an hour or more?” Beeston exclaimed. “What sort of an entrance would we make then?” He huddled under the lintel and wiped a trickle of rain from the end of his nose. “Here’s a notion, Will. You investigate the rear of the house, see if you can find some means of ingress.”
“You mean break in?”
“I mean find a way to get us inside before we are washed away in the flood,” said Beeston. “You can leave the box with me.”
Will set the box of books down at Beeston’s feet and looked out at the rain. Bowing his head against the downpour, he stepped out into the storm. As he made his way round the side of the house he saw the blurred outlines of a garden and some straggly trees set out in an orchard pattern.
At the back of the house he discovered a door, but it was firmly bolted. He knocked several times, but – as he expected – there was no answer. Then he looked up and saw above him a small, high window lying ajar.
He tried a standing jump, but his fingers never even touched the sill. Cursing his luck, he cast a look around and spotted a rain barrel, full to the brim and with water spilling down its sides. It was just the thing to give him the boost he needed. With a decisive heave, he toppled it over, sending a tide of water cascading over the sodden ground.
Shaking the rainwater out of his eyes, Will turned the barrel upside down and wrestled it over to the wall under the open window. Mounting the upturned base, he shoved the flapping shutters back and pushed off with a grunt.
His elbows found purchase on the window ledge and with a hefty kick he heaved himself head and shoulders through the gap. Legs dangling, he wriggled forward until suddenly he overbalanced and tumbled headlong into the dark.
Will thudded down on to a hard, earthen floor, jarring every bone in his body. Outside a roll of thunder drowned out his squawk of pain as he tentatively fingered his ribs to check that nothing was broken.
“Not too bad then,” he thought. Even bruised and winded, he was still glad to be out of the storm. But what sort of place was this?
He struggled to his feet and gazed around him, straining to penetrate the gloom. He appeared to be in some sort of storeroom, though there was little enough stored here. Lightning flashed again, showing him a table with two broken legs, a small tub of mouldy flour and a pile of moth-eaten blankets.
Not exactly a wyzard’s treasure, Will thought.
He put a hand over his nose as the stink of rat droppings pricked his nostrils. With his other hand he felt his way to the door and pushed it open. He stepped out into a cramped, dusty passage and followed a faint, distant gleam to a wider corridor where a few shafts of grey light slipped through the slats of a shuttered window.
Buffeted by the storm, the house was creaking and groaning at every joint. It was easy for Will to imagine the noise as the weeping and moaning of restless ghosts. He wanted to call out for someone to come and lead him through the dark, but he was afraid any voice that answered might not come from a living tongue.
He pressed on, leaving damp footprints and a trail of droplets from his sodden clothes. Passages branched off this way and that, some ending in blank walls, others splitting into more forks or opening on to narrow stairways, some of wood, some of stone. Remembering that a couple of the upstairs windows had been lit, Will worked his way upwards.
As he mounted a final steep stairway, he heard a strange noise coming from above. It was a whirring sound, like the fluttering of a bird’s wings but much more rapid. At the top of the stairs he emerged into a branching corridor. To the left the walls disappeared into darkness, but the right-hand passage led to a door with yellow light spilling out from under it. This was the source of the unnerving noise.
Along with the whirring he could now hear a regular metallic grinding, like a pair of knives being scraped together. He swallowed hard and started cautiously down the passage. The wall to his left was covered by faded hangings, to his right the rain rattled on some shuttered windows.
Suddenly he heard a stealthy footfall at his back. A poacher’s instincts made Will duck as a heavy iron pan whooshed over his head and smashed a chunk of plaster out of the wall. With a loud clang, the pan clattered to the floor.
Will spun round to confront his attacker. He barely had time to glimpse a pair of malignant black eyes glaring at him out of a round, sallow face when he was seized by the arms and lifted off his feet. Rough, powerful hands slammed him against the wall with a force that made his teeth quiver.
“You’re a sneaky thief,” rasped the stranger, “but not sneaky enough to outfox Caleb Cook!”
Will tried to protest his innocence, but Caleb Cook slammed him into the wall again and bashed the breath out of him. His heart hammered and a red mist spread over his eyes. If he didn’t fight back, this man was going to kill him. He twisted his arms free and locked his fingers around his attacker’s neck.
“You don’t beat Caleb like that,” croaked his sallow-faced opponent, shaking Will’s fingers loose with a guttural cry of triumph.
He caught Will under the shoulders and hoisted him off the floor, swinging him about like a doll. Then he gave a mighty heave and flung the boy across the passage. Will hurtled backwards into a window. The shutters banged open and he toppled out into the dark and empty air.
When Will dared to open his eyes he was horrified to find himself clinging to a shutter, dangling four floors above the rain-drenched garden. He kicked frantically, trying to swing the shutter towards the window and safety, but the violent wind was against him. His arms stretched like tent ropes and his wet fingers ached from the strain of holding on.
Caleb’s face loomed at the window like a baleful yellow moon. “There’s the price of burglary,” he said. He cast a glance down at the ground below. “I doubt you’ll have a bone left unbroken after this fall.”
One of Will’s hands slipped. Choking back his panic, he tried to think. “I’m not a burglar,” he pleaded. “I’m here with Master Henry Beeston.”
“And what’s he to me?” Caleb growled.
“He leads Lord Strange’s Men,” gasped Will. “He’s come to see Dr Dee. For the love of God, they know each other!” He kicked at the air again, but that only moved him further away.
Caleb drew back from the window.
“Wait!” shouted Will. His shoulders were burning and his sinews were drawn tight. “We’ve brought something precious for Dr Dee!” The pain was becoming unbearable and Will braced himself to plunge to his doom. “I-can’t-hold-on-much-longer.”
A hand reached out and grasped the shutter. With a wordless grunt of disgust Caleb hauled it towards the window. Will threw his legs over the ledge and swung himself inside. He dropped to the floor and slumped there, puffing like a fish out of water. Caleb stared down at him, an angler deciding whether his catch was worth keeping.
“If you’ve come to bring trouble,” he said in his cracked, unpleasant voice, “I’ll not be blamed for it.”
Wiping the raindrops from his face with a shaky hand, Will looked up at his attacker. Caleb looked to be only
