Wendy considered the stack of music in her tote bag. She knew she should practice, but she was weary of feeling frightened and out of control. Maybe Gilda was right: maybe there was some reason she had been heading toward the meadow. At any rate, it was clear that neither her parents, Mrs. Mendelovich, nor Dr. Cudlip could help her with this problem. She was going to have to work with Gilda and help herself if she wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Okay. If we’re going to do this, let’s hurry up. I’m freezing!”
When she and Gilda reached the graveyard, Wendy stood very still, listening to the rush of wind through the trees, thinking how different this graveyard was from the ones she and Gilda had explored back in Michigan. The graveyard at St. Margaret’s Church was far away from the rush of traffic. The tombstones were moss-covered and unpolished. No little pots of flowers were left behind by the living—no neat paths for people to stroll along. Eerily beautiful in their mossy decay, all the tombstones and small monuments of the graveyard seemed to be sinking into the earth.
A small, moplike terrier with muddy paws and unkempt curly fur broke the silence as it trotted through the graveyard. Gilda and Wendy watched as it snuffled happily along the edges of the tombstones, as if on the trail of some small animal.
“Hey, puppy!” Gilda knelt down and ruffled the dog around the ears. “Maybe it lives over at that farm next to the church,” she suggested.
Gilda was about to lead Wendy to Charles Drummond’s tombstone when the small dog suddenly bounded away and darted behind the church. To Gilda’s surprise, Wendy followed.
As she followed the dog, Wendy felt as if someone were whispering warmer! warmer!—urging her to draw closer to something important.
Behind the church, she found the dog lapping water from a hole in the ground.
Wendy stared at the still, black water. She instantly knew that this must be the “treacle well” that was supposed to have “healing” properties. But Wendy also felt there was something almost sinister about it—something that suggested a gloomy world she wasn’t sure she wanted to enter. What was she supposed to do? Reach down into the well? Drink the water? Who knew what was down there?
“What is it?” Gilda whispered, appearing at her side.
“I just have a feeling there’s something inside this well.”
The dog bounded away, and then returned to drop a long stick at Wendy’s feet. It wagged its tail, hoping she would play a game of fetch. Wendy picked up the stick, but instead of throwing it to the dog, she tentatively poked it into the water and quickly pulled it out again, as if afraid of what she might touch.
Gilda decided to follow Wendy’s lead. Maybe there was some kind of clue inside the well! She rummaged under the trees until she found a long, slender branch lying on the ground.
Standing next to Wendy, Gilda thrust the stick into the water and discovered that the well was deeper than she had expected. She couldn’t reach the bottom, but she did feel something unusual beneath the water—an object protruding from one side of the well. “Can you feel that?”
“What?”
“Over here. It feels like something’s wedged into the side of the well.” Gilda wriggled the branch, attempting to pry loose whatever was stuck beneath the water.
“Reach in there, Wendy, and see if you can tell what it is.”
“Maybe you should reach in there.”
Both girls gasped, because at just that moment, something floated to the top of the black water.
40
The Message
A glass jar bobbed on the surface of the water. It reminded Gilda of jars she had seen in her grandmother’s basement that were used for canning fruit, but this jar looked more antique: the glass was elongated and tinted a cloudy blue. It looked as if something might be sealed inside, but it was difficult to see what it was.
Gilda reached into the water and pulled the jar from the well. “I guess we should try to open it.”
The two girls hesitated. They stared at the jar, sensing some great significance about this discovery.
“It might just be a jar, you know,” said Wendy.
“I know.” But Gilda felt certain that it wasn’t just a jar. She felt as if she and Wendy had just intercepted a message from outer space or from another world—as if opening the jar might release something beyond their control.
Gilda took a deep breath and tried to unscrew the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.
“You hold it steady,” said Wendy. “I’ll twist it.” Using all the strength in her pianist’s hands, Wendy twisted the lid until her face turned red. Finally, the lid came unstuck with a great release of air pressure.
