The History Keepers: The Storm Begins Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Monument Staircase

  2 The London Bureau

  3 Ships and Diamonds

  4 The Escape

  5 Dinner and Atomium

  6 History Alive

  7 The Castle in the Sea

  8 Point Zero

  9 Code Purple

  10 Destination: 1506

  11 The Jewel of the Adriatic

  12 Alone in History

  13 The Shadow of Evil

  14 Unwelcome News

  15 Enter the Dark Prince

  16 Forest Encounter

  17 The Diabolical Tribe

  18 The Chequered Rose

  19 Village Life

  20 The Russian Visitors

  21 Into the Lion’s Den

  22 The Veiled Empire

  23 Unmasked

  24 Castle Surprises

  25 Books, Rats, Cataclysm

  26 Snakes and Ladders

  27 The Deadly Books

  28 The Inescapable Eclipse

  29 The Terrible Truth

  30 Promises and Proposals

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Imagine if you lost your parents – not just in place, but in time …

  Jake Djones’ folks have gone missing and they could be anywhere in the world – at any time in history. For the Djones family have an astonishing secret. They belong to the HISTORY KEEPERS: a secret society which travels through the centuries to prevent evil enemies from meddling with History itself.

  In the quest to find his parents, Jake is whisked from twenty-first-century London to nineteenth-century France, and taken to Point Zero, the headquarters of the society. There he meets an extraordinary group of agents and learns of the evil Zeldt family and their plans to destroy the world as we know it …

  THE PAST IS IN DANGER – ONLY JAKE DJONES CAN SAVE IT!

  FOR CLAUDINE

  And for Ali,

  who she never met

  1 THE MONUMENT STAIRCASE

  THE NIGHT JAKE Djones found out that his parents were lost somewhere in history was one of the stormiest on record. Not since a long-forgotten hurricane in 1703 had London seen a night of such extraordinary weather, such torrents of rain and howling winds.

  On Tower Bridge, at the raging centre of the tempest, an old Bentley, dark blue in colour, made its way unsteadily across the swelling Thames to the north bank. The front lights were on full beam and the wipers worked at double speed in the blinding downpour.

  In the back of the car, sitting nervously on the great leather seat, was a boy – fourteen years old, with olive skin, curly dark hair and brave, intelligent eyes. He was wearing his school uniform: a blazer, black trousers and well-worn leather shoes. Next to him lay his old school bag, bulging with books and papers. Within the frayed tag, emblazoned in bold letters, was the name Jake Djones.

  Jake’s big brown eyes examined the two figures behind the glass partition in the front. On the left was a tall, haughty gentleman dressed in a sombre black suit and top hat. Beside him sat the driver in a chauffeur’s uniform. The two of them were talking in hushed tones, but Jake could not hear what they were saying behind the glass anyway.

  He had been kidnapped by these strangers just thirty minutes ago.

  He’d been hurrying home from school across Greenwich Park when they had stepped out of the shadows just in front of the Royal Observatory. They’d explained he needed to accompany them on a matter of extreme urgency. When Jake had showed understandable reluctance, they’d told him his aunt would meet them at their destination. Jake had questioned this suspiciously, and then the rain had started to fall – first a few drops but quickly a deluge – and the men had taken action. The driver had lifted a handkerchief to Jake’s face; Jake had inhaled something that smelled sharp and stinging and had felt himself falling. He’d woken shortly after and found himself locked in the back of this grand car.

  Jake felt a surge of panic, just as a sudden clap of thunder seemed to shake the very foundations of Tower Bridge. He scanned the inside of the car. It was lined with dark silk and had obviously once been luxurious, though it was now past its best. The doors (he had tried to open them, to no avail, shortly after he had come round) had ornate golden handles. He leaned forward and looked more closely at one of these. In its centre was an intricate design: a symbol of an hourglass with two planets whizzing around it.

  The top-hatted man, his face in shadow, looked round in disapproval. Jake stared resolutely back until the imperious head turned to the road ahead once more.

