Double or Die E-Book

Charlie Higson

• Herausgeber: Ian Fleming Publications
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Young Bond
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Seitenzahl: 473

Beschreibung

Kidnap. Violence. Explosions. Murder. No ordinary weekend. But then, James Bond is no ordinary boy.In a London cemetery a professor is kidnapped at gunpoint. A suspicious letter crammed with cryptic clues arrives at Eton. To decipher the deadly mystery, James Bond must take a series of dangerous gambles. Once the code is cracked, he has just 48 hours to save the professor from the dark forces that threaten to destroy both teacher and student – and the rest of the world . . .Double or Die is the third amazing Young Bond adventure from bestselling author Charlie Higson.

Leseprobe

DOUBLE OR DIE

CHARLIE HIGSON

Ian Fleming Publications

IAN FLEMING PUBLICATIONS

E-book published by Ian Fleming Publications

Physical books available from:

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Disney-Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690

Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, Registered Offices: 10-11 Lower John Street London

www.ianfleming.com

First published by the Penguin Group 2007

Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 2007 All rights reserved

Young Bond and Double or Die are trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd

The moral right of the copyright holder has been asserted

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-1-906772-63-5

For my dad

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Sandy Balfour and John Halpern for guiding me through the world of cryptic crosswords and helping with clues. And to Simon Chaplin at the Royal College of Surgeons

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

The Hungry Machine

Part One: FRIDAY

1 Thoughts in a Bamford and Martin Tourer

2 Stevens and Oliver

3 The Raid on Codrose’s

4 Apex X

5 Gordius

6 Shoot the Moon

7 A Lovely Wreck

8 See Cambridge and Die

9 The Smith Brothers

Part Two: SATURDAY

10 The Big Smoke

11 Scrambled Eggs

12 A Clarinet Sang in Berkeley Square

13 Breaking the Code

14 Soft Tissue

15 It’s Your Funeral

16 Carcass Row

17 Paradice

18 What’s Your Poison?

19 A Volatile Substance

Part Three: SUNDAY

20 The Monstrous Regiment

21 The Knight Who Did a Deal With the Devil

22 The Pneumatic Railway

23 Into the Lion’s Jaws

24 Nemesis

25 The Empress of the East

26 Babushka

27 Wake Up or Die

28 Out of the Fog

29 The Eyes of a Killer

The Hungry Machine

The human brain is a remarkable object. It contains a hundred billion neurons, all talking to each other via tiny electrical sparks, like a never-ending fireworks display inside your skull.

Your brain weighs three pounds. It makes up only one-fiftieth of your body, yet it uses up over a fifth of your blood supply and oxygen.

The brain is a hungry machine. It never shuts down. Even while you are asleep it is awake, keeping your lungs breathing, your heart beating, the blood flowing through your veins. Without your brain you can do nothing. It allows you to ride a bike, read a book, laugh at a joke. It can store a whole lifetime of memories.

But it is very fragile.

Alexis Fairburn was painfully aware of this, because there was a pistol pointing at his head, and he knew that if that gun were fired, all those precious memories, that he had been storing up for the last thirty-two years, would be blasted into oblivion. Then his lungs would fall still. His heart would stop pumping. The blood would freeze in his veins and Alexis Fairburn would cease to be.

The pistol was a six-shot revolver with a short, stubby barrel. Not very accurate at long range, but deadly enough close up. What made it more deadly was its grip, which doubled as a knuckleduster. The fingers of the man holding it were curled through big brass rings. One punch would shatter a man’s jaw.

Fairburn knew that this type of gun was called an Apache, after the vicious street thugs who had carried them in Paris at the end of the last century. Their weapons had also carried blades that swung out and could be used like bayonets.

He sometimes thought he knew too much.

And even as he stared at the nasty black hole in the gun’s nose he heard a click, followed by a metallic scraping sound, and a four-inch-long, spring-loaded stiletto blade slid out from beneath the barrel and snapped into place.

Sometimes Fairburn wished that he could be happy and stupid, blissfully unaware of everything that was going on in the world around him. Sometimes he wished that, instead of spending half his life expanding his brain and filling it with facts and figures, he had devoted some of that time to his body. In moments like this he wished that he had big muscles and quick reflexes. If only he had learnt how to disarm a man he might now be able to grab his attacker’s wrist and wrestle the gun out of his hand, maybe even turn it on him. He had read about such things. He knew in theory that it could be done, but he also knew that it would be useless to try. He was weak and he was timid and he was clumsy.

Now that he thought about it, however, he realised that he wasn’t scared.

That was interesting.

He would have assumed that he would be terrified. But, no, all he felt was disappointment. Regret that his remarkable brain was soon to be switched off.

‘Don’t try to run, or resist in any way,’ said the gunman and, for the first time, Fairburn looked at him, rather than at his gun. He was tall and thin and stooped, with a huge, bony head that looked too heavy for his shoulders. His large black eyes were set in deep hollow sockets and the skin was pulled so tight on his head that it resembled a skull.

The gunman was not alone. He had an accomplice, a younger man with a pleasant, unremarkable face. He wouldn’t have looked out of place behind the counter in a bank, or scribbling away at a ledger in an office. Fairburn found that it helped to think of him as a clerk rather than as a potential assassin. It made him less threatening.

‘You know what will happen if he pulls that trigger?’ said the clerk with a hint of menace.

The menace was unnecessary. Fairburn knew exactly what would happen. The hammer of the gun would snap forward and strike the percussion cap at the rear of the bullet casing. This would set off a small explosion which would propel the shell at twenty-five feet per second out of its casing and down the barrel, where a long spiral groove would cause it to spin, so that it would fly straighter. Finally, it would burst out of the gun, not six inches from Fairburn’s forehead.

The bullet would be soft-nosed, designed to stop a man. As it hit bone it would flatten and widen like an opening fist and then it would tunnel through his head, sucking out any soft matter as it went.

