The Body Thief Page 2

  “Would you like a glass of water, Miss Winterbottom?” called Svanhildur from the kitchen.

  Svanhildur was the Winterbottom’s Icelandic housekeeper—an astonishingly short woman with a sweet smile and a disturbing enthusiasm for waxing the floor.

  “I’m not thirsty,” replied Isabella sluggishly, stretching her legs out in front of her. She glanced around at the living room and her mood began to brighten; how different it was to the old house in Grimethorpe, which was a bleak thatched cottage sitting in an overgrown garden of weeds and rotting sunflowers. She did not like to think of how life had been back then, with no money, no joy, and most punishing of all, no beauty.

  Isabella heard the front door closing and the familiar steps of her father coming down the hallway.

  “Hello, princess,” Mr. Winterbottom said with forced good cheer as he bent down and kissed his daughter’s forehead. “What a day! I had a two-hour training session with Ralph in Hyde Park—he says I have the natural athleticism of a twenty-year-old, by the way. Then I met with Mr. Faulkner from the bank. Didn’t go too well, not that I expected it would. Still, it’s only money—you went riding, I see.”

  Isabella nodded.

  “And then to lunch at your friend Amelia Vanderbolt’s house?” he asked, settling into his favorite red leather armchair by the fireplace.

  “That’s right,” said Isabella casually.

  Though he was naturally quite pale, Nathanial Winterbottom was a vain man who spent many dedicated hours browning himself under the hot sun (and in winter, under the tanning bed at the Grosvenor Square Beauty Spa and Rejuvenation Clinic). As a consequence, his skin was a permanent shade of coffee brown and had the texture of a weathered coconut.

  “Was your visit to the Vanderbolts’ fruitful?”

  “Of course,” Isabella replied sweetly. “Amelia is so kind and the Vanderbolts always make me feel right at home.” She leaned forward and retrieved a small object from inside her left riding boot, placing it on the bureau next to her father. “This must have slipped into my boot while I was admiring Mrs. Vanderbolt’s jewelry box,” she said. “How careless of me.”

  Switching on the table lamp, Nathanial picked up the delicately crafted silver watch and examined it under the light with all the skill of an experienced jeweler. It appeared to be silver. Perhaps a century old. While not a rare piece, it was sure to have some value.

  “Well done, princess! I trust you were careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  Her father nodded approvingly. “Did you plant a decoy?”

  “Of course I did,” snapped Isabella, rather offended that he even had to ask. “The Vanderbolts have a serving maid who looks completely guilty without even trying. I casually mentioned to Amelia that I spotted this particular maid coming out of Mrs. Vanderbolt’s bedroom shortly after lunch. Naturally suspicion will fall to her when Mrs. Vanderbolt realizes her watch is missing.”

  “Good work,” said Mr. Winterbottom, wrapping the watch carefully in a silk handkerchief and locking it inside the hidden compartment of the antique bureau drawer.

  “How much do you think you can get for it?” Isabella asked her father.

  “Hard to say,” said Nathanial. He sighed. “But I doubt it will be enough to satisfy Mr. Faulkner at the bank. Our savings are just about done.”

  “We still have some money left, don’t we?” said Isabella anxiously.

  “We have enough to last the summer but not much thereafter,” he explained. “The truth is, we’ll be out on the street if we don’t get our hands on some quality merchandise and soon. Perhaps you could get yourself invited to that new girl’s house, the one from Zurich. Her father is a banker, I heard.”

  Isabella shook her head. “I don’t know her well enough yet.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Isabella,” said Nathanial with some urgency. “Living the way we do costs a great deal of money, you know that.” He sighed again, deflating into the armchair. “If we can’t get our hands on some quality merchandise soon we’ll just have to go back to Grimethorpe.”

  “I won’t go back,” said Isabella firmly, her large eyes clouding over. “No matter what happens, I’ll never go back there.”

  Nathanial leaned over and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Of course not, princess,” he promised, though he did not sound very convincing. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out something. Now, let’s talk of happier things.”

