The Chaos Code (7 page)

Matt stared back at him, disconcerted at the thoughts
that were beginning to form at the back of his mind. ‘I see.'

‘You're beginning to,' Venture agreed. ‘Which is good. A good start. Now I have work to do, so I'll leave you to it. Help yourself to anything you want.' He hesitated, then added: ‘You're very welcome here, did I tell you that?'

‘Thank you.'

‘As I said, you're welcome.' He turned to go.

‘Excuse me,' Matt called quickly. ‘The password?'

Venture paused in the doorway. ‘Password? Oh a computer would never work it out. But you will. Remember what Jane told you.'

Then he was gone, leaving Matt looking at the empty password field on the screen, and the realisation that he had not mentioned his dad. Though he didn't know what he should have said, or what Venture might have been able to tell him. Matt did his best to push his irritation from his mind and concentrated on solving the more immediate puzzle. Aunt Jane had told him the password was a secret, he knew she had. So how could he ever work it out. He looked round the room for clues – a book title perhaps. But which one? There had to be a thousand books just in this one small room.

Venture had told him to hear Aunt Jane's words in his head. Was it something to do with the way she'd said it – her inflection? But Venture wasn't there, so how could he even know?

‘The password for the computer is a secret,' he heard her say in his memory. But there was something wrong with it. It didn't sound quite right. Because, he realised, that wasn't what she had said.

What she had actually said was: ‘The password for the computer is secret.'

Matt typed ‘secret' into the entry field, and the computer came to life.

There was an email from Alex saying he'd tried ringing Matt and just got his mum's answerphone saying she was away. Matt didn't have a mobile, since they weren't allowed them at school, and he couldn't remember Aunt Jane's number. So he emailed Alex his address as best he knew it and told him the number would follow and that he'd check his email.

After surfing the web a bit and playing an online game called
Udder Worlds
– where you had to herd cows into a milking shed before aliens kidnapped them and sent them on missions on other planets – Matt was getting bored. He logged off the computer and went back through to the main library, surprised to find how overcast it had got. Where pale light had streamed through the windows round the top of the dome despite the rain, there was now the gunmetal grey of gathering storm clouds.

Incongruously, Matt saw, the library was lit by candles. A large candelabra with half a dozen candles stood
in the middle of the round table, casting flickering light that was reflected back off the table top. The light reached barely further than the table itself so that the edges of the room were lost in shadows – the table could have been in the middle of a black void, or stuck in a field for all you could see.

Matt made his way carefully and slowly to the table, straining to see where the door out of the room and back to the corridor might be. In the worst case, he thought, he'd simply walk round the edge of the enormous room until he found a way out. Or a light switch. Or take a candle from the table to light his way.

But then a door opened opposite him, across the other side of the table. An elongated rectangle of light fell across the wooden floor. Framed in the doorway, light shining round her so that she was barely more than a silhouette, was Robin.

‘You've finished, then?' she said.

‘I'm done,' he agreed. ‘I was just looking for the door.'

‘You were busy earlier.' She waited in the doorway for him.

‘You were checking up on me?'

He could see her face now as she stepped back into the light to let him through. ‘If you like.'

Matt wasn't sure what to say to that. So he just nodded. ‘Hang on, where are we?'

The door didn't lead back to the corridor he'd come along earlier. It gave directly into another room. This one
looked more like a museum than a library. There were glass-topped display tables and glass-fronted display cabinets on the wall. A statue of a woman dressed in a toga stood on a low plinth in one corner of the room, an ancient grandfather clock ticked away the moments in another. The second hand clicked from second to second, and Matt wondered if it was this clock that Robin's father had in mind earlier.

There were other items displayed on tables and shelves, but too many for Matt to take in as Robin led him across the room to another door. ‘Jane left a while ago, I said I'd tell her when you were done with the computer. I didn't want her disturbing you if you were busy.'

‘Well, you know,' Matt said. ‘What is all this stuff?' he asked.

She shrugged. ‘It's just stuff. Dad can't resist collecting things. He tries not to these days, but it sort of accumulates over the years. It's the same with the books.'

