MY FIRST ENCOUNTER with Edward Baxter occurred when I was a pupil of a Swiss boarding school.
I had no plans to return home over the summer holidays. Even at the age of fourteen, I was not so innocent as to fail to comprehend the hidden meaning behind my father’s message that things were terribly turbulent at home and it was best I stay in Switzerland. I don’t want to deal with the trouble of taking care of you. It will eat into my research time.
So be it. I elected to hole up in the library. My only companions were those who, like me, had nowhere to go home to over the holidays. As time passed, my mood grew increasingly wretched.
Switzerland is a beautiful country. In fact, it was once beloved by Queen Elizabeth herself. The town where I studied had no lack of places where a young man might amuse himself from dawn to dusk. Even the local church held pipe organ concerts for the congregation. All this led me to the foolish belief that it was safe to walk the streets even after dark.
I had earned myself a reputation for good behavior—a waste of effort if there ever was one—which made securing permission for an outing a simple affair. There was the usual sort of question of where I was going, laced with, I dare say, a suggestion that a boy such as I ought to get out and have a little fun for a change. I was not altogether fond of that bit. I fear I was not especially good at acting like a child, and even then, aware of this fault.
Tourists crowded the streets that summer. The roads were paved with mud-colored bricks, like something out of a fairy tale, and every place I looked seemed to be decorated with planter boxes sprouting pink and white flowers. The town had many riverfront properties, and at one such restaurant along the riverbank, a large black dog—someone’s pet, I assumed—sauntered past with a lead trailing behind it, looking for someone to play with it. Just as I started to fancy taking a moment to play with the pup, its owner called for it, and it turned on its tail and loped off.
Come nightfall, I enjoyed myself immensely walking about the city. It felt like I had a companion with me, even though I was perfectly alone. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.
By the time I realized I was lost, it was long after I had wandered out of the familiar neighborhoods. Every time I turned down a new street with the conviction that the church hosting the concert must be nearby, I only stumbled across more apartments, trash bins, and deserted underpasses. It occurred to me that I was trespassing in a residential area in a rather unsafe part of town, but I had no idea how to find my way back.
For lack of a better plan, I turned to retrace my steps—only to bump into someone directly behind me. It was a boy of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in an anorak and baseball cap. He certainly did not look like the sort to patronize a bustling sidewalk café on the waterfront.
“’Sup, kid?” he said around a mouthful of gum.
As my uncle the Earl was sometimes wont to do, I pretended I hadn’t heard him and made to carry on again. Alas, when I turned to my right, there was another person blocking my path. He must have been the boy’s companion, for he was of the same age and dressed similarly, albeit armed with a basketball to complete the look.
Basketball Boy spoke. “What’s a little pipsqueak like you doin’ round here? Where’s your mommy and daddy?”
I said nothing.
“They leave you all alone?”
“Then you must have a wallet on you, huh?”
Again, I said nothing.
“Lookatcha. Prettier ’n a doll. You talk, kid?”
“C’mon, rich boy. Give a little cash to the poor?”
A cold sweat trickled down my back. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I refused. I had started taking boxing lessons, but lessons were conducted with strictly demarcated age and weight classes. They were certainly not meant as training to fight two boys my senior.
As my panicked thoughts began to race—how could I possibly make it out of this scrape on my own?—I felt a hand on my arm.
“Hey there, Edward! Found ya.”
The voice sounded familiar, but for a split second, I couldn’t place the speaker. I looked over. He had golden brown hair, light blue eyes, a knitted vest, a pair of black slacks, and shiny leather shoes. He wore a smile like a suit of armor.
“J-Jay!”
“Yup, that’s me, Jay. Glad you remember me.”
“Jay” was, without a doubt, my older cousin Jeffrey.
He circled around behind me and wrapped an arm over my shoulder. Ever the brilliant actor, he shot me a look questioning what on Earth I was doing here even as he smiled and whisked me behind him.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding. Come on, we have to hurry or we’ll be late. You-know-who’ll be angry if we keep him waiting any longer. He’s scary when he’s mad, he is.”
“I-I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.”
“Great. Later, chums!”
Jeffrey gave my shoulder a firm, protective squeeze and marched me away. Perhaps he was so very loud and cheerful that the other boys didn’t think to pursue us.
After a moment, I admitted, “That was frightening.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Please.”
We wound through the dimly lit, fishy-smelling backstreets in the direction of the larger, streetlamp-lit boulevards. I pressed against his side, but it would have made no difference if I didn’t, for Jeffrey had my arm in an iron grip.
“Good thing I stumbled upon you,” he said.