  “Yes,” said Isabella, the darkness lifting from her eyes just as quickly as it had appeared. “I got a letter this morning. It could be just what we are looking for.”

  “Oh?” Nathanial was only half listening, his attention now largely taken up by a tray of sugar-free toffee fudge. “A letter, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Isabella with a studied sigh. In fact, Isabella had been saving the letter up until just the right moment to spring it on her unsuspecting father. “It’s from someone you might know, actually. Your brother Silas.”

  Nathanial gasped sharply, which sent the toffee hurtling toward the back of his throat. It took several hacking coughs before Nathanial was able to dislodge the toffee fudge and breathe properly again. Sitting back, he took a sip of water, stealing fleeting glances at his daughter.

  Isabella offered him a cool smile. “Something I said?”

  “Of course not, princess,” he said meekly. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Nathanial cleared his throat again. “You were saying something about a letter.” He coughed, as if choking on the words. “From my brother.”

  Isabella reached into her pocket and produced the royal blue letter with the thin silver band. She slid it across the top of the bureau toward her father. “I believe it’s what you might call an opportunity.”

  Over the next half hour Nathanial read the letter several times; then several more times. His mind began to spin at an increasingly frantic pace as ideas bloomed in his imagination, each one more delicious than the one before. Finally, he beamed at his daughter, barely able to control his joy.

  “This is the big one, Isabella!” he declared triumphantly. “My brother is sick, and he wants to meet you; that can only mean one thing—Silas is going to leave everything to you.” Nathanial’s eyes swept across the top of the bureau where the envelope lay. “Err…there was some mention of a check for your expenses.”

  “It’s in a safe place,” said Isabella firmly.

  “Yes, of course,” said Nathanial with little enthusiasm. “Good thinking.”

  “It’s curious that you’ve never mentioned this brother of yours before,” said Isabella, resting her head against the plush cushions. “Does Uncle Silas have money?”

  “Oh, yes. He is worth a fortune,” said Nathanial.

  “What?” Isabella sat bolt upright, the disbelief rippling through her voice. “I’ve been stealing necklaces and watches from my friends so we can pay the rent and you never thought to mention your brother is a millionaire?”

  Her father shifted about uncomfortably in his chair, his tanned brow furrowed in a series of uneven lines.

  “Well, Isabella,” he said carefully, “it’s not that simple. Silas disowned the family when he came into his fortune and refused to share a cent of it with the rest of us. Generosity is not in his nature, you see.”

  Isabella frowned as an unpleasant possibility came to mind.

  “Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who got a letter from your brother,” she said. “You’ve told me so little about your family. I have cousins, I suppose?”

  “Most likely,” said her father with a shrug. “My sister Prudence has a daughter I think, and my brother Julius had a son, but I believe he was killed by a volcano.”

  “A volcano?” Isabella looked horrified.

  “I believe so,” said Nathanial vaguely. “Wiped out the boy and his parents, as I recall.” He sighed, carefull
y patting down his luxurious head of black hair. “Nasty things, volcanoes.”

  “How awful. Still, if your sister has a child,” Isabella noted, swiftly getting back to business, “I could find myself with some competition for your brother’s fortune.”

  “It’s nothing you can’t handle, princess. Just remember, my brother is a devil, and he won’t be an easy mark.”

  “Maybe not,” she said confidently, “but I believe I’m equal to the challenge. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, Father, it’s how to make a good impression. Give me a few weeks, and he’ll love me like his very own daughter.”

  Her father nodded his approval. “If anyone can do it, you can. For my part, I’ll tell you as much as I can about Silas and the rest of the family. This is it, princess. There’s a fortune at stake here, and only you can get it for us.”

  “Relax, Father, I already have a plan of attack,” Isabella told him sweetly. “This will be the easiest money we ever made.”

  3

  Milo

  Still fits me like a glove!” said the maestro triumphantly as he admired his impressive reflection in the wall mirror of the dimly lit bedroom he shared with his grandson Milo. “I had this tailcoat made for me in Vienna just before I conducted my first symphony and just look how it fits me still!”