‘Imagine what the place'll be like when he's sixty,' Matt said.

She smiled. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Imagine.'

‘But what are they all for?' He pointed to the nearest display table. Inside, protected beneath a glass lid, was a pile of gold coins. ‘I mean, where did these come from?'

‘They're Russian,' Robin said, as if that was obvious. ‘All that remains of the five tons of gold and silver that Admiral Kolchak took from the imperial treasury to fund the Tsar's cause in 1917.'

What happened to the rest of it? Matt wondered.

Robin opened the door and Matt could see that it led into the corridor. Opposite was the little table with the picture of the fair-haired woman standing on it.

‘He had it tipped into Lake Baikal. It must have been so sad, standing on the narrow roadway that ran along the cliffs at the side of the lake, watching all their hopes and aspirations, their only chance of victory sinking out of sight in the deepest lake in the world. Perhaps Kol-chak wept, or perhaps it was just the cold wind stinging his eyes and making them water. But they knew by then it was all over and they wanted to deny the Communists anything they could. A small victory, perhaps.' Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. ‘Kolchak was captured soon after,' she said as she led him back to the hallway. ‘They executed him, poor man.'

Matt said goodbye, and stepped out into the dark, windy evening. He stood in the protection of the porch for a few moments before setting off down the drive. ‘Pleasant enough, but a bit weird,' he said out loud.

The lights were on downstairs in the cottage. As he approached, Matt could see through the front window into the living room. Aunt Jane was sitting in an armchair beside the fire. He watched her for a few seconds. She was facing away from him, but he could see that she was looking at a book.

It was a big book, and she turned the pages slowly
and carefully as she examined them. There were pictures and news clippings glued to the pages. A scrap-book, containing memories and keepsakes. Matt couldn't make out any details.

The front door was locked, so he pressed the bell. He could hear Aunt Jane moving about inside – a door banging, and hurried footsteps.

‘Hello, Matt. I hope you've had a nice time.' She stood aside to let him come in. ‘Goodness, it's got cold, hasn't it?'

He hadn't noticed. He didn't notice now. He was more concerned with Aunt Jane. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Fine, fine. I'm fine.' She sniffed. ‘Just the beginnings of a cold, I think. Nothing to worry about.'

But it didn't look to Matt like the beginnings of a cold. Her eyes were moist and her cheeks stained. Her face was blotchy with embarrassment or emotion. It looked to Matt like she'd been crying.

He closed the door behind him and went and sat in the chair opposite Aunt Jane, close to the fire. There was no sign of the scrapbook.

Aunt Jane had tea keeping warm in the oven – lamb chops and vegetables with new potatoes. She asked Matt how he had spent his time in the library as they ate in the little dining room, but she seemed distracted, and Matt wondered if she was listening at all. He had to ask her twice for the salt.

There was no dishwasher, so Matt dried the plates and cutlery as Aunt Jane washed them.

‘I think I'll have a mug of cocoa,' she said as she emptied the sink and dried her hands. ‘Do you want one?'

‘Thanks.'

‘Then I'll get an early night, if you don't mind. My cold …'

‘That's fine,' Matt assured her. ‘I could do with some sleep too. It's been a long day.'

‘I'm sure. You must be worn out, you poor thing. If you want to ring your mother, help yourself to the phone.' She busied herself with the cocoa.

‘What'd be the point,' Matt muttered. He wished he knew where Dad was. He could leave a message for him on his answerphone, but after the strange warnings and the palaver with the website and password, he wasn't sure that was a good idea. And it wasn't like Dad would be there to get the message.

Matt helped himself to an Agatha Christie from the bookcase and took it up to bed. Tomorrow he'd see if Julius Venture's library had any decent novels. It seemed to have everything else. He put on his pyjamas and climbed under the duvet. The book was better than he'd expected and he was soon absorbed. When he reached for his cocoa, what seemed like only a minute later, it was cold and a thick skin of congealed milk caught on his upper lip and trailed out of the mug.

