with you?” said the bartender.

“No, sir,” said Peter. “He said he’d come ’round after work.”

The bartender sighed, then picked up the flask, fil ed it from a bottle behind the bar, and handed it back to Peter.

“Thank you,” said Peter, getting a nod in return.

Peter tucked the flask under his shirt with Tink, who, of course, complained. Ignoring her, Peter trotted back into the post office. He stood off a little way while Henry waited on a customer; then he went to the window and, making sure he was unobserved, handed the flask to Henry, who immediately ducked below his counter for several lengthy swigs.

When he reappeared, Peter said, “Now wil you write my letter?”

“What letter?” said Henry, blinking.

“The letter you said you’d write for me, if I went to the pub and—”

“Yes, yes, al right,” said Henry, looking around nervously. “No need to shout! Do have paper and pen, then?”

“No, sir.”

Henry sighed. “And I suppose no envelope or stamp?”

“No, sir, but you said if I went to the pub you—”

“Yes! Yes! Shhh!” said Henry. He fumbled around his desk and produced a piece of paper. Dipping a pen in his inkwel , he looked at Peter and said, “Go ahead.”

“With what, sir?”

“With the letter!” said Henry, much too loud for the post office. Every head turned his way; his two fel ow clerks glared at him.

“Sorry!” he said. “Just a bit of…that is, I mean…Sorry!” To Peter, he hissed, “What am I supposed to write?”

“Just write anything,” said Peter. “Write hel o from Peter.”

“Al right,” said Henry, hastily scrawling
Hello from Peter.
“Is that it?”

“And now if you could address it.”

Sighing, Henry folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and sealed it with a blob of wax and metal stamp. He took a tuppence from his pocket and dropped it into a box on the counter. Picking up the pen again, he said, “Who is the addressee?”

“The what?”

“The addressee,” said Henry. “The person to whom the letter is to be posted.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “Lord Aster.”

Henry looked up, pen poised. “Lord Aster?” he said. “Lord
Leonard
Aster?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him, to be sure,” said Henry.

“And you know where he lives?” said Peter eagerly.

“Of course,” said Henry.

“Then, please address the letter to him.”

Henry sighed, then wrote
Lord Aster, Kensington Palace Gardens,
on the envelope.

“Al right,” he said, “that’s—”

“And please put an X on the back,” said Peter. “A big one.”

Shaking his head, Henry drew a large X on the back of the envelope, then tossed it into a bin behind him. “There,” he said. “Done. Good-bye.” He started to duck beneath the counter.

Peter’s voice stopped him: “And now the letter wil go to Lord Aster’s house?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Good-bye.”

“When wil it be delivered?”

Henry looked at the clock. “The postman for that route wil leave in one hour,” he said. “Last delivery today. Goodbye.”

“Which postman wil it be?” said Peter.

Henry blinked. “Which
postman
?” he said.

“Yes,” said Peter.

“What
difference
does it make which…” Henry stopped, realizing that, in a contest of wil s, he was overmatched. “The postman is Hawkins,” he said. “The very tal one.” He waited, resigned, for Peter’s next question.

“Thank you,” said Peter, turning to go.

Henry, startled, mumbled “Good-bye” as he watched the very strange, very determined boy leave. He spent a moment trying to fathom what on earth the boy was trying to do with his ridiculous letter. Then he shrugged, glanced around the post office, and returned to his faithful flask.

T
HE ASTER HOUSEHOLD had eight servants. This was a smal staff for a family as wealthy as the Asters, with a house so large. But the Asters valued privacy, and the larger the staff, the more prying the eyes, the more gossipy the tongues.

So the Asters got by with just eight. There were the three maids—Mary and Sarah, both of whom had been with the Asters for ages; and Jenna, who recently replaced another longtime family servant, a girl who had suddenly developed a mysterious ailment and had gone off to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. There were three men on the staff—Paul, the family’s longtime manservant; Patrick, the coachman; and a young groom named Ben. The cook was a Spanish woman named Sierra; she had an elderly and somewhat cranky assistant, cal ed Mrs. Conine.

On this evening, as usual, the three maids and the three men had gathered for supper in the big room at the rear of the house, next to the kitchen. When everyone was seated around the table, Paul, as was customary, said the blessing. Jenna rose and went into the kitchen, returning with a tureen of potato soup. Although usual y quiet, Jenna declared loudly that the soup was delicious, and insisted that each person try some. She even returned to the kitchen and insisted that Sierra and Mrs. Conine taste it, though they both said they already had.

“Oh, please, you must try some more,” said Jenna. “It’s delicious!”

“It’s just potato soup,” said Sierra. But in the end, she and Mrs. Conine yielded to Jenna’s enthusiasm and took a few spoonfuls each.

So al of them began the supper with a helping of potato soup.

Al of them, that is, except Jenna.

N
IGHT WAS FALLING, and Peter was trotting, almost running, to keep up with Hawkins. The long-legged postman was clearly eager to be done with his rounds: he darted from house to house, dropping letters into the front-door mail slots, preoccupied with his task, which was fortunate for Peter, who was trying to remain unnoticed, blending into the homebound pedestrian throng while keeping close enough to see whether any of the envelopes was marked with an X.

He worried that he might have missed it already, which would mean that he was now fol owing the postman
away
from Mol y’s house. But he had no choice other than to keep trotting along, hoping he was going in the right direction, and trying to ignore the now-constant complaints of a very unhappy Tinker Bel , stil imprisoned inside his filthy shirt.

It’s almost dark,
she was saying.
Nobody will see me now.

“Not yet,” Peter puffed. “There are too many people around.”

The postman was now striding along Bayswater Road, to the north of Kensington Palace Gardens. With each passing block, the houses were becoming larger and better-kept.

And the mail sack was getting emptier. And the evening was growing darker.

Hawkins strode up the walk to a white corner house and pul ed a letter from his sack. Peter, hovering on the sidewalk, strained to see the envelope: no X. The postman dropped the letter through a slot and came back down the walk. Peter looked away as the postman went past, then turned to fol ow him.

He was stopped by a grip on his arm, then an unwelcome voice: “Where are
you
going?” Peter turned and saw Trotter, the boy who had lured him into capture by the man who wanted to make him a beggar. Peter jerked his arm free, only to feel a much more powerful, and painful, grip on his shoulder.

“I told you I’d find you,” said a low voice. Peter looked up and saw the big man who’d imprisoned him, his face contorted by a triumphant sneer.

Peter looked up Bayswater Road: the red uniform of the postman was disappearing into the gloom.

“Let me
go,
” Peter said, struggling. The man only tightened his grip. “LET ME GO! PLEASE, HELP!” Peter shouted, hoping to draw the attention of passersby. But with the onset of darkness, the sidewalk crowd had thinned; the few remaining pedestrians scurried past, averting their eyes from the shouting boy and the large, menacing man.

“You’l not get away this time, boy,” the man said.

“Here, now! What’s this!” A stranger’s voice from behind Peter.

A man, apparently the occupant of the white corner house, was coming down the walkway. He was short and slight, with a large, protruding forehead, piercing eyes, and a bushy moustache. He wore an overcoat that was far too large, making him look even smal er.