Peter and the Sword of Mercy Read Free

you.”
    The curator studied her. His eyes flicked over the other three figures, lingering for a moment on the Skeleton, then back to Johns.
    “And if I did know something,” he said, “why would I tell you?”
    The Skeleton stepped forward. “Because I want you to,” he said.
    For a moment the room was silent. Then the curator, his ice blue eyes on the Skeleton, said, “I don’t care who you are. I will not betray my ancestors. Do what you want; you will get nothing from me.”
    Because of the severe damage to his face, the Skeleton was not physically capable of showing pleasure. But he was pleased with the curator’s answer.
    “You are a brave man,” he said. With a swift motion he pulled back his hood, revealing his grotesque skull. The old woman whimpered. The curator struggled not to flinch as the Skeleton moved closer.
    “But in my experience,” said the Skeleton, “bravery is no match for properly applied pain.” He leaned close, his lone yellow eye burning in his monstrous face. “And nobody,” he rasped, “has more experience with pain than I do.”

CHAPTER 3
     
    T HE V ISITOR
     
    T HE DOORBELL RANG , AND Mrs. George Darling sighed. She had just sat down for her first relaxing moment after a long and busy day. She put down the newspaper—another awful story about somebody disappearing in the Underground—and rose from her chair.
    “Who is it?” shouted a high-pitched voice from upstairs, followed by a clatter of descending footsteps, followed by the appearance of her two sons, John and Michael.
    “Who is it?” repeated Michael, who was three and, as always, was holding his stuffed bear.
    “How would she know?” said John, who was seven and therefore knew a great deal more than Michael about everything. “She hasn’t opened the door yet, you ninny.”
    “Mum!” cried Michael. “John called me a—”
    “I heard what he called you,” said Mrs. Darling, glaring at John as she reached the front door, “and I will discuss it with him later. But right now you will both behave.” She opened the door, and her frown turned instantly to a smile at the sight of the tall figure standing there.
    “James!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise! Do come in!”
    “Are you sure?” James said. “I know it’s late, but…”
    “Nonsense!” she said, taking his arm and pulling him into the foyer. “John, Michael,” she said. “This is Mr. Smith.”
    Michael eyed James warily. “Who are you?” he said.
    “Michael Darling, that is a rude question,” said Mrs. Darling. “Mr. Smith is a very dear friend to your father and me. And we are delighted to see him at any hour, especially after…James, how long has it been?”
    “Years, I’m afraid, Molly,” said James.
    “Molly?” said John. He giggled.
    She turned to her son. “It’s the name I went by when I was a girl.”
    James blushed. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I didn’t realize …”
    “There’s no need to apologize,” said Molly. “It’s just that George considers Molly a childish nickname. These days he prefers to call me by my given name, Mary. But that would sound odd coming from you. Please, call me Molly.”
    “Molly!” said John, giggling again.
    “Are you a barrister?” asked Michael. “Our father is a barrister. He wears a wig. But he’s not a lady.”
    “Michael!” said Molly.
    “Well, are you a barrister?” repeated Michael.
    “No,” said James, with a glance toward Molly. “I work for Scotland Yard.” He saluted the boys. “Inspector Smith, at your service.”
    “An inspector from Scotland Yard!” said John, delighted. He peered up at James through his round eyeglasses. “Are you looking for a murderer?” he said.
    James grinned. “Not at the moment, no. But I am on a top secret assignment.”
    “Really!” said John.
    “Yes. I’m looking for children who skip their baths.”
    “Oh,” said John, disappointed.
    “I’ve had my bath!” said Michael. “Yesterday, I think.”
    James