CHAPTER 3

Cold breezes rapped the glass that Friday morning. The rays of light bounced and cascaded through the wintry, sleetfilled air, through the octagonal turret windows of Toby's room at the top of the house and onto the young man's face, stirring him a few moments before his alarm clock sounded its two great brass gongs just after eight. The young man awoke, rubbed his eyes to rouse himself before prizing himself from his warm, snug bed and into the chilly air that seemed to fill the room. Toby had no real love of winter, and it showed as the minute hairs on his bare arms, from where they emerged from his light sleepwear, stood upright from his goose-pimpled skin. Overcoming the cold, and sweeping his hand through his messy hair, he went about his business, washing, shaving, eating a slice of toast fresh from Gretchen's electric toasting rack in the kitchen area downstairs. It was during breakfast that the telephone nosily interrupted his meal. Toby's father, Brightly, looked up from his paperwork and glanced at his son. "Suppose you'd better get that, son," he grunted. "Alright, alright" Toby sighed, walking through to the telephone on it's little table in the hallway. He picked the receiver from the springy holder. "Hello?" "Ah, good," a voice that Toby sort-of recognised said briskly. "Who's calling?" "Ah, brilliant, it's you, Toby," "Who's calling?" "Oh, right, sorry. It's George." "George?" "You know George." Toby knew who George was. "Yeah." "Your presence is required, usual place. How long will you be?" Must be serious, Toby thought. George didn't even need to tell him what it was about, but Toby knew. "Give me about an hour. I'll take the train." The line went dead, and the receiver almost found its own way into the cradle. Toby went back into the kitchen, where his father was still reading his paperwork over some warm toast. His second slice, Toby noted. "I'm needed in London, dad." Not a movement from the older man and his papers. "At Bertram's?" "No." Brightly looked over, sceptically, but met his son's genuine look of anxiousness. "Very well. Nothing too lifethreatening, is it?" "No, I don't suppose it is," Toby said, turning. Quietly, to himself, he muttered. "I hope not." Once he'd dressed himself in his hefty woollen coat, going down past his knees and had tightly fastened it and wrapped his scarf around his throat. Toby left the modest little house just before a quarter to eight. The walk to the railway station, perched in the middle of the town, which was still mostly asleep at this time, was only a ten minute one, and by 8:30 Toby stood on the stone platform of Epsom station, a card ticket clasped by a leather-gloved hand, under the pristinely painted cast iron canopy, resplendent in brilliant dark green paint, with details picked out, like the Southern Railway symbols built into the awning supports and cast into the ironwork of the railings and balustrades, in glorious dark, shiny green. It seemed the Southern had performed freshening up of it's property to welcome in the new decade; flecks of paint from the time it had been applied were still visible, not weathered at all, on the cement around the railing posts. Within a minute or two, a distant chugging and chuffing down the line became ever nearer, and with that, a small, but busy train pulled into the station, stopping at the platform with the screech and squeal of steel brake shoes against flanged metal wheels taking hold. The locomotive was a smart green Southern tender engine, with two large wheels connected by rods and linkages to cylinders at the front of the frame, and two smaller wheels at the front holding the smoke box, which was grey and dusted in soot and ash from the chimney at its apex. The tender, in the same dark, shiny green hue as the locomotive in front, held coal and water for the morning's journeys, and displayed the engine's number in classic yellow swirly writing, outlined in white, with what seemed like a shadow of glossy maroon paint. "Oh, ol' Southy," Toby mouthed to himself, "always a beautiful train if ever I saw one." Which he had. Toby was biased, of course. He'd spotted the dark, oval metal plate attached to the locomotive's boiler, displaying its heritage: Mount Machine-works, 1905. A Consolidation class. Even though his passion for his father's trade had waned and withered, how could he not be proud of the sheer workmanship as one of his father's surrogate children, almost, as that was how his father viewed every locomotive that rolled from the foundry in North London, pulled in to collect him on his merry way. There wasn't a great deal of people waiting on the platform, so Toby had liberty to peer through the misty windows of the brown carriages for a suitable looking entrance. Seeing one in the second carriage of the train, where there were a few seats available. It was a busy morning working from Guildford, and as the train had made it's way up the line towards London, the eight carriages the engine pulled along the track had slowly but steadily filled with silent, preoccupied commuters wanting, presumably, nothing more than to get off at their destination and begin their working

