For Frances
First published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.panmacmillan.com ISBN 978-1-447-27311-0 Copyright © Chris Riddell 2014 The right of Chris Riddell to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
and the Fete Worse Than Death
CHRIS RIDDELL
MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS
THIS BOOK CONTAINS WEBBED FOOT NOTES WRITTEN BY A WELL-TRAVELLED MUSCOVY DUCK
Chapter One da skipped lightly over the seven little chimney pots in her elegant black tightrope-walking slippers. She paused for a moment to regain her balance, then stepped up on to the tall white marble chimney pot at the end of the row. A silver napkin ring sailed through the night sky, the moonlight glinting off its polished surface. Balancing on one foot, Ada leaned forward and expertly caught the napkin ring on the tip of her duelling umbrella. Three more napkin rings flew through the air and, dancing back along the row of chimney pots, Ada caught each one in turn, before giving a bow. ‘Excellent work, my dear,’ said her governess, Lucy Borgia, in a soft lilting voice with just a trace of an accent. ‘I see you have been doing your homework.’
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Lucy, the three-hundred-year-old vampire, hovered in mid-air, the hem of her black cape fluttering in the gentle breeze. In her hand she held her own duelling umbrella, its razor-sharp point tipped with a wine cork for safety. As Ada watched, her governess swooped down and joined
her on the ornamental chimney stack known as ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’. It was only one of hundreds of ornamental chimneys that sprouted from the rooftops of Ghastly-Gorm Hall, each one different from the next. Lucy Borgia raised her umbrella. ‘Now for some fencing practice,’ she said, advancing towards her pupil. *
Ada Goth was the only daughter of Lord Goth, England’s foremost cycling poet. Although she was still quite young (her birthday was next week), Ada had already been taught by six governesses . . .
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Lucy was the seventh and by far her favourite. As well as sliding up banisters and only giving lessons after dark, Lucy Borgia was an expert at umbrella fencing and was teaching Ada everything she knew. The tips of their fencing umbrellas touched and Ada took a step forward, trying a sideways stab which her governess flicked away.
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‘Precision . . .’ said Lucy Borgia, with a sweep of her umbrella that forced Ada back along the row of chimney pots. ‘Balance . . .’ she continued, brushing aside a lunge from Ada’s umbrella and prodding her pupil lightly in the tummy with her own. Ada jumped down on to the rooftop. ‘And above all . . .’ said Lucy, with a twist of a wrist that whisked Ada’s umbrella out of her hand and up into the air, ‘elegance!’ Lucy reached out and caught Ada’s umbrella as it fell back down. She handed it to her. ‘You have a most promising pupil there, Miss Borgia,’ said a smooth, polished voice. It was coming from behind a stout brick chimney topped by six thin chimney pots. Lucy Borgia drew Ada into the folds of her black cape with one hand and eased the wine cork off the tip of her umbrella with the other. A tall figure in an even taller hat and a dark frock coat stepped out from behind ‘The Six
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Chimney pots of Henry VIII’. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,’ she said quietly. ‘Lord Sydney Whimsy, at your service,’ said the figure taking a couple of steps towards them, only for Lucy to raise her umbrella. ‘Forgive my intrusion, my dear lady,’ said Lord Sydney, taking off his hat to reveal fashionably styled silvery-blond hair. As he looked up at them, the moonlight glinted on his monocle. ‘I am an old university friend of Lord Goth’s,’ he said. ‘He’s kindly agreed that I can organize the Full-Moon Fete this year.’ He removed his monocle and polished it thoughtfully with the end of his cravat. Ada noticed that his eyebrows and moustache were as neatly styled as his hair. It was surprising to Ada that such a fashionable gentleman would be interested in the Full-Moon Fete, which was generally quite a dull affair. Each year the inhabitants of the little hamlet of
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Gormless would troop up the drive to the Hall holding flaming torches and then stand around singing midsummer carols tunelessly. They also painted their faces blue, wore straw skirts and did a strange dance beneath the full moon that involved hitting each other with pillowcases. Nobody was quite sure why. ‘Such happy days . . . racing punts on the river, playing top-hat cricket* and hobby-horse croquet . . . Goth, Simon and me – they called us the Two and a Half Amigos . . .’ ‘Two and a half?’ said Ada, peering back at him from the folds of Lucy’s cape. ‘Simon was very short,’ explained Lord Sydney. He replaced the monocle and looked at Ada. ‘You know, I haven’t seen you since you were a baby, Ada,’ he said with a smile. ‘Not since . . .’ Lord Sydney Whimsy paused, then cleared his throat. ‘Not since that terrible night.’
*Top-hat cricket was invented as an excuse to drink tea and eat cake and sandwiches. The fielders use their top hats to catch cricket balls hit by batsmen who wear ‘tea cosies’ – knitted hats for keeping teapots warm.
