of papers as he went, and shook the hand she was holding out to him.
“Stashe?” he asked her.
“Short for Eustacia.” Stashe twisted her mouth sideways to show what she thought of the name. “Blame my parents.”
“Blame your mother,” Tarquin told her. “Her favourite name. Not mine.”
“What am I supposed to interview you about?” Andrew asked, in the special, bewildered way he often found very useful.
“I’ve suggested her for your new secretary,” Mr Stock announced. “Part time I suppose. I’ll leave you to get on with it, shall I?” And he marched out of the room, pushing Mrs Stock out in front of him.
Mrs Stock, as she left, turned her head to say, “I’m bringing Shaun for you as soon as he turns up.” It sounded like a threat.
Andrew grew very busy giving everyone coffee and some of the fat, soft, uneven biscuits Mrs Stock always made. He needed time to think about all this. “I have to deal with this young lady first,” he said apologetically to Aidan. “But we’ll talk later.”
He treats me like a grown-up! Aidan thought. Then he had to balance his coffee on the bureau beside him in order to take his glasses off and blink back more tears. Everyone had treated him like a child, and a small one at that, after Gran died, the Arkwrights most of all. “Come and give me a cuddle like the nice little fellow you are,” had been Mrs Arkwright’s favourite saying. Her other one was, “Now don’t you bother your little head with that, dear.” They were very kind — so kind they were appalling. Aidan hurt all over inside just thinking about them.
Meanwhile, Andrew was saying to Tarquin, “You live in that cottage with all the roses, don’t you?” Tarquin, giving him a wry, considering look, nodded. “I admire them every time I pass,” Andrew went on, sounding desperate to say something polite. Tarquin nodded again, and smiled.
“Oh, you don’t have to do the polite,” Stashe protested. “Let’s get on and talk business — or don’t you approve after all, Dad?”
“Oh, I like him well enough,” Tarquin said. “But I don’t think the professor quite wants us. Bit of a recluse, aren’t you?” he said to Andrew.
“Yes,” said Andrew, taken aback.
Aidan hooked his glasses across one knee, drank his coffee and stared, fascinated. To his naked eyes, here were three strongly magical people. He had been right to think leprechaun about the brave, shrewd little man with one leg. He almost was one. He was full of gifts. But quite what that made Stashe into, Aidan could not tell. She was so warm. And direct as a sunray.
“Oh, do cut the cackle, both of you!” she was saying now. “I’d make you a good secretary, Professor Hope. I’ve every possible qualification, including magical. Dad’s taught me magic. He’s quite a power, is Dad. Why don’t you take me on for a week’s trial, no strings, no bad feelings if we don’t suit?”
“I — er…” said Andrew. “I suppose I hesitate because I already have two strong-minded employees. And there’s money—”
Stashe put her head back and laughed at the ceiling beams. “Those Stocks,” she said. “Don’t like change, either of them. They’ll come round. Meanwhile, say yes or no, do. I’ve told you how much I’d charge. If you can’t afford it, say no; if you can, say yes. I think you’ll find I’m worth it. And then you can get back to this poor kid sitting here eating his heart out with worry.”
All three turned to look at Aidan.
Tarquin, who had evidently been watching Aidan all along without seeming to look, said, “In several kinds of trouble, aren’t you, sonny?” Stashe gave Aidan a blinding smile, and Andrew shot Aidan a startled look that said, “Oh dear. As bad as that.” Tarquin added, “Who’s chasing you, as of now?”
“Social workers, I suppose. They may have brought the police in by now,” Aidan found himself answering. The little man was really powerful. Aidan had meant to stop there, but he seemed compelled to go on. “And at least three lots of Stalkers. Two lots of them had some kind of fight in the foster family’s garden the night before last. The Arkwrights called the police, but the sergeant said it was probably cats. It wasn’t though. We all saw shadowy sort of — people. They disappear by daylight. That’s why I ran away at sunrise this morning.”
There was a short silence, then Andrew said, “Aidan’s grandmother died last week and told him before she died to come to Jocelyn Brandon if he was in trouble. And of course my grandfather is dead too.”
After another short silence, Stashe said, “Have some more coffee.”
“And give him another biscuit,” Tarquin added. “Had any breakfast, did you?”
Aidan thought he was going to cry again. He managed to stop himself by saying, “I had money for a bacon sandwich.”
“Good,” said Tarquin. “These Stalkers. Haunts, were they? That sort of thing?”
Aidan nodded. “Three kinds. They seemed to know exactly where I was.”
“Difficult,” said Tarquin. “You can’t really expect the police to be much help there. You need to hide, sonny, to my mind. My house has not got as much protection as this one has, but you’d be welcome to stay with me. I could use the help.”
Before Aidan could say anything, Stashe gave her father a scornful look and bounced out of her chair. “Yes, Dad,” she said. “I can just see you trying to fight a bunch of haunts by waving one crutch at them! We need a proper decision here. There must be a way to keep the kid safe. Is that today’s paper I see there?”
Andrew, who was holding the biscuits out to Aidan and slowly coming to his own decision, looked vaguely round and said, “Mrs Stock did bring the paper in here I think.”
Stashe was already pulling the newspaper out from under the tray. She tossed most of it impatiently on the floor among the history pamphlets and took out the sports section, which she spread out. “Where do they put the racing results in this rag? Oh, here, right at the end. Let’s see. Kempton, Warwick, Lingfield, Leicester — lots to choose from. What won the first race at Kempton then? I always go to the first one they give.”
Aidan and Andrew both stared at her. “Why do you want to know?” they said, almost together.
“Advice,” said Stashe. “Predictions. I always use the racing results as an oracle. I do first race and last in the first track on the list, and then the last race in the last one.”
“You can’t be serious!” said Aidan.
“Works for her,” Tarquin said, perfectly seriously. “I’ve never known her fail.”
“Oh, look here!” Andrew said. “A horse that won yesterday, far away from here, can’t have anything to do with—”
He stopped as Stashe read out, “The two-oh-five at Kempton: first, Dark Menace, second, Runaway, third, Sanctuary. That seems to outline the situation pretty well, doesn’t it? Last race now. First, Aidan’s Hope, second, Hideaway, third, The Professor. I think that settles it. Professor Hope, he has to stay here with you.”
Andrew
