The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace Page 4

  “Research is fun, though,” Jim said. “Even if it is hard work.”

  “It’s just like solving a mystery,” said Trixie as Miss Trask showed them how to use the library’s card catalogs and reference books. “One clue leads to another! You find a card that leads you to a book, and that book leads you to another book or maybe an old map or an exhibit.”

  Trixie, working on Elizabethan jewelry, was not as successful in her morning’s work as was Honey, who researched her ancestors, the Harts. Honey shared some of her findings during the lunch break in the museum cafeteria, which looked just like any ordinary American cafeteria with very reasonable prices and good food.

  “Did any of you ever hear of Nancy Hart?” she asked.

  “I believe she was a heroine of the American Revolution,” Miss Trask said. “Didn’t she live in Georgia?”

  “Yes, and she had this famous ride, like Paul Revere’s. The road she galloped down is still called the Nancy Hart Highway,” Honey said. “She dressed up like a man—which was easy enough for her to do, since she was six feet tall! Then she made this log raft, tied together with honeysuckle vines, to sneak into the British camp to spy on them. Hart County and the town of Hartwell and a lot of other places were named after her.” Honey’s hazel eyes were glowing.

  “Imagine me being descended from a Revolutionary spy!”

  “Maybe.” Miss Trask smiled. “Of course, she could be in another branch of your family.”

  “How come we had to come to the British Museum to find that out?” Trixie asked. “I thought your mother’s ancestors lived in England.”

  “Well, they did,” Honey said. “Just as Mother said, the tradition is that we’re descended from the Shakespeare family—through his sister Joan, who married William Hart. But even so, there are still descendants in the United States, Canada, and Australia, too.”

  “Our Honey, practically kissin’ kinswoman to the kaleidoscopic keystone of all literature!” Mart was so impressed that he almost choked on his milk.

  “Oh, Mart, I think you’re exaggerating,” giggled Honey, pounding him on the back.

  “I think we should go right on to Stratford-on-Avon,” said Miss Trask. “That’s where the Shakespeares lived. The homes of the poet’s father and mother are both nearby, and the house he was born in, as well as his grave, are still right there in Stratford. After four hundred years, they haven’t been changed. The whole town is full of Shakespearean memorabilia.”

  “Stratford-on-Avon—that reminds me of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson,” Trixie said, starting to feel a bit homesick again.

  “Shakespearean memorabilia,” Jim repeated. “Sounds like it’s right up Mart’s alley!”

  “Alley?” huffed Mart with renewed composure. “I may have a few eight-lane superhighway cloverleafs perhaps, but no alleys!”

  “I always suspected that you were born with green matter where your gray matter should be,” Trixie put in.

  “Well, at least there’s a method to my madness,” said Mart.

  It was settled that they would make the trip on Monday. “That will give you folks a chance to see a little more of London tomorrow,” Miss Trask said. “And I can finish up the research.”

  “But don’t you want to see the sights?” Honey asked.

  “Oh, I’ve been to London before,” Miss Trask assured them.

  Trixie suddenly realized that there were a lot of things about the former governess that they didn’t know. She tried expressing that to the others as they left the museum later in the afternoon. Miss Trask was staying behind to do some more work. No one seemed interested in Trixie’s remark.

  “I’m just grateful that we have such a nice, everyday kind of person to travel with,” Honey said.

  Jim nodded absently, watching as Mart buttonholed a tall black man in a purple robe and red turban on the museum steps.

  “Wouldn’t you know?” Jim’s green eyes twinkled. “People of all nationalities visit this center of learning, and Mart seems to want to talk to them all.”

  Trixie looked around at young German scholars with denim knapsacks; Hindu women in turquoise or lemon-colored silk saris; smiling, bespectacled Japanese and Chinese students; white-collared clergymen and midiskirted nuns; and chattering French teenagers. All were streaming in and out of the huge gray buildings.

  Then Trixie caught sight of a more familiar figure, lurking behind the pillar at the iron gate.

  “There! There he is!” She pointed wildly. “That little creep—in the gray cap—”

  “Where?” Honey and Jim both looked, but the pickpocket had already slithered into the crowd.