A bird sang in a tree nearby. Fairburn knew from its song that it was a chaffinch. He glanced up and saw that it was sitting on the branch of a yew tree. It was a British custom to plant yews and cypresses in graveyards. A custom they had adopted from the Romans. It was also a Roman custom to put flowers on a grave.

Fairburn sighed. His brain was full of such a lot of useless information.

‘What are you looking at?’ said the clerk.

‘I’m not looking at anything,’ said Fairburn. ‘I’m sorry. I was distracted.’

‘I would advise you to pay attention.’

‘Yes. I do apologise,’ said Fairburn. ‘But might I ask what exactly you want me to do?’

‘We would like you to accompany us, Mister Fairburn,’ said the gunman.

So they knew his name. This was not a random attack. They must have followed him here. But what did they want?

Fairburn thought hard, casting his mind back over the day. What had happened? Who had he met? What had he said that would cause these two men to be here in the middle of Highgate cemetery, with one holding an Apache to his head?

Up until now it had been a fairly ordinary Saturday. He had followed the same routine that he had been keeping to for the last few weeks. He had driven up to London first thing from Windsor, visited the Reading Room at the British Museum, then had lunch at his favourite restaurant in Fitzrovia, and finally he had come here to the cemetery, where he had been making sketches and jotting down notes for a book he was planning to write on eminent Victorian scientists, several of whom were buried here.

The last thing he had done was to take a rubbing from a headstone with an interesting inscription. He had forgotten to bring any rubbing paper with him and had been forced to use the back of a letter from his friend Ivar Peterson. He still took a childlike delight in rubbing the wax over the paper and watching the writing form. He had just finished and was putting the neatly folded letter back into his coat pocket, when the men had appeared. They had walked briskly up the path, nodded a friendly greeting and the next thing he knew the ugly snout of the pistol was in his face.

Peterson. Of course. This must be to do with him. Or, more precisely, to do with what Peterson had written about in the letter.

This was to do with the Nemesis project.

He realised that he still had the letter in his hand, hidden inside his pocket. Perhaps he could drop it somewhere. It would be some small clue that he had been here, and, if anyone read it, they might be able to help him.

Idiot.

It would be meaningless to anyone else. Unless somehow he could direct the right person here, someone who could understand what it meant.

Good. His mind was working. He gave the paper one more fold and squeezed it tightly into the palm of his hand.

‘We are going to walk you to your motor car,’ said the clerk. ‘Calmly and casually, like old friends. Then you will drive my brother and I to our destination. We will advise you of the route along the way. The gun will be trained on you at all times, and if you do not follow our precise instructions, we will not hesitate to shoot you. Another colleague of ours will be following in your own motor car. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Fairburn, treading on one end of his shoelace and feeling it come undone. ‘But I still don’t know what you want of me.’

‘For now you don’t need to know,’ said the gunman. ‘Just walk.’

Fairburn took a step and then stopped. ‘My lace,’ he said, looking down at his shoe.

‘Tie it,’ said the young man.

‘Thank you,’ said Fairburn. He crouched down and carefully slipped the piece of folded paper up inside the bottom of his trouser leg. If he dropped it now it would be easily spotted, but this way he could delay it until the men were distracted again.

He straightened up.

‘All set,’ he said, as cheerily as he could manage.

He glanced around at the cemetery, taking a last look and imprinting the images on his brain. He looked at the statues and crosses, and at the gravestones, standing beneath the trees, many overgrown and neglected. Then he took his first step, brushing against some low winter foliage, and, as he did so, he shook his leg and felt the scrap of paper fall out. He didn’t look down to check, but he prayed that it would be lying hidden by the side of the path.

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all he had. All the hope in the world.

His heartbeat skipped and he felt a tingling in his scalp.

He had lived a dull and secluded life with very little danger and nothing to disrupt the even flow of his days. He was experiencing a new emotion, now, excitement. In a way, he was even enjoying it.

He still had his brain. He must use it somehow to escape from his predicament. He was confident that he would think of something. There wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved with brainpower.

You just had to make sure that you kept your brain inside your head.

Part One: FRIDAY

1

Thoughts in a Bamford and Martin Tourer

James Bond was sitting in the passenger seat of his uncle’s Bamford and Martin tourer wrapped in a heavy winter overcoat, his face masked with goggles and a scarf.

His friend Perry Mandeville, similarly dressed, was at the wheel. It was too cramped and awkward to drive with the rain cover up, so they were completely exposed to the grisly December weather. They didn’t care, though, they were on the open road and, despite the icy wind buffeting them, they felt reckless and free.

The car had belonged to James’s uncle who had left it to James when he died. James kept it secretly at the school. Perry had always dreamt of taking it out on the road but James had never let him before today.

This was an emergency.

Perry drove well, but fast, and James had to constantly remind him to keep his speed down. There was very little traffic on the road, but they still had to be careful. They didn’t want to risk being stopped by a police patrol or, worse still, crashing into a ditch.

Perry was older than James, but not yet seventeen, which was the minimum driving age. If anyone found out what they were up to they would at best be beaten soundly and thrown out of Eton, and at worst thrown into jail.

But James wasn’t thinking about any of that. He was filled with a burning excitement. He needed the thrill of danger. It was only on an adventure like this that he came alive. His day-to-day life at school felt grey and dull, but now the boredom had lifted and all his senses were heightened.

That didn’t mean that he could be careless, however. The goggles, hats and scarves were as much worn as disguises as to shield the two boys from the cutting wind.

They were speeding away from Eton towards Cambridge having left a pack of lies behind them. A pack of lies that could soon be snapping at their heels if they didn’t watch out.

James thought back to when this had all begun.

