Seb craned his neck. ‘It looks like it’s gonna fall over any second.’
Ivy saw that the slate roof tiles were shaking and sliding over each other. Hundreds of different-coloured feathers flew out of a large hole where the chimney would be.
Valian shouldered his way past them. ‘Well, it’s old enough. And so is the poor guy who runs it. Albert Merribus, he’s called. He must have been mail-master for nearly half a century. The map’s on the other side.’
As they got closer, Ivy heard the bricks crunching and cracking, as if they too were moving. She watched an uncommoner approach one of the dark windows and stuff his hand inside. He retrieved a feather, which he then used to scribble something in the air. When he’d finished, the feather disappeared back through the hole.
Ivy replayed Granma Sylvie’s memory sequence in her head. She’d have to search the map thoroughly, but this might just work. Right now her parents could be—But she couldn’t let herself think about it. Just then, she heard high-pitched voices.
‘Go on, throw it at him. I bet you can’t make that third hole on the right.’
‘Yeah? Watch this!’
As they rounded the tower, Ivy saw a group of children holding something in their hands – though she couldn’t quite see what.
‘Here goes!’ One of the boys took aim and lobbed whatever it was at the tower. Ivy thought she saw a flash of shiny plastic before the object hit the wall with a squelch, turning into yellowy-green goo on impact.
‘Ha! Told you. Hear that, Merribus!’ the boy called, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘You’re safe this time!’
Anger bubbled up inside Ivy. She herself hadn’t come up against bullies before, probably because nobody was going to pick on Seb’s little sister (his arms were bigger then anyone else’s at their school). But whoever the old man inside the tower was, he didn’t deserve this.
‘That’s horrible!’ she shouted, unable to bite her tongue. ‘Stop it!’
One of the boys started to taunt her, but when he saw Seb and Valian come up on either side, he re considered and made a run for it. The others scarpered after him.
Ivy shook her head and turned back to the tower. The map was easy to spot, although it wasn’t what she had expected.
‘So . . . it’s made of rubbish,’ Seb said in a flat voice. ‘How eco-friendly.’
Ivy looked closely. The map was constructed from odd twigs and branches, tea bags, paper and glass – all nailed or tied with twine to the wall. Street names had been painted on in black paint, and there were deep white scratches in the bricks behind the map, as if the objects had been dragged over them again and again.
‘The map changes,’ Valian explained, seeing her expression. ‘Things move in Lundinor, so they move on this.’
Ivy stepped back to try and get her bearings. ‘The Gauntlet’s here’ – she pointed, spotting a long straight road running through the centre of the main cavern – ‘so Ethel’s must be about there . . .’ She stretched up on tiptoe to indicate a spot a couple of metres above her head. But she was looking for something else.
‘Seb, see if you can see any water on the map – a lake or a pond or anything like that.’
He scanned the wall. ‘You wanna tell me why?’
‘It’s what Granma Sylvie remembered,’ Ivy replied. ‘She had a memory of a gloomy old house full of faces – that must be the mansion. But before that, she said she heard the sound of water. So maybe the two are connected?’
Seb shuffled from side to side, peering at the top of the map. ‘I can’t see anything that looks like a lake. There’s some sort of pond up there, and maybe that old kettle with the streamer hanging down is a fountain, but I can’t be certain. This place is huge. We’ve got more chance of finding a needle in a haystack than the Wrench Mansion.’
‘Wrench Mansion?’ said a deep voice. ‘Ha!’
Ivy froze. It had come from a small window only a metre away from her head. She approached it cautiously.
‘Er, hello?’ She laid her hands on the unsteady bricks and peered into the hole. ‘Do you know something about the Wrench Mansion?’
The hole wasn’t big enough for her head to fit through, so she had a restricted view. She caught glimpses of a messy office, the air filled with floating feather down and scraps of paper. There were ink splodges on the floor and mugs of old tea on the wooden desk. The place smelled of tea bags and mouldy cheese. ‘Anybody there?’
A gruff voice answered, ‘I’ll tell you something about the Wrench Mansion . . .’ Suddenly a face appeared through the window. Ivy sprang back as she saw a wild mane of white-blond hair, a grizzled chin, pockmarked cheeks and fierce blue eyes.