days. Toby clambered through the little doorway into the second carriage from the engine, and took a seat on one of the benches. Local services to London only used communal seating on passenger trains, unlike express trains which had their own little compartments, set from corridors that ran the length of the coach, for privacy. There were already a good number of passengers already in their seats, having joined the train further up the line, and Toby sat down, and the rest of the carriage filled with shuffling commuters from the platform outside, who one after the other either produced newspapers from their coats or pulled leftover work from their leather cases to complete in the carriage, widely renowned as a most conducive final-chance working environment, while propped up on their snow-soaked knees. The train journey was uneventful and short, passengers alighting and embarking as the little steam engine and it's carriages snailed it's way along the snowy track, as it always was for Toby, who simply looked at the white embankments as they slipped by, looking like heaps of sugar, only less sweet and colder, less inviting. Chugging through the countryside, through towns and finally into the city, the train weaved along it's iron track between houses and over viaducts and bridges, before finally slowing with a squeak under an impressive, arched iron roof. Toby looked, waking himself from the half-daze he had been rocked into by the motion of the train, to see people all around, walking all in one direction. He stepped from the carriage at his destination, London's brilliant, vaulted, but chilly Imperium station, not far from the Palace, of course, and passed through the ticket check at the end of the platform. The attendant, cold and tired, nodded him through the barrier and out onto the rest of the station area, where Toby started negotiating his way along the concourse and out of the tall, red brick building, with spires vaulting skyward toward the grey clouds, pregnant and heaving with snow, out from under the metal-and-glass apron frontage and into the city. Toby had for a few years now been helping out a small outfit that took it upon itself to poke around in cases long thought beyond the application of reasons ability to get to the bottom of. Hed found it a short while after returning from his stint of duty in the 1906 Franco-Prussian War that he had found himself a part of, and it kept him busy while he was readjusting to life back in merry old England. They called themselves The Green Glass. Why that was escaped Toby. He'd never asked, and their de facto 'leader', the Old Major, never ventured to elaborate. Toby walked along the narrow roads off the main thoroughfares from the station, taking a left onto Highvale Terrace, and then a right where Highvale met Farnham Lane, until he came to a large, decript old building that had obviously been townhouses at one point in its existence, but now had been converted inside to function as offices for hire, but most of them were old, abandoned and falling to pieces, from when the tenants of those properties had died without provisioning for the leases to be signed over to another party. Toby fumbled at the white, heavy wood door for his keys, and let himself in. The door was stiff, but this was no match for a well-placed kick from a heavy, snow-crusted winter boot. Toby walked out of the small vestibule inside the door and into a darkly panelled and richly carpeted stairwell, not too wide but not uncomfortably cramped either. The panels were dusty and the carpet bald from heavy footfall in prior years. A wooden staircase with an aged cream runner along the centre hugged an iron lattice shaft, which went the full height of the building; six floors, including the basement. Musky, yellow light filtered from a skylight at the top of the stairs. Many of the light fixtures were devoid of bulbs, and those who did have bulbs glowed so weakly that they made no difference to the stuffy gloom within. Toby walked up to the concertina door for the elevator and pressed the little button on the panel, and a white tell-tale illuminated. Gears and pulleys creaked and groaned, and the iron car descended from the heavens, and stopped abruptly at the foot of the shaft. Toby manhandled the stiff doors and stepped inside. A half-moon control was on the inside of the car, and it had a handle, a lot like a crank, that travelled from the top to bottom. It currently had set itself to the position from the ground. Toby pulled the handle up until it met the engraved numeral five on the brass disc. The door just about managed to close itself, and the lift began its slow, clunky ascent into the rafters of the building. With a clattering and groan of metal under friction against more metal, like wails of a being that found any attempt at movement agony, the lift stopped at the fifth floor. Toby grumpily discovered the old door release had taken a dislike to him, and pushed the door out of the way and stepped out of the landing, with the stairs leading up to the left. In front of the small, square landing was a solid oak door, dusty and marked with the traces of woodworm from long ago, which Toby opened, giving it a little kick where it stuck to the frame. Inside, the poorly-lit, narrow passageway opened out into a wide floor full of desks, bookshelves and towering wooden curios full of shallow drawers. There were other doors leading to other rooms, but this was the main floor, marks on the floor indicating where old partition walls used to be, and had long since been ripped out This was a place where Toby always felt warm and welcomed, although especially warm due to the dozen or so powerful electrically operated air fans blowing a steady stream of warmed air through ducts to each floor. Someone was being kind and keeping them warm in the winter. "Anyone in?" he called. His voice echoed off the walls of the empty place. Walking toward the empty floor, he saw a messy desk surrounded and buried by papers, texts and the occasional trinket of antiquity, Toby threw his scarf lazily onto the desk with a thud. Dust flew up. Then there was a sound of sauntering, sombre footsteps. Muted chatter reverberated through walls at the far end. Someone was in, he was sure of it! Within a second, a bespectacled auburn-haired fellow appeared at the threshold of an old enclosed room at the far end of the floor, and motioned for Toby to come forward.

