Big Change for Stuart Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Extract from ‘Small Change for Stuart’

  About the Author

  Also by Lissa Evans

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Stuart Horten (ten, but looks younger) is now the owner of a magician’s workshop – except that without his Great-Uncle’s Last Will and Testament, he can’t actually prove it. Which is a problem, since someone else wants it as well; someone who has a lot of money.

  The workshop contains seven magnificent stage illusions, but when Stuart starts to investigate them, he discovers that each is the gateway to a magical adventure, with a puzzle to solve, and a clue to extract.

  As the clues mount up, the adventures become riskier. Friendship is strained, and danger looms and Stuart has to decide what sort of prize he really, truly wants.

  For my mum

  Who read like the wind and loved books

  And who was always the first to read mine.

  STUART HORTEN SAT at the kitchen table and looked at the front page of the crummy little newspaper he’d just been given. Then, with a feeling of foreboding, he began to read.

  ‘Why do your sisters keep writing that?’ asked Stuart indignantly.

  ‘Keep writing what?’ asked his friend and next-door neighbour, April Kingley, who’d brought him the paper. ‘You mean ten, but looks younger?’

  ‘No. The word claims. Stuart claims this, Stuart claims that. As if I was making it all up.’

  April shrugged. ‘Reporters have to have proof.’

  Stuart rolled his eyes. The Kingley triplets were always referring to themselves as ‘reporters’, as if they were writing for some important national newspaper, instead of a flimsy four-page hand-out, invented as a holiday project, printed out in their bedroom and forced on the neighbours.

  ‘I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth, could I?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t tell them that I found a stash of magic threepences, hidden by my great-uncle, together with a note telling me to try and find his lost workshop. I couldn’t tell them that I put coins in old slot machines all over Beeton, which ended up leading me to the room under the bandstand. I couldn’t tell them that one of the stage illusions I found there was called the Well of Wishes, and it actually did grant wishes when you chucked in a coin. They’d think I was mad.’

  He couldn’t face reading the rest of the article, and instead turned the paper over and looked at the back page.

  ‘Longer than you think,’ muttered Stuart. Yet another thing he couldn’t tell the other two Kingley sisters was that the ‘holiday’ mayoress Jeannie Carr had gone on was likely to be permanent, seeing as the Well of Wishes had transported both her and Stuart back to the 1880s, and only Stuart had returned.

  ‘I wonder what Clifford will do now?’ asked April idly. ‘I know he was desperate to be a magician, but I don’t think Jeannie ever taught him anything useful.’

  ‘Just took loads of his money,’ said Stuart. ‘And kept failing him on Grade Two Basic Magic Skills.’

  There was no other news in the paper – only a list of jumble sales and rubbish collection times. Right at the bottom of the back page was a photograph captioned: Our ever-ready staff, April, May and June Kingley. The three clever-looking faces were identical, apart from the fact that April wore glasses.

  ‘Is the photo going to be changed,’ he asked her, ‘now that you don’t write for it any more?’

  She shook her head. ‘I might stay on. I told June that I didn’t want to be the crime reporter any more, but then she said they were looking for an arts correspondent.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone who’ll write about local plays and exhibitions and things. And I thought it might be quite interesting so I’ve applied for the post. I’ve got an interview this afternoon.’

  Stuart gaped at her. ‘An interview?’

  ‘Yes. We like to do things professionally. It’s at three o’clock, and they’ll let me know the result at four.’

  Stuart tried not to laugh. In the short time he’d known April she’d proved herself to be clever, resourceful, courageous and loyal, the absolute best sort of friend to have if you were in trouble or in danger. But she was also (he had to admit) a bit of a know-all and one of the bossiest people he’d ever met in his entire life. And her sisters were even worse.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ asked April.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She looked at him suspiciously, and then the door opened and Stuart’s very tall father came into the kitchen.

  ‘Salve, o fili,’ he announced, just as the phone in the hall started to ring. He turned back to get it.

  ‘What did your dad just say?’ whispered April.

  ‘Salve, o fili. It’s Latin for “hello, son”. You know what he’s like.’

  April nodded. Stuart’s father compiled crosswords for a living, and never used an ordinary, modern word if there was a medieval fourteen-letter alternative.

  He reappeared after a few seconds. ‘A Mr Felton is desirous of communication with you,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stuart cautiously, taking the phone.

  ‘Rod Felton, Head Curator at Beeton Museum here. You’re the youngster who claims to have found the magic tricks, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stuart. ‘They belonged to my great-uncle.’

  ‘Well, we’ve had an idea that might interest you. As a matter of fact, it’s a job offer. You’re still on your summer holidays, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. For another fortnight.’

  ‘Excellent. If you come to the museum this afternoon, I’ll explain …’

  ‘HELLO, LITTLE CHAP,’ said the museum receptionist, smiling down at him. ‘Have you come for the Junior Fun Day story-telling session?’

