Lessons From Underground Read online

  Text copyright © 2018 by Bryan Methods

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

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  Additional image: © iStockphoto.com/Roberto A Sanchez (paper background).

  Main body text set in Bembo Std regular 12.5/17.

  Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Methods, Bryan, author.

  Title: Lessons from underground / Bryan Methods.

  Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Books, [2018] | Series: Master Diplexito and Mr. Scant ; [book 3] | Summary: Mr. Scant and his protégé Oliver Diplexito are recruited by Scotland Yard to stop Aurelian Binns from stealing a diamond from the British Crown Jewels, selling it to a South African en route to America on the Titanic, and using the proceeds to fund a criminal secret society in France.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017044212 (print) | LCCN 2017057783 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541523746 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781512405811 (th : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. | Apprentices—Fiction. | Vigilantes—Fiction. | Diamonds—Fiction. | Titanic (Steamship)—Fiction. | Cape Town (South Africa)—History—20th century—Fiction. | South Africa—History—1909-1961—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M49 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.M49 Le 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044212

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-39236-21113-4/24/2018

  9781541530942 ePub

  9781541530959 mobi

  9781541530966 ePub

  I

  The Smugglers’ Caves

  he caves were pitch black, but Mr. Scant insisted we use the dimmest light possible. The thieves would have their lamps lit brightly, he said, and he wanted to see them before they saw us. But our smudge of light did next to nothing to show the way, and I was finding it hard to breathe with all that darkness pressing down on me.

  We were in the St. Clement’s Caves in the seaside resort town of Hastings. Apparently the caves were pleasant during the summer months, and even attracted royalty for candlelit strolls. But just now it was a cold April night, and the cave was dark, silent, and more than a little creepy. I pressed closer to Mr. Scant, trying not to imagine stepping on an adder or feeling a spider fall down the back of my neck, but he only moved away from me. I had confidence in my mentor, of course, but found myself wondering what I’d do if he rushed off and left me here in the nothingness.

  We were in pursuit of a gang of thieves who had broken into the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, two or three hours away by motorcar. They had stolen many of the fine vases and fixtures that the former queen had put on display there. Mr. Jackdaw, our contact at Scotland Yard, said his trusted sources spotted the gang going into what they called the “old smugglers’ caves.” These sources apparently weren’t capable of doing anything about it, though, which is where Mr. Scant and I became useful.

  “If we can clear up this little problem without too much kerfuffle, the higher-ups will take my intelligence network more seriously,” Mr. Jackdaw had told me on the telephone. “And there’s a reward from the mayor of Brighton in it for you, so I’d call that worthwhile. Wouldn’t you?”

  And so here we were, late at night in the chilly caves. At times like this, Mr. Scant’s gift for stealth only made things worse, because I all too easily pictured myself alone but for a ghostly lantern floating beside me. Every time I turned my head, I silently begged the darkness not to spew forth whatever terrifying things it was concealing. The entrance to the caves had made them seem almost civilized, with graceful arches carved into the rock. Now all I could think about were spiders and bats and scorpions and the vengeful ghosts of dead smugglers.

  That was a bad frame of mind to be in when Mr. Scant’s lantern caught something in the darkness: a hideous face, a vision of the Inferno. I stifled a yell but realized a second later it was just a carving in the soft rock, something some fanciful artist had hewn in years past. Still, I’d let out a sort of hiccup. I could sense Mr. Scant stop dead beside me, and though there was no way to see his face, I knew it was far scarier than the stone one.

  I wondered whether to whisper an apology, but before I could make up my mind, I heard the scuff of Mr. Scant’s feet and a small clatter from his lantern—and then the little pool of light got smaller and smaller. Mr. Scant had taken off and left me.

  I was stuck. If I started to run, I’d make so much noise we’d be given away—I had practiced, but I didn’t have Mr. Scant’s ability to move silent as an owl. That left me in the middle of the darkness, surrounded by smugglers’ ghosts and possibly the thieves themselves. I felt unsteady on my feet, as though my knees were about to give out under me. And then the silence was broken by a gruff and angry voice. “This way!” Mr. Scant called.

  I understood at once—Mr. Scant didn’t care about giving away our position. There was no more need for silence.

  I set off running after him. Part of me was scared of what would happen when we found the miscreants, but my relief from putting the shadows and phantasms out of my head was far greater. The feeling only grew stronger as the light grew brighter—Mr. Scant had adjusted the lamp, allowing me to see the uneven cave floor and the bare rock walls. But as yet I could not tell what had spurred him into action.

  Still in his valet’s uniform, with the infamous claw ready at his side, he appeared to be running directly for a wall at the end of the rocky cavern, with no sign of stopping. I had already called out, “Wha—?!” when Mr. Scant barged into the wall shoulder-first. It gave way with a terrible cracking sound—not brick at all but some sort of flimsy wood, such as we used for the backdrops of embarrassing plays at school. Mr. Scant must have spotted the wall for a fake.

