‘They won’t want some stuffy old book,’ Phoebe said.
‘Yes we will,’ William protested. ‘We want to know everything there is to know about this place,’ and, as he spoke, he looked at his sisters, implying that they should say no more.
‘Aren’t we going to tell Uncle Jack about the missing room?’ Mary asked him, later, when they were upstairs in their room waiting to be called to supper.
‘Let’s not say anything yet,’ he replied. ‘Let’s find out as much as we can first. You know what grown-ups are like. They’ll only want to take over and make out they knew all about it already.’
Alice suddenly sighed loudly and then groaned.
‘Did you see what Phoebe was washing at the sink? Parsnips! That’s all there’ll be for supper! Parsnips! Big deal! You’re not to sit near me, William. Parsnips make you poop all the time!’ And she shook with laughter.
9
Jonas Lewis’s Book
AS SOON AS supper was finished, the children helped Phoebe to clear the table. It had been decided that they would spend the evening in the kitchen and not light the fire until the following day.
‘But if you light a fire in the hall tomorrow night,’ Phoebe protested, ‘how will Father Christmas get down the chimney? It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
Alice winced and looked away. She was sure that this statement was intended for her. It embarrassed her that Phoebe should so obviously think of her as a child, but at the same time she didn’t want to get into another argument with her and so she tried to remain silent.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jack said. ‘He waits until it’s gone out. That’s why he comes in the middle of the night.’
‘It’ll be awfully sooty. I’d better put some old sheets down. Don’t you agree, Alice?’
Alice scratched her cheek and looked at the floor.
‘Never mind the sheets, don’t forget a tot of brandy and a mince pie,’ Jack said, continuing the absurd game.
‘There is no Father Christmas,’ Alice said at last, unable to contain herself any longer.
‘Alice!’ Phoebe cried. ‘What are you saying? No Father Christmas?’
‘Of course there isn’t. It’s just a story for little children. And I am not one. Honestly, Phoebe. I am eight, you know.’
Phoebe looked exasperated and was about to snap some remark at Alice, but Jack cut in, changing the subject.
‘Well, anyway, I won’t light a fire in the hall tonight. I’ll need help getting logs in and it’s snowing heavens high out there. So, if you don’t all mind sitting in the kitchen . . .’
And so the table was cleared and a piece of clean cloth was spread so that Jonas Lewis’s book wouldn’t get dirty and the children sat close to Jack as he pulled the lamp over and opened the covers.
‘The Alchemical Writings of Jonas Lewis,’ Uncle Jack read, in a quiet voice.
‘What does alchemical mean?’ William asked.
‘To do with alchemy,’ his uncle replied. ‘Alchemy was supposed to be the ancient art of changing worthless metals into gold.’
‘What? You mean any metal? Like a tin or something?’ William asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Jack answered.
‘But then you’d be richer than anyone else in the world,’ Mary cried. ‘Is it make-believe?’
‘Sounds like it to me,’ Jack said, flicking through the thick pages.
Some of them were covered with drawings, so faded that it was difficult to make out exactly what they were meant to represent.
‘That’s a dragon,’ Alice squealed at one.
Much of the text was in a foreign language.
‘Finis corruptionis et principio generationis,’ Jack read from one page with difficulty. ‘Anyone any good at Latin?’
The children shook their heads.
Phoebe was sitting at the other end of the kitchen table, sewing the hems of the curtains for the kitchen window. She wasn’t interested in the book, she’d said, but now she looked up.
‘Say it again, Jack.’
‘Finis corruptionis . . .’ Jack began. But Phoebe rose and came and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. The book was open at a drawing in a circle. The circle had signs all round it.
‘The signs of the zodiac,’ Phoebe said. ‘What we call the birth signs. And in the middle the sun and the moon, locked in struggle with the dragon forces. The dragons represent nature, and the sun and the moon are sulphur and quicksilver.’
Jack looked at her in amazement.
‘How do you know all that?’ he asked.
