by Tonke Dragt
“Why are you asking me?” said the Biker Boy. “You’re the one who went for a ride in that thing, not me! Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bit weird?”
He’s not wrong, thought Frans. But what he said out loud was, “If you want me to be your witness, you’ll need to be a bit more polite.”
“Fine. Okay!” said the Biker Boy. “Come on.”
Soon after that, the boy climbed proudly onto his scooter. He revved the engine and the bright beam of the headlight lit up the sheet of falling raindrops.
Frans got on behind him. There were supposed to be seven paths here, but he had no idea which one went into town. It was actually a stroke of luck that he’d run into the Biker Boy – how else would he have found his way home?
But as they noisily sped off, he began to change his mind. Not just because he was getting colder and wetter by the second, but mostly because he was worried every moment might be his last. The Biker Boy rode his scooter hard, racing faster and faster, and tearing around the bends.
“So irresponsible,” Frans said to himself, as the trees flashed by and the wind whistled around his ears. His ride in the coach had actually been a lot calmer. Sometimes he thought he could hear the Biker Boy singing above the din of the engine. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
That’s just what I’d expect of him. He’s trying to frighten me, thought Frans van der Steg. However, the Hero of Torelore gritted his teeth and spoke fiercely to himself, “But he won’t succeed!”
Even so, he sighed with relief when they reached a road with a tarmac surface and a sign with a speed limit. The Biker Boy slowed down (although he must still have been above the speed limit) and called back over his shoulder, “It’s not quite ten to nine by the church clock. I’ve beaten my record!”
“And you didn’t break your neck doing it!” Frans shouted back to him. “Congratulations!”
Shortly after that, they rode into town, and by nine they’d stopped at a chip shop. There was a cinema across the road, with a few young men in leather jackets hanging around outside. One of them saw the Biker Boy and gave a loud whistle.
“Are they your friends?” asked Frans.
“The film won’t have started yet,” said the Biker Boy, ignoring Frans. “I’m going to get some chips first. This weather! Come on.”
They both had a bag of chips. Frans rubbed his glasses clean, put them back on, and looked carefully at the Biker Boy. For the first time he could see him properly. The Biker Boy stared back at him too, weighing him up. Then he said, “Wait here a moment for me,” and he walked off. Frans watched him cross the street and start talking to the boys in leather jackets outside the cinema.
“Right then,” said the man in the chip shop. “So that was two bags of chips…”
Frans paid for the chips, and when he looked up again, there wasn’t a soul in front of the cinema. He waited a couple of minutes before crossing the street and heading into the cinema lobby. The Biker Boy and his mates weren’t there either. The man behind the ticket desk looked at him expectantly and asked, “Want to buy a ticket, sir?”
“No, thank you,” said Frans. “I’m waiting for someone.”
He chose a spot where he could keep an eye on the chip shop, and stood there a while. The scooter was still there, but the Biker Boy didn’t show up. He could hear dramatic music coming from inside the auditorium. The film must be starting.
Frans went to the man at the ticket desk and said, “Did a couple of… young men in leather jackets just go inside?”
“The cinema’s full of yobs in leather jackets these days,” the man replied sadly. “I’m a father, sir, and there’s no way I’d ever let my children go to the second showing. And if they ever get a scooter, I don’t want them racing around aimlessly like that bunch of hooligans. Those things should only be used for getting from A to B, don’t you think?” His face had brightened up now that he had someone to talk to. “I might work at a cinema,” he said, “but how often do you think I watch films? Never! I’m all for healthier ways to spend your time. Camping, for instance. A tent in the woods, away from civilization, that’s what you want! But these youngsters nowadays, they’re all too lazy for that…”
Frans listened to him for a while, still keeping an eye out for the Biker Boy, even though he was sure he wouldn’t turn up. He was probably watching the film with his mates.
Well, he needn’t think I’m going to hang around here waiting for him, he thought to himself. He can have those chips in exchange for the lift. But I’ll be happy if I never see him again. Ignorant lout!
Frans said goodbye to the man at the ticket desk and walked to the nearest stop to catch the bus back to his village. He was chilly and wet and disappointed with himself. In one of his own stories, this evening would have turned out very differently. But, he thought, I can’t quite imagine how…
THAT WAS TWO and now for Part Three
3
FRANS FINDS OUT WHO GR… GR… IS
He follows the carriage’s trail and ends up at the Thirsty Deer
THIS IS ONE
The next morning the wind had blown away all the rainclouds. The weather was cool, but fine, and the sun was shining as if summer still lingered. But Frans van der Steg cycled to school with a frown on his face.
He had the growing feeling that he should have acted differently the night before. The children would be sure to want to hear about his adventures, but the role he’d played had been anything but clever or heroic. I shouldn’t have got into the coach, he thought. No, I shouldn’t have got out of it. I really should have made that coachman answer my questions and boxed the Biker Boy’s ears… Oh, and I wish I’d never made up that story about a mysterious letter.
