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spies.’
    Jack peered at the label of a nearby box. ‘Made in China,’ he read. ‘I don’t see how that could be a code.’
    â€˜I must agree,’ Mr Doyle said. He went to a larger box. ‘Jack, please help me to get this down.’
    They pulled the box onto the floor and thoroughly searched it. Again the container held nothing but straw. Wordlessly, Mr Doyle repacked both the boxes, reattached the lids and stacked them back on the shelves. He stood back, stroking his chin.
    â€˜I’ll wager every box in this warehouse is empty.’
    â€˜But why?’ Scarlet asked. ‘Why fill a warehouse with empty cartons?’
    â€˜If you want to hide a book, place it on a bookshelf,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘I believe there is something to be found here. Something very unusual.’
    â€˜How will we find it?’ Jack asked.
    Mr Doyle didn’t answer. Instead he walked two circuits of the building before crossing to a shelf and running a finger along the edge of it.
    â€˜Just as I thought,’ he said, examining the dust on his finger. ‘These boxes have been here for quite some time. And there are tracks here from a steamtruck, but they are old. Nothing has been moved in or out of here for many, many years.’
    â€˜So is this a dead end?’ Scarlet said.
    â€˜Not at all,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘We will search until we make a relevant discovery.’
    He continued to stride up and down the warehouse. His eyes finally settled on a spot in the middle of the floor. He moved over to it with sudden excitement, made a wide circle with his foot, and fell to his knees. Scooping out his knife, he started to work at an indentation in the stonework.
    â€˜Aha,’ he said. ‘I think we have it.’
    Jack and Scarlet crowded around him as he revealed a large ring set into the floor. Mr Doyle pulled on it and a trapdoor lifted, exposing a set of stairs leading into darkness. Jack retrieved a lantern hanging on a nearby nail. They lit it and started down into the murkiness.
    â€˜I pray…’ Scarlet’s voice faltered.
    â€˜Scarlet?’ Jack said.
    â€˜I pray my father is not in this terrible place.’
    â€˜He is not,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘This chamber has remained undisturbed for some time.’
    The lantern cast sepia light, revealing a large empty room with a damp floor and moss growing over the walls. Supporting beams held up the roof. They were below the river level, and Jack felt his heart beat a little faster as he contemplated the stone walls holding the water back just a few feet away. A bronze machine, shrouded in dust, sat on a small bench. It looked like a cross between an ancient sewing machine and a vacuum cleaner. Jack suspected it was neither.
    A rectangular object lay in the centre of the chamber, measuring about eight feet by three feet and standing about four feet high. A huge sheet lay draped over it. Mr Doyle looked at his companions before he walked over, grasped hold of the sheet, and pulled it back.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Jack had only ever seen two dead bodies—those of his parents, although his memory of them swam with confusion. It was like one of those flickering shows at the magic-lantern theatre. He could remember separate images from that terrible day, never the entire incident.
    He had stood on the high platform as his father swung from one trapeze to meet his mother on another. She hung upside down, her arms outstretched. Their hands met. Then the trapeze supporting his mother snapped.
    Jack had cried out. Never had this happened in over a thousand performances. But as they tumbled towards the net, Jack knew they would land safely in the mesh.
    He would never forget them hitting the net at the same instant, hand in hand, as if somehow they knew this signalled the end. Because—against all reason—the net snapped...
    Mr Doyle’s voice shattered the memory. ‘She is perfectly