"What?" Paton stood stock-still. "How could you forget to tell me? I must go to her at once." He began to stride toward the bookstore.
"NO!" cried Emma, so loudly that Uncle Paton was halted in his tracks.
"Auntie doesn't want... doesn't need you right now. She wasn't really burgled, she was just..."
"What?" Paton demanded. "Burgled or not burgled?"
"Not," said Emma lamely. "Just visited by ruffians. But she's OK. Please, can we go on to Tigerfield Street?"
Charlie swung from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. "It's so cold, Uncle Paton. Can we move on?" He began to walk across the wide square in front of the cathedral, with Emma hurrying beside him.
Uncle Paton followed them reluctantly. Glancing back, Charlie saw that his uncle looked troubled, and wondered if it was because Emma had implied that her aunt didn't want to see him.
A small wrought-iron gate led out of Cathedral Close and onto a road called Hangman's Way. Charlie remembered that Billy Raven had once been kept in one of the dark alleys leading off Hangman's Way. Emma remembered, too. She shivered at the thought of poor Billy, held fast behind the force field of a sinister man named Mr. de Grey.
"There it is!" Uncle Paton announced. He pointed to the sign on a wall that curved into a dark gap little more than a few feet wide.
"Tigerfield Street," said Charlie.
"This must be the place," said Paton.
They crossed the road and stood at the entrance to Tigerfield Street.
"It's hardly a street." Emma stared doubtfully at the flight of stone steps that led up into the darkness.
The tops of the buildings leaned so dangerously, they appeared almost to touch one another.
"Come on." Charlie began to mount the steps. They climbed in single file, their footsteps echoing in the confined space, the only sound for miles, it seemed. Charlie counted the numbers on the thick oak doors. Some were missing altogether. There was a sixteen, then nothing until twelve was reached, with an eleven opposite.
"Here!" cried Charlie. "Number Ten."
The single bronze numbers hadn't been cleaned for years and were now green with mildew. Beneath them was a large bronze door knocker in the shape of a tiger's head. Charlie lifted the head and knocked.
There wasn't a sound within the house. Charlie knocked again. And again.
After the third knock, something curious happened. The door creaked open, just an inch.
"It's not even latched," Uncle Paton observed, pushing the door until it swung right back, revealing a small marble-tiled hall. "Hello there!" he called. "Anyone home?"
There was no answer.
A tingle of foreboding ran down Charlie's spine. Something had happened in this house. Was there a ghost in the place or was it worse than that?
Uncle Paton stepped inside and the others followed. They opened a door at the side of the hall and looked into a small kitchen, where pots and pans were heaped on the drainboard. A brown teapot was warm to the touch, and there was steam on the window but no sign of the person who had recently made a cup of tea.
On the other side of the hall was a cozy living room where a scuffed leather sofa and an armchair clustered around the fireplace. The embers of a recent fire could be seen glowing in the grate.
"Perhaps Mr. Bittermouse just popped out for a newspaper and forgot to lock the door," Emma suggested.
"Perhaps," said Uncle Paton.
At the end of the hall an uncarpeted wooden staircase led to the rooms above.
"A lawyer usually has a desk," said Uncle Paton thoughtfully. "Mr.
Bittermouse's study could be up there."
"And he could have fallen asleep over his books," said Emma, "being so old.
Old people often fall asleep like that."
Uncle Paton gave her a look that said, "You don't have to be old to do that."
"Let's go up." Emma's foot was already on the first step. "Hello!" she called. "Anyone up there?"
The treads creaked woefully as they mounted the staircase. Charlie came last.
His throat felt tight, his ears buzzed, and the icy foreboding that clutched at his stomach got worse and worse.
There were three doors leading off the landing and then the stairs continued up to another floor.
Emma knocked on the door in the center. There was no answer. She opened the door and looked into a bedroom.
The bed was neatly made and a suit of clothes hung on the outside of the closet. She shrugged and closed the door. Beside the bedroom, there was a chilly bathroom with no hint of a woman's touch. No bottles or jars or tubes, just a bar of soap, a razor on the windowsill, and a toothbrush in a glass.
"Third time lucky," said Uncle Paton, marching toward the third door, and Charlie's stomach gave a lurch. He found that he wanted to cry out, to stop the door being opened, to make them all go downstairs again without knowing what was in that third room. But Uncle Paton was already opening the door. He stopped abruptly on the threshold, uttering a strangled cry and then a string of oaths, the sort of oaths that Charlie had rarely heard, and certainly never coming from his uncle.
And so Charlie had to look into the room. Peering around his uncle's rigid form he saw a study that had been utterly ransacked. Bookcases were tipped at an angle, a desk had been rolled onto its side. The floor was littered with books and papers, and in the center of it all lay a very old man. He had a shock of white hair and fine if wrinkled features. He was on his back. His tweed jacket had fallen open, and on his white shirt, just where the heart might be, was a large red stain.
"Dead?" Emma whispered.
"Looks like it. I'll call for an ambulance," said Uncle Paton. "Who could have done such a ghastly thing?"
It was then that Charlie noticed a mark on the floorboards, a long thin scratch as though a knife had been drawn across the floor—or the tip of a sword. And he felt that he knew who had murdered Mr. Barnaby Bittermouse. But who on earth would believe him?
11. ANGEL IN THE SNOW
A police car arrived soon after the ambulance. They were both too late to save poor Barnaby Bittermouse. He was definitely dead, though the detective wasn't able to confirm what kind of weapon had actually killed him. There was no question that he'd been the victim of a robbery. But what had been taken?
His wallet was still in his pocket, his gold watch was on his wrist, and there was a significant sum of change lying in a drawer.
Charlie could see that Uncle Paton was trying to decide whether he should mention the box. If he said too much, he would be taken to the police station for questioning. He would have to sit beneath a light, several lights most probably, and every one of them would explode, to Paton's utter humiliation and embarrassment.
"We should like to leave now," Paton said in a low voice to Officer Singh, whom he recognized from various other encounters. "Would this be convenient?"
"Yes, sir. But we need your address and phone number." The policeman peered at Paton suspiciously. There was something odd about the tall man in his black hat. Hadn't he caused some trouble a few months ago? Lights, that was it. Exploding lights. "Don't leave the city, sir. We might need to talk to you again."
"Oh, but I want..." Paton hesitated. He looked anxious. "Very well. I'll let you know if I'm thinking of making a journey."
"You do that, sir." Officer Singh took out his notebook. "Now, address and phone number, please."
Uncle Paton gave them, a little reluctantly.
The policeman consulted his notes. "And you didn't know the late gentleman but were just visiting to inquire about making a will, even though it was Sunday"—he raised his eyebrow a fraction, but continued in the same tone—"and you found the front door open."
"Yes," said Uncle Paton firmly. "I'm a very busy man and Sunday is the only day I can do these... er, things."
Charlie added, "The door opened when I knocked on it."
Officer Singh ignored this. They had gone through it all before. But not to be left out, Emma said, "And I was the one who went upstairs first."