Mr. Theodore.She heaved a sigh of relief and jammed an elbow in the hobgoblin’s gut.
He released her with a grunt. “Liver and onions, woman! What was that for?”
Clara pinned the hobgoblin with a glare. “Pardon me, sir, for not realizing you must be informed of my unusual aversion to being grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground.”
“Don’t be melodramatic, ducky.” Mum peeked over Mr. Theodore’s shoulder, along with Phileas and Honorine. “The lad was only trying to prevent you from becoming separated from our merry band of fugitives.”
“We’re not fugiti—” Oh, who was she kidding? The lot of them were crouched behind an apple cart, as though they were trying to outwit the Sheriff of Nottingham. “Fine. I’ll concede to fugitives, but we’re not merry. We’re in trouble.”
Even now the stomping of boots drew closer, and the voices of those searching for them grew more exasperated. Clara peered around the cart’s spoked wheel. Gulped. Four scowling policemen stood mere paces away at the corner of the street, looking this way and that, planning their next move. Ducking behind the cart, she nuzzled her chin betwixt Todd’s soft ears. “They’re almost on us. What are we to do?”
Mr. Theodore rubbed a hand over his beard. “Mrs. S., can you manage the kits on your own? Take them back to the hotel and stay put until we join you?”
“Aye, lad. I’ll not be so foolish as to trust the little scamps in my pockets a second time. The tattered holes they chewed will be the dickens to repair. Best to keep them in my sights and postpone their baptism until we return to London.” Mum placed Phileas and Honorine inside the deep crown of her bonnet and reached for Todd.
Clara relinquished the fluffy fox reluctantly. “This is imprudent. The police will spot her straightaway.”
Mr. Arthur took up his crutch. “Not if we create a diversion.”
Something about the inflection of his voice made her apprehensive. “What sort of a diversion?”
“The sort with live bait.” Seizing her hand, Mr. Theodore relocated them to the middle of the street.
The policemen’s gazes swung their way.
Clara’s heart stopped. When this was over, she was going to kill the hobgoblin.
As if perceiving her murderous intent, Mr. Theodore gasped in a theatrical manner. “The authorities have spotted us! Let us flee!” He boltedtowardthe uniformed men, dragging her along like a flightless kite skittering across the ground.
At their direct charge, the policemen staggered back.
Mr. Theodore and Clara darted between them. In the nextmoment, the men gave chase with shouted commands to halt.Immédiatement!She pinched her lips as Mr. Theodore led them back toward the cathedral. Far away from Mum. Too far.
Everything in her wanted to glance over her shoulder—reassure herself that Mum had gotten away—but that would only disclose Mum’s presence. As they ran past the cathedral, people cheered at the spectacle they were making of themselves. Her cheeks flamed. Their distraction was working all too well. How exactly was the live bait to avoid being devoured?
Just ahead, the rust house with the bottle-bottom windows offered the reassurance of a familiar face. The rope had been lowered and hooked to a huge wooden crate surrounded by barrels waiting to be loaded. Mr. Theodore skidded to a stop beside the crate, and Clara crashed into his side. “Ooof! What are you—”
“Afraid of heights, Miss Stanton?”
She glanced at the fast-approaching police. “Not as much as imprisonment.”
“Right-oh, that’s the spirit.” Mr. Theodore handed his crutch to her and hefted her into the wooden crate. He hopped in alongside, grabbed one of the two ropes strung through the pulley attached to the attic, and started pulling, hand over hand.
The crate rose from the ground and tilted. Clara’s stomach lurched as she careened forward, slamming face-first into Mr. Theodore’s broad chest. Her right arm shot around his torso and squeezed. Tight. Was it possible to be seasick in midair?
With one final lurch, the crate reached the top of the pulley on the fifth floor, and the air erupted with applause. Clara hazarded a glance over the side of the crate. Policemen waved batons at the sky amidst the crowd of smiling faces below.
Far, far below.
Suddenly Mum’s fear of heights didn’t seem so irrational. Clara latched her gaze to Mr. Theodore’s overcoat. “We’ve scaled the castle walls. What now?”
“Not sure. I, erm ... hadn’t thought that far.”
Of course he hadn’t. That would be too convenient, and in real life, things were never so convenient as they were in ballads of swashbuckling outlaws in Lincoln green. The attic window flung open, and a stout fellow dressed in brown greeted them with a jovial smile. Clara gaped at his bearded face and shiny scalp. “Friar Tuck?”
The man chuckled and addressed her in English with a distinct German accent. “Grocer Kammerzell. Are you the crazy tourists who took a pack of wild foxes into the cathedral?”
Clara winced. “That would be us.”