It had been the end of the summer holidays, a few days before James was due to return to Eton. He had been helping out at the Duck Inn in Pett Bottom, the village where he lived with his Aunt Charmian. He earnt a bit of pocket money there washing barrels and stacking crates of empty bottles behind the pub. He was rolling an empty barrel across the ground when he looked up from his work and saw a black car driving through the fields.

He straightened up and followed its progress.

There was a chill in the air and he shivered. The summer was nearly over.

The car slowed as it approached the pub and stopped. The window was wound down. James recognised the familiar face of his classical tutor, Mr Merriot, the man responsible for his education at Eton. With him was Claude Elliot, the new Head Master. They both looked rather serious.

‘Climb aboard,’ said Merriot, and he tried to force a friendly smile on to his face, his unlit pipe wobbling between his teeth.

James got in.

‘Do you know why we are here, James?’ asked Merriot kindly.

James nodded. ‘I’ve been expecting a visit since I talked to you at Dover, sir.’

Earlier in the summer holidays James had gone on a school trip to Sardinia with two masters, one of whom had turned out to be a criminal. Both masters had been killed and James himself had nearly lost his life. When he came home, James had been met by Mr Merriot straight off the boat, and had told him everything that had happened. At the time Merriot had asked James not to breathe a word about it to anyone else. Now it looked like the Head Master had come to make sure that the secrets would remain buried.

James sat in the back of the car between the two men feeling hot and stuffy.

‘We have been talking about what happened in Sardinia,’ said the Head, a tall man with round, wire-framed spectacles whose hair was receding at the temples, leaving only a thin strip down the centre of his high forehead. ‘And we think it is for the best if you never speak about these things,’ he went on, ‘not at home, not at school, not anywhere. We would prefer it not to get out that one of our masters was a bad sort.’

James sat in silence. He just wanted to forget about the whole episode and be a normal schoolboy again.

‘We shall stick to the story that the locals have given out,’ said Mr Merriot.

‘What story is that, sir?’ said James.

Merriot sucked his pipe. ‘The official line is that there was an accident,’ he said. ‘A dam burst and both Mister Cooper-ffrench and Mister Haight died in the flood that followed.’ He paused before adding, ‘They both died a hero’s death.’

James smiled a brief, bitter smile before nodding.

‘The truth must never come to light,’ said the Head.

‘I understand,’ said James, although he thought it was terribly unfair that an evil man should be remembered as a hero. But, if it meant that he wouldn’t have to deal with endless questions from curious boys, and newspaper reporters, and people pointing at him in the street, he would go along with the lie.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ he said.

‘This is the end of it, then,’ said the Head, his face brightening. ‘None of us will ever talk of this again. And, James?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘From now on you must live a quiet life. Will you promise me that you will stay out of danger? Keep away from excitement and adventure.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ The Head slapped him heartily on the knee. ‘Thank you, James, I hope that it will be some time before our paths cross again.’

‘Yes, sir, so do I, sir,’ said James.

‘Now. Perhaps we could get you an ice cream, or something?’

‘That’s all right, thank you, sir,’ said James. ‘I need to get back.’

‘Of course, of course…’

James laughed when he remembered that day. He’d stayed out of danger all right. He’d avoided excitement of any kind as the long weeks of the Michaelmas half had played themselves out. The days had plodded past, growing shorter and darker, and as winter crept in, it brought with it fog and rain and chilly air. James had struggled through endless dreary Latin lessons, and science demonstrations, and maths tests. The only thing he’d had to look forward to was Christmas with its promise of roast goose and carol singers and presents underneath the tree.

He’d managed to be a model, if unenthusiastic, pupil all that time, and the effort had nearly killed him, because, despite what he had said to the Head Master, he knew that he could never keep out of trouble.

And now, at last, he was cut loose. Now he was doing what he loved best. He was facing danger. He was taking risks.

He was alive again.

Just four days ago, everything had changed and his life at Eton had once more been turned upside down.

He had been in his room at Eton playing cards with two friends, Teddy Mackereth and Steven Costock-Ellis, and his Chinese messmate, Tommy Chong.

Tommy, as usual, was winning. He was passionate about cards and claimed that the Chinese were the best card players in the world. ‘After all,’ he was fond of saying, ‘the Chinese invented playing cards.’

It was very cold in the room. The boys were each allowed only one big lump of coal every other day, and today it was James’s turn to have a fire. The tiny fireplace didn’t throw out much heat and the boys were wearing fingerless gloves.

Outside the room a group of boys were playing a very noisy game of passage football and they could hear their thumps and shouts as they charged up and down the corridor using someone’s hat as a ‘ball’.

It was a new year at Eton, and James and his friends were no longer among the youngest boys in the school. They felt quite grown up and couldn’t quite believe that they had once been as scared and helpless-looking as the timid fourth formers they saw wandering about the place.

There were changes in the House. Last year’s senior boys had moved on and a new group had taken their place. This new bunch seemed keen to push their weight around and show the younger boys who was in charge. They had carried out a record number of beatings and had not made themselves at all popular.

But James and his friends felt safe now, tucked away in this little room, playing cards and chatting.

‘I’ll trounce you one day, Tommy,’ said James, throwing his cards down on to the tabletop and looking across at Tommy, who was eagerly scooping up a small pile of coins.

‘You must be cheating,’ said Teddy Mackereth sourly.

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m just better than you saps.’

‘One more hand?’ said Costock-Ellis. ‘You’ve got to give us the chance to win some of our money back.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Tommy.

‘Give it up, James,’ said a fifth boy, who was lounging on James’s bed filling in a crossword puzzle from that morning’s Times newspaper. He was James’s other messmate, Pritpal Nandra, the son of an Indian maharaja.

‘I’m not the type to give up,’ said James. ‘I’ll keep chipping away at him until something gives.’

‘I fear you will be an old man with a long white beard before that happens,’ said Pritpal.

‘You want to join us, Prit?’ asked Tommy, shuffling the cards expertly.

‘No, thank you. I will stick to my crossword,’ said Pritpal.