Phoebe shrugged and frowned slightly.
‘I don’t remember,’ she answered him. ‘It’s almost as though I’ve seen it before. But if I have, I can’t remember where. Anyway, I’m probably wrong. It’s just a way of interpreting the picture. But probably not the only way. As for the words, let me see.’ She smiled at Jack. ‘I was good at Latin once.’ She looked at the page again. ‘The end of corruption and the beginning of generation,’ she translated. Then she frowned. ‘Well, that’s what it says. But, what does it mean, I wonder?’
‘What does any of it mean?’ Jack asked, flicking on through the pages. ‘These look like a lot of sums. And this, some kind of chemical formula.’
‘Well, you’re a chemist, Jack,’ Phoebe said, returning to her sewing. ‘Can’t you make sense of it?’
‘I haven’t a clue what it means,’ Jack murmured, reading as he spoke. ‘This seems to be instructions about the amount of heat required . . . The letters are so faded.’ He angled the page towards the lamp. ‘Yes, you were right, Phoebe. That word is quicksilver. How on earth did you know?’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen a drawing like it somewhere before.’ Phoebe frowned as she spoke, trying to remember. ‘What is quicksilver?’
‘Mercury,’ Jack answered her.
‘The stuff you have in thermometers?’ William asked.
‘That’s it,’ Jack said, flicking on through the book.
‘It’s ever such a boring book, isn’t it?’ Mary said, yawning.
‘You tired, Mary?’ Phoebe asked her.
‘A bit,’ Mary answered.
‘This part is like a diary,’ Jack said, continuing to look at the book. ‘“October 9th, 1899. Monday. It has worked. Our problems are at an end. Crawden will be paid. Praise be to God!” . . . Crawden? That’s the name of the old lady who used to live here.’
Jack flicked on, then stopped, reading again:
‘“October 20th. A dull day. Crawden comes tomorrow. The dog was up on the ridge. I took out my shooter, but missed him again. God curse him. I must do what I must do. If Crawden is not paid, then everything will go.”’
‘What’s it about, Uncle Jack?’ Alice asked, sounding scared.
‘Who’s Crawden?’ William asked.
‘He must be a relative of the previous owner of the house. All we know is that Golden House was last occupied years ago, by an old lady called Miss Crawden,’ Jack explained.
‘But that was ages ago, Jack,’ Phoebe cut in, carrying on with her sewing.
‘The dog, Will. It mentioned the dog,’ Alice whispered.
Phoebe looked up, surprised.
‘The dog?’ she said. ‘No. He mustn’t shoot the dog,’ and then she looked down again, wishing she hadn’t spoken. Alice watched her through half-closed eyes, her head resting on her arm as if she was falling asleep.
Jack turned more pages until he was nearly at the end of the book.
‘“All is lost,”’ he read. ‘“The gold has reverted. Crawden has come to me. I think he knows what has taken place. He will take the house in payment. All is lost. I am finished. Fool’s gold. Fool’s gold.”’
Then he turned to the last page of all.
‘“Whoever reads this let him take heed. The Gold is not for use. The Magus watches. The Magus knows. The Magus owns us all. I am ruined. May the Lord God have mercy upon my soul.”’
Jack closed the book and for a moment there was silence
in the kitchen.
‘What’s a Magus, Uncle Jack?’ William asked.
‘I’m not sure. A master, isn’t it?’ Jack directed his question at Phoebe, who had stopped sewing and was sitting, with her eyes lowered, seemingly lost in thought.
‘Magus?’ she said, after a moment. ‘It’s a wise man. Like the Magi in the Christmas story. A Magus is a magician.’
As she spoke Jack picked up the book and rose from the table. As he did so, a thick white envelope fell to the floor.
‘I’d better put this somewhere safe,’ he said, crossing to the hall door. ‘We’ll look at it again in more detail another day.’
‘You’ve dropped something, Uncle Jack,’ Mary called, picking up the envelope.