  “Are you sure it was him?” Honey asked.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Trixie cried. “He must be following us!”

  “But why would he do that?” Honey asked with a little shiver.

  Trixie thought for a moment. “Well, don’t you remember how I told you that I’m almost sure I saw him in the Hall of Kings, when you were showing us the Queen’s necklace?” Trixie spoke slowly, figuring it out as she went along. “And we were talking really loud about your necklace. And then he went for your bag down in the Chamber of Horrors...

  “But it wasn’t in my handbag,” Honey protested.

  She looked anxiously about.

  “He wouldn’t know that,” Trixie pointed out. “And besides,” she whispered, “it is today!” They had taken it along with them to compare it with the exhibits of Elizabethan jewelry in the museum.

  “Maybe we’d better—” Jim was starting to say, when Mart sauntered over.

  “Well,” Mart said, “let’s go. My African friend says we should take a bus instead of the tube. He says you can see a lot of London from the top deck.”

  “Great idea,” Jim agreed. “We’ll get away from that pickpocket, too.”

  “I’m sure he’s following us,” Trixie muttered stubbornly as they climbed the narrow winding steps of a swaying double-decker. According to a sign on the big red omnibus, it was going to Piccadilly Circus.

  “A circus!” Honey said. “That sounds like fun. We can get off there.”

  “Circus is a British expression for a circular area where streets intersect,” Jim told her. “They have a lot of circles and squares, with monuments or parks, in London.”

  “Unequivocally speaking,” Mart spouted happily, “Piccadilly Circus is a circumbendibus plaza near the point that is approximately equidistant from the extremities of the city.”

  A young English girl leaned toward them, looking puzzled but friendly. “Piccadilly’s the next stop,” she said helpfully.

  “Oh, how do we stop the bus?” Honey asked.

  The girl pointed to a sign which read, STRIP ONCE IN ADVANCE.

  “Strip once in advance?” The Bob-Whites were so baffled that the girl pulled the cord for them, grinning broadly, and they all burst out laughing together.

  “English and American are two whole different languages, sometimes,” Mart said.

  The circular plaza turned out to be not only the center of London, as Mart had said, but also its center of activity. The Americans hopped off the bus and stared goggle-eyed at the rushing traffic that swirled around the central statue, and at the sidewalks that were packed with shoppers.

  “It reminds me of Times Square in New York,” Trixie said. “I bet it’s really lit up here at night, with all those neon signs.”

  Big red buses, along with bicycles, vans, and toysized foreign cars, clogged the street. Long-haired youths lounged on the steps of the gilded statue of Eros, the god of love, at the center of Piccadilly Circus. The morning rain had ended, and the glass storefronts were sparkling.

  “Hey, that would be a neat place to eat,” Mart said. “Across the street— The Carvery. I read about it in my gourmet guidebook. They have all kinds of roasts—prime rib, pork, leg of lamb, cold cuts—and you get to carve them yourself. You can eat all you want.” He eyed the building hungrily.

  “It is just about time to eat,” Trixie
agreed. “But I wanted to go to a pub. And there’s a place called Tiddy Dol’s. I’m just dying to go there. And—”

  “There are restaurants here with food from every country in the world,” Jim said. “Japan, Armenia, Portugal, Greece—you name it. I’d like to try ’em all.”

  “But there’s one big advantage to The Carvery,” Mart pointed out. “It’s right across the street.”

  “I'm not going to cross that street,” Honey said firmly.

  When the Bob-Whites had sent off their first postcards that morning, Mart had written Di that English food was not as terrible as people said; it was nectareously ambrosial, underlined three times. Trixie had written Dan about the pickpocket. And Honey’s card had read: “Dear Brian, The streets are very narrow and wind-y. The cars whiz by on the wrong side of the street, and we (Americans) are terrified of crossing. The pedestrian has absolutely no rights in this country. Wish you were here, Honey.”