‘I don’t know what you see in those things,’ said James.

‘It is a challenge,’ said Pritpal. ‘I am pitting my wits against the person who set the puzzle. But I am afraid I am stuck.’

‘Here. Let me have a look.’ Costock-Ellis snatched the newspaper from Pritpal and peered at it, wrinkling his nose.

‘This doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he said.

‘You’re all useless,’ said James, reaching across and plucking the paper from the other boy’s hands. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

He looked at the crossword. Pritpal had neatly filled in half the answers in the grid and crossed out the clues he had completed.

‘Three down,’ said James. ‘ “Top-secret monkey” – four letters, first letter “A” ’ He stopped and frowned. ‘I don’t even understand the clue,’ he said. ‘So how am I supposed to work out the answer? Anyone here heard of a top-secret monkey?’

‘King Kong,’ said Tommy. ‘He was a secret until they found him on Skull Island.’

‘It is a cryptic crossword,’ said Pritpal, taking the paper back. ‘It is like a code that you have to unlock. A secret message.’

‘A top-secret message,’ said Teddy Mackereth.

‘Well, it’s beyond me,’ said James. ‘I can’t do anything more complicated than “Small flying mammal, three letters”. Second letter “A”, third letter “T”.’

‘Rat,’ said Tommy, dealing a fresh hand.

‘A rat can’t fly,’ said James.

‘It can if you throw it out of the window,’ said Tommy and he laughed.

‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ said James.

‘Or a cat,’ said Teddy. ‘If it was chasing the rat.’

‘I’ll throw you lot out of the window if you don’t stop making feeble jokes,’ said James picking up his cards. He had always been a good card player, but at Eton his skills had improved enormously, mostly due to the experience he’d gained playing, and regularly losing, against Tommy.

So far this evening they’d played pontoon, poker, Black Maria, a Chinese game called Big Two and another Chinese game that Tommy had given a rude English name to.

They were currently playing rummy, at sixpence a hand.

‘Rummy is stolen from the Chinese game, mah-jong, you know?’ said Tommy, leaning back in his chair.

‘No, it’s not,’ snorted Costock-Ellis. ‘What proof do you have?’

‘Don’t bother arguing,’ said James. ‘According to Tommy, the Chinese invented everything.’

‘It’s true,’ said Tommy. ‘We have always been hundreds of years ahead of you Westerners. Paper money, gunpowder, playing cards, kites. You name it. We invented it.’

‘Cricket,’ said Teddy Mackereth.

‘Nobody but the English could have invented a game as strange and as pointless as cricket,’ said Tommy.

‘Well, if this game’s Chinese, no wonder you keep winning,’ said Teddy Mackereth, dropping his cards on to the little square table. ‘Let’s play something else.’

‘OK,’ said Tommy, collecting up the pack. ‘I’ll show you a casino game. It’s like pontoon. It’s called baccarat, or chemin de fer.’

‘That’s French for railway,’ said Pritpal, without looking up from his newspaper.

‘Go back to your crossword,’ said Costock-Ellis.

‘Are you in, Steven?’ asked Tommy.

‘Afraid not,’ said Costock-Ellis. ‘You’ve cleaned me out. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we share all the money out and start again?’

‘That sounds like communist talk,’ said Tommy.

‘I bet you don’t even know what communist is,’ said Costock-Ellis.

‘I’ve been reading up on the Russian Revolution,’ said Tommy. ‘I know all about how the peasants were poor and badly treated by the Tsar so they rose up and threw him out. No more bosses! Everybody equal! Share out all the money so that there are no more poor people and no more rich people.’ Tommy laughed. ‘It could never happen in China.’

As soon as Tommy stopped speaking the noise from the game of passage football also stopped and there was an ominous silence outside, which could only mean one thing.

‘Codrose!’ said James and the boys snapped into action.

Codrose was their House Master, and while he couldn’t stop the boys from playing cards, he didn’t allow gambling.

Teddy had made a false top for the table in the Woodwork School. It fitted neatly over the real top and had just enough depth beneath it to hide all the cards and money.

In a second the top was in place and the boys assumed expressions of sweet innocence.

Presently there was a knock and a familiar face appeared around the door.

Cecil Codrose was one of the most unpopular House Masters at Eton. He was small and tough with a pale face and a wiry beard. His suspicious, flinty eyes were ringed with blue skin and his heavy brows had a permanent frown.

He peered at each boy in turn and then moved slowly into the room.

James realised there was someone with him. It was the Head Master, Claude Elliot.

Pritpal slithered off the bed as the other boys jumped to their feet and they all stood awkwardly in the small room.

Codrose looked slowly from Teddy Mackereth to Costock-Ellis to Tommy.

‘You may leave us,’ he said and the three of them gratefully hurried out, mumbling their goodbyes and nodding to the two men.

James wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. He was in an awkward position as this was his room, and although he was curious to know what this was all about, he also wanted to get away. He shuffled towards the door.

‘Stay please, Bond,’ said the Head. ‘This concerns you.’

‘Oh,’ said James and he stood there, feeling uncomfortable.

‘A letter has arrived for you, Nandra,’ said Codrose, his voice dry and dusty.

‘I see, sir,’ said Pritpal, who was plainly confused.

Codrose held out a slim white envelope towards Pritpal. ‘We took the liberty of opening it,’ he said, ‘for reasons that will soon become apparent.’

Pritpal studied the envelope. His name was on it, but there was no stamp or address.

‘It arrived this afternoon, inside a letter addressed to myself,’ the Head Master explained. ‘It is from Alexis Fairburn.’

‘Oh,’ said Pritpal, taken aback.

‘You may have noticed,’ said the Head Master, ‘that Mister Fairburn has not been at the school for the past few weeks.’

‘I know he wasn’t there for my last two mathematics classes,’ said Pritpal. ‘Bloody Bill took us instead.’ Pritpal stopped suddenly and looked panicked. ‘I mean Mister Marsden, sir. I’m sorry.’