  “Amazing,” said Milo as he struggled with the astoundingly difficult task of doing up the buttons on the maestro’s tailcoat. “Could you breathe in a little more please, Maestro?”

  “Breathe in?”

  “Your stomach,” said Milo. “You need to suck it in…just a little.”

  “If I breathe in any more I will pass out,” declared the maestro, slightly wounded that there was any sucking in required of his perfectly flat stomach.

  Milo Winterbottom and his grandfather had lived in the tiny basement apartment for two years—ever since the maestro had abandoned his life in Florence and come to Wales to take care of his ten-year-old grandson, after the boy’s parents were lost in a tragic accident.

  “There, all done,” said Milo, wrestling the final button into place.

  “Tonight, Milo,” announced the maestro grandly, “the Wrinkly Symphony Orchestra will bring beautiful music to the world.” He smiled brightly. “Well, at least to the Winslow Square Community Theatre.”

  The Wrinkly Symphony Orchestra was a ragtag group of retired orchestra musicians whom the maestro had collected during his travels around the city. Their free concerts were a favorite for many residents of the square.

  “The curtain rises at eight,” said the maestro, adjusting his bow tie. “You will be there, yes?”

  “Sure I will,” said Milo, brushing down his grandfather’s jacket. “I just have to make a delivery for Mrs. Boobank first.”

  The maestro stopped in front of a three-legged writing table leaning up against the wall; it wobbled perilously as he opened the drawer and removed his baton case.

  “You work too hard, my boy,” he said somberly.

  “I like working,” he lied. “Besides, Mrs. Boobank pays me well, and we need the money.”

  The maestro blew a loud raspberry. “What good is money?”

  “Maestro, we cannot live without it,” said Milo wearily as he cleared the lunch plates off the table and wiped them clean. “If you would just collect some of the money your students owe for their music lessons—”

  “Bah! You worry too much, my boy.”

  “Maybe I do,” said Milo diplomatically. “But still, we must eat.” Picking up his skateboard, he pushed his grandfather toward the front door. “Time to go, Maestro. Winslow Square is waiting!”

  And with that, they headed out in the fading light of late afternoon.

  ***

  It must be said that Milo did not look like a typical Winterbottom, although he did have the trademark dark hair that flopped over his forehead in wavy bangs. But while his father had been famous for his dark eyes and brooding good looks, Milo had his mother’s complexion—her pale skin, large green eyes, and shy smile.

  As they strolled across the main square, the maestro occupied himself with preparation for the forthcoming concert, unaware that Milo’s head was filled with more troubling matters concerning the letter he had tucked away in his back pocket. It had arrived in the mail that morning and was sent by his Uncle Silas.

  The man who had murdered his parents.

  When Milo was nine years old his mother fell gravely ill with pneumonia. Her condition required complete rest, and because they had very little money to pay the doctors, Mr. Winterbottom contacted his brother Silas and asked him for a loan to cover the mounting medical expenses. Milo’s father Julius was an honorable man, and he promised to pay Silas back every penny with interest.

  Silas refused his brother’s plea and told him to go begging somewhere else.

  But then, rather unexpectedly, Silas Winterbottom had a change of heart. He called his brother with a proposition. Several months earlier Silas had purchased twenty hectares of forest on a peninsula overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The land had been a bargain owing to the fact that it had a dormant volcano deep beneath its rocky surface.

  Not bothered by expert predictions that the volcano was several decades overdue for an eruption, Silas went ahead with his plans to build a cluster of luxury villas along the peninsula, which he intended to sell for obscene amounts of money.

  Because the land was covered in a blanket of thick pine trees, Silas needed the services of a land clearer before construction on his villas could begin. Unfortunately none of the local clearers would take the job. They feared that disturbing the land over the volcano might trigger an eruption.

