The village of Hebden Bridge sat comfortably amongst the mist and the rain in much the same way that it had for centuries. Hebden Bridge’s main attraction was the bridge close to the centre of town. It wasn’t an especially large or impressive bridge. There was nothing amazing about its architecture or engineering. However, it did have a faded sign that had been posted there at the end of the eighteenth century warning anyone who was caught desecrating or marking the bridge that they would be deported to Australia. Most British people who had more than a few brain cells immediately saw the advantage of leaving cold, dark, and damp England for sunny, warm, and beautiful Australia and immediately took to painting the bridge with bright and sordid colors. In the middle of the day. In front of local law enforcement.
The county of Yorkshire was famous for its sheep and its vast countryside. If any English person felt the need to see a sheep or to wander through a lush green countryside complete with little rock walls and piles of sheep poop, all he had to do was head to Yorkshire and breathe it all in. Literally. It also had one of the best fish and chip shops in all of the United Kingdom. It was this fish and chip shop that Frank Norberton, a forty-seven-year-old ex-naval officer, staggered out of at the same time Lily and Robert entered the village.
Frank had recently staggered out of The White Lion pub after enduring several hours of fascinating conversation about the state of Lancashire and asking questions like, “Why would anyone live here?” and “What happened to the North West of England anyway?”
Most Yorkshire people believed that Lancashire people were below the average class of common, hardworking Englishman. They were often puzzled as to why they didn’t just move to Yorkshire where people are generally better. Lancashire people held a similar point of view about Yorkshire people. And so the war raged on.
In his right hand, Frank held a bag of hot chips with gravy. His left hand was busy waving about trying to balance himself, as he was having trouble keeping his centre of gravity in the same place for more than a few seconds at a time. This was a common occurrence that happened every time he exited The White Lion.
Robert spotted Frank as he was trying to make it across the small cobbled street. A few other people ran here or there trying to get out of the rain, but Frank seemed not to care.
“We should ask directions,” said Robert to Lily. Lily nodded and they headed for Frank, who immediately guarded his chips as if Robert meant to steal them. The smell of them was enough to remind Robert that he hadn’t eaten since Mrs Goathead’s supper, and his stomach complained accordingly.
“Hello,” said Robert optimistically.
“Ello,” said Frank with apprehension.
“Good evening,” said Lily.
“Elloo,” said Frank with a little more enthusiasm.
“I was wondering if you could give us directions,” said Robert. “You see―”
“From London are ya?” said Frank and almost lost his balance.
“Well no, not really. But yes, I suppose I am. In a way. Or at least I was,” replied Robert.
“Well you either is or you’re not, lad, make up ya mind.”
“Well, I wasn’t born there. Although I thought I was until a couple of days ago but―”
“What my friend is trying to ask, rather inarticulately, is directions to―”
“Oh elloo,” said Frank, suddenly remembering that Lily was there. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya?”
Frank leaned far too close to Robert, and then looked back to Lily.
“What are you doing with the likes of this fellah? Ya could do betta ya know?”
“Now hang on a minute―” protested Robert.
“We’re not together,” said Lily.
“Now we’re not,” agreed Robert, “but we could be, not to say we should be or I want to be.” Lily and Frank both looked at him. “Well, it’s not that I don’t want to be, it’s, well, it’s complicated.”
“Anyway,” said Lily, “what we’re looking for is directions to the graveyard at Slack Top. Would you be so kind as to give us directions?”
It looked like Frank had finally found his centre of gravity, at least for the time being, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing.
“It’s night-time!” he said. “Why ya want t’ go t’ a graveyard at this time of night?”
“Not really any of your business,” said Robert.
“I wasn’t talkin t’ you, ya Southern pillock.”
“Now look here―” began Robert, but Lily placed a hand on his chest and smiled. Robert watched the true power of beautiful women everywhere unfold before his eyes. She arched her back ever so slightly to emphasize her bosom, smiled to show perfectly white teeth, flipped her dark hair back over one shoulder, and fixed her eyes on Frank.
“We have friends who live by the graveyard and it’s the only landmark we know. Could you be so kind as to point us in the right direction?” Lily flashed those amber eyes, smiled coyly, and gently touched Frank’s arm.
Frank dropped his chips.
“Please?” she added.
“Uh, yes, I uh, actually I’m just heading up there myself. You just head up Smithwell Lane over yonder.” Frank pointed across the intersection where they were standing to a street that curved up over one of the surrounding hills. “Walk up there and you’ll reach the graveyard on your right-hand side. Ya can’t miss it. Looks just like a graveyard.”
“Thank you so much,” smiled Lily and, grabbing Robert’s hand, took off at a fast walk toward Smithwell Lane.
Frank forgot he had feet and tripped over himself.
The Hatter hung one arm out through the bars set into his cell door and grinned and waved at Tweedle in his cell across the hallway.
“So, just to be clear,” began the Hatter, “you were sent here to interrogate me?”
“Yeah so what of it?” shouted Tweedle Dum.
“No need to be rude.”
“I do apologize,” said Tweedle Dee, “he’s very upset, as you can imagine.”
“Don’t apologize! He did this to us, you snivelling wretch,” sneered Tweedle Dum.
“Keep it down back there!” shouted the Troll from somewhere down the hallway.
“What I was wondering,” said the Hatter as he traced a finger along the wood of his cell door, “was what were you hoping to find out?”
Tweedle squinted suspiciously at the Hatter and in a brief moment of clarity said, “Well, it’s unusual, isn’t it? The Dwarf getting out like that. It would take a lot of planning. You’re both smart enough to do something like this, but there’s no gain for you. And then there’s the hole in the wall. How would you or the Dwarf know where the other is, when you never leave your cells? The Tower has all the magical protection it can hold; there’s no way you should have been able to put a hole through the wall to begin with.”
“All good questions.”
“You said you were keeping a secret.”
“It’s a doozy.”
“You’re going to tell us, aren’t you?” Tweedle grinned as his sanity slipped ever so slightly.
“Well, it’s far too big to keep to myself,” said the Hatter and smiled a ghastly wide grin.