"You'd better come in." Inside the small chamber was an aged, balding sofa, and sitting on it was a pair of twins, one male, the one from a moment ago, tall, skinny and the other a smartly dressed lady whose hair was as equally strawberry-shaded as her brother's. The pair of them looked in their mid-twenties, so around the same ages as Toby. They hastily shifted as Toby entered the room. Toby instantly noticed another man, an older gentleman with thick-rimmed spectacles and a taut bowler hat, sitting behind the desk. Where he didn't belong. Toby didn't know this man, and was naturally a little defensive. "Wheres the old Major?" Toby asked, impudently. The little office was usually the one occupied by the old crust that founded and ran the ragtag bunch of amateur sleuths. The male twin, George, sat in the creaky old wooden chair that was slung behind the mahogany desk that was festooned with messy piles of paper, dried pens and dust that had presumably fallen from the old, rusting rafters holding the roof up. "Oh, you didnt hear?" the man in glasses said, looking up from the desk. "Old Major Holborns been taken ill." "Ill? Have they fetched the physician?" Toby gasped, surprised. The Old Major was a battle-axe, and had never been taken unwell at any point, as far as he could remember. The other twin, a woman with long, immaculately brownish-blond hair, looked across again and took her turn to speak. George's twin sister, Milly. Though her name was actually Milan, Toby thought, and remembered why that was. Named after his favourite city in continental Europe, their father had explained once. Pretentious idiot. The girl herself must've agreed: she insisted on being called Milly instead. "Its the polio again. Took hold last night. The bitter cold of this time of year did nothing but exacerbate it, so the doctor informed us." Toby paused. "So what do we do?" "Nothing." The rest of the people in the room turned their gazes to the man at the desk, as he finally spoke. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure" Toby ventured. "It's not a pleasure, I can assure you," the man said, smartly. "Then might I enquire as to your business here?" "My name is Riddle, executor for the late Frederick Fitzgerald Holborn" He wasn't a real Major, of course. Toby coughed loudly, interrupting. "Late?!" "Indeed, late. Major Holborn died peacefully yesterday evening." The female twin, Milly, took an audible gasp. Of shock, of disbelief. It couldn't be! "Any cause?" "Yes," Riddle said, "pneumonia. I take my position of executor very seriously. Major Holborn's express wish was to gather the members of the Green Glass together in his office on the morning after his passing. Without fail. This has been accomplished. "Second, I am to inter to you what has been duly bequeathed by the deceased." "You mean, we were in his will?" Toby said. "That's right," Riddle replied, looking in a case he held behind the desk out of view. He produced from it a card folder and opened it on the desk. Inside was a typed document which he held, his eyes scanning it briefly before he began to read. "To the three young minds to which brought me much revitalisation and allowed me a second youth, I award you the entirety of my estate's worth in pounds, to be split equally." The three, George, Milly and Toby, looked at each other, unsure how to feel. Guilty for being the Major's only beneficiaries, but also curious. What estate? It was their belief he was nothing more than a forgotten pauper. "What does that amount to, sir?" asked George. Riddle had already located three cheques in the folder. "You each receive, dated the first day of January, the year of our lord nineteen-hundred and ten, a deposit note for 76,000, for a total of 228,000." A small fortune, indeed. The Major'd kept that quiet. Gulps were all that came from the opposite side of the desk as the notes were handed out. They were written in the scrawl of a man who knew his days were very limited, barely legible and jagged. "For Mr. Toby Mount," Riddle continued, reaching into the case, "you are awarded a package from the deceased." Toby looked on. Out of the case came a little package, wrapped in torn brown paper and secured by string. On the reverse, Toby saw the folds of the paper were sealed with wax. How quaint. "Can I open it?" "I'd hazard to presume you can," Riddle said kindly. Toby eased the string from the sides of the package and tore the paper. It was a book, dog-eared and old. On the cover, a picture of a snowy peak, with clouds and rocks jutting from the glacial ice on top. The title was faded in silvery guild: A Peak, The Future-kind. "Nothing else?" George asked, ponderous about why Toby had an additional gift. Maybe the money wasn't enough for him? Why did he care that Toby'd been given an old book that he'd, for sure, never heard of. "That's all there is to deal with," Riddle said, closing the leather case he'd brought with him and standing, making for the door. "I'll bid you kind gentlemen good day. And you, too," he said toward Milly, "my lady," before

