Today a rather intriguing and baffling artifact came into my possession by way of a Mr. Embers. It may well be linked to these people, although I have yet to… substantiate this. The object is a small globe held in a cage of some type of metal, which, at the time of this writing, I have not been able to identify. The globe emits light of varying intensity depending on the degree of background illumination. What confounds me is that the relationship is directly inverse — the darker the surroundings, the brighter the light it emits. It defies any laws of physics or chemistry with which I am familiar.
Will held up the page so Chester could see the rough sketch his father had made.
"Have you actually seen it?" Chester inquired. "This light thing?"
"No, he kept all this to himself," Will replied thoughtfully. Turning the page he began to read again.
Today I had the opportunity to… scrutinize, albeit for a brief moment, one of the pallid men at close quarters.
"Pallid? As in pale? Chester said.
"Suppose so," Will answered, and then read out his father's description of the mysterious man. He went on to the episode with Pineapple Joe and the inexplicable duct in the house, and his father's thoughts and observations on Martineau Square. There followed a large number of pages debating the likely structure within the terraced houses that lined the square; Will leafed through these until he came to a photocopied extract from a book, stapled into the journal.
"It says Highfield's History at the top of the page, and it seems to be about someone called Sir Gabriel Martineau," Will read:
Born in 1673, he was the son and heir of a successful cloth dyer in Highfield. In 1699, he inherited the business. Martineau, Long amp; Co. from his father and expanded it considerably, adding a further two factories to the original premises on Heath Street. He was known to be a keen inventor and was widely recognized for his expertise in the fields of chemistry, physics, and engineering. Indeed, although Hooke (1635–1703) is generally credited with being the architect behind what is essentially the modern air pump, there are a number of historians who believe that he built his first prototype using Martineau's drawings.
In 1710, during a period of widespread unemployment, Martineau, a deeply religious man who was renowned for his philanthropic and paternal attitude toward his workforce, began to emply a substantial number of laborers to build dwellings for his factory workers, and personally designed and oversaw the construction of Martineau Square, which still stands today, and Grayston Villas, which was destroyed in the Blitz. Martineau soon became the largest employer in the Highfield district, and it was rumored that Martineau's Men (as they became known) were engaged in digging a substantial underground network of tunnels, although no evidence of these remains today.
In 1718, Martineau's wife contracted tuberculosis and died, aged thirty-two. Thereafter Martineau sought solace by joining an obscure religious sect and was rarely seen in public for the remaining years of his life. His home, Martineau House, which formerly stood on the edge of what is now Highfield's historic district, was destroyed by a fire in 1733, in which Martineau and his two daughters are believed to have perished.
Underneath, Dr. Burrows had written:
Why is there no trace of these tunnels now? What were they for? I haven't been able to find any mention of them in the town hall records or the borough archives or anywhere. Why, why, why?
Then, scrawled with such gusto the paper was wrinkled and even ripped in places, were large, crude capitals in blue ballpoint:
FACT OR FICTION?
Will frowned and turned to Chester. "This is incredible. Have you ever heard of this Martineau?"
Chester shook his head.
"Very weird," Will said, slowly rereading the photocopied extract. "Dad never mentioned any of this, not once. Why would he have kept something like this from me?"
Will chewed his lip, his expression transforming from exasperation to one of deep preoccupation. Then he suddenly jerked his head up, as if he had been elbowed in the ribs.
"What is it?" Chester said.
"Dad was on to something that he didn't want anyone to nick from him. Not again. That's it!" Will cried, remembering the time when the professor from London University had pulled rank on his father and taken the Roman villa dig away from him.
Chester was about to ask what Will was talking about when, in a flurry, Will began flipping forward through the journal.
"More stuff about these pallid men," Will said, continuing on until he came to a part of the notebook where there were only the tagged stub of missing pages. "These have been torn out!"
He thumbed through a few more pages to the final entry. Chester saw him hesitate.
"See the date," Will said.
"Where?" Chester leaned in.
"It's from last Wednesday… the day he had the fight with Mum," Will said in a quiet voice, then took a deep breath and read aloud:
Tonight's the night. I have found a way in. If this is what I think it is, my hypothesis, wild as it may seem, will be proved correct. This could be it! My chance, my last chance to make my mark. My moment! I have to follow my instincts. I have to go down there. I have to go through.
"I don't understand—" Chester began.
Will held up his hand to silence his friend and continued:
It could be dangerous, but it's something I have to do. I have to show them — if my theory is right, they'll see! They'll have to. I am not just a bumbling curator.
And then Will read the final sentence, which was underscored several times.
I will be remembered!
"Wow!" Will exclaimed, sitting back in the damp armchair. "This is incredible."
"Yes," Chester agreed somewhat halfheartedly. He was beginning to think that Will's father had perhaps not been completely sane. It sounded to him suspiciously like the ramblings of someone who was losing it, big-time.
"So what was he onto? What was this theory he was talking about?" Will said, flipping back to the ripped-out pages. "I'll bet this is where it was. He didn't want anyone to steal his ideas." Will was buzzing now.
"Yes, but where do you think he's actually gone?" Chester asked. "What does he mean by go through, Will?"
This took the wind out of Will's sails. He looked blankly at Chester.
"Well," he began slowly, "two things have been bugging me. First is, I saw him working on something at home very early one morning — 'bout two weeks before he disappeared. I figured he was digging on the Common… but that doesn't stack up."
"Why?"
"Well, when I saw him, I'm sure he was pushing a barrowload of spoil to the Common, not away from it. Second thing is, I cant find his overalls or hard hat anywhere."
13
"Oi, Snowflake, I hear you old man's done a runner," a voice shouted at Will as soon as he entered the classroom. There was an immediate hush as everyone turned to look at Will, who, gritting his teeth, sat down at his desk and started to take books out of his bag.
It was Speed, a vicious, skinny kid with greasy black hair who was the self-appointed leader of a gang of similarly unpleasant characters.
"Can't blame him, can you? Probably got sick of you!" Speed sneered, his voice dripping with derision.