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Ada knew the night Lord Sydney meant. It was the night that her mother, Parthenope, the beautiful tightrope walker, had fallen to her death during a sudden thunderstorm while practising on the rooftops of Ghastly-Gorm Hall. For most of Ada’s childhood since then, Lord Goth had shut himself away in his study writing extremely sad poems. But recently, following Ada’s adventures with Ishmael Whiskers, the ghost of a mouse, Lord Goth had been a changed man. He no longer moped about in his study but got out
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and about more. In fact, at that very moment Lord Goth was on a tour of the Lake District to promote his latest volume of courtly ramblers’ verse called She Walks in Beauty Like a Knight. Lucy Borgia let go of Ada and looked deep into Lord Sydney’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid my father isn’t here,’ said Ada after a rather awkward silence. Lord Sydney, who had been looking equally deeply into Lucy Borgia’s eyes, glanced down at Ada. ‘What? . . . Oh, yes, quite so,’ he said. ‘He’s on a book tour.’ He smiled. ‘As we speak he is sharing a supper of mutton stew with three shepherds in a hut on Langdale Pike.’ ‘How do you know that?’ said Ada, impressed.
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‘A little bird told me,’ said Lord Sydney, looking back at Lucy Borgia and smiling again. ‘And another told me that you, Miss Borgia, are a three-hundred-year-old vampire of impeccable behaviour, not to mention a highly accomplished umbrella fencer. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Just then a white dove came flapping down out of the sky. It swerved past ‘The Crooked Sixpence’, glided over ‘Thomas and Jeremy’ and fluttered down to land on Lord Sydney’s outstretched arm. Lord Sydney carefully untied a small roll of paper attached to the dove’s right leg. ‘D-mail,’ L
ord Sydney said. ‘It is the very latest thing in my line of work.’ He unfurled the paper and read the
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note that was written on it. Reaching up, he took a pencil stub from behind his ear and wrote a reply on the reverse side of the paper before tying it back round the dove’s leg. ‘Quick as you can, Penny-White,’ he cooed in the dove’s ear before releasing the bird into the air. ‘Is there anything we can do for you, Lord Sydney?’ asked Lucy Borgia, her voice soft and lilting. ‘As a matter of fact there is,’ said Lord Sydney Whimsy, reaching into the pocket of his frock coat and taking out a glass jar. Attached to its lid by a red ribbon was an envelope with ‘Marylebone’ written in spidery letters on it.
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‘You could deliver this.’ Marylebone was the name of Ada’s lady’s maid. Originally she had been Ada’s mother’s maid and had been given the name ‘Marylebone’ because she had been discovered at the Marylebone coaching inn with a note saying that she’d come all the way from Bolivia. This was all Ada knew about her lady’s maid because Ada hadn’t ever actually seen her. Marylebone was so shy that she spent all her time in the wardrobe in Ada’s dressing room and only came out at night, when Ada was asleep, to lay out her clothes on the Dalmatian divan. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it,’ said Ada, taking the jar, which contained a golden-coloured liquid. ‘Thank you,’ said Lord Sydney. ‘Take this,’ he said, plucking a small packet of birdseed from his waistcoat and giving it to Ada. ‘If ever you need to contact me, just sprinkle a little on the ground.’ Lord Sydney gave a little bow before stepping back into the shadows behind ‘Old Smokey’. Despite its name, ‘Old Smokey’ didn’t actually
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smoke any more. It led down to the cellars and an old furnace that wasn’t used, but it was the oldest and most crooked of all the ornamental chimneys and Ada’s favourite. Ada’s governess stood rooted to the spot, gazing after him. ‘Lord Sydney reminds me of an artist I once knew,’ she said dreamily, her accent deepening. ‘Just like Leonardo, he is handsome, talented, I think, but perhaps –’ she gave that smile of hers that always reminded Ada of one particular old portrait in the broken wing of Ghastly-Gorm Hall – ‘. . . a little wild.’ The governess laughed to herself, then said, ‘I think that’s enough fencing practice for tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow at twilight. Sleep well, my dear.’ She gathered her cloak around her shoulders, then raised her arms high above her head and gave a twirl as she transformed herself into a large bat.* Ada watched as her governess flapped off across the face of
*Vampires transform themselves into bats when they need to make a quick getaway or slip quietly through bedroom windows.
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the not-quite full moon, before swooping down and disappearing into the window at the very top of Ghastly-Gorm Hall’s great dome. Ada stood for a moment and looked out across the forest of ornamental chimneys, the silvery moonlight playing on stone-carved gargoyles, barley-sugar chimney pots and herring-pattern brickwork. Then she turned and made her way across the rooftops and into the attics, clutching her umbrella in one hand and, in the other, the jar of finest Bolivian honey.