  Unwilling to abandon the project because of a few cowardly tree cutters, Silas came up with the perfect solution. His idiotic brother Julius was begging him for money—some tedious story about his wife being ill—so why not make the fool earn it? After all, it was a fair exchange; money for labor.

  Without delay, Julius was offered the job and as an extra incentive, the use of a small cottage perched on the edge of the peninsula. Naturally, the desperate man jumped at the offer, thrilled that he could bring his family along for the summer.

  Silas decided that there was really no need to inform his brother of the volcano lying beneath his new home. After all, it had been dormant for the last one hundred years and there was no point worrying the simpleminded brute unnecessarily.

  Barely a week later Milo and his parents found themselves living in paradise. They moved into Evermore, the pretty white cottage overlooking the Pacific, and Julius got to work clearing the pine forest. It was hard, backbreaking work, but he did not mind at all. His family and their happiness was all that mattered.

  And they were happy.

  Milo spent his days exploring the cliffs and caves near the cottage—which he suspected were inhabited by perfectly approachable dragons—while his mother rested under the warm summer sun, her health slowly mending.

  It was a hot day in late August when it happened. Julius had spent the morning leveling a rocky outcrop just inside the forest wall, puncturing the hard rocky crust with a powerful jackhammer. Returning to the cottage at noon, the exhausted man and his wife sat out on the porch eating their sandwiches and enjoying the sea breeze blowing in from the Pacific.

  Milo had been called for lunch, but he was too busy peering into a small cave opening set into the cliff’s rock face to consider eating. It was at that exact moment—for reasons that are complex, lengthy, and rather dreary—that the surface of the peninsula buckled and split as the volcano, long sleeping, began to wake. The earth trembled, just slightly at first and then with such a deep unease that it made the sides of the cottage shake.

  Milo’s mother was the first to notice that something was very wrong, but by the time she jumped up and began racing toward her son, it was all too late. In a thunderous chain reaction,
the peak of the volcano erupted in a powerful explosion, spewing into the air huge boulders carried on a blast of poisonous gas, followed by a raging torrent of flaming black and orange lava.

  When the volcano’s first blast shook the peninsula, Milo looked back to see a wall of molten ash looming above him in a great seething wave. Reacting immediately, the young boy jumped from the cliff ledge and swung his nimble body into the small cave below. He heard his mother calling his name just before the second blast exploded from the crater. Frantically he looked overhead for his parents; he thought he heard his father screaming, his body sent hurtling across the peninsula on a wave of sulfuric acid and water vapor, a spinning dot in the distance. Perhaps it was him. And for a brief moment he was certain he caught a glimpse of his mother in her favorite dress—a brilliant flash of blue and white in the far horizon.

  And then she was gone.

  Cowering against the hot cave wall, Milo could only watch as the last of the molten ash and lava spewed from the volcano’s summit, raining over the Pacific like a million heads of fire. It was nearly nightfall when a helicopter descended from the smoky haze to rescue the boy…

  His parents’ bodies were never recovered. It was assumed that if the lava had not killed them then the ocean most certainly would have—they were probably eaten by sharks somewhere off the coast.

  Rather like the volcano, Milo’s life erupted that day and never recovered.

  Leaving his grandfather at the stage door, Milo raced to Mrs. Boobank’s busy florist and began making his afternoon deliveries. He took purple tulips to an irritable-looking woman on Harding Street, three dozen roses to a small house on Kipling Lane, and a bouquet of lilies to a tearful lady with white hair who was retiring after thirty-seven years at the Winslow Square Bank.

  Milo then headed at considerable speed for the Winslow Square Community Theatre. By the time he arrived the concert was already well under way so he snuck in through the stage door and watched the remainder of the performance from the wings.

  The orchestra was in fine form, a sea of wrinkly faces more glowing and alive with each wave of the maestro’s baton. The small crowd listened enthusiastically to the performance, the stage awash in a rich golden light. But the brightest light of all was coming from the maestro as he stood before his beloved orchestra, waving his baton and making beautiful music.