Codrose cleared his throat but said nothing.

‘Also, sir,’ said Pritpal, trying to fill the lengthening silence, ‘he wasn’t at our last Crossword Society meeting. I gather he has not been well.’

The Head Master sniffed and looked intently at a picture of the king on James’s wall. ‘That is the version of events that we have been encouraging,’ he said, ‘but the truth of the matter is that Mister Fairburn has left the school.’

‘Oh,’ said Pritpal with a puzzled expression on his round face.

‘You run the Crossword Society, do you not?’ said the Head Master.

‘Yes, sir, I do, sir,’ said Pritpal. ‘Though, really, it is Mister Fairburn who’s in charge, without him we would never have…’

‘It is in your capacity as head of the Crossword Society that Fairburn has written to you,’ the Head Master interrupted.

‘Really, sir?’ said Pritpal.

‘Yes. In his letter to me he gave instructions that I should pass this note on to you.’

‘I’m not sure I understand, sir,’ said Pritpal.

‘I’m not sure we do either,’ said the Head Master and he smiled, trying to put Pritpal at ease. ‘The letter we received today is the first we have heard from Mister Fairburn since he left,’ he said. ‘It is a letter of resignation. It is highly irregular and most awkward. He has not given us any notice and left us short-staffed. He claims that he is unable to continue at the school and has been offered a better post in London, but his letter to me is brief and rather vague. We were hoping that his letter to you might throw some light on the matter, which is why we opened it, but it has left us mystified.’

‘We should like you to read it aloud,’ said Codrose. ‘And then tell us if it has any meaning for you?’

2

Stevens and Oliver

Pritpal took the letter out from its envelope and unfolded it. ‘There’s no return address, or anything’ he said. ‘It just starts ‘Alexis Fairburn, London, and the date… seventh of December, 1934… Oh, he’s put that wrong. It’s not yet 1934.’

‘The man always was absent-minded,’ said Codrose dismissively. ‘His head was permanently in the clouds. He was always forgetting what day it was.’ Codrose said this in such a way as to imply that this was not something he himself would ever do in a million years.

‘Carry on,’ said the Head Master.

Pritpal swallowed and began to read. ‘My dear Pritpal,’ he said, his voice shaky and self-conscious, ‘it’s not every Tuesday one comes across seven boys with a love of crosswords. Don’t feel down! The mighty Crossword Society will easily solve puzzles by themselves, now that I am gone. As I am sure the almighty Elliot will have explained…’ ! Pritpal stopped and blinked at the Head Master, embarrassed.

‘Go on,’ said the Head Master.

‘AsI’m sure Mister Elliot will have explained,’ said Pritpal, ‘I have had to leave Eton. In fact I am leaving the country. My next crossword will be my last, as I will be gone before my next deadline.’

‘What does he mean by that?’ said Codrose.

‘Mister Fairburn sets puzzles for The Times, sir.’

‘Does he now?’ said Codrose. ‘Never knew that. Don’t do them myself. Too busy.’

‘Shall I carry on?’ said Pritpal.

‘Please do,’ said the Head.

‘Please pass on my apologies to the other six members of the Crossword Society, Felix Dunkeswell, Percy Odcombe, Luc Oliver, Stephen Devere, little Speccy Stevens and, of course, Iain Cummings.’ Pritpal paused and frowned, then carried on reading. ‘I will leave behind many happy memories. As you know, I was a boy at Eton myself. How well I remember scoring the winning try in the Field Game against the Duffers, and coxing the Callisto in the parade of boats on June the Fourth. Yes, there are many things I shall miss about the old place. Apart from you lads in the Crossword Society (of course) I will miss Latin lessons most of all. I love all those old stories of ancient Rome, like Nero’s great love affair with Cleopatra. You should try to visit the great necropolis in Porta Alta one day and see the marvellous statue of him gazing across towards her obelisks.’

‘Obelisks!’ snorted Codrose. ‘The man is rambling. He always was an oddball.’

‘Read on,’ said the Head, ignoring Codrose’s outburst.

‘Eton is a place like no other,’ said Pritpal. ‘With its own marvellous traditions. I shall really miss watching the Wall Game, but perhaps every time I read the famous poem, “The Wall Game”, by David Balfour, it will all come back to me, as vividly as if I was still standing there…

Come on, we cry, ignore the pain!

Tingling with excitement in the rain,

Knuckling, pressing, panting, now they’re stuck,

Nigh twenty minutes in a heaving ruck,

All muddy in a mighty scuffle,

Mishaps galore, but what a battle!

Atop the wall we curse the other side,

Villains! They have won the ball,

A shout goes up as some brave chap

Eludes the pack and throws for goal.

In closing, then, whatever you do, don’t give up on crosswords. I know not everyone enjoys crosswords like you do. For instance, your messmate, the runner –’ Pritpal stopped and looked at James. ‘I suppose he means you,’ he said.

‘Did you talk to Mister Fairburn about Bond, then?’ asked the Head.

‘I suppose I must have mentioned him,’ said Pritpal, ‘but I don’t ever remember saying that James didn’t like crosswords.’

‘We’ve never really talked about them before tonight,’ said James.

‘Read to the end, please,’ said the Head.

‘Erm… For instance, your messmate, the runner,’ said Pritpal, ‘must accept what he is and begin to mature. Yours, AF.’

Pritpal looked up from the letter and for a minute there was silence in the small, cramped room.

‘What an odd letter,’ said Pritpal after a while.

‘Decidedly,’ said the Head Master.

‘I fear the man may be unwell,’ sniffed Codrose.

‘It would explain his actions,’ said the Head Master. ‘We must assume he has had some sort of brainstorm.’