  Through the hole in the false wall, I could see someone swing a long, heavy weapon, a pickaxe or even a sledgehammer. Then the deafening report of a pistol echoed through the cave. But I could also see Mr. Scant jumping this way and that, so the shot must have missed.

  Once I burst through the gap, my training took over. I wasn’t the scared, useless boy I had once been. Many hard and painful lessons with Mr. Scant had taught me what I ought to be doing in this sort of situation.

  Mr. Scant was to my right, low to the ground because he had just kicked the feet out from under one of the thieves. A small revolver lay nearby. Four men in total were holed up in the small hideout, surrounded by golden clocks, chandeliers adorned with dragon statues, and piles of expensive-looking fabric that were most likely curtains. I worked out the greatest threat to me and my ally: the biggest man, who had propped himself up on his elbows after getting knocked flat. He looked ready to grab a spade nearby.

  With a fierce yell that came out a bit more high-pitched than I wanted it to, I kicked away the weapon and then did what Mr. Scant’s associate Dr. Mikolaitis had taught me to do when fighting a bigger opponent. I jumped on him, punched him in the throat, and then jabbed at his eyes with my fingers. He gave a strangled howl of pain, then made a grab for me. Luckily I didn’t have to deal with the consequences of my actions. Mr. Scant pushed me away and rolled the man over, pulling his arm
s behind his back and tying them together.

  Full of energy, I jumped to my feet and shouted, “That’s the way to do it!”

  Mr. Scant gave me a sharp look, then set about lining up the subdued thieves. One was unconscious, but the others were merely dazed. The biggest man, who had the kind of bald head that connected to his body with no need for a neck, spat out a tooth.

  “Try to get everything arranged before we take it out of here,” Mr. Scant said.

  I looked over at the pile of fabric. “The curtain falls on another ill deed,” I said, and grinned. Mr. Scant wasn’t amused.

  “If there is a time and a place for puns, which I doubt, this emphatically isn’t it,” he said. “The arrogant man is always the first to fall.”

  With that, he turned his attention to the gang of thieves. He knelt in front of them, resting his forearm on his knee so that the claw was visible, which is what he did when he wanted to be especially intimidating. As I set about trying to fold the huge embroidered curtains, I listened to his interrogation.

  “I’ll have you tell me who put you up to this.”

  “Who says anyone put us up to it?” said the oldest, thinnest man. I could tell just from his voice that he was sneering. He sounded like the kind of person who would spit on the ground a lot—like what was inside him was so unpleasant he tried to get it out all the time.

  “You know who I am. You know this claw.”

  “You’re meant to be locked up,” said a different man, who sounded more worried.

  “They didn’t get me,” said Mr. Scant. “Now, I’ve never been a true thief, not like they made me out to be. But I made it my business to study the criminals of note in this part of the world. All the gangs and all the bosses. But I don’t know you. That means you’re new faces—or you’ve never done anything worth noticing.”

  “He’s got us there, boss,” said the second man.

  Mr. Scant went on. “So what makes petty thieves decide to steal fineries that once belonged to kings? Someone put you up to this. Helped you inside, told you what to take, set up the transport for a haul this size.”

  “Nuh-uh!” came a new voice. “That part was my brother, Ernie. He’s got a motor truck for hauling coal.”

  “Shut up!” the oldest man snapped. But it was too late.

  “That part you could manage, then. Who helped you with the rest?” asked Mr. Scant.

  There was a prolonged silence. By now, Mr. Scant stood above the men, who were squirming under his fiery gaze. I thought perhaps I would move things along a little.

  “Was it by any chance someone who said they were from a secret society? Maybe they said if you stole for them, the society would reward you well? Ah! I can tell from the way you’re looking at me I’ve hit on something.” I went to stand by Mr. Scant’s side, feeling clever. “They told you that the society had powerful friends and, if you did this, maybe you could be part of it? Just steal some items with old magic in them and you can be one of them?”

  Other than the older man, who tried well enough to be inscrutable, the thieves had very honest faces. They had almost been nodding along with me right up until the end, when they simply looked bewildered.

  “Don’t know nothing about no magic,” said the one whose brother did the hauling. “We was just supposed to sell it, that’s all.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Why? What’s the point in shutting up now?”

  “Just keep your mouth shut, will you?”

  I turned to Mr. Scant. “Sounds like the Woodhouselee Society, at any rate. Maybe they’ve given up on the magic, though.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Scant. “Magic is all nonsense. And if the Society is stooping as low as this, we’ll have little to worry about in future.”

  “How are we going to get all of this outside?” I asked him. “It’s too heavy for me.”

  “We don’t need to concern ourselves about that. The cavalry’s here.”

  He looked back over his shoulder, and I realized someone had crept into the cave behind us without my noticing. I recognized the pointed chin and wide forehead of Mr. Jackdaw, our Scotland Yard contact, who had frozen himself in an exaggerated tiptoeing pose.

  “Confound it,” he said, straightening up and tugging at his wispy moustache in irritation. “I was sure I could creep up on you this time.”

