Read Online The Dark Secret of Weatherend by John Bellairs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Bellairs
Tags: montag f451 needs edit
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checked?"
Anthony smiled confidently. "Yeah. It's still there."
Miss Eells heaved a sigh of relief. "Good! Let's hope it stays there till we get a chance to look at it. And now could I ask you to toast another muffin for me? I'll go out in the kitchen and brew a pot of my disgusting Lapsang souchong tea, and then we'll figure out what we ought to do next. Okay?"
Anthony got busy with the toasting fork while Miss Eells went to the kitchen. Soon she returned with her big flowered Staffordshire teapot, steam curling up from the spout. Anthony recognized the smell drifting toward him; it was like a pile of burning wet leaves.
After taking off the lid of the teapot and sniffing the rich, smoky aroma, Miss Eells poured herself a big, brimming cup. Then she settled herself in her wingback chair and took the muffin that Anthony handed her. As she munched and sipped she stared off into space. There was silence in the room.
Suddenly, with a loud, alarming clatter, Miss Eells set down the cup, saucer, and plate. She leaped up, pulled the little samurai sword letter opener out of her belt, and brandished the tiny blade.
"We've got to attack!" she exclaimed. "We've got to get him before he gets us!"
Anthony gaped. He wondered If Miss Eells really had gone off her trolley this time. Then she turned, saw the expression on his face, and laughed. Throwing the letter opener down on the coffee table, she smiled sheepishly and said, "I get a bit dramatic sometimes. It comes from my grandfather, who was a Shakespearean actor. What I meant was, we've got to find some way to get inside Borkman's estate. Maybe he's planning to pull some dirty work with those four statues we saw—Wind, Snow, Hail, and Lightning. Something's going on, that's for sure, but we really don't have an awful lot of information yet. If we can find some evidence, maybe we can use that book full of the old man's crackbrained ravings and really skewer him to the wall!" Miss Eells paused and smiled mischievously. "Besides," she added, "snooping around the grounds of the villain's estate always works in the movies."
Anthony did not quite understand the logic of what Miss Eells had said. "How're we gonna break into Mr. Borkman's place?" he asked.
"I don't really know," Miss Eells replied placidly. "But I'm sure I'll think of something. Actually I wasn't planning on breaking in. I had something more subtle in mind—" She snapped her fingers. "I know! I'll get hold of my brother, Emerson! He'll know what to do! He always has sneaky, tricky, devious plans and strategies up his sleeve. He can get us into Weatherend—I'd bet money on it!"
Anthony knew Emerson Eells well. Emerson was a lawyer up in St. Cloud. He was a little rabbity man with a big shock of white hair and a very precise way of talking. When Anthony had gone on trial because of a treasure he had found, Emerson had defended him. Anthony liked and respected his courage and resourcefulness, and felt if anyone could get them onto Borkman's estate, he could.
But suddenly an unpleasant thought occurred to Anthony. "Miss Eells," he began, frowning, "what're you gonna do about your job? Are they really gonna fire you?"
Miss Eells stopped smiling. Her jaunty manner vanished, and she suddenly looked old and careworn. She stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup, as if she were trying to read her fortune there. "I honestly don't know what the library board will do, Anthony. For the time being I've been suspended from my job, without pay, and the board will meet again in early December to decide my fate. I will admit that things do not look terribly rosy. After all, I've only got one friend on the board, and that's Mrs. Bump, the reporter who kept the story out of the Sentinel. But it's a seven-member board, and you can be sure that Mrs. Oxenstern will hang me from the yardarm if she can possibly manage to do it."
Miss Eells was almost speaking in a whisper. Anthony could hear the fire crackling and the
Anthony smiled confidently. "Yeah. It's still there."
Miss Eells heaved a sigh of relief. "Good! Let's hope it stays there till we get a chance to look at it. And now could I ask you to toast another muffin for me? I'll go out in the kitchen and brew a pot of my disgusting Lapsang souchong tea, and then we'll figure out what we ought to do next. Okay?"
Anthony got busy with the toasting fork while Miss Eells went to the kitchen. Soon she returned with her big flowered Staffordshire teapot, steam curling up from the spout. Anthony recognized the smell drifting toward him; it was like a pile of burning wet leaves.
After taking off the lid of the teapot and sniffing the rich, smoky aroma, Miss Eells poured herself a big, brimming cup. Then she settled herself in her wingback chair and took the muffin that Anthony handed her. As she munched and sipped she stared off into space. There was silence in the room.
Suddenly, with a loud, alarming clatter, Miss Eells set down the cup, saucer, and plate. She leaped up, pulled the little samurai sword letter opener out of her belt, and brandished the tiny blade.
"We've got to attack!" she exclaimed. "We've got to get him before he gets us!"
Anthony gaped. He wondered If Miss Eells really had gone off her trolley this time. Then she turned, saw the expression on his face, and laughed. Throwing the letter opener down on the coffee table, she smiled sheepishly and said, "I get a bit dramatic sometimes. It comes from my grandfather, who was a Shakespearean actor. What I meant was, we've got to find some way to get inside Borkman's estate. Maybe he's planning to pull some dirty work with those four statues we saw—Wind, Snow, Hail, and Lightning. Something's going on, that's for sure, but we really don't have an awful lot of information yet. If we can find some evidence, maybe we can use that book full of the old man's crackbrained ravings and really skewer him to the wall!" Miss Eells paused and smiled mischievously. "Besides," she added, "snooping around the grounds of the villain's estate always works in the movies."
Anthony did not quite understand the logic of what Miss Eells had said. "How're we gonna break into Mr. Borkman's place?" he asked.
"I don't really know," Miss Eells replied placidly. "But I'm sure I'll think of something. Actually I wasn't planning on breaking in. I had something more subtle in mind—" She snapped her fingers. "I know! I'll get hold of my brother, Emerson! He'll know what to do! He always has sneaky, tricky, devious plans and strategies up his sleeve. He can get us into Weatherend—I'd bet money on it!"
Anthony knew Emerson Eells well. Emerson was a lawyer up in St. Cloud. He was a little rabbity man with a big shock of white hair and a very precise way of talking. When Anthony had gone on trial because of a treasure he had found, Emerson had defended him. Anthony liked and respected his courage and resourcefulness, and felt if anyone could get them onto Borkman's estate, he could.
But suddenly an unpleasant thought occurred to Anthony. "Miss Eells," he began, frowning, "what're you gonna do about your job? Are they really gonna fire you?"
Miss Eells stopped smiling. Her jaunty manner vanished, and she suddenly looked old and careworn. She stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup, as if she were trying to read her fortune there. "I honestly don't know what the library board will do, Anthony. For the time being I've been suspended from my job, without pay, and the board will meet again in early December to decide my fate. I will admit that things do not look terribly rosy. After all, I've only got one friend on the board, and that's Mrs. Bump, the reporter who kept the story out of the Sentinel. But it's a seven-member board, and you can be sure that Mrs. Oxenstern will hang me from the yardarm if she can possibly manage to do it."
Miss Eells was almost speaking in a whisper. Anthony could hear the fire crackling and the
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