The tombstone was smaller and newer than many of the flat, greenish slabs that jutted from the ground throughout the churchyard. The inscription read:
CHARLES DRUMMOND So young, so bright, so brief
“Hey, that bloke was about our age when he died.” Julian noticed the boy had died only four years ago.
A cloud overhead darkened the late-afternoon sunlight as they both stared at the grave.
“I wonder how he died,” Gilda mused.
“I know a way we could find out.”
“A séance?”
“Something like that . . . There’s an old tradition in my village—a way to communicate with a person who’s died and to raise their spirit from beyond.”
“Is this another one of your ghost stories?”
“No. All the kids know about it, but most of them are too scared to do it.”
“How about you?”
“I tried it once, ages ago.”
“And?”
“I admit nothing happened then, but you never know. Maybe it’s different with a real psychic investigator.”
As Julian spoke, Gilda felt a chill, as if a draft of cold air had just wafted up from the grave itself. “Okay. How does it work?” For some reason, she found herself whispering.
“Well, you get a group of kids together and everyone holds hands and circles counterclockwise ’round the grave nine times. And each time you go ’round, you chant the dead person’s name.”
Gilda reflected that this seemed exactly like the kind of wonderfully spooky but fundamentally bad idea that some kid might have in a horror movie—a movie in which everyone ends up getting killed.
“Can’t hurt to try it.” Gilda tried to sound more nonchalant than she felt.
The two stood on opposite sides of the small tombstone, and Julian took Gilda’s hands. Gilda sensed a warm, electric energy flowing between them. She was also intensely aware that rows of corpses and skeletons surrounded them, just beneath the ground. They began to circle around the boy’s tombstone.
“Charles Drummond,” they said at the first circle, gazing into each other’s eyes and giggling at the sense that what they were doing was at once very silly and somehow potentially very dangerous.
“Charles Drummond,” they repeated at the second circle.
Their circles grew faster, and Gilda began to feel dizzy. Julian’s pitcher-eared face became distorted; the tombstones glimpsed in her peripheral vision looked lopsided; the earth and the sky seemed to be switching places. As they completed the ninth turn, Gilda felt so light-headed, she thought she might fall down on the ground, but instead, Julian pulled her toward him, and then something very strange was happening because his mouth was touching hers.
I’m kissing a boy, Gilda told herself. Omigod, I’m actually kissing a boy! My first kiss! In an English graveyard!
Technically, it wasn’t Gilda’s very first kiss; earlier in the year, she had been in a school play in which her character had been required to kiss a boy named Felix, but neither Gilda nor Felix had wanted to kiss each other in the scene. They had pressed their mouths together as briefly and reluctantly as possible, and Felix had even asked the director if the scene could be cut “just so nobody gets the idea we’re a couple.”
Kissing Julian was different: there was nothing reluctant about it. In fact, he seemed to be trying to tear his lips from her face with a fierce suction. Maybe we’re not doing it right, Gilda thought. She was aware of her shinbone pressing into the cold stone of the tombstone between them, and the drops of icy rain that had begun to fall. It’s not quite what I imagined, Gilda had to admit. She had assumed that when you finally kissed a boy you actually liked, the experience would be akin to being launched into outer space or the first downward plunge on a roller coaster. Didn’t the old movies and television programs show fireworks going off when people kissed? The truth boiled down to the reality of someone’s mouth touching yours—someone else’s lips, tongue, and saliva. Maybe I’m analyzing it too much, Gilda thought.
Almost without warning, the skies opened and the cold drizzle crescendoed into a heavy downpour.
Julian grabbed Gilda’s hand and the two of them hurried toward the church. Relieved to discover that the heavy wooden doors were open, they walked into an eerie quiet.
32
The White Rose
Gilda and Julian entered a tiny, stark sanctuary filled with rows of wooden pews and oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. The only light came from a couple of small stained-glass windows.
Some pamphlets left near the door explained the significance of the treacle well and the “twelfth-century church built on ancient pagan worship grounds.”
Julian took Gilda’s hand and began to pull her close again, but this time, Gilda resisted. “Not in a church.” She realized this sounded like the kind of prim statement her mother might make, but something about the silent spookiness of the twelfth-century church made her feel as if the two of them were being watched. Besides, something else bothered her—something about Julian.
“Tell me the truth, Julian,” she blurted impulsively. “Does your dad install toilets, or does he own hotels?”
Julian was startled by the unexpected question. He glanced at the door as if looking for a quick escape. “What, you and Jenny been gossiping about me?”
“Of course not. I actually heard your story about owning hotels from Jenny’s mother.”
“Oh. Well, what did you tell her?”
“What do you think? I told her your father installs toilets.”
“That explains why she pestered me with about a million questions, then.” Julian sat down in one of the pews, looking dejected. “If you must know, neither one is true. My father is an estate agent. He sells houses.”
“So why lie about selling houses?”
Julian shrugged. “Don’t you ever wish things were more interesting than they are?”
