“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.”