CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTMAS IN CREWE
“Pssst, Hal! Are you awake?”
Sitting up in bed, Hal blinked open his bleary eyes. His bedroom was dark, but he could smell coffee. A figure in pinstriped pajamas stood in his doorway, backlit by the landing light.
“Uncle Nat?” Hal bounced up onto his knees in delight. “You came!”
“Happy Christmas, Hal.”
Hal turned on his lamp, illuminating the Christmas cards on his bedside table from Lenny, Hadley, and Mason, who were friends he’d met on his train travels. The desk at the foot of his bed was covered with loose sketches of his family, his dog, and trains—lots and lots of trains. Clustered against the wall beside a leaning tower of sketchbooks were jam jars and tins stuffed with pencils, pens, and paintbrushes. Hal loved to draw, and his favorite time to do it was on a train with Uncle Nat.
The glistening black nose of Hal’s fluffy white dog, Bailey, pushed past his uncle, panting as she scrambled eagerly onto the bed, blue eyes shining, lolling tongue at the ready.
“Bailey, get off! Urgh, no!” Hal protested as she licked his face.
Uncle Nat laughed. “I thought children were up with the lark on Christmas morning.”
“What time is it?”
“Six.” Uncle Nat took a sip from his mug of coffee. “Bev told me to give you a prod. I think Father Christmas has been here.”
Hal whooped. It had been two months since their adventure on the California Comet and, though he was trying not to get his hopes up for another train trip so soon after the last, the thought of traveling with his uncle again made lightning bolts of excitement crackle in his stomach. He raced downstairs, Uncle Nat and Bailey hot on his heels.
“Happy Christmas, pet,” said his mother softly, carrying his baby sister, Ellie, in her arms, feeding her a bottle. She looked at Nat. “Will James be joining us later, for Christmas dinner?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s working and then driving down to his mom and dad’s.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“I’m tired. Let’s all go back to bed,” said Hal’s dad, coming out of the kitchen.
Hal laughed. His dad’s eyes were bright with mirth. He loved Christmas as much as Hal did.
“Now, Hal…” His dad adopted a serious tone as he followed Hal into the living room. “We’ve had a little chat and decided, now that you’re twelve, you’re too old for a stocking.”
“Da-aa-ad,” groaned Hal. His dad made the same joke every year.
“We took it down from the fireplace last night,” his dad continued, enjoying his son’s grumbling. “You’ll be a teenager soon, and—”
“Then what’s that over there?” Hal pointed at the stocking that he’d hung beside their gas fire the night before and which now lay, bulging, on the floor beside the tree.
“Well, I’ll be!” Hal’s dad scratched his head. “Where did that come from?”
“Dad!” Hal clapped his hands over his face. “Stop it!”
Uncle Nat was chuckling, perched on the arm of the sofa, as Hal’s mom sank into the cushions, still cradling Ellie.
“I hope you’ve been a good boy this year.” His dad raised his eyebrows questioningly. “If you haven’t, it might be full of potatoes and coal.”
“A good boy? I caught a jewel thief and solved a kidnapping! I’ve been a great boy!”
“Go on, pet.” His mother laughed. “Open your stocking.”
Hal unwrapped a yo-yo, a set of grooming tools for Bailey, a whoopee cushion (which his dad immediately blew up and pretended to accidentally sit on), a pair of pencils that doubled as drumsticks, and a deck of cards with vintage train posters on the back. Hal took his time admiring each gift and saying thank you, but as he unwrapped them, his eye kept drifting to the parcels beneath the tree, looking for a label in his uncle’s sloping handwriting.
“You made fast work of that!” his mother said, as Hal dangled the stocking upside down and watched a tangerine and a walnut tumble out. She handed Ellie to Hal’s father. “Let’s open the tree gifts after breakfast. We’re having pancakes, Nat, with bacon and maple syrup. Hal wanted a breakfast like the ones you had on the California Comet.”
“But, Bev, I’m dying to see what Hal’s got me for Christmas,” said Uncle Nat, catching hold of her hand. “Can’t we exchange our gifts first?”
“Yes, let’s do that!” Hal jumped to his feet, and Bailey barked excitedly. Without waiting for his mother’s reply, he dived under the tree, ignoring the prickly spines, and pulled out a rectangular parcel. “Happy Christmas, Uncle Nat.” He swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I hope you like it.”
Uncle Nat ripped away the wrapping paper, revealing a framed sketch of the Highland Falcon steaming across the Ribblehead Viaduct in Yorkshire. “Hal!” he gasped. “Did you draw this?”
Hal nodded.
Uncle Nat’s eyes had gone glassy. He held the picture at arm’s length. “It’s perfect, Hal. I love it.” He held his free arm out and caught Hal in a hug. “Come here. Thank you—it’s the best Christmas present I could have wished for. I will hang it in my sitting room above the fireplace.”
Hal blushed with pride.
“He’s been working on it for weeks,” his mom said, beaming.
“Well, now I feel bad,” said Uncle Nat. “My present’s nowhere near as good.” He pulled a parcel from his pocket, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a red ribbon. “I hope you like it.”