  The old Bentley came off the bridge. It headed through the maze of city streets until finally it ascended Fish Hill and pulled into a small cobbled square, in the shadow of a great stone column. Jake looked up at the structure: from a solid, square base, a giant pillar, luminous in white limestone, soared into the stormy sky. Its apex, which seemed to Jake almost half a mile away, was topped by a flaming golden urn.

  Jake remembered immediately that he had seen this curious memorial once before: he and his parents, returning from a disastrous trip to the London Dungeon (a clumsy ghoul had slipped on a pool of fake blood, and Health and Safety had to turn on the lights), had come across it by accident. Jake’s father had suddenly become excited, telling his son the history of the building – how it was called the Monument and had been built by Sir Christopher Wren to commemorate the Great Fire of London; and how its gilded summit could be reached by a spiralling staircase inside. Jake had been entranced and longed to climb the staircase, and his father had agreed enthusiastically. But Jake’s mother, usually so full of fun, had inexplicably become panicky and insisted they all go home before the rush hour started. Jake had been pulled away, still gazing back at the column.

  The top-hatted man got out of the car and put up his umbrella. He had to hold on tight to prevent the wind from carrying it away. He opened the back door and looked Jake directly in the eye. ‘Follow me. Do not consider escape.’

  Jake surveyed his captor with distrust. He was elegantly dressed: as well as his silky black top hat, he wore a white collar, black tie, a dark morning suit fitted perfectly to his slim figure, narrow trousers with a faint stripe and immaculately polished boots. His face was distinctive, with a proud aquiline nose, high cheekbones and black eyes, impenetrable with flinty arrogance.

  There was a flash of lightning and another surge of rain-tossed wind.

  ‘Quickly,’ the man barked. ‘We are not the enemy, I promise you.’

  Jake slung his school bag over his shoulder and guardedly climbed out of the car. The man held him tightly by the arm as he knocked on the glass to get the chauffeur’s attention. The electric window descended.

  ‘Go and pick up her majesty straight away.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘And don’t forget Miss St Honoré. She’s at the British Museum; probably in Egyptian antiquities.’

  ‘Egyptian antiquities.’ The ruddy-cheeked chauffeur nodded.

  ‘And, Norland – we set sail in an hour. On the dot, do you understand? No excursions to the betting shop or any of your other low haunts.’

  The chauffeur was irritated by the gibe, but he covered it with a smile. ‘Set sail in an hour, all clear,’ he said, raising the window.

  Jake’s heart was beating at double speed. Suddenly he was overcome with a rush of adrenaline; he yanked his arm free and made a run for it, at full speed, across the square.

  The tall man’s reactions were instant. ‘Stop him!’ he bellowed to a group
of office workers who were heading down the street towards the Underground. So authoritative was his voice that they did not even consider the boy’s innocence. As they converged to intercept him, Jake turned on his heel, changed direction and smacked straight into his kidnapper. There was a loud crack as Jake’s forehead collided with the man’s jaw.

  Jake managed to stay standing, but his pursuer was not so lucky: he tottered backwards, lost his balance, his umbrella took off, and his eyes went up, followed by his long skinny legs. He flew into the air before landing in a large muddy puddle. His top hat rolled down to the base of the Monument. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw the umbrella sail heavenwards, heading for the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Putting aside his own fears, he rushed across to the tangle of long limbs and spoiled clothes. The chauffeur had also left the car in panic; the office workers stood frozen in their tracks.

  Jake looked down at the motionless figure. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, fearing the worst. Despite his youth, his voice had a rich, low tone.

  Finally the head stirred. Careless now of the driving rain, the tall man slowly sat up and swept back the hair from his forehead with a long, languid hand.

  Jake breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were behind me. Are you all right?’ he asked again softly, offering a hand to help the man to his feet.