‘Did I? Oh, yes. Miss Prewett’s homework. You can open it, if you like. It’s a list of the names of all the people who have lived in the house over the years. I’m going to put this in the bookcase in the hall. Won’t be a minute.’
‘You, William. You open it,’ Mary said, pushing the envelope towards him across the table.
‘I think you should all go to bed. You’ve had quite enough excitement for one day,’ Phoebe said, reaching across and taking the envelope. ‘Plenty of time for this tomorrow,’ and she placed it beside her sewing basket. ‘Look at Alice, she’s half asleep sitting there.’
‘Oh, Phoebe,’ William protested.
Just then the kitchen clock chimed ten.
‘Time for bed,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Say good night to Jack.’
‘Going to bed?’ he asked, coming back into the room.
‘Yes, Jack. It’s time, I think.’
‘Oh, please, Uncle Jack,’ William pleaded. ‘Let’s just look at the list of names at least.’
But Phoebe looked up at Jack and shook her head.
‘I can’t disobey her,’ Jack laughed. ‘Phoebe’s word is law around here! Besides, it is late. I feel ready for bed as well. Off you go. Good night, all of you.’
The children trooped out of the room, Mary supporting Alice, who was indeed half asleep as Phoebe had remarked. As they slowly climbed the stairs to the gallery they heard Jack say to Phoebe:
‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘Oh, Jack,’ she answered him. ‘You should never have brought that book here.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
William was standing on the gallery, listening now with Mary supporting Alice beside him.
‘I’m frightened, Jack,’ they heard Phoebe reply. ‘That book, I don’t know what it is about it – but it terrifies me. I wish you hadn’t brought it, that’s all . . .’
Then Phoebe appeared at the kitchen door, looking up at them. ‘Go to bed, children. I told you. Go to bed.’
‘Good night, Phoebe,’ William called and he watched her as she went back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. At once her voice was heard again. But now, with the door closed, it was impossible to make out the words being said.
‘What was all that about?’ Mary asked him.
‘She knows something,’ Alice said, surprising them with the sound of her voice.
‘I thought you were asleep, Al,’ William said.
‘I was listening, that’s all,’ Alice replied. Then she continued in a low voice, ‘She’s a witch, William. I’m sure of it. She knew too much.’
‘Come up to bed,’ Mary said, fearfully.
‘I wish we could get away from here,’ Alice said.
‘Well we can’t,’ William told her. ‘And anyway, if she is a witch, I’m not leaving Uncle Jack on his own with her.’
‘Come to bed, William,’ Mary pleaded and she pushed him ahead of them up the narrow spiral staircase.
10
When William Can’t Sleep
THE SNOW MADE everything very quiet. The wind had stopped blowing and although the sky was heavy and overcast with clouds there was a strange luminous glow that filled the room with ghostly half light.
William switched on his torch and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock. The last time he had looked it had been one-thirty. He punched his pillow into a different shape and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He tried to empty his mind. He tried to concentrate on his toes. He even tried counting sheep. But all was to no avail. Then he sat up. If he couldn’t sleep, he decided he might just as well face up to the fact and not waste time trying. Pulling on his dressing gown, he felt under the bed for his slippers.
It was freezing in the room. He crossed over to the window without putting on the lamp and looked out. The snow that had fallen during the evening was piled up against the pane, obscuring most of the view. Through a small portion of an upper corner he could just see the snowy exterior and the dark clouds, scudding across a more distant sky.
It’s like being wrapped in cotton wool, he thought.
He sat on the window sill and, switching on his torch again, he pointed at the side wall of the room. He hoped, perhaps, that he might see the outline of some blocked-off door. But the wall offered no hint of a way through to the rooms that he was certain lay beyond it. Then he pointed the thin, bright ray at the brick chimney breast that took up part of the back wall, behind his bed. The brick had been painted the same white as the rest of the walls but was still quite obviously brick, whereas the other walls were made of rough plaster. The steeply raked ceiling met the chimney in a rather uneven line. Somewhere, just above this point, he reckoned the little window was placed.