‘No point bloody looking for it,’ Albert Merribus growled. ‘It’s only gonna be found when it wants to be. I’ve had enough of you young fame-hunters trying to locate it. All anyone’s ever discovered is that it must be north of here, because that’s the direction the feathers fly in.’
Ivy searched for a response. ‘I, er—’
Suddenly a voice like an ice storm swept in from somewhere over Ivy’s shoulder.
‘IS THERE ANYTHING THE MATTER HERE, MERRIBUS?’
Ivy turned to find herself face-to-waist with Officer Smokehart. She looked helplessly for Seb, who was retreating round the tower, his eyes wide. Valian was nowhere to be seen.
‘Have these two been hassling you?’ Smokehart asked Merribus. He lowered his head towards Ivy’s. She could see the reflection of her pink freckled face in his dark glasses.
Merribus grumbled.
‘Trust me, Albert,’ Smokehart went on, ‘this is Ivy Wrench. She doesn’t deserve any chances, so don’t hold back.’
Ivy clenched her fists and stared him down. He was just like one of those bullies. ‘It’s Ivy Sparrow,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Thanks for the concern, Officer, but there’s nothing to report this time,’ Merribus said finally. He scratched his chin as he peered at Ivy. She noticed that he was wearing navy felt gloves. ‘They were looking for an address that’s impossible to find, is all. Waste of their time and mine. Now, good day!’ And with that, Merribus and his explosion of white hair disappeared inside the tower.
Smokehart’s thin lips curled into a snarl as he rounded on Ivy and Seb. ‘I’m watching you,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’ And his voice cut like a knife.
Chapter Nineteen
Ivy scuffed the toes of her wellies over the cobbles. Seb was standing beside her, his hands stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie. The pond he had spotted on the map had turned out to be a public toilet – which wasn’t the greatest surprise, as all the street bells they’d asked for directions had repeatedly told them that there was no pond in Lundinor.
‘What do we do if the fountain’s not here?’ Seb asked as they trudged down another street. ‘Mum and Dad . . .’ He couldn’t finish.
Ivy was trying to keep calm. Two days. That was it. She could almost hear the uncommon alarm clock ticking past with every pace she took.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Valian. She scowled at him. She’d like to know what he’d been up to back there – vanishing as soon as Smokehart appeared. She wished Ethel had never shaken his hand. That way, at least she and Seb could hold a conversation in private.
‘That last street bell said it was just up here on the left,’ she reminded Seb. She hoped it really was. At least the street bells had actually heard of a fountain – though Ivy knew that the sound of water could have come from anything.
They had reached a busy street lined with shops selling everything from uncommon feather dusters to snow-globe cameras and everlasting baubles. Ivy couldn’t hear water anywhere.
‘It must be around here somewhere,’ Seb said determinedly. ‘Let’s split up.’ He tugged Ivy to one side. Valian followed. ‘That means you go in the opposite direction,’ he told him.
Valian shrugged and headed away from them.
Ivy looked around. She didn’t really kno
w what she was looking for. The only fountains she’d ever seen had been huge things like the ones in Trafalgar Square.
‘What if it’s just a small one; something you’d have in your back garden?’
‘Or,’ Seb said, stopping abruptly, ‘in your wall.’ He pointed and hurried on. ‘Come on!’
Ivy dashed after him. He’d turned down a narrow path between two shops.
‘What do you think that is?’ Seb asked, gesturing towards one of the shadowy walls.
Ivy squinted. Hidden behind a tangle of weeds in the brickwork was a tall, arched metal panel. Ivy assumed from its distinctive pale green colour that it was made of copper, like the Statue of Liberty. At the bottom was a semicircular basin, with a chipped spout above it.
‘A fountain,’ she observed, brushing back the trailing plants. ‘But it’s empty. It can’t have been used in years.’
Ivy wondered if she could use her whispering to test a theory. She laid her hand against the fountain. Unlike the surrounding air, the metal was the temperature of warm breath. If she blanked out every noise around her and focused on it, she could even hear soft whispers.
‘It’s uncommon,’ she told him. ‘I’m certain of it.’