  Mart showed Honey a black-and-white-striped crossing halfway around the circle. “They call ’em zebra crossings,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Honey. “Even if we cross with the light, it always seems like as soon as the light changes, the cars shoot forward as if they’re out to get you. And I’m not used to the direction of the traffic, so I always look the wrong way before I cross. I think it’s a national sport—going after pedestrians!”

  “Come on,” said Trixie, linking arms with Honey. “We’ll all stick together. Concentrate on the good food awaiting us at The Carvery.”

  “Oh, woe,” said Honey with a resigned nod. Hundreds of sightseers and shoppers milled around the Bob-Whites as they waited for the light to change. Finally it did, and Trixie stepped off the curb. Despite their best efforts, the Bob-Whites found themselves getting separated from each other. Trixie felt Honey’s arm slip from hers, but it was a few seconds before she was able to reach backward for Honey’s hand.

  Then she saw that somehow, Honey had been shoved off the curb. Trixie plunged desperately after her, but it seemed like a hundred arms held her back. She could hardly move, and a huge red double-decker was lumbering straight toward Honey!

  “Honey, watch out!” Trixie shrieked.

  Piccadilly Circus • 5

  STOP!” Trixie screamed, but of course the bus driver couldn’t hear her over the din of the heavy traffic. He drove on, directly over the spot where Trixie had seen Honey.

  Trixie screamed again and waved her arms frantically as she was carried along by the crowd to the opposite side of the street. Jim and Mart plowed their way through the crowd to Trixie.

  “Where’s Honey?” they asked anxiously.

  “She’s—she—” Trixie couldn’t get the words out. Her hands shook, and she felt sick with dread. She pointed at the back of the bus. It was still moving.

  A crowd of curious sightseers had gathered.

  “I saw ’er. She went right under the bus, she did!”

  “Och, the poor lass!”

  A ripple of horror ran through the onlookers.

  “But where is she?” Jim demanded, starting to head back across the street.

  A second bus was passing, close behind the first, but still there was no sign of Honey.

  “There!” Mart cried. “There she is!”

  A tall man with grizzled black hair was pushing his way toward them, with Honey in his arms. Her long blond hair hung over his shoulder. When he reached the Bob-Whites, he set her down—limp and pale, but all in one piece.

  “Oh, Honey!” Trixie burst into tears.

  “I’m okay,” Honey said shakily. “This m-man saved my life.”

  The big man reddened at their chorus of thank-you’s. “My pleasure,” he said gruffly. Then he introduced himself as Gordie McDuff. He was about Miss Trask’s age, Trixie thought, and very good-look-ing, with his dark wavy hair and graying sideburns. He looked to be over six feet tall.

  The Bob-Whites invited him to have dinner with them at The Carvery. “We just have to thank you for saving Honey’s life,” they insisted.

  “Then ye have returned the favor already,” he laughed. “For now ye have saved my life.”

  What does he mean by that? Trixie wondered, but before she could ask, they were heading into the restaurant and prowling around the horseshoeshaped buffet. When it came time to carve mouthwatering slices of the sizzling-hot roast meats, McDuff proved to be an expert carver. Honey had recovered enough to show her own skill at carving, and Trixie did nearly as well.

  After they returned to their table with heaped plates, the Scotsman explained his earlier remark.

  “I’m in something of a predicament,” he said. “I wouldna have dreamed I’d be eating a fine dinner this night—with nary a quid in me pocket.” He went on to tell how he had just arrived from Canada that afternoon, after the Exchanges had closed, and he had been unable to get his money changed. It was fortunate that he had met such kind people.

  “But where will you sleep?” Honey asked worriedly. “What will you do tomorrow? It’s Sunday! Here—”

  She unslung her handbag and was about to open it, when Trixie stopped her with a look that said, Your necklace is in there.

  “Here’s five pounds,” Trixie said quickly, opening her own wallet. “Would that be enough to tide you over?” She hoped so; it was all she had.

  Honey read the warning flash in Trixie’s eyes and was silent. She looked bewildered, though. Could Trixie be suspicious of the man who had saved her life?

