The Eye of Neptune by Jon Mayhew Page A

auger in the roof.
    ‘Is this how you sank the ship?’ he asked, giving the auger wheel a twist.
    ‘No, I just rammed her,’ Georgia said, blushing. ‘The Liberty has a steel spike in her nose. Was your sub, the Maka-waddayacallit , the same?’
    ‘The Makara . Yes, but not quite as big,’ Dakkar said. ‘The small cabin of the Makara had a lid instead of this hatch.’ Dakkar pointed to the hatch in the roof above the captain’s seat. He felt a pang of loss and guilt. Oginski would have wanted the submarine destroyed and sunk rather than falling into enemy hands but, still, to have all that hard work just drift into the depths . . .
    ‘It’s more stable in the waves with just a hatch,’ Georgia said. ‘Uncle had a lid that lifted on an earlier boat but it tipped over. He nearly drowned!’
    Dakkar gave a faint smile but for some reason he felt protective of his old craft. ‘I’m sure Oginski had his reasons for not using a hatch,’ he said, trying not to sound too defensive.
    Georgia had stopped talking and was gazing intently at him. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you ended up on the Palaemon ?’
    As the engine whined, taking them nearer dry land, Dakkar told her about his escape from the castle and Blizzard. He didn’t mention the fish-men. You have to see them to believe them , Dakkar thought. She’d think I was mad .
    ‘What do we know?’ Georgia said when Dakkar had finished his tale. ‘Someone has kidnapped the two greatest inventors of our time, but who?’
    ‘Apart from Oginski, did your uncle mention anyone else in connection with the submersible?’ Dakkar asked her.
    ‘No, but he did seem agitated these last few days,’ Georgia replied. ‘Maybe we can find some answers in the boathouse.’
    ‘The what?’ Dakkar said, frowning.
    Georgia pulled on the drive lever and the engine quietened. Dakkar glimpsed the dark outline of trees as they glided up a woody creek. In the distance, a large rounded roof stood black against the moonlit sky.
    ‘The boathouse,’ Georgia explained, stopping the engine as the building loomed nearer. ‘It was where Uncle Robert did most of his work. His papers are here too – most of them.’
    Slowly the Liberty drifted into the shadow of what looked like a huge barn and they were engulfed by its darkness. Leaning up, Georgia popped the catches on the hatch and pushed it open.
    ‘Are you going to tell your aunt and Mr Fulton’s family what’s happened?’ Dakkar said, as he clambered out of the Liberty and on to the wooden staging that surrounded it on three sides.
    ‘What? Oh no,’ Georgia whispered, her face lost in shadow. ‘There’s no time. Whoever took my uncle is getting away. There’d be too much to explain. Plus they wouldn’t let me go after him.’
    ‘But they’ll be worried,’ Dakkar said.
    ‘It sounds awful, I know, but they’ll be worried either way so I’d rather not tell them,’ Georgia said. ‘Are you really a prince?’
    Without waiting for an answer, she hurried to a small door at the back of the boathouse and disappeared through it. Within seconds, the glow of an oil lamp threw feeble yellow lines across the timbers of the boathouse. Dakkar heard Georgia rummaging and things being thrown aside. He crept up and peered inside.
    The room was small and cobwebby. Boxes and cases lined its walls in a disorderly heap. Georgia had her back to Dakkar and was flicking through sheaves of papers.
    Dakkar looked at the untidy desk with an aching heart. It looked so like Oginski’s. A brown leather-bound journal, sitting on the edge of the desk, caught his eye.
    ‘What’s this?’ Dakkar murmured, picking it up. ‘Your uncle’s diary?’
    ‘We shouldn’t read that!’ Georgia gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.
    ‘You said yourself that we don’t have time to waste,’ Dakkar said, raising his eyebrows and flicking through the pages.
    Much of the diary outlined deliveries of materials and social appointments with the family.