  The latter ignored the gesture and the question; instead he addressed the chauffeur. ‘What’s keeping you? I repeat, we set sail in one hour!’ he hissed, before turning his venom on the assembly of gawping office workers. ‘Never seen a man fall over before?’

  His tone was unfriendly enough to send the group on their way. Meanwhile the chauffeur got back in the car and started the engine. It pulled away, turned a corner and disappeared, leaving Jake and his captor alone at the base of the giant column. For some reason Jake had lost his desire to run. He picked up the man’s top hat, straightened it and offered it to him with an uncertain smile.

  The man muttered through gritted teeth, ‘I told you that we were not the enemy.’ He pulled himself to his feet, snatched his hat back and placed it on his head. ‘If you don’t believe me, your aunt will clarify matters when she arrives.’

  ‘My aunt …?’ Jake shook his head. ‘What has she got to do with it?’

  ‘Explanations later. Now follow me!’ The tall man went over to the base of the Monument, produced a large key from his waistcoat pocket and inserted it into a hole concealed in the stone. Jake was wondering what on earth he was doing. Then he saw the almost-invisible edge of a doorway – a secret doorway at the very foot of the giant column.

  The man turned the key and the stone door opened with an echoey thud. Within, there was a soft, flickering light from a taper. Momentarily Jake’s anxiety was replaced by fascination. He craned his neck to see inside: there was a small chamber from which descended a wide spiral staircase of ancient stone.

  ‘Quickly! Quickly!’ the man barked. ‘Inside, you will get answers to everything. Including the whereabouts of your parents.’

  The blood drained from Jake’s face. ‘My – my parents?’ he stammered. ‘What’s happened to my parents?’

  ‘Follow me and you will find out,’ was the only reply he got.

  Jake shook his head and remained defiantly rooted to the spot. He took a deep breath and put on his deepest, most intimidating voice. ‘You kidnap me in Greenwich Park. You bundle me into a car – you could be arrested twenty times over. Now I would like some answers! Firstly, what is it that you know about my parents?’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘If you’ll come out of the rain and allow me to change out of my ruined suit’ – he indicated a great tear down the side of his jacket – ‘I will tell you.’

  ‘But who are you?’ Jake persisted stubbornly.

  The man took a calming breath. ‘My name is Jupitus Cole. I have no intention of hurting you. Quite the opposite; I am trying to help. We were forced to kidnap you because it is safer for you to come with us. Now, would you please accompany me below?’

  In truth, the adventurer in Jake was intrigued: by this eccentric man, by the secret door, by the tantalizing staircase. But he continued to stand his ground.

  ‘I don’t understand, what is below?’

  ‘The bureau is below. The bureau!’ snapped Jupitus. ‘If you come, you’ll see!’ His eyes seared into Jake’s. ‘This is a matter of life and death, do you understand? Life and death.’

  There was something about his solemn, determined manner that was compelling. He held open the door for the boy.

  ‘You can leave any time you like, but I can guarantee it will be the last thing you want to do.’

  Jake looked into the chamber and down the staircase. He could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘I need my head examined,’ he muttered as he stepped inside. The door closed behind them both with a resonant thud. The wind whistled down the spiral staircase.

  ‘Now follow me,’ said Jupitus softly, and he started to descend.

  2 THE LONDON BUREAU

  JUPITUS GLIDED DOWN the stairs, his footsteps echoing around the space. Jake followed. The descent was lit at intervals by flickering gas lamps that illuminated a series of ancient murals. Now faded and crumbling, the paintings showed scenes from all the great civilizations of history: from Egypt to Assyria to ancient Athens; from Persia to Rome to Byzantium; from ancient India to the Ottomans to medieval Europe. Jake was transfixed by the pictures of kings and heroes, of epic processions, battles and voyages.

  ‘They were painted by Rembrandt,’ Jupitus explained in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘when the London bureau moved here in 1667. Have you heard of Rembrandt?’

  ‘Yes, I think so …’ said Jake tentatively.

  Jupitus looked round at him with his haughty eyes.