leaving the office, and walking down the stairs with footsteps that got fainter and fainter until they were no longer audible at all. An awkward silence ensued. "Come on, then," said George, his voice agitated. "Open it up." "It's just an old book, George," Toby protested. But George wasn't satisfied. "Open it, maybe, you know, it's been hollowed out and has a great gold ingot in there." Toby snorted. The book was far too light to be hiding something in it's cover. "Don't be stupid." But George's eyes were narrowed, and Toby opened the book anyway. It wasn't hollowed out. "See!" But there was writing on the inside cover. I could never get the strength to make an expedition here, but I hope you will, someday, Toby boy. The Major. "Expedition?" Milly asked as Toby put the book down, after reciting the Major's note. "I don't know, I guess I'll have to read it." George suddenly got up. He looked bored and fidgety. "I'm going." "Really, why?" "Nothing here, anymore." "What if we mounted, brother," Milly said pleadingly, "what if we were to go, when Toby's read it." "Perhaps it's better if we re-acquainted ourselves with reality, sister." "You didn't enjoy your time with the Major." "I did. But he's not here now, is he, Toby?" Why was George so resentful of Toby being gifted an old book? Was he insinuating Toby'd killed him? "Perhaps," said Toby flatly, turning in his seat to face George, who was at the doorway to the office, "it would be best for you to, as you put it, 're-acquaint yourself with reality', whatever barren existence you lead." "Fine," said George, and he stomped out. Halfway across the floor, he turned and called to his sister. "Come along, Mils." "In a moment, George," Milly said shortly, before turning to Toby, who was sat in his seat. "In a moment." Her voice was suddenly. seductive. How odd. Slightly uncomfortable, too. Toby moved out of the chair and busied himself in the open space outside the little office. Milly, instinctively, seemed to follow him. She propped herself lazily on one of the old benches in the room. A box of drawing pins fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. The clatter filled the silence. Toby moved to pick them up. He didn't know why, the top floor was a mess anyway. Maybe as a mark of respect for the dead Major. He didn't know why he did it. Toby placed the casket back on the table next to Milly, who he didn't notice was watching him. Looking at him. She grabbed his hand. Boldly does it! Then he noticed her. "Lets see what youve got here" said Milly smoothly, lifting the lid of the case he'd just placed back on the bench, "Ah!" she gasped quietly, before wrenching the box free of Tobys hands and tossing it carelessly onto the floor again, with a few stray pins flying out of the unlatched lid onto the dusty floor. Toby moved quickly, almost to catch the box, but was stopped by a hand around his neck, grasping at his shirt collar and thoroughly ruining the knot of the tie he was wearing? "Mils, what are you doing?" he asked, looking at Mills, shocked and not sure what to do. "My intentions are harboured towards you. Isn't that obvious?" "Er, well, that was a bit blunt, now, wasnt it?" Toby coughed incredulously. Hed always been awkward around Milly in the past, not being able to properly look at her in the eye, and nor could he really feel comfortable talking to her without her twin George around. Maybe he'd known somehow that she'd felt this way. Only problem was, he didn't. Though in the last couple times they'd met, a few glints across the floor had been exchanged. Always from her. Always making Toby uneasy. Now it was clear why. There was no more time to think, as two mouths, one unwilling, the other lusting, met in the air. Luckily for Toby, this sudden movement had jarred his pocket watch free of his waistcoat, and it dangled on the edge of its chain. He glanced at it very briefly, just long enough to gather the time before one of Milans hands almost seductively ran itself down the chain to Tobys acute surprise. At this point, Toby intervened to stop this unsolicited, unexpected frolicking. "Look, I'm sorry..." he said, gently pushing her away, and removing her wayward hand, "I have a prior engagement I really must attend to." He was lying, of course. Father at the factory wasn't a prior engagement. And certainly not one Toby really had to attend to. "Fine," she said, falling back into a chair, but still fixing her eyes firmly on Toby. She rubbed her hands together slowly. "Attend to this first?" How unsubtle. Toby understood the hint.

His eyebrows raised almost instinctively. He spluttered with incredulities and sheer surprise. But time was not on his side. This was decided in an instant. "Take me," she gasped, "take me on an expedition." "Look, Milly Mils" Toby stuttered, his eyes drawn to anything in the room bar Milly's piercing eyes. She picked herself up from the bench and floated across the floor to him. "No matter, Toby," she said, a piece of paper falling from her hand to his, followed by her turning to face the open door. "Ill be waiting. Im sure we can test the water, just for an evening, till morning, maybe, if all" She winked slowly, and glided out. Toby looked down, and saw he was holding a note. He unfolded it, and on it read an address, scribbled in ink on the paper. He looked up, thinking to himself, but yet again remembering the time. The note was folded back up and shoved into the pocket with the watch, and he too went for the lift and left. The office door behind him slammed in the breeze, dust falling from the lintel. It was unlikely that Toby would ever come here again. A while later, Toby stood on the platform of the elevated railway that criss-crossed London. It was still Arctic and cold. His mind was torn, between Milan, the book, the money, and a deep consideration. What did he want to do with his life? The book in his coat pocket came to mind. The covers fell open as Toby brought it out. He scanned the text and flipped a few pages. The train rumbled along the rails toward the platform, so he could only look at the summary on the back briefly as it was stuffed back into the pocket. Toby grunted with intrigue. Something about people living in a mountain. Cute. Must be some fantastical work of fiction. That'd be a good distraction for now.