“Go ahead,” Gilda whispered. “Look inside.”
“I think there’s something in here.” Wendy carefully retrieved several tightly folded pieces of paper from the jar. As she unfolded the pages and flattened the creases in the papers, she had a sense of recognition, as if an object for which she had been searching had finally turned up.
The papers were a handwritten manuscript of music—a composition titled Sonata in A Minor.
“Hey, it’s music! That has to be significant, right?” Then Gilda saw the change in Wendy’s face: Wendy suddenly looked as if she might be close to tears. “It’s that music you keep hearing, isn’t it?”
Wendy nodded.
“Wendy, do you realize what this means? You heard this music before you had ever seen the score! If that isn’t being clairaudient, I don’t know what is. And my sleuthing skills led us exactly to the right spot! This is very exciting.”
Wendy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“What’s wrong? You don’t think this is exciting?”
“I’m not sure.” Wendy felt overwhelmed. What did this music have to do with her? Why couldn’t she explain or control the forces that had drawn her to it?
“Wait, there’s something else in there.” Gilda pulled one more folded piece of paper from the jar. This page was different—covered with words instead of notation. Gilda and Wendy sat on the steps leading down the well and began to read:
“A rather confident lad, isn’t he?” Gilda couldn’t help feeling that Charles Drummond’s cocky tone was considerably less poignant and spooky than the white rose on his grave had led her to expect. “Maybe this explains why his ghost is so pushy.”
“Maybe he has a right to be cocky.” Wendy looked at Charles’s music manuscript more closely. Now that she could see the written score, she noticed dissonant harmonies and a contrasting middle section that she hadn’t previously heard in her mind. “This composition looks pretty amazing.”
Both Gilda and Wendy felt a prickly awareness that they were reading Charles’s letter while standing very close to the spot where his dead body was buried. Something about the letter and the music made them feel that he was alive—standing a few feet behind them and reading over their shoulders. “That music really does look superb,” said Gilda loudly, for the benefit of any ghost who might be listening.
Wendy began nibbling a lock of hair, then stopped herself. “I just think it’s weird that we’re finding this because of something he originally hid as a project for school.”
“I know. Remember when we did that time capsule assignment back in sixth grade? None of us would have ever imagined something like this.” The time capsule Gilda had created in sixth grade had contained a math homework assignment, a half-used tube of pink lip gloss, a bag of Cheetos, a lunch token, one of her mother’s phone bills, a magazine article titled “New Makeup Shades for Fall,” a poem she had written about vampires, and a photograph of herself wearing her cat’s-eye sunglasses. After she had buried the container, she had been asked to retrieve both the math homework and the phone bill, but she had never again been able to find the exact spot where she had hidden everything.
Gilda made a mental note to create an updated time capsule that contained some drafts of her novels-in-progress and psychic investigation reports, in order to preserve them as historical
documents. “One thing’s for sure,” she said. “Charles Drummond obviously expected to be famous. He also expected to be alive for more than a few months after he wrote this.” “So what do you think happened?”
Gilda jumped to her feet with a businesslike sense of purpose. “That’s what I’m going to figure out next. Wendy, I think we need to start asking Waldgrave and Maddox some tough questions—find out whether they know about this music and what really happened to this boy.”
“What makes you think they’ll answer our questions?”
“You know me. I have a few interrogation techniques up my sleeve.”
Wendy stared at the tiny black notes of music, already hearing the way the complete composition would sound. “I have to learn this music,” she said. I have a gut feeling that’s what he wants, Wendy thought. He’s desperate for this composition to be played.
41
A Tormented Soul
Donning her dark cat’s-eye glasses, adjusting her “London Mod” wig, and doing her best to mimic the demeanor of a sleep-deprived university student, Gilda approached the heavy wooden doors leading into New College. She strolled past the porter into a spacious, grassy quadrangle. Enclosed by the high stone walls of the college and perfectly groomed trees and shrubs, the courtyard had the quiet, peaceful feeling of a cloister where the outside world was completely silenced.
