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He climbed out of the chimney and folded the two brushes attached to his back, sending a cloud of soot into the air. Then he took out a spotted handkerchief, wiped the grime off his face and hands and sat down next to Ada on the sphinx’s back. ‘How’s the Greenhouse of Harmony? Discovered any interesting plants recently?’ he asked. ‘We took a cutting from the tulgeywood tree,’ said Ada,
‘and it seems to be growing really well. I think it likes it when Emily and I talk to it . . .’ ‘That’s strange,’ said Kingsley. ‘Not really – we compliment it on its crinkly leaves and knobbly trunk . . .’ ‘No, not the tree,’ said Kingsley, pointing across the rooftops at ‘Old Smokey’ – ‘that.’ Ada looked. A trail of smoke was curling up out of the crooked chimney. ‘Old Smokey hasn’t been used for years,’ said Kingsley. ‘I think I’d better investigate.’ ‘Can I come?’ said Ada excitedly. ‘Where does Old Smokey’s
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chimney lead to?’ Kingsley got slowly to his feet and scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘If I remember correctly, it leads to an old furnace,’ he said, and his eyes narrowed, ‘in the Whine Cellars.’ Kingsley was even better than Ada at sliding down banisters, and in no time at all they were down in the great marble-floored entrance hall of Ghastly-Gorm Hall. As they made their way past the groups of statues that littered the enormous space, Ada found herself looking extra closely at each one in case they turned out to be Lord Sydney in disguise. Just around the corner from the three pear-shaped Graces that, in the
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moonlight streaming down from the dome, Ada could tell weren’t anyone in disguise, they came to the entrance to the Whine Cellars, where Ada had bumped into Maltravers earlier that day. It was a small arch-shaped doorway through which narrow stone steps descended into the darkness. The carved face of a bald Irish wolfhound looked down at Ada from the centre of the arch. Kingsley took a candle from the iron holder on the wall and held it up above his head.
Ada avoided the wolfhound’s baleful stare as she followed Kingsley down the stone steps. The damp walls glistened in the candlelight, and cobwebs like grey tapestries wafted above their heads as they passed by. At the bottom of the steps, Kingsley and Ada paused and looked around. In the gloom, they saw row after row of stone shelves stacked with dusty bottles stretching off into the distance, with narrow pathways between them. It reminded Ada of the labyrinth her friend the Siren Sesta had told her about, where Abba* the depressed Swedish minotaur lived.
*Abba the Swedish Minotaur likes pickled herring, knitted jumpers and long walks in the rain. He composes annoyingly catchy songs on his Scandinavian lyre.
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Kingsley pointed down one passage where there was a faint chink of light just visible. ‘The furnace room must be down there,’ he whispered. Ada followed him past the shelves of dusty bottles. She ran a finger across a label as she went by. Ada didn’t like the sound of that. Suddenly echoing through the cellars came a sound that made Ada and Kingsley stop in their tracks. Long, low, and mournful, it was the unmistakable sound of a whine.
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Chapter Six uddenly, from behind them, two enormous poodles appeared, one black as midnight, the other a ghostly white. Yapping and whining, they hurtled down the aisle between the stacks, their claws scritter-scratching on the flagstones. Nimble as a mouse up a grandfather clock, Kingsley jumped up on to a stone shelf and, shooting out an arm, pulled Ada up to join him. The two poodles didn’t even pause as they dashed past, their pom-pom tails swishing and their whines growing more agitated. At the end of the aisle they came to a halt and began scratching at a large metal door from beneath which a chink of light was escaping. Whines filled the gloomy vaults of the cellars. Two huge bottles of champagne lay side by side on the shelf next to Ada and Kingsley, and they
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had to be careful not to send them crashing to the floor. ‘Belle, my Belle! And Sebastian, mon chéri!’ came Madame Grand Gousier’s soft, tinkling voice, and the door opened just wide enough for the poodles to slip inside. ‘Your crêpes are ready!’ they heard, as the metal door clanged shut. ‘Who was that?’ said Kingsley in astonishment. ‘And what are they doing in the old furnace room?’ ‘That was Madame Grand Gousier the balloonist – those poodles must belong to her,’ said Ada. ‘She’s one of the grocers delivering supplies for the bake off. At least that’s what they said they were doing . . .’ Just then the door opened again and Maltravers backed out. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else you need,’ he wheezed, ‘to make your stay more—’ The door slammed in his face, interrupting him. ‘. . . comfortable.’ Maltravers turned and hurried away, muttering beneath his breath.
