I heard a door close upstairs and the bellringer ambled over to us. He was around twenty. Still in his puppy stage, with long, gangly legs and big feet. Sandy blond hair that had probably been cut by a friend.
“Josh Sidwell,” he said, extending his hand.
“Lizzy Tucker,” I said, shaking his hand.
Glo stuck her hand out and smiled. “Gloria Binkly, and I’ve never dated anyone named Josh before. I’m, like, a Josh virgin.”
“Jeez,” Josh said. “I’m honored.”
“How do you get to be a bellringer?” I asked him.
“I’m a member of the MIT Guild of Bellringers.”
“Wow, a college guy,” Glo said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even been arrested.”
“I got caught smoking pot once, but I was underage, and I didn’t get charged with a felony.”
“Even better,” Glo said.
“So tell me about the bells,” I said to Josh.
“There are eight of them. They were cast in Gloucester, England, in 1744, and they were hung here in Old North in 1745. They were restored in 1894 and again in 1975.”
“Is it possible to play a song with them?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but they’re not designed to play a song. These are tone bells. We have certain sequences that we play,” Josh said. “It’s a complicated process.”
“This is confusing,” I said. “I was under the impression there were nine bells.”
“Nope,” he said. “Right from day one, there were only eight. Maybe you’re thinking about the Duane bell. Charles Duane was a church rector. He was the first rector to have the bells refurbished. He also had a small replica bell made as well and asked that it be buried with him. Sometimes it’s referred to as the ninth bell.”
“Where’s he buried?”
“Here,” Josh said. “There are thirty-seven tombs and over eleven hundred bodies buried in the basement.”
“That’s a lot of bodies to bury in your basement,” Glo said.
“They give tours,” Josh said. “It’s awesome. Charles Duane has a plaque and everything. Not everybody has a plaque.”
“Is it creepy down there?” Glo asked. “Are there ghosts?”
“The tour I took didn’t see any ghosts. At least, I didn’t see any. And it wasn’t creepy, except it feels a little claustrophobic.”
“Thanks,” I said to Josh. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Are you walking the Freedom Trail?”
“No,” Glo said. “We’re saving mankind.”
“Excellent,” Josh said. “See you Sunday.”
“He was dreamy,” Glo said, when we got back to my car. “He could be the one I’ve been looking for. He spoke English and everything. I have a good feeling about him.”
We left the North End and hit 1A at rush hour. Route 1A isn’t good at the best of times. Rush hour is excruciating. By the time I rolled into Marblehead, I was starving and my back was in spasm.
“Remind me to never do that again,” I said to Glo.
“If I could just get Broom to cooperate, we could fly,” Glo said. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about traffic. Harry Potter didn’t have to worry about traffic.”
“You realize Harry Potter isn’t real, right?”
“Of course, but he could be. I mean, maybe not Harry Potter, but someone like him. Who’s to say?”
Glo had parked on the street in front of my house, and I pulled in behind her.
“You got your car fixed,” I said.
“My neighbor fixed it for me. I went out with him once, but it didn’t work out.”
“He was shot with a nail gun?”
“No. He decided he was gay. He said it wasn’t my fault, but I’m not so sure.”
We went into the house, and I pulled food out of the fridge. All bakery rejects. Ugly meat pies and stale cupcakes. Glo was halfway through a meat pie and a beer when the back door burst open, and Hatchet jumped into the kitchen, brandishing his sword.
“Vile wenches,” he said. “Out of my way whilst I search this keep.”
“What’s a keep?” Glo asked him.
“You’ve blacked your windows,” Hatchet said to me. “You’re hiding something, and I want it.”
“Dude,” Glo said. “You need to chill. Have a meat pie.”
“I will not be dissuaded by your meat pie,” Hatchet said. “I want the clue.”
“Here’s the thing,” Glo said. “You’re kind of cute. Like, you’ve got this medieval thing going for you, and it’s sort of a turn-on. I mean, I met this other guy today, and he might be the one, but then again it might be you, if you could just get over the bossy part of your personality.”
Hatchet lowered his sword. “Thou thinkst I’m bossy?”
“Maybe you’re just hungry,” Glo said. “Does Wulf feed you? Take a meat pie while I get my book. I was thinking about you last night, and I found a spell that might help.”
Glo pulled Ripple’s Book of Spells out of her canvas messenger bag, set it on the counter, and paged through it.
Hatchet looked at the meat pies. “Dost thou have a ham and cheese?”
I gave him a paper towel and a ham meat pie. “You want a beer?”
“Aye. A tankard of ale would be fine.”
“How about a bottle?”