Free Fogging Over by Annie Dalton Page B

and seed cake and kept refilling his cup with hot sweet tea. The room was very warm, and once Georgie’s stomach was full, he had to struggle to stay awake. After a while he began to snore, and his uncle sat silently watching him with that same strangely hungry expression. I got the feeling Georgie reminded him of someone, someone completely unlike his scary domineering wife.
    A new, darker expression came into Georgie’s uncle’s eyes. He got up abruptly and went to sit at his desk, where he began to compose a letter.
    The spaniel couldn’t settle with so many angels in one room. It went trotting over to Lola and Brice now, wagging its stumpy little tail.
    “Nice dog,” said Brice softly. “Pity about your psycho master.”
    The dog gazed at them, as if they were the most wonderful beings it had ever seen. They smiled at each other and their hands touched as they stroked its silky ears.
    I was suffering from serious jealousy, I admit that now. But at the time I totally couldn’t, so I took my feelings out on Brice. “It’s not the uncle’s fault he’s married to some old harpy,” I snapped.
    “Mel, just ask yourself how two kids from a well-off family came to end up on the streets,” Brice said angrily.
    “Stuff happens,” I said. “You of all people should know that. Anyway, you heard what the uncle said. Georgie’s father squandered the family fortune. Maybe he was a gambler. He obviously had mental problems.” The spiteful words just came out of my mouth. I had no idea why I was defending this guy, especially since I had secretly decided he was a psycho too.
    Brice made a sound of disgust. “That’s just what Uncle Noel wants people to think. I can’t believe you fell for it.”
    “Even if their dad was a gambler,” he said, turning to Lola, “which I doubt, it’s likely some of the money was put in trust for them. I have a feeling that nice, caring Uncle Noel used his legal eagle know-how to divert their inheritance to his own personal bank account. Maybe he got himself made executor, so he could ‘look after’ Georgie and Charlotte’s dosh until they come of age. If they come of age,” he added darkly.
    “You mean, Uncle and Auntie Scrivener would prefer it if neither kid survived?” Lola’s eyes widened. “Do you think he’s psycho enough to kill them?”
    “I think he’s been hoping they’d just die naturally of hunger and neglect. Sounds like the aunt got impatient and tried to have the kids put in the workhouse. Charlotte wouldn’t last two minutes in there.”
    This is so unfair, I thought. I was supposed to be the big Sherlock Holmes fan, not Brice. How come he got to play the great detective? And how come he and Lola were talking to each other over my head as if I wasn’t even in the room?
    “Well, I think an angel should always give a human the benefit of the doubt,” I said prissily. “Plus you two seem to have forgotten this is only meant to be a field trip. We’re not supposed to get involved.”
    Uncle Noel had finished writing his letter. He slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with a blob of melted sealing wax. Then he reached into a money bag hidden at his waist and extracted a shiny silver sixpenny bit. At last, he went to wake Georgie.
    “I want you to take another letter to our old friend in Newgate Gaol. Here is money for a cab and sixpence for yourself. You are to hand this personally to Mr Godbolt as usual. Can you remember the message from last time?”
    “I am to tell Mr Godbolt that you have not forgotten about him or his sister,” Georgie echoed blearily. He was still half-asleep, but his uncle must have been scared his wife would come back because suddenly Georgie was outside on the doorstep, still struggling to fit his arm into his torn coat sleeve.
    He hailed a passing horse-drawn cab and the four of us rode all the way to Newgate Street in unusual style. Obviously familiar with the drill, Georgie just marched up to the prison door and tugged