Journey to the River Sea

‘You must let me be the best judge of that. Come along, Maia.’

By the time they got to the museum, Maia did not have to act her panic. There was no chance to explain anything to her governess; if Miss Minton told the crows that Clovis was not Finn Taverner, all her work would be undone. If only there was a moment to explain before the trapdoor was opened.

But there wasn’t.

‘Right. Now. Where’s the boy?’

Maia was acting again. ‘Don’t make me tell you, please. He’s my friend. And he begged me not to let you take him back.’

Miss Minton said nothing. She looked grimmer than Maia had ever seen her. There was no help to be expected there.

‘Look, we’ve got no time to waste. And we’ve got a gun.’ Mr Trapwood patted his chest.

‘Shoot me then,’ said Maia. ‘You can shoot me before I’ll betray—’

‘That’s enough, Maia. You’re being hysterical. Tell these gentlemen what they want to know and then we shall go home.’

‘I don’t want Finn to—’

‘Finn. Is that his name?’ said Trapwood. ‘Yes, that sounds right. The letter was signed F. Taverner. Come on then.’

‘He’s in the cellar.’ Maia’s voice was very quiet. She turned her head away.

‘Where’s that? How do you get down there?’

‘There’s a trapdoor. It’s under the giant sloth. The skeleton. In the lab.’

The crows barged ahead, holding Maia by the arm, and Miss Minton followed. Still no chance to warn her governess.

They reached the sloth. ‘There, look. You can see the handle,’ said Mr Low.

Mr Trapwood pushed him aside and caught the edge of the stand with his arm.

The sloth crashed to the ground.

Miss Minton and Maia cried out, seeing the jumbled bones.

‘There it is! Come on. Heave!’

Mr Trapwood heaved. The door creaked slowly upwards . . . And out of the dark hole there sprang, not a cowering, frightened boy, but a furious, thrashing figure. A boy with black hair and a headband who charged at the two men, shouting and jabbering in an Indian dialect. The crows tried to grab his arm – and missed. The Indian boy ran past Mr Low, but was tripped up by Mr Trapwood and stumbled, cursing in his strange babble; screaming like a trapped animal.

Maia gave a moan of despair and stood there, her hand over her mouth. What was Finn doing here? What had gone so terribly wrong? And where was Clovis?

The crows wrestled with Finn. Two to one; a gun against bare fists. But as they fought the boy, trying to pinion him, they were aghast.

So this was the heir to Westwood – a savage, babbling away in an unearthly tongue! No wonder he had been afraid to take up his rightful place in England! He probably lived in a tree.

Maia’s eyes never left Finn. He was still hoping to escape, she could see that. If he could get out into the street, he might have a chance but not here. He fought like a demon; once he managed to free himself, but Mr Low caught his leg while Mr Trapwood hit him on the side of the head with the butt of his pistol.

‘Now, now, boy, we’re not here to hurt you.’

But the wild boy didn’t understand. He went on struggling and fighting and shouting in his ghastly tongue. They’d have to tie him up to get him on the boat. And what would Sir Aubrey say? If ever there was a hollow victory, this was it.

Miss Minton, all this time, had been standing stock-still, looking at the Indian boy with a strange expression on her face. Now she walked carefully to the edge of the open trapdoor and looked down the flight of steps leading into the darkness.

Miss Minton waited. She was staring intently at the back of the cellar and the pile of packing cases.

Then she said loudly and clearly, ‘Come out, Finn Taverner. Come out and be a man.’

Among the packing cases something stirred. A glimmer of light fell on fair hair. A boy straightened himself and stood up.

Miss Minton continued to stare down into the murk.

‘You heard me, Finn,’ she said – and the crows turned, amazed. ‘The mantle of the Taverners has fallen on your shoulders. It is time you faced your destiny.’

Clovis looked up and saw the upright figure of Miss Minton, standing above him. She had always made him feel brave – and now he forgot that an hour before he had been overcome with terror and begged Finn not to give him up to the crows.

Clovis straightened himself. He squared his shoulders. He tossed back his curls. Then slowly, with immense dignity, he climbed the cellar steps.

‘Unhand my servant, please,’ he ordered the crows. ‘As you see, I am Finn Taverner.’

The crows let go of the Indian. They stared at the golden-haired youth who had appeared at the top of the cellar steps. The boy’s breeding showed in every movement; he was an undoubted and true aristocrat. Here before them was The Blood which Sir Aubrey longed for, and they were filled with joy.

The boy now addressed his servant. ‘You have served me well, Kumari,’ he said – and every word was crystal clear; the words of a perfect English gentleman, speaking slowly to a foreigner. ‘Now I give you your freedom. And with it, this token of my thanks.’