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“A Miss Purpleplum for Mr. Montrose,” said the guard, opening the door just a crack.
“Thank you for bringing me up,” I said as I walked past him and into the office. “See you at the next garden party, then.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” he said, but I had already shut the door in his face. I turned triumphantly around. “There, now what do you say?”
“Miss … er … Purpleplum?” The man at the desk stared at me, wide-eyed. He was clearly not my grandfather. I stared back in alarm. He was very young, not much more than a boy, really, and he had a round, smooth face with a pair of bright, friendly little eyes which struck me as more than familiar.
o;But who…?”
“We don’t know. It’s worrying, particularly in the present situation. We had him thoroughly examined, and there was no sign of any puncture on him to suggest that his blood had been taken—”
“Wouldn’t the blood from his forehead have been enough?” I asked, shuddering slightly.
“Possibly,” agreed Mr. George. “But if someone had … well, wanted to make sure, that’s not how he’d have gone about getting Gideon’s blood. There are countless explanations. No one knew Gideon was going to be there that evening, so it’s unlikely that someone was lying in wait for him on purpose. It’s much more likely to have been a chance meeting. In certain years, these cellars were swarming with subversive, lowlife characters—smugglers, criminals, creatures of the underworld in every sense. My own belief is that it was an unfortunate coincidence.…” He cleared his throat. “In any case, Gideon seems to have survived the adventure pretty well—at least, Dr. White found no serious injuries. So the two of you will be able to set off on Sunday at midday as planned, to attend that soirée.” He laughed a little. “Funny idea: a soirée in the middle of the day on Sunday.”
Yes, ha ha, hilarious. “Where’s Gideon now?” I asked impatiently. “In hospital?”
“No, he’s resting—at least, I hope so. He only went to hospital for a scan, and as it found nothing, thank God, he discharged himself. The fact is, he had an unexpected visit from his brother yesterday evening.”
“I know,” I said. “Mr. Whitman registered Raphael at my school today.”
I heard Mr. George sigh heavily. “The boy ran away from home after getting into some kind of trouble along with his friends. Falk has this crazy idea of keeping Raphael in England. In these turbulent times, we all have better things to do—Gideon in particular—than bother about difficult boys, but Falk could never refuse Selina anything, and it seems this is Raphael’s only chance of finishing high school with some kind of certificate, away from the friends who have such a bad influence on him.”
“Selina … is that Gideon and Raphael’s mother?”
“Yes,” said Mr. George. “They both inherited those striking green eyes from her. Here we are. You can take the blindfold off now.”
This time we were alone in the chronograph room.
“Charlotte said that in the circumstances you’d be calling off our planned visit to the eighteenth century,” I suggested hopefully. “Or postponing it? Just to give Gideon time to recover, and maybe I could practice a bit more—”
Mr. George shook his head. “No, we won’t be doing that. The timing of your visits was very important to the count. Gideon and you will go to the soirée the day after tomorrow—that’s definite. Any particular year you’d like to elapse to today?”
“No,” I said, taking care to sound indifferent. “I don’t suppose it makes any difference if I’m shut up in a cellar, does it?”
Mr. George was carefully taking the chronograph out of its velvet wrapping. “No, it doesn’t. We usually send Gideon to the year 1953, a nice quiet year. We just have to take care he doesn’t meet himself.” He smiled. “I imagine it would feel rather eerie to be shut up somewhere with your double.” He patted his round little paunch and looked thoughtful. “How about 1956? Another quiet year.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
Mr. George handed me the flashlight and took his ring off. “Just in case … but don’t worry, there won’t be anyone around in the small hours, not at two thirty A.M.”
“Two thirty A.M.?” I repeated, horrified. How was I going to find my grandfather in the middle of the night? No one was going to believe I’d lost my way down in the cellars at two thirty A.M. There might not be anyone at all in the building. Then our plan would fall through! “Oh, Mr. George, please don’t send me into those eerie catacombs in the middle of the night all by myself!”
“Gwyneth, it makes no difference when you’re in a locked room deep underground.”
“But I … I get scared at night! Please, don’t send me off all alone in the dark.” I was so desperate that tears came to my eyes of their own accord; I didn’t have to help them along.
“Very well,” said Mr. George, his little eyes looking at me indulgently. “I was forgetting that you … well, let’s just pick another time of day. How about three in the afternoon?”
“That’s better,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. George.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for.” Mr. George looked up from the chronograph for a moment and smiled at me. “We really do ask a lot of you—I think in your place I’d feel rather uneasy alone in a cellar myself. Particularly as you sometimes see things that other people don’t.…”
“Yes, thanks for reminding me,” I said. Xemerius wasn’t with us. He’d probably have been very cross at being described as a “thing.” “What about all those tombs full of bones and skulls just around the corner?”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. George. “I didn’t mean to add to your worries.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. “I’m not afraid of the dead. In my experience, they can’t hurt you—unlike the living.” I saw Mr. George raise his eyebrows and added quickly, “Though of course I think they’re dreadfully uncanny, and I certainly wouldn’t like to be sitting around here at night next to a lot of catacombs.” I gave him my hand, clutching my school bag with the other one. “Try the fourth finger this time, please. That one hasn’t been punctured yet.”