“Every now and then.” More like all the time, Gilda thought. She knew she and Julian had something in common because she often caught herself blurting half-truths in an attempt to liven up conversation or get out of a scrape. Hadn’t she just presented herself as “Dame Gilda” to Professor Sabertash? Still, this tendency only made Gilda feel doubly annoyed whenever she discovered she was on the receiving end of a fib. “What other things did you make up?” Gilda persisted.
“None.”
“What about your story about seeing a ghost?”
“That happened, actually. The irony is that nobody believes the strangest true story I tell.”
“I guess I can relate to that,” said Gilda. She had noticed that her mother and some of her teachers seemed to prefer half-truths to the bizarre, but completely true experiences she encountered as a psychic investigator.
“Anyway,” Julian continued, “who knows why I made up that rot about my poor dad.”
Gilda sat down next to Julian in the pew. “Why did you?”
“Maybe because he doesn’t want me to be here, doing this competition in the first place. Maybe he’s right. I probably shouldn’t be here.” Julian clutched the fingers of his left hand and began pulling his fingers back one by one, as if trying to stretch out his joints.
Gilda observed the ropy veins in Julian’s hands. She felt surprised to hear self-doubt from someone who normally seemed so assured. “I think you should follow your dreams no matter what, Julian.”
“Spoken like a true American—optimistic and naïve.”
“What’s the point of being pessimistic, thinking that nothing you hope for could ever really happen?”
“I’m not being pessimistic; I’m being realistic. I see how people’s lives turn out. It’s never exactly what they imagine or hope for.”
Gilda thought of the adults she knew. How many of them had actually ended up where they had once imagined they would be? Her mom had apparently always wanted to be a nurse, but she also complained that the job of working in a hospital was much more draining than she had expected. A
nd what about her father? He had died before achieving his dream of becoming a writer. “I guess some people are just unlucky,” Gilda ventured. “But I get the feeling most people never really go for it enough.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you’re going for?”
Gilda detected a sardonic note in Julian’s voice—almost a tone of hostility. “I already told you,” she said. “I’m a psychic investigator.”
“Right. So when you’re all grown up you’ll go to work at the psychic investigator office and pay your bills with all the dosh you make from catching ghosts?”
“It’s not about money.” Gilda had never actually thought of her investigative work in such practical terms. “It’s more like something I do because I’m driven to do it,” she explained. “I almost can’t help it.”
Julian nodded, watching her closely—almost hungrily.
“Besides, being a psychic investigator isn’t my only career. I’ll probably also write a couple best-selling novels and direct some Broadway hits to help support my investigative work and designer shopping sprees.”
“So—at the age of fourteen, you’re a novelist, a theater director, and a psychic investigator.”
“Exactly.” Gilda enjoyed hearing the summary of her careers.
“And a page-turner.”
“Oh, right.”
“Would you also say you’re a bit of a faffer?”
Gilda couldn’t remember the specific meaning of the term faffer, but it had a flaccid, windy sound that she didn’t like. Julian wore a patronizing expression she remembered seeing on her brother’s face when he was teasing her in some way she couldn’t quite figure out. “I’m not a faffer,” she said.
“But you faff about,” said Julian, grinning.
“I do not ‘faff about.’”
“Are you sure?” Julian gazed at her with a combination of mischievous affection and something akin to malice. It clearly bothered him that Gilda pursued her far-fetched goals with such complete confidence.
“If a faffer is a multitalented person, then yes—I am one.”
“It’s more like a person who dabbles—someone who does a little of this, a little of that, but doesn’t really accomplish any one thing.”
“Who says I don’t accomplish anything?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m a bit of a faffer myself; my teacher always says so.”
“For your information, Julian, I was making great progress on an investigation until you showed up in this graveyard.”
“Don’t get all in a pother. Back home, everyone gets teased all the time, so I guess it’s just habit for me.”
“I’ve never been in a pother in my life!” Gilda stood up and headed for the door. “I should get back to my work instead of faffing about in this church with you.” Gilda thrust open the heavy church door. Looking out into a steady drizzle of rain, she glimpsed something in the graveyard that made her forget her argument with Julian. In fact, for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe.
A tall figure stood amid the tombstones wearing a hooded cape that dragged upon the ground. Carrying a black umbrella, the figure began to move at a strikingly smooth speed, almost appearing to float just above the wet grass.
Is that the ghost of Rosamund the Fair? Gilda felt momentarily paralyzed. But what about the black umbrella? Didn’t Rosamund live too long ago for umbrellas?
Gilda came to her senses and ran into the rain, attempting to pursue the cloaked figure, but he or she disappeared into a grove of trees before Gilda could catch up.
As Gilda paused to catch her breath, something equally mysterious caught her attention: a single white rose that lay in the mud upon Charles Drummond’s grave.
33
Mrs. Choy and Mrs. Chen
Your mum rang twice, luv,” said Mrs. Luard as Wendy walked through the front door of Wyntle House. “She said she wants you to use your calling card to get in touch.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” Wendy realized there was no way around it; she had to call home at some point.