  ‘I mean, I like paintings a lot,’ Jake found himself explaining. ‘Old paintings, where you can imagine how they used to live.’

  He was surprised to find himself saying this. The truth was, he did love old paintings, but he was used to keeping it a secret: he felt that most of his friends at school – and all his enemies – lacked a certain type of imagination. Jake, on the other hand, often slipped off to the Dulwich Picture Gallery on his own, got up close to the paintings, half closed his eyes and imagined he was there, in another era. Often a sour-faced guard would tell him to stand back. He would wait until they had gone before immersing himself once again.

  They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Ahead was a single sturdy door. In the centre of this, engraved in brass, was the same design that Jake had seen in the car: the hourglass with two planets flying around it. It looked ancient, but it also reminded Jake of a diagram he had studied in physics: electrons revolving around the nucleus of an atom.

  Jupitus looked at Jake solemnly. ‘Not many people are brought to this door. And those who are find their lives changed incontrovertibly. Just a warning.’

  Jake involuntarily swallowed a gulp of air.

  Jupitus threw open the door and the two of them stepped inside.

  ‘I will be with you presently. In the meantime, sit here out of the way.’ Jupitus indicated a chair by the door and strode across the room and into an office. ‘We have fifty minutes, everyone!’ he announced, then slammed the door shut behind him.

  Jake’s eyes lit up in wonder.

  The room had something of the look and dimensions of a great old library. Not a public one, such as Jake’s local library in Greenwich, but one you could only visit by special invitation to look at ancient, precious books. It was two storeys high, with spiral staircases on each side leading up to a mezzanine floor packed haphazardly with shelf after shelf of ancient tomes. High at the top, above the bookcases, were mullioned skylights that rattled and whistled in the storm.

  Along the entire length of the room was a great wooden table, lit by flickering green lamps. Old maps, charts, manuscripts, plans and diagrams were spread over it. At intervals amongst these ancient artefacts –
and perhaps the most eye-catching feature of all – stood a series of globes.

  The room was humming with activity. There were several men, dressed in what looked like sailors’ uniforms, quickly but carefully packing items into wooden crates.

  Ignoring Jupitus’s instruction to sit, Jake, his school bag still over his shoulder, cautiously stepped over to the long wooden table and examined one of the globes. It was as old as anything he had ever seen. The names of the countries were handwritten in old-fashioned letters. Jake leaned right over to look more closely. He found Britain, a jewel in the North Sea. Below it, Spain covered a vast area nearly the size of Asia. In the centre of Spain was a faded illustration of an imperious-looking king. America contained nothing but drawings of forests and mountains. Jake looked closer still. At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, amongst the faint images of galleons and dolphins, was a date, only just discernible: 1493.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir …’ One of the uniformed men had appeared with a crate. Jake stepped to one side and the man lifted the great old globe off the table and placed it carefully in the crate. Then he arranged a bed of straw around it, put the lid into position and hammered it shut with nails.

  Jake watched as the man carried the crate towards a large open doorway at the opposite end of the room. He loaded it onto a trolley with a number of other crates. Then the trolley was pulled through the doorway into a corridor beyond.

  Jake’s eye was caught by something else. In a panelled partition, a boy sat working at a desk. He had rosy cheeks, unruly brown hair and thick spectacles that had been repaired with tape. Although he was Jake’s age, he was dressed in a suit of brown check that looked like something an eccentric professor might wear. On his shoulder, sitting very upright, was a parrot. The bird’s plumage of soft feathers was a kaleidoscope of colours, from orange to crimson to deep turquoise-blue.

  The boy was typing quickly on an instrument that looked a little like a typewriter, though there were fewer keys, and in place of letters there were odd symbols. Sticking up out of the back of the apparatus like an aerial was a crystalline rod that fizzed and buzzed with electrical charges as each key was struck. After typing for a while, the boy quickly wound a lever at the side of the machine, then carried on again.