The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair

by M. L. Peel

  “Oh my, oh my, how wonderful!” he cried, switching off the engine and hurrying round to greet them. “You’re all here.”

  “W-w-what do you mean?” stammered Bruno. “I thought you were only expecting me and Grace?”

  Monsieur Zidler brought his hands together in the manner of a vicar about to offer an important lesson.

  “I’m afraid that since I wasn’t entirely sure you were coming, I had no choice but to scout about for a few alternatives. The more the merrier, don’t you think?” He held open the back door of the car. “In you hop. Bit of a squeeze, but I’m sure you’re all good friends.”

  Xanadu jumped straight into the car, swiftly followed by a disgruntled Bruno. Natasha flicked her hair and fluttered her lashes and flashed her best fake smile at Monsieur Zidler. Then she carefully placed her bottom on the leather seat before swinging in her legs, just as her Russian governess had taught her a lady must do.

  Unimpressed by this little performance, Humbert stood sour-faced and scowling on the pavement.

  “I want to go in the front,” he demanded. “It’s stupid that the dog gets the best seat. Dogs should go in the boot.”

  Monsieur Zidler frowned. “In the boot? Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Of course, you can always travel in the boot if you wish. But the front seat is reserved for Trumpet.”

  Still scowling, Humbert clambered into the back. As he passed behind the dog, he reached out and yanked down hard on her ear. Trumpet let out a yelp of pain. She jumped up and bared her sharp white teeth at Humbert, growling furiously.

  Now only Grace remained on the pavement. Monsieur Zidler offered her a gloved hand to help her into the car, but Grace did not take it. Instead, she stared down at the ground. Her voice was quiet but determined.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t come with you.” She looked up at her classmates. There was a note of warning in her voice. “Miss Goodwin is going to be really cross about this.”

  All the other children groaned.

  Monsieur Zidler rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder. His face was the picture of concern.

  “My dear child, didn’t I mention that I had a long chat with your teacher last night at the hotel bar? No? Why, how silly of me. It must have been all that wine we drank. Miss Goodwin thought it was a wonderful idea for you to come away with me for a few days. In fact she said the auditions would be ‘an important learning opportunity’.”

  Grace frowned. That did sound just like Miss Goodwin. She was a little surprised to hear they’d be away for a few days, but if going to the auditions was OK with their teacher, what could be the harm?

  “Of course,” Monsieur Zidler added, “you can always stay behind if you prefer.”

  Grace shook her head as she squeezed in beside Humbert. “If Miss Goodwin’s happy, I’d love to come.”

  Monsieur Zidler scurried round to the front and slipped into the driver’s seat. There was no more time for second thoughts. The key turned in the ignition and the engine roared into life. With a screech of tyres, they were off!

  Trumpet’s ears blew back in the breeze as her master slammed his foot against the accelerator. They raced along the seafront, away from the centre of town, down an avenue of palm trees.

  “Hold onto your hats!” cried Monsieur Zidler, but it was too late. The wind had whipped the children’s straw boaters from their heads. They flew off in all directions like seed scattering from a dandelion clock.

  “Woo-hoo!” shouted Bruno. “This is the life.”

  Back at the hotel, Miss Goodwin stirred gently in her sleep. She stretched out an arm, then nuzzled into the duvet, dreaming sweet dreams of a chance encounter with a handsome young man on horseback. A battered copy of Jane Eyre lay open on the bed beside her. The book was an old favourite of hers, full of romance and mystery. After seeing all the children to bed, she’d headed straight up to her room and read into the small hours.

  Bless her, she looks so pretty in her frilly pink nightie — and so peaceful, with her honey-coloured hair spilling over the pillow. Let us tiptoe away and leave her slumbering there for an hour or so longer.

  9

  The Knights Trumplar

  The pea-green sports car sped on through a cloud of dust. Xanadu led the children in a rowdy chorus from Fame, complete with coordinated dance moves. They waved their hands from left to right. They rolled their fists one over the other, like a whirring tombola. They threw their arms above their heads, then waggled their fingers (ta-da!) as if jumping out from a cake. Something about the breeze in their hair, and being on a journey to who knew where, seemed to help them forget about their differences, at least for a while.