Chapter Two s soon as Ada opened her eyes she knew something was wrong. Her clothes were exactly where she’d left them when she came down from the rooftops the night before. Strewn across the Anatolian carpet were her black striped stockings, white silk dress and purple velvet jacket with silver braid piping. Ada sat up in her eight-poster bed and looked across her enormous bedroom. Through the door to her dressing room she could see the Dalmatian divan. It had no fresh clothes neatly laid out on it, and, most unusually of all, the door to the large wardrobe was open. Small snuffly sounds were coming from inside. Ada got out of bed and tiptoed across the carpet and into the dressing room beyond. When she reached the wardrobe door she noticed the
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jar Lord Sydney had given her. It was on its side in the entrance to the wardrobe, preventing the door from closing. The snuffles from inside the wardrobe grew louder. Ada knocked gently on the door. ‘Marylebone?’ she said softly. ‘Are you all right?’ Knowing how shy and secretive her lady’s maid was, Ada didn’t like to go inside. ‘Marylebone?’ she tried again. ‘What’s wrong?’ A brown furry hand with claws sticky with honey emerged from the wardrobe. It was holding a crumpled letter. Ada took the letter with trembling fingers and began to read . . .
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Ada turned the letter over . . .
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‘You’re . . . a bear!’ Ada exclaimed, smoothing out the wrinkles in the letter. It felt a little sticky.
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A tearful snuffle came from somewhere deep inside the wardrobe. ‘But why are you sad?’ said Ada. Curiosity overcoming her, she pulled open the wardrobe door and stepped inside. Ada gasped. It was like a cave, only the cosiest, most comfortable, well-furnished cave Ada could ever have imagined. There was an ironing table, a sewing bureau and a dressmaker’s trestle, along with shelves and chests of drawers.
At the back was a bed in a little cupboard and everywhere Ada looked there were clothes – her clothes! Frocks, dresses, skirts and kilts hanging neatly from wooden hangers, together with capes, shawls, coats and cloaks, all carefully catalogued. Ada’s shoes and boots were lined up in rows, while her bonnets and hats hung from hat hooks above. And there, peering shyly back at her, half hidden behind a black velvet curtain, stood a small bear, tears trickling down her furry cheeks. As Ada watched, Marylebone reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a notebook and pencil. Adjusting the spectacles perched on her nose, she scribbled in the notebook, then gave it to Ada . . .
‘Nothing is impossible when it comes to love,’ said Ada firmly. ‘In my father’s latest poem a princess walks all the way to Carlisle to rescue her true love from a fire-breathing fell-serpent. I’ll lend you my copy. I’m sure it’ll cheer you up.’ But Ada wasn’t sure at all, and she was already feeling awkward that she had intruded into Marylebone’s wardrobe like this.
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While her lady’s maid sobbed inconsolably behind the velvet curtain, Ada quickly picked out a polka-dot dress, a striped shawl and a bonnet with a Cumberland check and tiptoed out of the wardrobe, quietly closing the door behind her. She picked up yesterday’s clothes, folded them neatly and then got dressed. ‘Oh dear,’ Ada said, glancing at her reflection in the looking glass. ‘Getting dressed without Marylebone isn’t as easy as I thought. I’ll have to see what I can do to help her.’
Ada went to the end of the corridor and, climbing on to the banister of the grand staircase, slid down to the hall below. Lucy Borgia actively encouraged Ada to slide down the banisters of Ghastly-Gorm Hall whenever she got the chance, which was another reason why she was Ada’s favourite governess. Ada reached the bottom of the staircase and jumped down on to the marble floor. She set off past the sculpture of the three pear-shaped Graces and turned right at the bronze statue of Neptune cuddling a mermaid when a
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familiar voice sounded from somewhere nearby. ‘Why, if it isn’t little Miss Goth,’ it said, in a wheezing whisper as dry as autumn leaves. ‘Dressed like a carnival clown and the Full-Moon Fete still a week away!’ Ada looked round to see Maltravers, the indoor gamekeeper, standing by the entrance to the Whine Cellars of Ghastly-Gorm Hall. The cellars were said to be haunted by the ghost of Peejay, a bald Irish
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wolfhound* that the 3rd Lord Goth had shut away out of embarrassment when it lost all its hair. It was said that on windswept nights the unfortunate hound’s ghostly whines could still be heard echoing through the cellars. Maltravers was wearing a long apron that was as grey and colourless as the rest of him, and two bunches of keys on large brass rings, each with a label attached. One read ‘In’ and the other ‘Out’. Ada shook her head. Maltravers was not only the indoor gamekeeper, he was now the outdoor butler, in charge of repairing Lord Goth’s collection of Alpine gnomes and arranging the outdoor furniture in the drawing-room garden. Ada didn’t trust Maltravers, with his secretive w
ays and habit of listening at doors and spying through keyholes. But Maltravers had been a servant at Ghastly-Gorm Hall for as long as anyone could remember, and Lord Goth had said he simply couldn’t
*As well as going bald, Peejay the Irish wolfhound was very short-sighted and often mistook slippers for bones, which he then buried in the kitchen garden.
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do without him. ‘What?’ ‘Wolfhound got your tongue, Miss Goth?’ wheezed Maltravers, clapping his hands together in amusement and sending a small cloud of dust into the air. Ada hurried away. She ran through the long gallery with its paintings of plump duchesses, and into the short gallery with its paintings of oblong farm animals. Breakfast was waiting for her on the Jacobean sideboard. Her best friend, Emily Cabbage, was helping herself to
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Goth Girl and the Fete Worse Than Death Page 1