“Thank you,” Hal said. The gift was the size of a large chocolate bar and felt hard. He untied the ribbon and pulled back the paper to find he was holding a tin of charcoal sticks.
“I thought you might enjoy drawing with charcoal,” Uncle Nat said.
Hal felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. He grinned wildly at the tin, trying not to show his disappointment. “Oh, wow! Uncle Nat, these are amazing! I’ve never drawn with charcoal before. Thank you.”
Everyone in the room was staring at him, so he opened the tin to show how interested he was in the charcoal sticks. As he did, a small card fell out and tumbled to the floor. Hal picked it up.
“You’ll need something to draw, of course,” Uncle Nat added.
The card was hunter green, embossed with gold writing. Hal stared at it. He tried to speak, but he didn’t have breath or words and found his mouth impersonating a fish’s. He looked at his uncle, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“We’re going to South Africa, Hal,” Uncle Nat said with delight. “In the February half term. We’re taking the Safari Star from Pretoria all the way through Zimbabwe to see Victoria Falls, on the border of Zambia. I thought you might like the charcoal to draw the animals we’ll see in the safari parks—”
But he didn’t finish what he was saying because Hal was yelling and running at him, charcoal sticks flying as he flung his arms round his uncle, knocking him off the sofa.
South Africa! Hal’s heart was bursting with joy at the thought of another railway journey with his uncle. But he had no idea it would turn out to be their most dangerous adventure yet.
CHAPTER TWO
SAFARI STATION
Hal licked the edge of his thumb and smudged the lines of charcoal in his sketchbook, teasing them out to look like sharp black quills. The subject of his drawing was nibbling tree bark and glowering at him. The porcupine had a spongy nose, a salt-and-pepper Mohawk, long prickly spines, and a stubby tail. Hal leaned forward to study its face, and the spiky creature huffed, mooching off toward the train shed and flopping into a dusty hole.
“A prickly customer,” Uncle Nat observed. His fair face was shaded from the glare of the sun by a broad-brimmed panama hat, and he looked every bit the European traveler in his crisp white shirt and ivory linen suit.
They were sitting at an iron table on the empty platform of Pretoria Gardens, a private rail terminal on the outskirts of the city. Before being converted to a station it had been a grand country house, and its grounds, now teeming with wildlife, had once been formal gardens. Hal thought of everyone back home in Crewe having a cold, gray February half-term holiday and grinned at the red-and-brown-speckled Nguni cattle grazing on the other side of the tracks in the morning sunshine.
* * *
They had landed in Johannesburg the previous night and left for Pretoria first thing that morning. It was only an hour’s drive from their hotel, and Hal had been itching to explore the station. As their taxi had crawled up the white gravel drive, Hal drank in the impressive redbrick building covered with creepers and flowering vines. A bottle-green sign, half hidden in the flower beds, read ACKERMAN RAIL in peeling gold paint. A combination of excitement and hunger made Hal feel as if an army of frogs were bouncing about in his belly.
A porter took their luggage, then served them breakfast on the veranda, which was really only a wide part of the platform. The railway track was so close to the house that it looked like an eccentric driveway.
As Hal wolfed down his fruit and pastries, a man with a grin like a hungry crocodile strode toward their table. His closely cropped silver hair and beard made the suntan on his white skin more bronze, and he was dressed in a blue shirt and chalk-white trousers.
“Nathaniel Bradshaw? I’m Luther Ackerman. Welcome to Pretoria Gardens and my family’s railway.” He shook Uncle Nat’s hand vigorously. “I’m so happy you accepted my invitation. Prepare for the experience of a lifetime! The Safari Star is a luxury hotel on wheels, the crown jewel of my fleet. We’ll bring the wildlife of Africa to your window—the journey to Victoria Falls is one of the greatest in the world.” His eyes darted to Hal as he finished his sales patter.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ackerman,” Uncle Nat replied, retrieving his hand. “This is my nephew, Harrison Beck.”
“Harrison Beck?” Ackerman stepped back, studying him. Hal moved his hands behind his back in case the excitable man tried to shake them. “The railway detective I’ve read about in the papers?”
Hal flushed with pleasure.
“Would you like us to arrange a crime for you to solve on board?” Ackerman laughed loudly. “What would you prefer? Blackmail? Art theft? I know, how about a nice juicy murder?” He winked.
“I’d love to solve a murder one day,” Hal said eagerly. “It’s the ultimate crime for a detective.”
“No, thank you,” said Uncle Nat. “We’ve witnessed enough crime on our recent travels. We’re here to see the animals.”
“And the trains,” Hal added. “Is it true you have a railway museum here, Mr. Ackerman?”
“Call me Luther,” said the man, clapping a large hand on Hal’s back and almost knocking him off his chair. “And yes!” He pointed across the track. “Over there are the engine sheds where we restore the locomotives and fit out the carriages. Beyond is the marshaling yard. Along that path is the original signal box and water tower.”
Text copyright © 2022 by M. G. Leonard and Sam Sedgman Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Elisa Paganelli