Seb was looking at her strangely. ‘Right . . .’
Ivy ignored his expression and scooped some of the mud and leaves out of the basin. At the bottom was a strange sundial, with initials for the four directions of the compass.
‘What clues do we have?’ she asked. ‘Let’s go through them again.’
He sighed. ‘Granma Sylvie remembered hearing water, and then she saw the house . . .’
Ivy touched the large N. ‘The feathers fly north,’ she said, as if in a trance. ‘That’s what Merribus said.’
‘But this fountain’s dry,’ Seb pointed out, ‘and hasn’t been used in ages.’
It hasn’t been used, Ivy thought. Of course. ‘We need water! Seb, see if you can get some from the street. It doesn’t have to be much.’
Minutes later, Seb returned with a grubby black bucket. Valian was beside him.
‘I hear there’s no need for us to continue searching,’ Valian announced with sarcastic cheer. ‘You’ve found a fountain?’
Ivy sighed and snatched the bucket, then looked up and down the alleyway. It was empty and the fountain couldn’t easily be seen from the street. Satisfied that they were unlikely to attract attention, she held the bucket over the basin.
Unable to cross her fingers, she made a wish and poured the liquid in slowly.
They waited in silence for a minute, but nothing happened.
‘Well, that was an anti-climax,’ Seb said, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. ‘Do you think we need to do something else, maybe?’ He dipped his fingers in the water and swished it around. The sound bounced off the opposite wall.
‘I think you just did something,’ Ivy said. ‘We needed the sound of water, remember?’
She felt the air around her shiver as if a truck were passing by. Something in the ground rumbled, deep and low. She shot a look to either side. ‘Can you two hear that?’
Seb nodded.
Ivy glanced at her feet. The earth between the cobbles was trembling.
‘It’s coming from the fountain,’ Valian told them, his eyes fixed on the pale-green archway.
All at once the brick wall on either side of the fountain shook violently, sending cement dust up into the air. The metal basin screeched as it drew away from the wall. Ivy reached out for Seb’s arm, steadying herself. ‘What’s happening?’
He pointed to the arched surround. ‘Ivy, look!’
The metal was glowing as if being heated in a furnace. Gradually it formed the long iron bars of a gate. With a sharp screech, two cast-iron posts emerged from the bricks on either side. The gate between them was shrouded in cobwebs, and at the very top was a single word in wrought iron: WRENCH.
Ivy stumbled backwards. Valian’s eyes were gleaming. ‘No way,’ he breathed. ‘No way. You’ve actually found the Wrench Mansion. It must be because you’re related; I don’t know why else it would open for you.’
Seb rubbed dust out of his eyes. ‘This can’t be the Wrench Mansion; it isn’t a house. It’s just a gate.’
He was right. No matter how hard Ivy looked, there was nothing behind the gate except what had been there before. A brick wall.
Valian smiled mischievously. ‘Why don’t you open it and see?’ He stepped back and gestured for Seb to do the honours.
Seb rolled his eyes. ‘Fine.’ He laid both hands on the ornate iron bars and pushed.
Ivy was right behind him. As the gates parted, she saw a line of pitch-black, which expanded as the gates swung open, revealing a muddy pathway on the other side.
‘Valian’s right,’ she exclaimed, laying a hand on Seb’s arm. She peered into the gloom. The path was littered with leaves and bordered on both sides by an overgrown lawn. In the distance she could see a dark structure looming against an evening sky. A chill swept over her as she watched. It was like looking through an arched window into another world.
Valian touched the gate carefully with his gloved hands. ‘I can’t believe it. This place hasn’t been opened since Twelfth Night 1969.’ He stepped through the gates.
Seb thrust a hand in front of him. ‘Hang on – we don’t even know what’s in there. I mean, look at the place; it’s like Dracula’s holiday home.’
‘That doesn’t matter. There are gonna be more clues in there than you’ll find out here. You’ve got less than two days to save your parents, remember?’
Ivy peered through the gate, focusing on her mum and dad, wherever they were. She suspected that she and Seb would have to take risks if they wanted to get them back. We’re coming to get you, Mum, she said to herself. Just hold on, Dad. We’re coming.