Matt went to the bathroom to wash the milk off his hand and face. He was still thirsty and there was no beaker in the bathroom, so he went downstairs. Aunt Jane's door was pushed almost shut and the light was out. He could hear the rhythmic sound of her breathing. Nevertheless he went as quietly as he could for fear of disturbing her.

After his slurp of cold cocoa, Matt fancied something different to drink. He couldn't be bothered with boiling water or milk, so he decided on a cold drink. There was a bottle of squash in a cupboard, and half a carton of fruit juice in the fridge. He decided on the juice and poured himself a small glass. Rather than take it up to bed he sat by the remains of the fire in the living
room. The embers were glowing faintly, wreathed in a powder of grey ash that seemed to stir in time to the sound of the wind from outside.

The other side of the fireplace was a wooden cabinet. The top half was made up of shelves with glass doors. There were ornaments and glassware arranged neatly on the shelves. Beneath this was a cupboard, and Matt could see that one of the doors was not quite closed. He finished his drink, and stood up. As he passed the cabinet, he pushed the door gently shut with his foot.

It sprang open again. Something inside needed moving to allow the door to close. So Matt put down the empty glass and knelt beside the cupboard. He opened the door, and saw what the obstruction was.

A scrapbook. It had been replaced hurriedly in the cupboard on top of a pile of photo albums and cardboard boxes. It was angled so the corner was catching the inside of the door. Matt turned the scrapbook, and pushed the door gently shut. It clicked as the latch caught and Matt stood up.

He put his glass in the sink. Then he picked it up again and rinsed it out, before putting it upside down on the drainer. He turned to go back to bed, then changed his mind and picked up a tea towel from the rack over the radiator. He dried the glass and put it away, his mind now made up.

The pages of the scrapbook were dry with age, seeming to draw the moisture from his fingers as he turned
them. There were yellowed news clippings about Aunt Jane's family – Dad's family. A short birth notice for Dad from a local paper. An account of a village fete opened by some television actor that Matt had never heard of. A school photo –
Billy the Squirrel's Class of the Week
– from a county paper, with names under the picture. Matt found Aunt Jane and looked at the smiling little girl she had been when she was ten.

There were photos too. Some were in black and white, some faded colour pictures. They all had thin white borders round them which made them look old-fashioned as well as old. He saw the same girl as in the class photo, and realised that the younger boy playing with her must be his own father, aged about eight. He would never have guessed.

But he did recognise the setting for an increasing number of the pictures – the grounds of the manor house. In several he could see the house behind the children as they played. They were older now, teens. Posing carefully for shots, rather than relaxed and unaware. There were three of them – Dad, Aunt Jane, and another girl. Matt stared at the pictures of the three children. There was no mistaking the third child. Aunt Jane looked about sixteen now, and Dad was maybe fourteen – the same age as the other girl – the one who looked so like Robin. It had to be Robin's mother, and the daughter had obviously inherited the mother's looks
and appearance. The two sets of parents must have been friends, he thought. All those years ago …

There were older people too in some of the later pictures. Matt knew his grandparents from other pictures he had seen in the past. He could dimly remember his grandmother – Dad's mum – as a frail elderly lady. But here she was in her forties, fifty at the most. She looked so happy with her husband. His hair was grey and thinning and in most of the pictures in which he appeared he had a pipe clamped in his mouth.

In one final picture, the last in the book, was another figure that Matt knew. Or rather, that he thought he did. Julius Venture, standing with Robin's mother and Matt's Dad and Aunt Jane. Of course, the man in the picture couldn't be Venture himself, but must be his dad – Robin's grandfather. Again the family resemblance was obvious, and Matt recalled the pictures he had seen in the house. Matt wondered who had taken the picture – one of his grandparents, probably.

He closed the book and returned it to the cupboard. I wonder what happened to Robin's mother, he thought as he made his way quietly back to bed. It seemed strange that there were no pictures of the young Julius Venture either, since he was the one who lived at the manor house. He must have been friendly with the girl – after all, he'd ended up marrying her. They must have all played together in those days – Matt's Dad, Aunt Jane,
Robin's mother, and her future husband – the young Julius Venture. So why were there no pictures of Venture? A mystery, he thought as he picked up the Agatha Christie novel again.