Maybe people can think better in here, Gilda thought. If only it were warmer outside, it would be the perfect place to sit and read a whole stack of good books.
“Sophia! Sophia! Come down from there immediately!”
Gilda couldn’t believe her luck. A short distance across the quadrangle, she spied a thin man who stood with his back to her, gazing up into the branches of a chestnut tree. She recognized Professor Waldgrave’s hunched posture and the way he wore his corduroy pants belted a bit too high above the waist. His cat, Sophia, peered down at him from her perch in the tree.
Act like an Oxford student, Gilda told herself, summoning the nerve to approach Waldgrave.
“Good afternoon, Professor.”
Professor Waldgrave was visibly startled at Gilda’s approach. He stared at Gilda’s wig as if considering an animal that had decided to nest on her head.
“I’m Gilda Joyce,” said Gilda, extending her hand. “I was the page-turner for the sight-reading competition. Remember?”
“Ah, yes; how could I forget? The flying music score. You certainly helped increase the difficulty level for some of the competitors.”
“Happy to be of service.” Gilda decided to ignore Professor Waldgrave’s thinly veiled insult. “Looks like your cat’s stuck in a tree,” she added.
“Brilliant observation.”
Seems like he’s in an even grumpier mood than usual, Gilda thought.
The cat yawned and stared down at the two of them with sleepy eyes. Gilda suspected that Sophia was teasing Professor Waldgrave—enjoying the spectacle of her owner’s agitation.
“Please, Sophia!” Professor Waldgrave begged. “I have students waiting!”
“Have you tried tempting her with a snack?” Gilda suggested. If I can help him retrieve his cat, maybe he’ll warm up to me, she reasoned. “I have half a scone left in my bag.”
“She doesn’t like scones.”
Gilda guessed Sophia must be among the most spoiled, temperamental cats in England. “How about a basket of dead rats from the Covered Market?” she joked.
Professor Waldgrave almost smiled. “That might interest her. Do you also have rats in your handbag?”
“No.” Gilda desperately wished she could produce some rats.
The cat splayed her hind toes and began to lick between them with exquisite attention to detail as Professor Waldgrave paced back and forth beneath the tree. Gilda noticed that he walked with toes pointed outward, like an uncoordinated ballet dancer.
Gilda decided it was best to approach the topic of Charles Drummond gradually in order to gain Professor Waldgrave’s trust. Maybe he’d prefer to talk about his cat, she thought.
“Tell me, Professor Waldgrave,” she said, “is it true what they say about you and your cat?”
“I have no idea.” Professor Waldgrave stopped pacing and began to scrutinize the trunk of the chestnut tree, as if he was considering climbing it. “What, pray tell, do they say?”
“You know. They say that Sophia is the one who makes the judging decisions in the piano competition.”
“Who on earth told you that?”
“Just—competitors. People in the competition.” Gilda suddenly wondered whether this was another one of Julian’s stories.
“Well, you can tell them this: Sophia is a cat. Cats don’t judge piano competitions.”
“Oh, I know that. I guess some people think you have a system, and if Sophia purrs or growls, that influences their score.”
Professor Waldgrave snorted.
“I mean, it is odd that your cat attends all the performances, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t the least bit odd. To be completely honest, Sophia has better taste in music than most humans, and that’s a fact. If she’s helping me judge the competition, perhaps she should be getting paid for her contributions.”
Gilda laughed nervously, but Professor Waldgrave only scowled.
“Well, I thought it sounded pretty silly.” Gilda now regretted beginning with this line of questioning. It wasn’t at all easy to keep loitering near the chestnut tree when Waldgrave was acting so obviously unfriendly.
“So . . . I imagine you must be pretty busy with the competition judging,” Gilda ventured, hoping that a renewed attempt at small talk would lead to more important subjects.
“Quite busy.”
“They’re a fine bunch of piano players.”
“Some show promise.”