  Monsieur Zidler had soon turned away from the coast and now they were heading up, up, into the hills. Here, simple farmsteads crouched among pastures and meadows. The farmers were away in their fields or busy milking cows in cow barns. To the lone goatherd who watched the sports car pass, they looked much like any other strange city folk off to spend a day in the country. He chuckled to himself at the children’s eccentric school uniforms and marvelled at the majesty of their driver’s moustache. Only the next evening, when he turned on the television in his lonely goat hut, would he realize that he’d witnessed a dangerous kidnapper making off with his prey.

  Bruno waited for a lull in the singing, then leant forward and tapped Monsieur Zidler on the shoulder. He had to shout to be heard above the wind. “Excuse me, but where are we going?”

  “Say that again!” bellowed Monsieur Zidler. “I couldn’t hear you!”

  “I SAID, WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

  Monsieur Zidler wound up his window and gestured for the children to do the same. He pushed a button below the steering wheel and the fold-down roof reared up behind their heads then clanked down over the top of the car. The roar of the wind was silenced. Suddenly they could hear themselves think.

  “You had a question for me, Bruno?” asked Monsieur Zidler.

  “I was just wondering where we’re going? You said something yesterday about an audition in front of” — Bruno tried to remember Monsieur Zidler’s exact words — “your associates?”

  “Did I, now?” Monsieur Zidler twiddled the end of his moustache. “Then I’d say it was time for a little lesson in history, wouldn’t you, Trumpet?”

  Woof, woof, barked the dog, thumping her paws against the dashboard.

  “Boring!” chimed Natasha and Xanadu together.

  Monsieur Zidler swung round to face them. As his eyes left the road, the car swerved dangerously to the right. They were now bumping along with two wheels up on the rocky verge, but their driver didn’t seem to notice.

  “Boring?” he cried. “That depends on what you think of riches and glory and fame and immeasurable fortune.”

  Just in time to avoid crashing into a giant pine tree, Monsieur Zidler returned his gaze to the front. The children let out a collective sigh of relief as the car lurched back into the centre of the road.

  Grace plucked up the courage to ask another question.

  “But what does history have to do with where we’re going for our audition?”

  “My dear child, it has everything to do with it.” This time Monsieur Zidler managed to keep his eyes on the road. They glittered like diamonds in the rear-view mirror. “Listen carefully, children, and I shall tell you…”

  The speech that followed was peppered with whinnies and giggles, as if words alone could not communicate Monsieur Zidler’s excitement.

  He spoke of a time when brotherhoods of knights had roamed the whole of Europe. He told how these brave men had risked life and limb to glorify their rulers. Some fought wars in the name of religion; others slew dragons and rescued damsels in distress. There were those, he said, of whom the children might already have heard. Like Arthur, who drew the sword from the stone. Or the Knights Templar, who invented banks and bailed out popes and emperors.

  “But one group has been erased from the history books!” exclaimed
Monsieur Zidler. “They did not trade in religion or violence or bank loans! Oh no, their activities were far more glamorous. They are the knights whose exploits have been kept hidden beneath a cloak of secrecy. They excel in making people famous, and their name is … the Knights Trumplar!”

  “The who?” asked all his passengers together.

  Monsieur Zidler dropped his voice to an intoxicating whisper. The children jostled forward in their seats, hanging on his every word.