  “That’s very kind of ye.” McDuff didn’t hesitate about taking the money. “Ye may be sure I will return it,” he promised with a dramatic roll of his r s. “As soon as the Exchanges open on Monday. Now, if ye would just give me the name of yer hotel?” He drew out paper and pencil and waited expectantly.

  Trixie was about to tell him that he didn’t have to bother repaying her, when Honey spoke up.

  “We’re staying at a small bed-and-breakfast place—the Garden Hotel—near the British Museum, but we’re leaving on Monday,” she confided. “You really don’t have to return the money. My parents will be glad to give it to Trixie. But we’d just love to have you meet Miss Trask—our chaperon—and have lunch with us tomorrow.” She finished her speech in a rush, breathless and a little pink.

  McDuff’s black eyes twinkled. “Happen I could. If ye’re certain this Miss Trask wouldna object?”

  Honey gave a glowing account of her former governess, and then she and the boys told the Scotsman something about their trip. By unspoken consent, no one mentioned the necklace, although Honey seemed on the verge of it several times.

  Trixie was unusually quiet. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t as crazy about McDuff as the rest of them were. Even Jim seemed to be under his spell. What’s the matter with me? she thought. Honey wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. She’d be in some London hospital, or maybe even—She couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

  “We’re on a genealogical binge,” Mart was explaining as he finished up his third helping, “trying to find out something about Honey’s forebears, with a modicum of sight-seeing on the side.”

  “That is, when we’re not getting lost or falling under buses,” Honey said with a laugh. She seemed to have completely gotten over her narrow escape.

  “I’ll never forget, sir, what you did for my sister,” Jim said solemnly when they were through eating. He held out his hand.

  McDuff clasped it warmly. Then he strode off, leaving the Bob-Whites to figure out how to divvy up the bill.

  “Just the same,” Trixie said later, after they’d recounted their adventures to Miss Trask, “there’s something strange about that man.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Trixie Belden, you’re a schlocky Sherlockian shamus, (Try saying that five times fast!) You couldn’t exist without ‘something strange’ in your life. And if it’s not there, you just go ahead and make it up,” accused Mart.

  Trixie ignored him. “And what’s more,” she went on, “I saw
that pickpocket again today—twice.” She glanced around the group triumphantly.

  The boys looked skeptical, but Honey turned pale. “Where?” she asked.

  “Once in front of the British Museum, like I told you, and again—” Trixie paused mysteriously—“in Piccadilly Circus. Right before you got pushed off that curb.”

  “Like I said, if it’s not there, you make it up. Now you’re going to see Gray Cap everywhere we go,” Mart hooted.

  “But, Mart, I do,” Trixie insisted. “I’m developing my powers of observation.”

  “Your powers of imagination are incomparable,” conceded her brother.

  “Sounds like it’s time for bed,” Miss Trask said diplomatically.

  Early the following morning, the Bob-Whites were on their way to the Sunday morning services at Westminster Abbey. Miss Trask had said she had a slight headache, and so she was sleeping in.

  “It’s all the studying.” Trixie wrinkled her freckled nose. Research was more fun than she had expected, but she wouldn’t want to do it all day. Miss Trask, however, seemed never to tire of it.

  “Trix, about that pickpocket,” said Jim. “You know, it could be that you’re seeing different ones. Everybody’s been warning us that London is full of them.”

  “And they would all dress sort of like that,” Honey put in. “I mean, all in gray, so no one would notice them.”

  “Inconspicuous,” Jim agreed.

  “Delitescent,” Mart tossed off nonchalantly.

  “Where?” Trixie looked up and down the shop-lined street. “I didn’t know they had any.”

  “Had any what?” Mart’s blue eyes were as puzzled as his sister’s.

  “Delicatessens, silly. And anyhow, I don’t see how you could be hungry already, after that super breakfast we had at the hotel.”

  Mart chortled. “I wasn’t talking about salamis, sibling. I said delitescent.”

  “You got me,” Jim said.

  “Delitescent—it means lying hidden,” said Mart. “Any self-respecting private investigator ought to know that.”

  “And we know you well enough,” Trixie said with a toss of her curls, “to safely assume that you’d be talking about food, not detective terms.”