‘He is the type,’ said Codrose darkly, taking the letter back off Pritpal. ‘And with that in mind, I think it best if I keep this.’ He looked at the handwriting, mouthing the words and raising one eyebrow quizzically. ‘Most peculiar,’ he said after a pause, and put the letter in his pocket.

‘I would ask you boys not to speak to anyone about this,’ said the Head Master, throwing a quick look at James.

‘Of course,’ said Pritpal.

‘Does anything in the letter hold any particular significance for you?’ asked Codrose.

‘Not that I can think of at the moment, sir,’ said Pritpal. ‘There’s a lot about sport. I’ve never been much of a sportsman myself.’

‘Nor is Fairburn,’ said Codrose.

‘If you think of anything,’ said the Head, ‘you must come and tell me. In the meantime – goodnight to you both.’

‘What did you make of that, then?’ asked Pritpal when the two men had gone.

‘I’d certainly agree,’ said James, ‘that it was a very odd letter. Do you think he’s lost his marbles like Codrose said?’

‘I do not know,’ said Pritpal, sitting on James’s bed. ‘The more I think about it, the less sure I am.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said James. ‘You said yourself when you finished that it was odd. I’ll tell you what it reminded me of.’

‘What?’ said Pritpal.

‘That crossword you were doing.’

‘That’s it,’ said Pritpal, jumping up and pacing the room. ‘I knew there was something. You are absolutely right.’

‘When I looked at your crossword puzzle earlier,’ said James, ‘the sentences all appeared to be normal, but they were strange, slightly nonsensical. Making sense but not making sense, all at the same time. That’s exactly what the letter was like. Everything’s wrong about it. Even the date.’

‘I agree,’ said Pritpal. ‘And that was only the smallest of the errors.’

‘What was the biggest?’ said James.

‘The names of the boys from the Crossword Society,’ said Pritpal. ‘Codrose and the Head weren’t to know. In fact I am probably the only person who would know. We don’t keep a membership list, after all.’

‘Know what?’ said James.

‘About Luc Oliver and Speccy Stevens.’

‘What about them?’ said James, who was growing more and more impatient.

‘Neither of them is in the Crossword Society,’ said Pritpal. ‘In fact I would bet you good money that they do not even exist.’

James stared at Pritpal.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘This is getting interesting.’

‘I believe the letter is a cipher,’ said Pritpal.

‘What’s a cipher?’

‘A coded message,’ said Pritpal. ‘A puzzle. To an outsider it might appear quite straightforward, but anyone here at Eton would pretty soon spot that it was full of mistakes. Though I think they are not mistakes at all. I think they are clues.’

‘It’s a pretty elaborate puzzle,’ said James. ‘A whole letter.’

‘It is exactly the sort of thing Fairburn would do,’ said Pritpal. ‘He always did have a somewhat odd sense of humour.’

‘Would he go so far as to pretend to quit?’ said James. ‘Because if it is a joke, then he hasn’t let the Head Master or Codrose in on it.’

‘He doesn’t play by the same rules as everyone else,’ said Pritpal. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to write this letter as a sort of test. Maybe he even set it for us boys to solve. “The mystery of the disappearing master”.’

James smiled. ‘Do you really think he’d do a thing like that?’ he said.

‘I do.’ Pritpal nodded. ‘As I said, Fairburn is a very eccentric man. He loves codes and puzzles and mathematical problems.’

‘All right,’ said James, crossing his legs and pulling one ankle up on to his thigh. ‘Supposing it is some sort of a puzzle, where do we start?’

‘With Luc Oliver and Speccy Stevens, obviously,’ said Pritpal. ‘They are the most glaring false notes, the first thing I would be expected to notice. So we must first work out what they might mean.’

James stared at him blankly. ‘How?’ he said.

Pritpal grinned at James. His eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘And I will show you…’

Pritpal settled himself at the table and wrote out the two names on a piece of paper.

‘They stand out in the letter like a pair of sore thumbs,’ he said. ‘Fairburn must have known they would be the first thing I spotted. They are the most obvious mistakes, so perhaps they are the most obvious type of clue.’

‘And what’s that?’ said James. ‘You must remember I’m new to this.’

‘The easiest and most obvious clues are anagrams,’ said Pritpal. ‘You know what an anagram is, I presume.’

‘I’m not a complete idiot,’ said James. ‘An anagram is when you muddle letters up and change their order to make a new meaning. Like “Same Hatred” is an anagram of Head Master.’

‘Or “Death Smear”,’ said Pritpal and the two of them laughed.

James stared at the letters in front of him.

LUC OLIVER SPECCY STEVENS

He tried jumbling them up and rearranging them in his head, but he was getting nowhere. The possibilities seemed endless.

‘Do you jab demons?’ said Pritpal after a while.

‘What are you talking about?’ said James.

‘It’s an anagram of James Bond.’

‘Very clever,’ said James, ‘but it’s not helping solve this puzzle. I haven’t a clue where to start.’

‘Aha!’ said Pritpal. ‘You’ve got it.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes. The first thing you must do with any code, or puzzle, is establish a context,’ said Pritpal.

‘You’re going to have to explain,’ said James. ‘Maybe I am a complete idiot after all.’

‘Well, let’s say, for example, I gave you the letters P-R-O-U-E-E,’ said Pritpal. ‘And said they were an anagram. You’d fiddle around, trying to rearrange them, and eventually, after a lot of head scratching, you would probably stumble across the answer.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ said James, trying to make a word from the letters.

‘But supposing I told you it was an anagram of a continent,’ Pritpal went on. ‘Then you’d get it straight away.’

‘Europe,’ said James.

‘Exactly,’ said Pritpal. ‘You have a context, you see? As another example, let us imagine that there is a war on, and our army intercepts a secret coded message from the enemy. They know it is from an airfield, so they assume that the message will be about aeroplanes and suchlike. There will be technical terms in it – makes of plane, numbers of planes, weather conditions, and words like fog or cloud. The code breakers will make up a list of likely words and then look through the message for coded words that might match the words they are looking for. And they will look for patterns and repeated words, until they find one word that fits. And once you solve one word, the rest will easily follow. You see, when you know what a message is about, you know where to start looking for clues. So what is this message from Fairburn about?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said James.