  II

  The Pavilion

  Jackdaw had brought what he called his minions to clear out the smugglers’ caves while he gave us his undivided attention. After the three of us stepped into the early dawn light, he hurried us into a motorcar and instructed the driver to take us to Brighton.

  “You can get an hour or two of shut-eye, and then we’ll meet the mayor. He’ll be very grateful to you. Of course, I shall present you as agents of the Yard.”

  “But we’re not agents of the Yard,” said Mr. Scant.

  “True enough, but I can’t bally well tell them I solicited the help of an old thief and his employer’s son, can I? And if I tell them you’re the Ruminating Claw, still at large, they’ll be hauling you in on suspicion of stealing the Mona Lisa.”

  “Is that still missing?”

  “Still missing.”

  “Maybe we should try and solve that mystery,” I grinned. “You should just make us honorary policemen! We do enough favors for you, after all, and we did an excellent job today if I may say so myself.”

  “What did I say about arrogance?” rumbled Mr. Scant.

  Mr. Jackdaw laughed. “Certainly you did well. If I had any influence over the French police, perhaps I would could volunteer you. You may be onto something, though.” He flashed that perfect smile of his that never lit up his eyes. “An honorary policeman. There’s an idea.”

  You never could tell what Mr. Jackdaw was thinking, and that was clearly the way he liked it. We first met him in France, and when our investigations there took us to China, he was there waiting for us. I didn’t trust him and never knew what he wanted, but so far only good things had come from doing as he said, and Mr. Scant believed it was good to have allies in the Yard.

  Still, it unnerved me that Mr. Jackdaw knew much more about me than I did about him. Jackdaw wasn’t his real name; I didn’t know what was, nor was I privy to his official job title. He was also adept at getting information out of me without my realizing it. I winced, remembering when I confirmed to him in France that my name is Oliver Diplexito, son of Sandleforth Diplexito, founder and chairman of Diplexito Engineering and Combustibles. Mr. Jackdaw also knew that my father’s valet and butler, Mr. Scant, had led a double life as the Ruminating Claw, who was known as an infamous thief. To Jackdaw, it was all an open book: that Mr. Scant had never stolen treasures from museums—only taken them from the real thieves and restored them to their rightful places—and that even now, the organization behind the thefts was probably out for revenge.

  I awoke to bright sunshine and Mr. Scant gently shaking my shoulder. The rocking of the motorcar and the comforting smell of the leather seats had sent me to sleep. My mouth was dry from the untold minutes I must have left it hanging open, and I covered it with my hand in embarrassment.

  “We have arrived, Master Oliver.”

  I blinked at Mr. Scant, then looked out of the window on my side of the motorcar. Looking back at me with its extravagant domes and pillars and Arabian-style arches was the Brighton Royal Pavilion. A mess of a building but still a striking sight. More than anything else, it was a reminder that princes and kings could make whatever they liked.

  “Have you been to the Pavilion before?” Mr. Jackdaw asked me as I stepped out of the motorcar.

  “Outside, yes, but never inside.”

  “What do you think of the grand old place?”

  “Hmm. It’s as though someone mixed together a fairytale castle, a wedding cake, and some Christmas tree baubles.”

  Mr. Jackdaw laughed loudly. “Don’t tell that to Algernon,” he said.

  Algernon, or Mr. Mayor to me and Mr. Scant, apparently o
wed much of his popularity to his love for the Pavilion and his efforts to make it accessible to the people of Brighton. And so he was in a state of great agitation, waiting for what had been stolen to be returned. When Mr. Jackdaw gave him the good news, the anxiety turned into exuberance, and the mayor’s bulldog jowls wobbled as he shook our hands. He had gone so far as to wear his mayoral robe to meet us, a long crimson cloak with fur trim, as well as a big golden medallion. Hung about his neck and shoulders with no less than three thick chains, the medallion had the look of some great golden crab clinging to him.

  “Thank goodness, thank goodness,” he said, and produced a pocket handkerchief to wipe his brow. “You must allow me to thank you. Please come this way!”

  He took us to a banquet room inside the Pavilion, decorated with all the opulence one would expect from a palace designed by a king in love with China. Some fixtures were missing in the corners, and a mantelpiece was conspicuously bare—the thieves’ handiwork—but a huge central chandelier remained, far too big for them to have removed.

  “Please have some tea. It’s Lapsang souchong,” said the mayor. “Then there’s cucumber sandwiches, and I have some raisin cakes too, if that’s not too much at breakfast time!”

  He was the sort of man Father would call “ebullient,” pronouncing it in the same tone he used for “toenails” or “vomit.” I could see why people might have elected the man mayor, but I suspected nobody could spend more than ten minutes with him before they got a headache.

  “I really can’t thank you enough,” he enthused. “Never thought you’d be so young. Are you one of those fellows who looks much younger than he is? I can see that being useful in the Yard. Yes, you must be. Try the cake, the recipe won an award last August, best in the region. I’m so grateful you managed to catch the blighters who broke in here. I almost fainted dead away when I saw what had happened, and no mistaking! I’m just trying to understand the reasons. What made us a target? Any insight?”