It was Saturday, which meant the class would be expecting at least half an hour of stories. Frans had brought a book to school with him, and when it was time he read out one of the stories. As he reached the last page, he kept glancing at his watch and he went as slowly as he could. But the story was still finished before twelve. The bell wouldn’t ring for another three minutes… and, of course, the children asked the question he’d been dreading.
“Sir, did you visit Gr… Gr… yesterday?”
“No,” answered Frans truthfully, and he wondered yet again if that person actually existed. He raised his hand to fend off more questions. “Listen, chaps,” he said in a serious tone. “I’m afraid I’m on the trail of a strange and dangerous secret. I can’t tell you any more than that at the moment… And now I’d like to ask you a question. Do any of you know or suspect the actual identity of Gr… Gr…? Because the man must have a name!”
The classroom was very quiet. Some of the children stared at him with wide eyes, while others deliberately looked away. Marian, who blushed easily, went bright red.
Frans van der Steg cleared his throat. He really did feel very uneasy… just as if there actually were some dangerous secrets involved! Or was it because he felt like he was somehow fooling his class? But there was no way back now, and he had to break the awkward silence.
“Perhaps it’s better if anyone who knows something about this speaks to me in private,” he said. “You can always talk to me after school.”
Now they all started whispering, and somehow it sounded different… Don’t start imagining things, Frans told himself. You just caught a little chill yesterday, that’s all.
Then, fortunately, the bell went, and he could send them on their way.
As he was marking books in the empty classroom, Marian suddenly appeared beside his desk. “Sir…” she began shyly.
Three boys were standing in the doorway – Maarten, Kai and Arie.
“What is it?” asked Frans.
The boys came over to the desk as well. “Sir,” said Maarten – of course he was the first one to speak – “it’s about what you just said in the lesson…”
“Gr… Gr…” Kai growled softly.
“Do you know who Gr… Gr… is?”
“Oh, no, no,” the
children answered at the same time.
“No, sir,” said Maarten. “But we want to help you if we can. Could we… can we… We’d really like to take a look at the letter!”
“That’s right,” said Marian. “Maybe we’ll see something useful. Would you mind?”
Frans took the letter out of his pocket, where he’d slipped it that morning. Without saying anything, he placed it on the desk and watched as the children studied it. He couldn’t see their faces, but they seemed to be completely serious. Marian was the first to look up; she was blushing again, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“No idea,” she said breathlessly.
“Me neither,” said Kai and Arie. Maarten just shook his head.
“Well, that’s a shame,” said Frans as casually as possible. “But thanks anyway.”
The children shuffled their feet and looked a bit embarrassed.
“Do any of you know a biker?” asked Frans.
Now the children looked puzzled. “A biker?” repeated Marian. “What do you mean?”
“One of those yobs in leather jackets who race around on scooters,” said Maarten. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, sir?”
“My brother’s got a scooter,” said Kai. “But he’s not a yob.”
“That’s what you say!” said Arie.
But Maarten asked, “Is this biker part of the secret too?”
“Maybe,” replied Frans. “He rides along the roads in the dark, talks about ghosts and then disappears without saying goodbye.”
“And then?” asked Marian, like it was a story.
“I don’t know yet,” said Frans. “Well, maybe you’ll get to hear more about it, and maybe not. We’ll just have to wait and see. And if you have anything to report, come and talk to me! See you on Monday.”
The children left, but Maarten popped back and whispered, “This is for real, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, Maarten,” Frans said, with a nod, “it’s for real.” And, as he spoke those words, he meant what he said.
Just a moment later, though, he’d changed his mind. If it was for real, there had to be some logical explanation, and he couldn’t think of one.
“It’s a conspiracy,” he said to himself, “and those four children are part of it – maybe even the whole class!”
But as he cycled home, he whistled a happy tune. Now he knew what he needed to do! He was free that afternoon, so he’d go back to Sevenways and take a good look around in daylight. He’d follow the trail of the carriage and find the solution to all these puzzles. On Monday he’d tell the children the end of the story – and he was sure they’d all be amazed.
*
After lunch, he asked his landlady, “Have you ever heard of Sevenways?”
She looked at him with some surprise, or at least he imagined she did. “Seven Ways?” she repeated. “People say that I can’t dance…”
“No, I don’t mean that Seven Ways,” said Frans. “It’s just… I… Well… Apparently there’s, um, a crossroads near here with seven paths…”
“It sounds to me like you’re all at sixes and sevens,” his landlady said. “Why are you interested in Sevenways?”
“I’d like to go there,” said Frans. “Just for a bike ride.”
“That’s a good idea,” she replied. “It’d be nice for you to get out and about a bit. Sevenways isn’t hard to find: down the high street, left at the petrol station, and then take the first turn-off after Dijkhof’s farm. Have fun!”
Soon after that, Frans was cycling along the route that the carriage had taken the evening before. After the farmyard, the road got worse and worse, all mud and huge puddles, but he didn’t let that put him off. The weather was still fine and he could see the tracks the coach had left. He didn’t know the countryside around him, but it was beautiful and very quiet, with not a single house in sight.
After cycling for half an hour, he came to Sevenways, the point where so many paths met in the middle of the woods.