  “The Knights Trumplar is a highly secretive organization. For centuries they controlled the flow of fame around the world. Their scouts plucked talented children from obscurity, trained them until they were flawless, then catapulted them onto the stage. So grateful were these children that they pledged a portion of their earnings to the knights for ever. Over time the knights became richer than the kings and queens they were intended to serve. Fearing a threat to their power, the monarchy had them exiled from their lands. Many were murdered. Those who escaped fled up into the mountains, where they were given shelter by their one remaining ally, the ruler of an ancient Alpine kingdom known as Phartesia. They made him their leader, and there they live to this day, quietly pulling the strings and oiling the cogs of that great machine known as Celebrity. There’s not a blockbuster movie, nor a bestselling album, that cannot be traced back to their training or their money. For, you see, the Knights Trumplar did not vanish or lose their power, they simply went underground. Soon, you yourselves will have the opportunity to audition in front of them.”

  The children looked at each other in wonder. Could this really be true? A secret organization that helped make people famous? Monsieur Zidler seemed deadly serious. Deciding that they did indeed believe him, the children whooped and cheered. Even Natasha deigned to clap her hands.

  “Jeepers!” cried Bruno, suddenly guessing the answer to his original question. “So does that mean we’re going to Phartesia?”

  “What a clever child you are!” said Monsieur Zidler, beaming at Bruno in the rear-view mirror. The reflection of his bright white teeth was dazzling.

  Just at that moment, a jagged mountain range, wreathed in cloud and capped with snow, appeared on the horizon. A trio of buzzards circled overhead as Monsieur Zidler put down the roof and sped on towards the tallest mountain of them all.

  10

  Panic at the Hotel Magnificent

  And now I think it’s time we woke Miss Goodwin. We’ll let her have a shower, brush her teeth and pick out a sundress. (Recalling Natasha’s hurtful remark, she decides against a rose-print pinafore and opts instead for chic grey linen.) But sooner or later we will have to tell her the bad news.

  Do you want to break it to her, or shall I?

  It won’t be pretty.

  Oh, all right, then, I suppose I’d better do it.

  Feeling relaxed about the day ahead, Miss Goodwin picked up her register and strolled out into the corridor. By now her pupils should have received their wake-up calls. With a bit of luck they’d already be downstairs, stuffing their faces from the hotel buffet.

  Sure enough, when she entered the glass-walled dining room, Miss Goodwin spotted a swarm of children in purple blazers buzzing around a table piled high with pastries. She did a quick head count. Five members of her class were missing. The teacher was not too worried. It was normal for there to be a few stragglers. All Miss Goodwin had to do (or so she thought) was go upstairs and chivvy them out of their rooms. It was only when she checked against her register and noticed that Grace Chalk was among those absent that she felt a tiny twinge of anxiety. It was not like Grace to be late for anything. Telling herself not to be such a worrier, Miss Goodwin took the lift back up to the third floor. She banged on one door after another. When each child failed to answer, she let herself into their room with an electronic swipe card. It was the same story in every room: the beds had been slept in, but the children were nowhere to be seen. Miss Goodwin tried not to panic. Maybe she’d missed them coming up in the lift.

  Yet to her dismay, when she went back downstairs there was still no sign of them in the dining room.

  An early morning swim! That must be it, she thought, running out onto the terrace. She would have to get cross. They were not supposed to go in the water without adult supervision. But the surface of the pool was still and unruffled. Nor was there any sign of the children in the games room. Dashing back into the dining room, Miss Goodwin began to quiz the rest of her class. Had they seen Grace or Natasha, Humbert or Bruno or Xanadu?

  “No, miss,” they said through mouthfuls of pain au chocolat.

  “Are you sure?” she pressed. “Are you one hundred per cent sure you haven’t seen them?”

  Still munching, the children shook their heads.

  Miss Goodwin turned her attention to the other diners. She moved desperately from table to table.

  “Can anyone help me?” she pleaded. “I’m looking for some children. About the same height as those ones over there. There’s one boy with a Mohican and sunglasses — you couldn’t miss him. A boy with a thin little face and a girl with her hair all done up in ribbons. Another boy who looks — well, sort of scruffy. Oh, and Grace Chalk, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Surely somebody must have seen something!”

  The guests turned their heads away or hid behind their morning papers. As if it wasn’t bad enough having to share the hotel with a bunch of noisy school kids, now this madwoman wanted to interrupt their breakfast.