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‘He’s definitely up to something, and I don’t like it,’ said Ada, after he had gone. ‘I wish my father was here.’ ‘Me too,’ said Kingsley, ‘but until he gets back
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from his book tour, the Attic Club will have to keep a close eye on things.’ They climbed down from the wine stack and crept, as quietly as they could, out of the Whine Cellars and into the entrance hall. ‘We’ll talk about all this at the Attic Club tomorrow,’ said Ada, as they walked past the statue of the three Graces in the entrance hall. ‘In the meantime I’ll ask William to follow Maltravers everywhere – he’s very good at not being seen.’ ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother,’ said the fourth Grace, suddenly stepping down from the other three on the plinth. ‘Lord Sydney!’ said Ada. ‘You made me jump.’
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‘Apologies, Miss Goth,’ said Lord Sydney, removing his dust sheet with a flourish, ‘but leave Maltravers to me. I’ll make a full report to your father when he gets back from the Lake District.’ He took a small rolled-up note from his pocket. ‘Right now he’s sheltering from a thunderstorm beneath a gorse
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bush with his poet friends William Wordsworthalot and Alfred, Lord Tennislesson.*’ Lord Sydney turned to Kingsley and smiled. ‘You’d better get to bed, Kingsley, you’ve got a busy day ahead, helping to put up the Spiegel tent for the fete. Just the job for a young man with a head for heights.’ ‘Er . . . yes . . . I suppose so,’ said Kingsley. ‘What’s a Spiegel tent?’ ‘You’ll see,’ said Lord Sydney, striding across the marble floor, scribbling a message on the back of the note
*William and Alfred have a pea-green boat which they take it in turns to row across lake Windermere to visit their friend Edward Turkey who lives on a hill.
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as he did so. Reaching the front door, he turned and gave a little bow before stepping out into the night. Ada said goodnight to Kingsley and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Her head was spinning. It had certainly been an eventful day – first she had seen her lady’s maid for the very first time and discovered she was a bear, then the celebrated cooks had arrived in Mrs Beat’em’s kitchens, the Grocers of the Night had appeared in their hot-air balloon and she had run into the giant poodles in the Whine Cellars. What were they doing down there? She didn’t like the look of those grocers and their dogs at all. Marylebone had laid out a nightdress on the Dalmatian divan and Ada undressed and put it on. Then she climbed into her eight-poster bed and blew out the bedside candle. ‘I’ll certainly have plenty to report to the Attic Club tomorrow,’ she yawned. *
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The next morning at breakfast she found Emily sipping tea and William practising turning the colour of his hot buttered toast. Today was the day that preparations for the fete began in earnest, and the house was a hive of activity. Ada was excited too, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was going on; she was worried about Marylebone, and it was her birthday in two days, which everyone had most likely forgotten again. It had put her in rather a funny mood. ‘Don’t play with your food, William,’ said Emily, putting down her teacup and taking a bite of a chocolate eclair in the shape of the Prince Regent. ‘Cake for breakfast?’ said Ada. ‘There’s plenty to choose from,’ said Emily, pointing at the Jacobean sideboard. ‘I think the cooks have been practising.’ Ada
gasped. Emily was right. Piled high on the sideboard was a magnificent display of baked goods.