‘Yes we do,’ said Pritpal. ‘It is a cipher, a puzzle. So what are we looking for?’

‘We’re looking for clues,’ said James, feeling like he was saying something stupid.

‘Exactly.’ Pritpal grinned at him. ‘So look at the letters again and tell me if you can see any clues.’

James looked again, but still saw nothing.

LUC OLIVER SPECCY STEVENS

‘Look at the name “Luc”,’ said Pritpal. ‘Does it not seem odd to you? Why did Fairburn choose that particular name? Those particular letters?’

‘I don’t know,’ said James crossly. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘A clue.’ Pritpal jabbed his finger down on the paper. ‘Look!’

‘Where…?’ said James, and then he saw it and laughed. ‘Rearrange “Luc” and you get “clu”. Add an “e” and you have your “clue”. It’s obvious once you see it,’ he said.

‘And what do you do with a clue?’ said Pritpal

‘You try to solve it,’ said James and even as he said it he saw the word solve, using the ‘S’ from ‘Speccy’ and some of the letters from ‘Oliver’.

He showed Pritpal who nodded enthusiastically.

‘Already we have two possible words,’ he said crossing the letters out. ‘ “Solve clue”, or, more likely, “Solve clues”.’

James looked at what they were left with.

I R P C C Y S T E V E N

‘We have fewer letters,’ said Pritpal, tapping his teeth with his pencil. ‘But it is harder; there are no obvious words to go with the two we already have.’

‘What about “seven”?’ said James. ‘ “Solve seven clues”?’

‘You are learning fast,’ said Pritpal. ‘That feels right. But what would it leave us with?’

‘I-R-P-C-C-Y-T,’ said James and he sighed. ‘We need to think again. There’s no word you can make out of those letters.’

‘You don’t think so?’ said Pritpal, scribbling something down on the paper. He turned it round so that James could read it.

SOLVE SEVEN CRYPTIC CLUES

James whistled and sat back in his chair. ‘That’s surely no coincidence,’ he said. ‘It is a puzzle.’ He grinned at Pritpal. ‘One clue solved and six to go. Do you suppose there’s a prize?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pritpal. ‘With Fairburn, the fun is always in solving the puzzle. The solution is its own reward.’

‘But surely this is something bigger,’ said James. ‘Why would he go to all the trouble of actually disappearing off the scene?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pritpal, jumping up and rubbing his hands together. ‘We must get to work and solve the rest of the clues.’

‘There’s only one small problem,’ said James.

‘What is that?’

‘Codrose has the letter.’

‘Ah. That is tricky,’ said Pritpal and he sank on to James’s bed, deflated. ‘I don’t suppose he would give it back to me.’

‘Fat chance,’ said James. ‘They’re worried about Fairburn. They think he’s gone crackers. No. Codrose will have locked that letter safely away in his study somewhere.’

‘Then we will just have to get it back,’ said Pritpal.

‘You’re not normally this bold,’ said James.

‘Ah, but this is a puzzle,’ said Pritpal. ‘I love puzzles. Can you get the letter out for me?’

James looked at his friend. He couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face. A familiar feeling of excitement had already gripped his heart, making it beat faster. He felt like someone waking up after a long sleep.

He leant back in his chair and stretched, his joints cracking.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

3

The Raid on Codrose’s

The following afternoon at three o’clock James was hiding in the dark, cramped space beneath a sideboard in the House dining room. He had been waiting there since lunchtime, surrounded by the smell of floor polish and dust. He looked at his pocket watch. It was time. If all had gone to plan the other members of the Danger Society should be in position.

The Danger Society had been founded by Perry Mandeville and was a club made up of boys like himself who wanted a bit of extra excitement in their lives. The society had been quiet lately. The damp, cold weather didn’t inspire the boys to be doing anything more adventurous than huddling round a fire trying to keep warm.

But not today.

James’s friend, Andrew Carlton, was on the roof. Just before lunch Carlton had come over from his own House and James had shown him his secret route to get up on to the top of the building, using a crawl space beneath the bathroom floor that led to a disused storeroom with a skylight. It was a route that James used if he ever needed to get out of the House after lock-up. Carlton was a couple of years older than James and, although a keen member of the Danger Society, he had a level head and could be relied on not to panic or get carried away.

He was crouching by a large glass dome that looked down into Codrose’s study, flattened against the sloping side of the roof, and keeping perfectly still. He had a clear view of Codrose sitting at his desk, reading a letter. Carlton could see right down on to the top of his head were there was a perfectly circular bald patch about as large as a penny.

Ten minutes earlier, as arranged, Pritpal had asked Codrose if he had heard anything more from Mr Fairburn and then talked about a couple of passages from the letter. Afterwards, as hoped, Codrose had come straight up to his study, removed a key from inside a hinged wooden globe that opened out into two halves, unlocked a drawer in his desk, and taken a letter out.

Carlton had watched the whole thing. He was as sure as he could ever be that it was the letter from Fairburn.

He heard a whistle that meant that Perry and Gordon Latimer were in place below, and he gave his answering signal by flicking a small pebble over the top of the roof. It clattered down the other side into the gutter.

Everything was set and ready to go.

Perry and Latimer heard the rattle of the pebble. They looked both ways along Judy’s Passage to double-check that there was no one coming, then Perry lifted his hat to reveal a half-brick carefully balanced on top of his head.

‘Here goes,’ he said, weighing it in his hand, and then he hefted it as hard as he could at a ground-floor window.

There was a loud, satisfying smash, and the two boys started up a terrible racket, shouting and yelling.

‘There he goes!’

‘Did you see him?’

