Free Wild Boy and the Black Terror by Rob Lloyd Jones Page A

though she’d never admit it.
    Now she didn’t regret coming – not one bit. No way she was keeping this secret. Wild Boy would be
so
annoyed when he found out she’d investigated the case. She’d tell him the moment she next saw him, and she couldn’t wait.
    The carriage stopped. The door swung open with a rush of cold air. Gideon looked inside, beady eyes peering from beneath a heap of snow-covered capes and coats. He bowed to one side, making it clear the greeting was only for Marcus. “We’re here, sir.”
    They had arrived in a square of townhouses set around a private, railed-off garden. Most of the buildings looked the same – dark and stern, with polished marble steps, and stone columns guarding doors. Beyond tall windows, Clarissa glimpsed servants carrying silver trays and crystal decanters through hazes of cigar smoke.
    One house was different. Scalloped arches at the front were carved with intricate floral arabesques, and lit by hanging brass lamps. The larger, central arch framed a brass-studded oak door with ivory elephants on either side.
    “Lady Bentick’s house,” Gideon said.
    A servant stepped from the door, dressed in a saffron turban and white tunic brocaded with gold. He looked like the Indian magicians Clarissa had seen around fairgrounds, but she didn’t need Wild Boy’s detective skills to tell her that the man wasn’t really Indian. He had white skin and seemed ill at ease with the turban, raising a hand to hold it in place as he dipped into a low bow.
    “Mr Bishop,” he said. He nodded at Clarissa. “Fräulein Bishop. Her Ladyship is expecting you.”
    Clarissa looked at Marcus. “Fräulein Bishop?”
    “This evening,” he replied in a whisper, “you are my niece from Bavaria.”
    “Bavaria?”
    “So you do not have to talk. Lady Bentick has an old fashioned habit of being offended by foul-mouthed children. Remain silent and try not to steal anything while I make the necessary enquiries regarding our case.”
    They were led into an entrance hall that was even more extravagant than the front of the house. Clarissa wondered if Lady Bentick had got a deal on white marble. Almost everything was carved from it. Marble arches led to corridors on either side, and a sweeping staircase rose from the centre, with a balustrade of carved arabesques. The floor was chequered marble – black and white squares all over – and stone thrones stood on either side of the door. Stuffed peacocks watched from recesses around the hall, with fanned tails and glaring marble eyes. Bronze lamps burned coconut oil, giving the air a sickly sweet smell that made Clarissa gag.
    “Strange place,” she said. She tried to whisper, but it came out too loud and echoed around the bare walls.
    The turbaned servant scowled at her as he sank into another bow. “Her ladyship will be with you momentarily,” he said.
    The man retreated down one of the corridors. Clarissa watched as he issued orders to two other servants in Indian costume.
    “What’s with the Indian stuff?” she asked.
    “Lady Bentick and her husband lived there,” Marcus said. “They became obsessed with the place.”
    “Where’s her husband?”
    “Highgate Cemetery.”
    “My darlings!”
    Lady Bentick came down the stairs, moving slowly to exaggerate the drama of her entrance. The trail of her muslin gown was so long that it still had several steps to descend as she tottered towards them across the chessboard floor. She held out her arms to show off the fat gemstones set in her rings.
    “Oh, my darlings,” she repeated.
    Earlier that evening, when Clarissa had met the Queen, she’d been surprised by how modestly the sovereign was dressed.
This
was what she expected. Lady Bentick was drenched with jewels – necklaces, earrings, bracelets – as if the contents of a treasure chest had been tipped over her. Her face was hidden by a layer of make up that gave her the appearance of a porcelain doll, and a heap of grey curls balanced