He got off his bike. The abandoned building was on his right, the haunted pub, as the Biker Boy had called it. It was indeed little more than a ruin; in this bright afternoon light there was no mistake about it.
In front of him was the signpost. It pointed in seven directions. He’d just come along one of those roads, and another went into town. That was the path he’d been along yesterday with the Biker Boy; the tracks of the scooter were clearly visible. The marks left by the carriage were much deeper. It had driven on along a third path, which, according to the signpost, led to the village of Roskam. The fourth way went to Langelaan. The fifth arm of the signpost was very narrow and was simply painted blood red. The sixth went to the “Herb Garden”, and there was no seventh way.
Frans counted them again – yes, there really were only six ways. The seventh arm of the signpost pointed at the ruin. There had once been something written on it, but most of the letters were gone. He could make out a T at the beginning and then an O… no, it wasn’t Tooreloor… And there was an S and a T… with an R and an S at the end.
“I don’t understand why a place with six paths would be called Sevenways,” he said to himself. “Aunt Wilhelmina’s right about me being at sixes and sevens.”
He leant his bike against the signpost and walked over to the building. It had two sections. One part had clearly been the pub. Above the door, which was still open, the pub sign banged away on its last hinge. The other part of the building had probably been used as a garage or shed. Its large double doors turned out to be locked.
Frans went through the open door and headed up the creaking stairs to the first floor. The whole place looked so rickety that he didn’t dare to venture any farther. Cobwebs brushed his face and he could see footprints on the dusty floor… the Biker Boy’s, of course. But then he saw that someone else must have been walking about up there. There were tracks left by two pairs of shoes, one with more pointed toes than the other. He remembered the bang he’d heard upstairs the night before… Had there been someone else in the building with them?
“Don’t start pretending you’re a detective now,” said Frans van der Steg to Frans the Red.
He went back down the stairs, and saw nothing out of the ordinary, not even the cigarette packet that the Biker Boy had been looking for.
Back outside, he looked up at the pub sign. He could vaguely make out a human figure, painted in red, but a skull had been daubed over it with a few angry black lines. Haunted or not, it was a sinister place.
Frans got back onto his bike and took the road to Roskam, following the route of the carriage.
First he rode through a dark wood, which already smelt like autumn, and then past fields and meadows, before he saw the village ahead. It was very small, with a squat church at its centre. The muddy track became a brick road, which curved into the village. On the bend was a pub – not a haunted one this time. It looked like an old-fashioned inn for travellers. The name suited it: “The Thirsty Deer”.
And thirsty’s what I am! thought Frans. I’ll stop for a drink.
He parked his bike and took a quick look around before heading inside. On the other side of the road was a majestic chestnut tree and, behind it, a coach house. As he stood there, the doors opened wide and a carriage came rattling out.
The very carriage he was looking for!
It was definitely the same man sitting up front. He looked less mysterious now, but just as unfriendly. He’d knotted a scarf around his head that was even redder than his nose and made him look like some kind of highwayman.
The coachman paused for a moment and saw Frans hurrying towards him. Then he cracked his whip and urged his horse on.
“Hey, wait a moment!” Frans called.
But the coach continued on its way, and Frans had to jump back or it would have rolled right over his toes. Frans ran after it. “Stop, stop!” he yelled.
The coachman ignored him. And the coach drove on, faster and faster, into the village, before disappearing from sight.
Frans walked back to the Thirsty Deer. He was furious.
Would he be able to catch up with the coach on his bike? He could try, but if he didn’t make it, he’d just feel even more stupid. He thought he could see lots of people at the windows of the pub, all of them looking at him. He decided not to worry about it and to go inside.
Inside the pub, it looked just as you would have expected from the outside: quaint and very cosy. The room had a tiled floor and a dark wooden ceiling. There were small tables with red-checked cloths and one large table with untidy newspapers and rings left behind by glasses. There was lots of copperware, and one corner had a billiards table with some men playing. A jovial landlord stood behind the bar, drying cups with a brightly coloured cloth.
The pub had no radio or television. The only sounds were the click-clack of the balls, the clink of glasses and the murmuring of the guests. It was quite busy, and all of the customers were men. Some of them glanced up when Frans came in, but most paid him no attention.
“What will it be, sir?” the landlord asked chirpily.
“A beer, please,” said Frans, and then he continued, “By the way, I just saw an old-fashioned carriage out there across the street. I wanted to speak to the driver, but he drove off. Do you have any idea where he’s from?”
“Oh, that’ll have been Jan,” replied the landlord. “He’s Count Gradus Grisenstein’s coachman.”
“Count Gradus Grisenstein?” repeated Frans.
Everything in the pub suddenly stopped. The silence was so unexpected that Frans looked around in surprise. The men at the tables stared at him. The billiard players turned their backs on their game. Only one man, a grey-haired man with a beard, who was sitting at the large table, calmly went on playing patience.
Frans didn’t know what to do with himself. But then everyone looked away and started behaving completely normally again. He wondered if he’d just imagined it, and so he said once again, raising his voice a little, “Count Gradus Grisenstein’s coachman, eh?”