But what for? he thought. Why is there a window up there? A window in a chimney doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .
He crossed and tapped at the bricks, listening but not quite sure what he was hoping to hear. Then he shook his head. It was hopeless. He opened the door and went out on to the landing.
William inched open the girls’ door and looked in. The sound of regular breathing told him that both his sisters were fast asleep. This made him feel lonely. He half thought of waking them, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. He closed the door quietly again and stood for a moment on the landing.
His heart was beating loudly. He switched on the torch again. The walls of the spiral staircase sprang into relief in the light. They were made of grey stone and must have belonged to the original stone tower. As William looked at the walls he realized that the spiral had probably once been a turret onto the flat roof of the tower. He looked at the floor of the landing and noticed that the floor there was also stone-flagged. So, where he was standing had once been the open roof of the tower. He shivered and thought that it was almost as cold now as it would be being outside. Perhaps he should go back to bed and read. At least that would be warmer than wandering about in the middle of the night.
If they’re going to turn this place into an hotel, he thought, they’ll have to put in central heating.
Then, far below in the house, he heard the kitchen clock chime the half hour. Half past two. This is stupid, he thought, I’m definitely going back to bed. But instead he started to tiptoe down the stone stairs to the gallery below.
The great hall of the house was in darkness. William stood on the gallery landing and pointed his torch over and down into the space below. He moved the beam slowly round the room until it came to rest on the centre of the huge brick fireplace. The canopy over the opening was decorated with carved brick work. There were dragons curling and catching at their tails and two snakes climbing up a stick that stood above the dragons and seemed to have been planted between them. On one side of the snake stick a fat sun was carved with rays that stretched out over the brick wall. On the other side of the snake stick, a crescent moon was carved.
William was surprised to see this brick picture. He was sure he should have noticed it before but couldn’t understand why he hadn’t. Unless, he thought, it’s something to do with the way the beam of light is falling on it. Perhaps it’s only visible in torch light and from up here. I must remember to look in the morning.
He walked carefully along the gallery to
the head of the broad stairs that led down to the ground floor. At first the silence of the sleeping house was overwhelming. But, as he listened, innumerable small sounds came into his hearing. The clock ticking in the kitchen. A floorboard creaking along the gallery. The faint, hollow moaning of the night air in the chimney. Even the regular, heavy breathing from Jack and Phoebe’s room.
William slowly descended the stairs. The hall, like most of the house, was only sparsely furnished. There was a long oak table running along the centre of the hall, with tall-backed chairs arranged round it. Two old armchairs, with wooden arms and padded backs and seats, stood either side of the hearth and between them, in front of the fireplace, there was a long, low oak stool covered in a similar needlework to the armchairs. On either side of the front door, narrow arched windows gave a small amount of light during daytime. But the hall would always be a gloomy place. The floor, which was stone-flagged, was inadequately covered with a few thin rugs which did nothing to stop the extreme cold that seeped up out of the ground below. The wall opposite the fireplace was taken up for the most part by a huge bookcase which stretched from the floor up to the height of the kitchen door. Another door, leading, William guessed, to the rooms at the front of the Tudor wing of the house, was situated at the other end of this bookcase. The shelves were already well stacked with books, but William had little difficulty in locating the one for which he was looking.
Jack had placed Jonas Lewis’s book on its side on the lowest shelf. It was still wrapped in the piece of material that Phoebe had placed on the kitchen table to prevent it getting dirty. William was surprised to discover how heavy the book was. He had to use both his hands to lift it. He had intended to take it back up to his room, but instead he placed it on the oak table and, holding the torch in one hand, he slowly turned the pages with the other.
As he did so, he discovered the envelope, which Phoebe had stopped them opening, lodged between the pages. It had been torn open, presumably by her or Jack after the children had gone to bed. William laid the envelope to one side and continued to look through the book.
The Steps up the Chimney Page 6