Chapter Twenty
Once they were on the path the air became cooler. Ivy pulled her coat tight around her and looked up at the full moon. They couldn’t be underground in Lundinor any more. She wondered if the mansion was in London – or, indeed, in another part of the world. She smelled fresh pine and guessed that the dark shadow in the distance was a forest.
Set up on the hill, the mansion stood four storeys high. Hunched stone figures perched on the corners of the mansard roof and the leaded glass windows glittered in the moonlight. Ivy looked back at the gate as they walked away. It formed part of an iron fence that ran round the lawn. She couldn’t see anything beyond it.
Valian strode up the hill as if he had a train to catch. His eagerness made Ivy uneasy. She looked at Seb and wondered if he too was worrying about Valian’s real motives – and about what they were going to find inside Granma Sylvie’s childhood home.
The front door was, unsurprisingly, black. Seb examined the small stained-glass window set into the top. ‘It’s of a crow decapitating a snake,’ he said. ‘Homely.’
Valian tried the door handle first, but it wasn’t till Seb touched it that it decided to move. A long hiss escaped as it opened up.
Inside, they found a thickly carpeted entrance hall overlooked by two galleries, with a grand staircase and an ornate moulded ceiling. Uncommon lemon squeezers glowed into brightness as the three of them made their way in and gazed around. The walls were covered with dark oil paintings. Some depicted the house itself, while others were portraits of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen. Ivy felt their yellow eyes boring into her as she turned. A house of faces, she thought. That’s what Granma Sylvie described in her recurring memory.
The air smelled musty; the whole place was still and empty. Ivy ventured towards one of the portraits. Forty years of dust had settled over the faces of the subjects, so she pulled down her sleeve and stretched up to rub it off.
‘Careful,’ Seb warned, coming to join her. ‘This place doesn’t exactly say make yourself at home.’
‘No,’ Ivy admitted. But it was Granma’s home once. She swept her sleeve over the painting till six pairs of eyes peeped through the dust at her.
She knew one pair very well. ‘There she is,’ she said, clearing the dust off Granma Sylvie’s face. She must have been about Ivy’s age when the portrait was done. Her golden hair was shoulder length, her eyes amber, and there were deep dimples in her cheeks.
Seb rubbed more dust off the bottom of the frame and saw a label. ‘The Family Wrench, 1960,’ he read. ‘That’s nine years before they all disappeared.’
Ivy looked at the frame. It had six names written on it. She tried to match everyone up. Granma Sylvie’s three brothers were beside her: Cartimore, a blond, plump-cheeked pig of a boy; Silas, raven-haired and sickly, and Norton – scruffy-looking, with two teeth missing. Ivy shivered as she studied their dull eyes and pinched expressions.
Granma Sylvie’s mother, Helena, was the smallest figure in the picture. She had tightly curled mousy hair and wide, almond-shaped eyes, like Granma Sylvie, except that Helena’s were blue. There was something haunted and lonely about them that made Ivy feel sad.
Sad blue eyes . . . Recalling Granma Sylvie’s memories again, Ivy realized she must have been seeing the face of her mother.
In the centre of the portrait stood Octavius, Granma Sylvie’s father. He had a strong, imperious face with a wide jaw and jutting cheekbones. Above his thin mouth rested a waxed black moustache.
‘So that’s the relatives,’ Seb joked, his eyes wide. ‘Can’t exactly see Mum and Dad inviting them over for Christmas.’
Ivy agreed. Still, she tried to take note of all of their faces so that she could describe them to Granma Sylvie. She wondered how she was doing in hospital and hoped she hadn’t had any more visits from the Dirge.
‘Hey, look,’ Seb said. Beneath the portrait was a chest of drawers, on top of which rested a rotary-dial telephone, a glass ashtray and a stack of newspapers – all covered in at least two centimetres of furry dust. Seb shook one of them clean and read the date: 4 January 1969.
4 January . . . Ivy wondered if there was anything significant about it. ‘That’s from the day before Twelfth Night,’ she realized.
The paper was called the Barrow Post. Ivy leaned over to read it. She deduced it must be an uncommon publication because it was priced at 0.2 grade.
The Crooked Sixpence Page 12