  ‘No,’ said Stuart.

  ‘You get a special hat,’ she added encouragingly.

  ‘No,’ repeated Stuart between gritted teeth. People were always mistaking him for someone younger; it was one of the worst things about being short.

  He continued up the corridor, and then hesitated outside the door of Rod Felton’s office.

  ‘What ails?’ enquired his father, who had come along too, mainly because the museum had a bookshop.

  ‘Do you think Mr Felton realizes that it was me who broke all that stuff?’ asked Stuart.

  He was referring to an awful incident that had happened two weeks before. In a room filled with Victorian farm equipment, Stuart had accidentally nudged a large model of a dairymaid – which had shoved a car
t wheel that had toppled a fake blacksmith which had knocked over an enormous artificial horse. The horse had lost an ear and a leg. Stuart’s father had written out a large cheque to cover the damage.

  ‘That is something that we shall imminently discover,’ said his father cautiously. He reached over Stuart’s head and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ called a keen voice. Rod Felton had a great many large teeth, and all of them were on display in a huge smile as Stuart entered the room. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘The young horse-smasher and his dad.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Stuart with a sickly smile.

  ‘Sit down, sit down.’ While Stuart and his father squatted on two very low chairs, Rod Felton sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at them.

  ‘Sorry again,’ muttered Stuart. ‘About the horse, I mean. I honestly didn’t—’

  Rod Felton held up a hand to stop him. ‘We’re prepared to forgive and forget,’ he said, ‘because we in the museum have had what I think is a terrific idea. Our ‘Beeton in Wartime’ exhibition has come to an end, and we have a two-week gap before ‘Roman Beeton’ opens, which is obviously going to be a huge crowd-pleasing mega-blockbuster. There’s going to be a half-size model of a triclinium and a working balneum.’

  ‘Would that be a triclinium stratum?’ asked Stuart’s father.

  Rod Felton nodded so fast that his head was a blur. ‘It would indeed. The triclinia lecti are adapted for the accubatio and, excitingly, we also have a replica cathedra which was based on an illustration in the …’

  Stuart sat like a lump of wood as the conversation whizzed over his head, most of it in Latin. After a minute or two he held up his hand, as if he were in class. After another minute or two Rod Felton noticed.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘You were saying about the terrific idea. To do with my great-uncle’s workshop …’

  ‘Oh yes, so I was. Well, you know that the museum offered to store the tricks until a more permanent home could be found for them.’

  Stuart nodded.

  ‘Well, we thought that for the next two weeks, while ‘Roman Beeton’ is being set up and most of the galleries are closed, we could use a side room of the museum to display your great-uncle’s stage illusions – we thought we’d call it ‘Teeny-tiny Tony’s Temporary Tricks’. And – this is the terrific bit – we had the idea of making you the exhibition curator.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Stuart incredulously.

  ‘Yes. To demonstrate to other youngsters that the museum is for everyone, even people who’ve behaved badly in the past. You know – Once I was a vandal and now I’m a helper!’

  ‘I wasn’t a vandal,’ protested Stuart. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘And it would be wonderful publicity,’ continued Rod Felton, ignoring the interruption, ‘what with you being a relative of Tony Horten. I think we could even get local television to cover it. So would you be interested?’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Welcome visitors, tell people about your great-uncle, answer questions about the exhibits and their history. Wasn’t there some story about a terrible fire?’

  ‘Yes, Great-Uncle Tony’s first magic workshop was in the Horten factory, but it got fire-bombed during the war, and every single illusion in it was totally destroyed, and his fiancée Lily – who was also his assistant – disappeared at the same time. And then Great-Uncle Tony rebuilt his tricks in the secret workshop under the bandstand, before disappearing himself four years later.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the curator approvingly. ‘I can see you’d be very good at it. And you’d even have official identification.’ He picked up a small object from his desk and held it out to Stuart. It was a badge bearing a cartoon of a toddler wearing a gown and mortarboard, and it read:

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Rod Felton.

  Stuart hesitated. The badge was awful, the title stupid, and he was pretty certain that any visitors would either ignore him or laugh at him. On the other hand …

  ‘Would I be allowed to touch the exhibits?’ he asked hesitantly.

  Rod Felton looked surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘As exhibition curator you’d have to know all about the items under your care. Do you want to come and see them now?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Stuart started to follow Rod Felton out of the room, and then realized that his father was still sitting on the chair, staring blankly into space – his usual expression when thinking of a crossword clue.

  Stuart nudged his arm. ‘Dad?’