  Miss Goodwin tried again. “Please,” she begged a woman who was staring pointedly up at the ceiling. “Are you sure you haven’t seen them?”

  The woman refused to meet her eye. Miss Goodwin wished she could shake her until the answer came rattling out like coins from a piggy bank. But that would be illegal, and Miss Goodwin had never done anything illegal. Instead, she began to hyperventilate. Each quick, shallow breath deprived her blood of oxygen and increased her panic. Her head swam. Feeling giddy, she clutched at the table for support.

  It rocked. Coffee pots and crockery went toppling over. The woman leapt from her seat, outraged.

  “This madwoman is trying to attack me!” she screamed.

  “Excuse me, madame, but may I be of assistance?”

  Miss Goodwin felt a pair of firm hands grasp the small of her waist. She took a deep breath. At last, someone who wanted to help. She turned to see the familiar face of Monsieur Petit, the hotel manager. With his clipped grey beard and badger-streaked hair he was hardly a handsome young man on horseback, but he would have to do. She allowed herself to be steered away from the table.

  “Perhaps we might step into my office?”

  “What?” gasped Miss Goodwin, who was still trying to catch her breath. “Oh no, that’s terribly kind, but I couldn’t abandon my pupils.”

  “Really, madame, I’m afraid I must insist.” He lowered his voice. “You’re causing a scene.”

  Miss Goodwin did not appreciate the hotel manager’s tone. For once in her life she decided to get strict. She wagged her finger in Monsieur Petit’s face.

  “Causing a scene? Of course I am causing a scene, you nincompoop! Five children have gone missing and all anyone cares about is their croissants! I insist that you take charge and call the police at once!”

  “Certainly, madame,” said the hotel manager. He gave a curt little nod. Two burly security guards appeared from behind a potted fern. They hooked their arms beneath Miss Goodwin’s armpits and hoisted her into the air.

  “Stop! Stop!” The teacher kicked and screamed. “Whatever do you think you’re doing? Take your hands off me at once or I shall be forced to…” She searched for something threatening to say. “Erm, I shall be forced to bite you!”

  But the security guards may as well have been tasked with removing a feather. They carried Miss Goodwin out into the corridor and bundled her into a lift.

  It is a fact known only to a few people that on the twenty-seventh floor of the Hotel Magnificent there is a solid steel room. This room is located to the
right of the penthouse suite and measures nine metres square. It is fitted with CCTV and a bombproof door. Designed first and foremost as a safe haven for celebrities in the event of an attempted kidnapping, the room can also serve as a prison cell.

  It was to this room that Monsieur Petit and his security guards escorted Miss Goodwin. Pushing her inside, they slammed the door shut behind her. Monsieur Petit turned to the taller of the guards.

  “Ask the police to come and collect her when they get the chance. Oh, and do find a quiet room for those other children. They’re making the place look untidy.”

  Miss Goodwin was hammering against the door. Her shouts were muffled by the steel walls but you could still make out the words.

  “Let me out! You stupid meatheads! We’re wasting precious time!”

  “And for heaven’s sake,” the hotel manager said with a sigh, “turn the soundproofing on. We can’t have this nutcase disturbing Ms Draws.”

  11

  The Golden Gates

  The pea-green sports car was now almost halfway up the mountain. It was cooler here in the forest. Light filtered down through the branches in lime-gold shafts. The air was thick with insects and midges. Everywhere there was the sound of water dripping. Sun melted the snow on the mountain top and the water flowed down in rivers, collecting in pools from which deer could sometimes be glimpsed drinking. In places, the water came tumbling over moss-covered rocks.

  By now the children had been travelling for hours. They were not hungry, for Monsieur Zidler had stopped earlier to hand out a round of sandwiches. But they were bored and uncomfortable, squashed together in the back.

  “This journey is taking for—ev—er,” complained Xanadu.

  “Hey, Mister Xylophone, or whatever your name is,” Natasha demanded. “Are we nearly there yet, or what?”