“That performer number nine—Wendy Choy—is a splendid musician.”
“The rules forbid me from commenting on any performance outside the concert hall,” Professor Waldgrave snapped.
“Sorry.” Gilda decided she didn’t have much time left; she had to get to the point soon. “I suppose I was just thinking that being around all this young talent makes me pity the musicians who die young.”
Professor Waldgrave stopped in his tracks. “Why? Why would this competition make you think such an absolutely morbid thing?”
“Sometimes the dead have a way of speaking to us, don’t you agree?”
Professor Waldgrave’s face turned gray. “Yes,” he said, staring up at his cat. “I agree. I believe dead composers speak through the performances of their music. However, I must say, Gilda, that I have absolutely no idea what on earth you’re talking about.”
Gilda decided there was no chance of a gentle transition into the questions she really wanted to ask Waldgrave, so she might as well get straight to the point. “Professor Waldgrave, I have reason to believe that you know something about a boy named Charles Drummond. It’s important that I find out what happened to him.”
Professor Waldgrave turned to look at Gilda with surprisingly vulnerable eyes. He removed his glasses, wiped them off, and put them back on, as if he hoped this might help him view his problems in a better light. “Miss Joyce, I can’t imagine why you would be tasteless enough to mention the name Charles Drummond to me, but you have just helped me remember that I am also not supposed to fraternize with young people involved in the competition; it’s against the rules.”
“But Professor Waldgrave—”
Professor Waldgrave turned on his heel and walked swiftly across the quad, his cat calling mournfully after him.
42
A Disturbing Discovery
The New College Library was cozy and dimly lit, crammed floor to ceiling with stacks of books arranged in little alcoves. Students sat at tables or in velvet window seats, poring over books and laptop computers, conversing in loud whispers, or sprawling in unapologetic naps. I can’t wait to be a college student, Gilda thought. This is exactly the sort of library I
love.
Gilda spied Professor Heslop trudging along in her flat Mary Jane shoes, carrying a large stack of books and papers. She disappeared into an alcove labed COLLEGE HISTORY, and Gilda decided to follow, hoping that Professor Heslop might be able to answer some questions.
“Oh, what a surprise!” Gilda declared, pretending to notice Professor Heslop for the first time. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Professor Heslop frowned, her eyes darting up to Gilda’s wig, then down to her mud-stained white go-go boots.
“It’s Gilda Joyce, Professor Heslop. The page-turner.”
“Oh, sorry. I must say, Gilda, you have quite a travel wardrobe.”
“Thank you, Professor Heslop. I’m a great admirer of fine tailoring.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Gilda, but may I ask what you’re doing here? This library is for students of New College.”
“Of course. Well . . . ” Gilda tried to think of a quick excuse. “Mrs. Mendelovich sent me here on her behalf—to do some research.”
“I see. I suppose we can allow it this time, then. Good day.”
“Professor Heslop—”
“Yes?”
“I have a rather unusual question pertaining to the judges—Professor Waldgrave in particular.”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk about the judging until the competition is over.”
“This is about something more personal.”
“I must abide by the rules, I’m afraid.” Professor Heslop spoke in a clipped voice. “You’re welcome to take a look in these files for information about the competition, if that would help. I must be off to a tutorial now.”
Gilda stuck her tongue out at Professor Heslop’s retreating figure. She sighed and decided she might as well take a look through some of the files.
Not sure where to begin, Gilda absentmindedly opened the file in which Professor Heslop had placed some papers. There, she discovered a folder labeled FIFTH ANNUAL YOUNG INTERNATIONAL VIRTUOSOS COMPETITION. Inside, a document labeled FIRST ROUND listed names, performance numbers, and compositions performed. Wendy Choy’s name appeared next to number nine, followed by the pieces she had performed—the Bach French Suite in G Major and the Mozart Fantasy in D Minor. A handwritten note next to Wendy’s name indicated “qualified for final round.”
The Ghost Sonata Page 19