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There was a pile of rocky-looking macaroons glued together with lemon curd from the Hairy Hikers. Next to that were Nigellina Sugarspoon’s giant chocolate sponge in a lake of melted chocolate and Gordon Ramsgate’s eye-wateringly fiery croissants. Mary Huckleberry had baked half a dozen tiny but perfectly formed cakes, but Ada’s eye was drawn to the creation at the end. A beautifully sculpted princess made of toasted brioche sat on a cushion of fluffy scrambled egg
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from which, like the rays of the sun, came cheesy sponge fingers. A little card beside it said: The plate next to it contained a small baby rusk and a rather messy bacon roll. ‘They’re William Flake’s Pastries of Innocence and Experience,’ said Emily doubtfully. ‘I prefer this eclair made by Hollyhead – the chocolate trousers are delicious!’
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* Ada helped herself to a little of Heston Harboil’s brioche and egg, which tasted as good as it looked. Just then, there was the sound of carriage wheels on gravel and Emily jumped up from her seat and rushed over to the window. ‘They’re here! They’re here!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘The painters are here!’ Ada and William joined Emily at the window. A stagecoach had drawn up in front of the steps, and a group of rather strange-looking men were attempting to climb out of it. They all carried easels, paintboxes, bundles of paintbrushes and canvases which kept getting wedged in the windows, or being dropped on the ground as the occupants of the stagecoach squeezed through the door. The stagecoach itself was rather battered, but brightly painted and pulled by four extremely large carthorses with brass nameplates on their bridles which read ‘Titian’, ‘Rembrandt’, ‘Damian’ and ‘Tracey’. On the side of the stagecoach in
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decorative lettering was written ‘Beauty for the Price of a Raffle Ticket’. ‘Real live painters!’ breathed Emily, grabbing her watercolour box and her portfolio. ‘Come on, Ada, let’s go and meet them!’ Ada had never seen Emily quite this excited, not even when they’d discovered the purple geranium of Cairo growing behind the old icehouse. Emily grasped her by the hand and led Ada down the stairs, across the hall, out through the front door and to the top of the steps outside. All the painters had managed to get out of the stagecoach, although one, an enormous man with a bushy beard, was having difficulty getting down from his seat on the roof because his wooden clogs wouldn’t fit on the rungs of the ladder attached to the side. They lined up at the foot of the steps, and their leader, a short man in an extremely tall hat and with a rather intense expression
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on his face, cleared his throat. ‘We are the finest painters in England!’ he announced. ‘Our paintings have been reproduced on chocolate boxes and cake tins throughout the land, but we do not believe in selling our pictures to the highest bidder.’ He smiled and produced a roll of numbered tickets from his waistcoat. ‘Instead the humblest art lover has the chance to win a pretty picture for a single penny!’ ‘What a lovely idea!’ said Emily.
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‘My dear young ladies,’ said the painter, raising his extremely tall hat, ‘the Brotherhood of Twee Raffelites at your service. I am J.M.W. Turnip, and these are my colleagues, Romney Marsh, Maxim de Trumpet-Oil, Stubby George and . . .’ There was a loud thump and the crunch
of pebbles as the enormous man with the bushy beard fell off the stagecoach roof. ‘And our very dear friend, Sir Stephen Belljar the clog-dancing cartoonist.’
Sir Stephen Belljar climbed to his feet and the crunching of pebbles grew louder as he did a shuffling, stomping dance. ‘He’s far too modest to tell you,’ said J.M.W. Turnip, ‘but Sir Stephen’s famous for his caricature of the Prince Regent as a Cumberland sausage.’ ‘Gentlemen,’ said a dry voice and, turning round, Ada saw that Maltravers had crept up and was standing behind her, ‘rooms have been prepared for you all in the east wing. I’ll send the grooms to bring up your luggage.’ Just then the sun disappeared behind dark clouds and Ada heard the distant rumble of thunder. ‘Is that a watercolour box on your back?’ J.M.W. Turnip asked Emily. ‘Yes,’ said Emily, smiling delightedly. ‘Excellent!’ said J.M.W. Turnip, clapping his hands together, before glancing up at the sky.
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‘Then take me to the tallest tree in the grounds – we’ve no time to lose!’