“You’re welcome to use the telephone in here by the telly if you want.” Breathing heavily as she maneuvered herself on her crutches, Mrs. Luard directed Wendy to the telephone. “I’ll be back in a mo’; I have to let Bunny out in the garden for a wee.” Mrs. Luard moved heavily down the hallway with her tiny dog scurrying behind her.
Wendy sat down on Mrs. Luard’s worn couch, found her calling card, and stared at it for a minute before finally picking up the phone and dialing.
“Wendy! That you?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Why not call sooner?”
“Just busy practicing.”
“Something wrong?”
“No.” There was an echo on the line, and Wendy had the disconcerting sense of shouting into a canyon. “Wendy—Mrs. Chen say there is a hole in you music.”
“What?”
“A hole! She say, you brain forget you music!”
Wendy felt intensely annoyed. Ming Fong must have blabbed something about that glitch in the first round of the competition to her mother, who had predictably blabbed the news to Mrs. Choy.
“Mom, it’s called a ‘memory slip,’ and it can happen to anyone.”
“Not practice long enough? Out eating scones and greasy Italian curry with Gilda!”
“I haven’t had a single scone—or Indian curry—since I’ve been here, Mom! I’ve been practicing my butt off, and it has nothing to do with Gilda.”
“I’m being trailed by a ghost,” Wendy imagined herself saying. What would her mother do if she heard the truth? She’d probably withdraw money from her savings account, jump on the next plane to England, and bring me some ancient Chinese herbs and rearrange my furniture. The idea of dealing with her mother along with a ghost and the piano competition would be far too much to handle, so Wendy decided to keep the true nature of her problem to herself.
Mrs. Choy fell silent for a moment. “Can you still win competition?”
“Mom, this is an international competition. That means there are plenty of people here who have won contests at home just like me. It’s very competitive.”
“Great honor for you family if you win.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You father and I work ver’ hard, you know? Expensive lessons, trip to England . . . Would be nice to hear you at least wish to win.”
Her mother began talking about Ming Fong and Mrs. Chen, but Wendy was only half-listening. There was music in her head, and it was growing louder. For once, she didn’t mind hearing the intrusive melody. At the moment, the competition seemed small and insignificant because someone had other, bigger plans for her.
34
The Breakthrough
Gilda took in her surroundings—the exposed wooden beams of the low ceilings, the noisy tables crowded together, the crackling fireplace—and couldn’t help but think that her mother would be outraged if she knew that at that very moment, her daughter was in a smoke-filled Oxfordshire pub, sitting at a table with a boy whom she had just kissed in a damp graveyard.
“I’ll have a lager,” Julian told the barman who had approached their table with menus.
“You here with your mum or dad to give you permission?”
“Why would a man of my advanced age be out with his mum and dad?”
“No lager for you, mate.”
“Worth a try.”
“I’ll bring you a glass of warm milk with your fish and chips,” the barman joked.
Julian leaned forward to be heard above the jovial din in the pub. “So didn’t I tell you that graveyard ritual would work?”
“Something definitely happened,” Gilda agreed. She was still baffled by the cloaked figure she had seen. She also had the frustrating awareness that the mystery she had stumbled upon was more complicated than she had imagined; the more pieces of the puzzle she encountered, the less she understood how they all fit together.
“I guess I’d make a pretty
good psychic investigator myself,” said Julian.
“There’s more to it than doing rituals in a graveyard, Julian. I mean, I’ve been working to develop these skills for a few years.”
“I always thought being psychic was something you’re born with.”
“Sure it is. But you still have to practice and study . . .” Gilda was distracted by a familiar voice that cut through the boisterous banter of the pub—an officious, posh-sounding voice suited to sailing across concert halls and lecture halls. Gilda glanced around the room and was shocked when she discovered the source of the voice. “Don’t look now, Julian,” she said, speaking in a low voice, “but the competition judges are here.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Gilda pointed to a dim corner of the pub where Professor Waldgrave sat at a table with Professor Maddox. “What do you think the two of them are doing here together? They hate each other!”
“Maybe they kissed and made up.”
Gilda glanced back at the two music professors and noticed that Professor Maddox wore a distraught expression. Her hair looked wilder than ever, as if walking in the rain had caused her spiral curls to stand straight on end. Gilda impulsively pulled her dark cat’s-eye sunglasses from her bag and put them on. She felt that she simply had to know what they were talking about. “I’m going to sneak over there to spy on them,” she announced.
“Those sunglasses don’t quite make you blend in with the crowd,” Julian observed.
“Maybe not, but I bet they won’t recognize me.” Gilda removed her hat and opened a compact mirror to apply a blood-red shade of lipstick. “In my investigations, I’ve learned that most people actually have very short, superficial memories. If they do remember you, it’s only because of a couple of details—maybe your hair color or a quirk about your clothing or the way you speak or walk. Half the time, all you need as a disguise is a pair of sunglasses.”
The Ghost Sonata Page 16