‘He went that way.’

‘Catch him, somebody!’

There was movement within the building, boys were coming to the windows and peering out to see what was going on.

Presently the Dame appeared.

‘What on earth is going on?’ she said, and Perry and Latimer started jabbering away at her, both at the same time.

‘It was a boy.’

‘We saw him.’

‘A local boy.’

‘From the town.’

‘He ran up and threw a brick through the window.’

‘We tried to catch him.’

‘He looked a terrible ruffian.’

The Dame bustled back inside, tutting and clucking.

The next person to see her was Carlton, up on the roof. He watched as she came into Codrose’s study and told him what had happened.

In a moment, Codrose was up. He hastily returned the letter to the drawer, locked it and put the key back inside the globe before folding it shut.

As soon as he had left the room, Carlton flicked another pebble over the roof and hastily started scribbling on a large piece of paper he had brought with him.

From his hiding place beneath the sideboard James heard footsteps and in a moment he saw Codrose’s feet as they marched across the wooden floor closely followed by the Dame. As soon as he was quite sure that they had gone he slid out and ran over to the door that led into Codrose’s private quarters.

If he was caught here James would surely be beaten, but he wasn’t thinking about that now. He just had to get on and do the job as quickly and efficiently as possible.

He had been summoned to Codrose’s study on a few occasions so he knew the way well enough, and he ran up the carpeted stairway all the way to the top floor and pushed open the study door.

He glanced up at the dome in the ceiling where Carlton was holding the piece of paper against the glass for him to see.

Written on the paper in thick charcoal were the words: KEY IN GLOBE – LETTER IN DESK – TOP RIGHT DRAWER

James soon had the drawer open and the letter out.

He had with him a camera, the very latest Leica mark III. It was the prize possession of Gordon Latimer, who was a member of the Eton Camera Club, and he had been very reluctant to let James borrow it.

There was daylight coming from the windows and the dome, but James switched on the ceiling light and a desk lamp to get as much illumination on to the letter as possible.

He hoped it would be enough.

He steadied his elbows on the back of a chair and held the camera as still as he could, focusing on the letter. Latimer had given him a crash course in photography that morning, showing James all the dials on the camera and explaining what they meant. Luckily James was a fast learner and had a good head for mechanical things.

The Leica had a slow shutter speed, which was vital in this low indoor light, and James fired off five pictures with slightly different exposures.

He flipped the letter over and took five more pictures of the back.

He was done.

The letter went back into the drawer. The key went back into the globe.

Then he switched off the lights and gave the thumbs up to Carlton who scurried away across the roof to make his escape.

James left the room, closing the door behind him.

The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.

He ran down the stairs three at a time and was soon back in the dining room, from where he cautiously peered out into the hallway.

Pritpal was waiting there for him, looking nervous and jumpy. He nodded that it was all clear. James crossed the hallway and passed the camera to Pritpal.

As casually as he could manage, Pritpal sauntered outside. Codrose and the Dame were still there, along with most of the senior boys from the House.

When they saw Pritpal come out into the alleyway, Perry and Latimer knew that James had got away safely and they could allow Codrose to go.

It had taken them all their ingenuity to keep him there. Perry had had to go so far as to say that the mysterious local hooligan had attacked him. He had made a big song and dance about showing Codrose the bruise, pulling up his shirt and vest and showing him some marks on his side.

Codrose wasn’t to know that Perry had got the marks playing the Field Game the day before.

At last the crowd began to disperse and Codrose went back inside after sending a younger boy off to fetch the caretaker to mend the broken window. Pritpal secretly handed the camera to Gordon Latimer and watched with some relief as the boy followed Perry back down Judy’s Passage.

It was over. Pritpal let out his breath and dried his sweaty palms on his trouser legs.

He hadn’t enjoyed the last half an hour one little bit. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of life. Solving puzzles was one thing, but break-ins, lying and vandalism were something else. In future he would leave this sort of escapade to James and his reckless friends.

That evening, just before six o’clock, Latimer delivered two decent prints, one of each side of the letter, which clearly showed Fairburn’s handwriting.

James hid the 35mm film behind a loose skirting board and sat down with his messmates to copy everything out in larger letters on to a big piece of card. When they had finished James stashed the two prints in the hiding place with the film.

They stuck the card to the back of a map of the world that James had hanging on his wall. Now they could all study the clues together and when they were done they could simply turn the map the right way round again and the cipher would be safely hidden from view.

‘Where do we start, then?’ said James, staring at the words on the card.

‘We know there are seven clues hidden here,’ said Pritpal, picking up a pencil and walking over to the wall. ‘And we have already solved one.’

He carefully circled the list of names from the Crossword Society, then underlined the two fake ones – Luc Oliver and Speccy Stevens.

‘The next logical step,’ he went on, ‘would be to assume that there are seven distinct parts to the letter, each one giving us a different clue.’

James read the letter aloud.

‘Alexis Fairburn, London, seventh of December 1934. My dear Pritpal, it’s not every Tuesday one comes across seven boys with a love of crosswords. Don’t feel down! The mighty Crossword Society will easily solve puzzles by themselves, now that I am gone.

‘As I am sure the almighty Elliot will have explained, I have had to leave Eton. In fact I am leaving the country. My next crossword will be my last, as I will be gone before my next deadline.

‘The next part we’ve done,’ said James, and jumped ahead. ‘I will leave behind many happy memories. As you know, I was a boy at Eton myself. How well I remember scoring the winning try in the Field Game against the Duffers, and coxing the Callisto in the parade of boats on June the Fourth.

‘Yes, there are many things I shall miss about the old place. Apart from you lads in the Crossword Society (of course) I will miss Latin lessons most of all. I love all those old stories of ancient Rome, like Nero’s great love affair with Cleopatra. You should try to visit the great necropolis in Porta Alta one day and see the marvellous statue of him gazing across towards her obelisks.