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Chapter Seven .M.W. Turnip followed Emily down the steps and out across the dear-deer park, where the herd of extremely expensive ornamental deer were quietly grazing, along with Lord Goth’s collection of oblong sheep and rectangular cattle. ‘Where’s Emily going?’ Arthur Halford asked Ada. He and the other grooms had just arrived from the hobby-horse stables. ‘Never mind about that, Halford,’ wheezed Maltravers. ‘Unload that luggage and take it up to the third floor of the east wing, and look lively about it!’ Arthur and the grooms set to work. There were trunks, easels and portfolios piled high inside the stagecoach and four carpet bags belonging to Sir Stephen Belljar strapped to the roof.
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‘See you tonight at the Attic Club,’ Arthur whispered to Ada, before following the other grooms inside.
Ada set off across the dear-deer park as dark storm clouds gathered overhead. She knew exactly where Emily was going. She was taking J.M.W. Turnip to the tallest tree in the grounds, ‘Old Hardy’, an ancient greenwood tree in the middle of the park with a band-stand beneath it where the Gormless Quire, a village band, played unlikely instruments at random times of the day and night.
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Sure enough, as Ada approached the tree, she saw Emily and J.M.W. Turnip standing under it. The painter had taken off his jacket and extremely tall hat, given them to Emily to hold and strapped her watercolour box to his back. He turned to the tree and began climbing its knobbly trunk. Ada saw that he had a notebook clamped between his teeth as he used both arms to grasp branches and pull himself up. ‘This is so exciting,’ said Emily, ‘watching a real painter at work! Mr Turnip is a painter of storms and sunsets, Ada. He says there are no heights an artist shouldn’t climb to get the best view!’ Ada and Emily looked up. J.M.W. Turnip was being true to his word. He was almost at the top of the greenwood tree, on a thin, swaying branch. The wind grew stronger and thunder rumbled. As they watched, he unbuckled his belt and used it to strap himself securely to the branch. Then he took a pencil from behind his ear, the notebook from his mouth, opened it and . . .
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The clouds parted and bright sunshine bathed Ghastly-Gorm Hall and the dear-deer park. As quickly as they had gathered, the storm clouds drifted away and were replaced by a clear blue sky. Strapped to the highest branch of ‘Old Hardy’, J.M.W. Turnip looked utterly dejected. ‘Is it too much to ask for the odd summer storm?’ he complained, shaking a fist at the sky. ‘A tempest or two? The occasional maelstrom? Treetops, church steeples, the masts of sailing ships! I’ve strapped myself to them all,’ he moaned. ‘And every time! Every time –’ he snapped his notebook shut – ‘this happens!’ J.M.W. Turnip shielded his eyes as he stared at the sun. ‘I’ll just have to settle for the sunsets . . .’ he
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muttered, as he untied himself and began to climb down the tree. ‘If only they weren’t so picturesque.’ Ada and Emily waited patiently under the greenwood tree until J.M.W. Turnip reached the bottom. Emily handed him his jacket and hat and he gave Emily her watercolours back. ‘Are you all right, Mr Turnip?’ asked Emily. ‘Oh . . . er . . . yes, my dear,’ he replied, pulling on his jacket and putting his hat on his head. ‘I just wish sometimes that my paintings weren’t quite so pretty.’ ‘I would love to see them,’ said Emily. ‘You shall, my dear,’ said J.M.W. Turnip, his face brightening. ‘At our exhibition and raffle at the Full-Moon Fete . . . Talking of which,’ he said, gazing across the park at the gravel drive, ‘here the Spiegel tent comes now, in that Cumbrian juggernaut.’ Coming through the gates and rumbling up the drive was the biggest cart Ada had ever seen. It was
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pulled by a team of eight hairy oxen* and driven by a lady in a stovepipe bonnet and dark glasses. Ada, Emily and J.M.W. Turnip walked back towards the house. Maltravers appeared at the top of the steps. The Cumbrian juggernaut came to a halt in front of Ghastly-Gorm Hall. ‘Spiegel tent,’ said the lady in the stovepipe bonnet. ‘Where do you want it?’ ‘Round the back,’ Maltravers told her.
Goth Girl and the Fete Worse Than Death Page 4