  His father reached into his pocket and took out a tiny notebook and pen. ‘Vegetable amidst effort becomes a specialist,’ he said dreamily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The answer’s expert.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘P – as in vegetable – in the middle of exert – as in effort. Expert. I’m really pleased with that one. And I’ve had another exciting thought—’

  ‘Dad, I’m just going to look at Great-Uncle Tony’s stuff.’

  Mr Horten nodded vaguely. Stuart had long ago realized that his father’s definition of ‘exciting’ was different to most people’s. On a scale of 0–10 it would probably look something like this:

  ‘See you later, then,’ said Stuart, following the curator.

  ‘Beeton in Wartime’ was being dismantled. An air-raid shelter lay in pieces on the gallery floor, and a dummy wrapped in bandages was leaning against the wall, looking rather sinister.

  ‘Through here,’ said Rod Felton, opening a door that had previously been hidden behind a poster about air-raid precautions.

  It led into a square, high-ceilinged room, with only a single window near the top of one wall. The curator clicked the light switch a couple of times and then tutted with impatience. ‘The bulb must have gone,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and find the caretaker. In the meantime, have a poke around. I’m sure I can trust you not to deliberately damage anything.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Stuart yet again, but the curator had already gone.

  Stuart was alone in the room, with his great-uncle’s legacy.

  STUART LOOKED AT the cluster of objects draped in dustsheets. When he had discovered Great-Uncle Tony’s workshop in the vast and gloomy room under the bandstand in the park, he’d had no time to explore it properly. Beeton Fire Brigade had declared the place unsafe, and Stuart and his companions had been hustled away before he could do more than glimpse most of the contents. Now he stepped forward and pulled at one corner of the nearest sheet.

  It slid to the floor, revealing a tall oval cabinet, its surface smooth and ruby red. From the centre of the door protruded the glittering handles of four swords. Stuart reached up and, gripping the lowest, tried to pull the sword out of its slot. It was stuck fast. He let go again and took a step back. There was no lock or handle to the cabinet and no obvious way of opening it. He knocked on it softly, and heard the hollow boom of his knuckles.

  ‘Enjoy the workshop,’ he said in a whisper. ‘It has many surprises.’ Great-Uncle Tony himself had spoken those words to Stuart on the stage of a Victorian theatre, just five days (and a hundred and ten years) ago …

  There was a noise behind him, and he turned to see Rod Felton coming into the room, holding a stepladder and a light bulb. Close behind him was April.

  ‘I got the job!’ she announced gleefully.

  ‘Which job?’

  ‘Reviewer for the Beech Road Guardian. And guess what the first thing I’m going to review is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This exhibition! Mr Felton’s just given me permission to see it – not that there’s much to see yet. Shall we take all the rest of the covers off?’

  Before Stuart could protest, April had darted past him and was ripping the dustsheets off the other illusions. He felt as if he’d just woken up on Christmas morning and found that someone else was opening his presents. And then Rod Felton fitted the bulb and switched on the light, and the room that had been full of mystery and e
xcitement just a second ago now looked like a brightly lit shop-window display.

  ‘Seven,’ said April. ‘Seven magic tricks.’

  Rod Felton climbed back down the ladder and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘What we really need is a name and a short description for each illusion – how it works and so on. Do you think you could make a start on that for us, Stuart?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you to it. Incidentally, er’ – he looked rather embarrassed – ‘er, your father’s still sitting in my office. He seems to be talking to himself. I don’t know how to get him out.’

  ‘Tell him the bookshop’s about to close,’ said Stuart.

  The curator nodded and strode out, and the heavy door closed with a bang.

  For a moment there was silence.

  ‘So do you know if these tricks even have names?’ asked April.

  ‘Some of them do,’ said Stuart. ‘When the mayoress was a little kid, she saw Great-Uncle Tony’s stage act – she told me about it.’ That had been on the first occasion he’d ever met the mayoress, Jeannie Carr, and he had learned two things about her: the first was that she loved magic tricks, and the second was that she loved money, to a quite frightening degree.

  He began to walk around the room. ‘The Pharaoh’s Pyramid,’ he said, lightly touching a golden pyramid, taller than himself.

  ‘The Reappearing Rose Bower’ – a bronze throne entwined with silver wire and flowers enamelled in pink and scarlet.

  ‘The Book of Peril’ – a giant book, the jet-black cover locked by a huge key.

  ‘The Well—’

  ‘—of Wishes,’ finished April, and they both stood for a moment beside the object that had led them on such a manic and magical hunt through Beeton.

  ‘It’s odd …’ said April hesitantly.

  ‘What’s odd?’

  ‘The Well of Wishes doesn’t look quite the same as it did when it was in the room under the bandstand. I mean, it’s the same shape and everything, but …’

  Stuart frowned. ‘It doesn’t look any different to me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t put my finger on what’s changed, but something has. Anyway, what’s this one called?’ she asked, pointing at a graceful arch made of mirrored glass.